Part 5

On one of my visits to Barcelona, I arrived in the city during the labour riots last year. Trains had been fired at and attacked with stones, so the windows of the carriages were barricaded, and all precautions were taken for the safety of the passengers. We were allowed, however, to enter the station unmolested; and although the crowded streets were paraded by the military, and a further outburst of public feeling was expected, the force of the human volcano had evidently expended itself before our arrival. Much property had been damaged; and, on all sides, one saw windows riddled with bullets, or smashed with stones, and evidences that the industrious and law-abiding Barcelonian is a Spaniard when roused. There was an alertness akin to menace in the flashing glances that inspected us that seemed to threaten all kind of unpleasant eventualities. But we walked through the streets in perfect safety; and my good friend, who had driven in from his country house to meet me, along roads patrolled by soldiers and skirted by turbulent rioters, apologised delightfully for the insecurity of the highways which rendered him unable to offer me the hospitality of his house until the following day. The risk he had run in coming in to Barcelona to welcome me did not occur to him. I was his friend--he had not given a thought

for his skin. As we promenaded the streets, he approached men and asked them questions about the riot, and the scowl disappeared from their faces as a sea-mist lifts from the cliffs as they gave us the required information. I have written that the Spaniard’s good manners are the result not of an acquired and superficial politeness, but are derived from a natural and national courtesy that is inbred in the race. There is in their attentions a vein of selfishness which is half its charm. A stranger will do you a courtesy for which your thanks can only half pay him--the other half-payment he himself contributes for the service. He has pleased you, and in so doing he has pleased himself. And one feels that he has pleasure in his own unselfishness. It is impossible to be many hours in Spain without recognising this delightful trait. You step into a shop and inquire the way to the cathedral. The friendly shopkeeper places himself immediately at your disposal. He takes down his _capa_, and personally conducts you to the desired spot. It is the same always. You ask for your bearings of a member of the famous _guardia civil_, and the pair will solemnly march you to your destination; or the first pedestrian you meet proceeding in the opposite direction, faces about on the instant, and retraces his steps through the length or breadth of a town to put you on the right road.

We have no force in this country that corresponds with the _Guardia Civil_; perhaps the Royal Irish Constabulary are their nearest counterpart in organisation and fine _morale_. This body, which is composed of 20,000 foot and 500 mounted guards, are neither soldiers nor policemen, but they combine the duties of both. Their splendid physique, and smart, soldierly bearing--only the best men in the Spanish Army are admitted to the ranks of the Civil Guards--give one a feeling of security and a sense of order that nothing else seems to impart. They are stationed in every town and small village throughout the country. They patrol the roads, they accompany every train, and are to be seen at every station; they are to be encountered everywhere, and always in pairs. Dressed in blue tunic and trousers of the same colour, with light buff-coloured belts, cocked hats, and top-boots, they carry their well-polished rifles in a manner which engenders the respect of evil-doers. In contrast with the leisurely life around them, they stride through the traffic, in it, but not of it--a class apart. They are, indeed, apart in habit

as well as in appearance. Their association with the outer world is almost entirely official. They live in barracks, mess together, and hold themselves aloof. Their _esprit de corps_ is as perfect as their discipline; they cannot be bribed, nor induced to accept a reward for any service they may render you. The safety of property and life in Spain is in their keeping; and it may be said without exaggeration that they have done more to establish order in the Peninsula than any other body.

Barcelona, besides being a busy, wide-awake, and rapidly-growing commercial and industrial centre, contrasting strongly with some other Spanish cities that still seem to be shrouded in the mists of the middle ages, has also acquired the reputation of being a beautiful city--beautiful, of course, in the modern sense; for, where modern enterprise rules, the old-time beauty is apt to take flight. Its situation, on a slope running down from the mountains to the sea, is both healthful and picturesque. Its streets and boulevards are wide, regular, and well made; and its main avenue, the _Rambla_, has been styled, not without justice, the “_Unter den Linden_” of Barcelona. This line of promenade, formed by the _Ramblas_ of _Santa Monica_, _del Centro_, _de San José_, _de Estudios_, _de Canaletas_, and the _Paseo de Gracia_ is a veritable triumph of boulevarding. Europe may be challenged to produce anything finer. It runs from the port right through the heart of the town, and out into the country, a practically uninterrupted series of carriage drives and public promenades, shaded nearly all the way by over-arching plane-trees. The lower portions are lined with handsome shops and cafés, with the best hotels and theatres; and all the upper reach--the _Gracia Paseo_--with the imposing blocks of houses of the Ensanche, the residential region, _par excellence_, of the city.

The little _Rambla de San José_, too, may justly be accorded its more popular name of “_de las Flores_:” for here each morning is held the flower market, when both sides of the broad central walk are lined with stacks heaped up in dazzling profusion with all the floral wealth which southern sunlight, nature, and art can produce. Here, amid the splendid highways of the city, one may find a continual occupation for both eye and mind in the ever-shifting and gorgeous colouring, and in all the movements of the colossal game of life. The hour does not signify--early or late, morning, afternoon, or night, it is all one--for Barcelona folk seem to be able to do without sleep; and at all times the air is deliciously soft, and yet so fresh, from the sea and from the hill-country which backs up the city, that one is ever impelled onwards. In the full artery of the life of it, one comes across the _Lonja_, the _Casas Consistoriales and Diputacion_, but one looks in vain for the great cathedral, the Churches of _Santa Maria del Mar_, _Santa Ana_, _Santa Maria del Pino_, the old Benedictine Monastery of _San Pablo del Campo_, the Roman remains, and the fine Renaissance houses. These are not for those who run to see, but are hidden away, tucked out of sight, so to speak, in a most vexatious and puzzling manner.

In Barcelona, we have the old town with its narrow, tortuous lanes, and the new town with its streets laid out at right angles, its handsome houses, and its air of general prosperity. The trade of the city is ever increasing, and its prospects are almost illimitable. The wealth of the city has overflowed into the handsome suburb of _Paseo de Gracia_, with its villas and miniature palaces, and its population of nearly 40,000 inhabitants. The port of Barcelona has, in the process of improvement, effaced the historical Muralla del Mar; and its site is now occupied by a broad, handsome quay, laid out with palms, and enriched with a wonderful stone and bronze column, 197 feet high, surmounted with a statue of Columbus. More handsome and lofty houses are to be found in the _Plaza Real_; the finest

shops are situated in the _Calle de Fernando_; while the _Calle Ancha_ is given over to banks and insurance offices. In the _Plaza del Palacio_ is the beautiful fountain in Carrara marble representing the four Catalonian provinces of Barcelona, Lérida, Tarragona, and Gerona. Another superb piece of street ornamentation is the Columbus Memorial, which was erected in 1889. It is built at the end of the Rambla in the PLAZA DE LA PAZ, and has the picturesque silhouette of Montjuich for a background. The pedestal, which is octagonal in form, rests on a circular base, flanked by four spacious ledges, decorated with eight lions, and from it rises the iron column, crowned by a magnificent Corinthian capital supporting a bronze globe; above which, in graceful pose, is seen the statue of the immortal discoverer, also in bronze. Many historical and allegorical statues embellish this memorial, and also high reliefs in copper depicting the chief events in the life of Columbus and a great number of ornaments and other details, all equally elegant. From the ground to the top of the statue the monument is 180 feet in height. The vaulted arches underneath are used as a burying-place for distinguished Catalan sailors. A lift runs inside the column to the top, and a magnificent panoramic view is to be obtained from the capital. I have referred especially to this column and the fountain because to my mind they are the most imposing of the many columns, pyramids, and statues that abound in the squares and thoroughfares of the city.

Dark, mysterious, and imposing, the Gothic Cathedral is worthy of a place by the most beautiful of Spain. After the great Cathedral of Seville, I know no other that impresses one in the same way as the Cathedral of Barcelona. The fine proportions and carefully-arranged lighting are common to them both. At Tarragona, Salamanca, Toledo, Burgos, Leon, and Santiago, we can see work that will bear more close analysis and confer great teaching; but the Catalan here teaches us his school of stern, solid, domestic architecture, and he conveys his lesson by the finest of examples. Here we may learn that little faults on the part of old workers, and big, glaring faults on the part of their successors are powerless to detract from the effect of awful solemnity and majesty of their splendid vistas, to stultify the great ideas and fine grasp upon the subject of scale with which the Cathedral was carried out. Beside this, its numerous fine bits of enriched detail work and its glorious stained glass are mere matters of detail--and the election of models--and they are scarcely noticed.

I have listened to some beautiful music beautifully rendered in the Cathedral of Barcelona, and in many of the great cathedrals in Spain; and I have seen an audience go into ecstacies over a piece of vocalisation in the Opera House at Madrid; but I should hesitate to describe the Spanish as a musical nation. Singing among the working people is a habit and a relaxation, but it is scarcely an art. The working people of Barcelona, or of the Peninsula generally for that matter, are not naturally musical; but they do not sing the less on that account. One day as I sat in a friend’s room in the Hotel and listened to the servants chortling incessantly as they went about their work, I asked a trifle impatiently: “Do these good people never cease their singing?” He looked up with a quizzical twinkle in his questioning eyes. “Singing?” he asked. I held up my finger, and the sound of three different voices, uplifted in three different ecstacies, came from the corridor. “Oh! that,” he replied, still smiling: “Yes, they do a good deal of it. So you call that singing; now I think that is very amiable of you.” I asked him why their songs were unduly long; and learned that as each vocalist improvises his or her own song, both words and music, it is only limited by his or her individual fancy. “But what are the subjects of their ballads?” I protested, and my friend responded, “Oh! just anything--a bullfight, a tender tale of love, a report of a police court case with ten adjournments.” Schubert, it is said, could set a handbill to music, but these people improvise a romantic opera out of an overdue laundry account. Their guitar playing has little but mere form; and their dancing--the dancing of the working-classes who picnic by the wayside and dance for the sheer love of it and the joy of living--is governed, or seems to be, by the whim of the performer. When the children are not playing at bullfights, they are indulging in one or other of their innumerable singing and dancing games.

Besides the interest it affords in itself, Barcelona is within hail of Monserrat, the pride of Catalonia, and one of the natural wonders of Spain, which lies some thirty miles north from the city. Antonio Gallenga has written of this wonderful mountain: “It is the loftiest and grandest temple and most formidable citadel that was worked by God’s hands. The Monastery, standing as it does, squeezed on its narrow ledge, with an abyss of untold fathoms at its feet, and the weight of three great rocky masses hanging over its head, must look both mean in size and tame in taste, crushed by the Titanic grandeur, by the sublime harmony and the terrible power exhibited by the Supreme Architect in this His masterpiece of earthly handiwork.”

Nor is the description out of keeping with the subject. Seen from the road, this terrible yet beautiful mountain, throwing off its morning mantle of mists and lifting its weird peaks to the sun, presents a vision of entrancing loveliness. At its base, the Monastery, vast in size and hideous in its severity, is almost a blot upon the landscape. But the climb from the Monastery to the summit of Monserrat is fraught with a succession of overpowering sensations, of perpetual contrast between terror and delight. The immense mass of mountain, about twenty-five miles in circumference at its base, is composed of a grey conglomerate of the granite type, brittle and crumbling; and by its nature assuming every variety of fanciful and weird appearances, baffling the utmost extent of men’s inventive powers. For about half the distance to the top its body remains solid; then rent asunder in every direction, it towers in thousands of fantastic pinnacles to its highest point, some four thousand feet above the sea. “There is hardly a spot,” says Gallenga, “where you do not feel that you stand on a thousand feet precipice; hardly a nook where some great boulder, as big as the Vatican Palace, is not suspended over your head, ready, as you fancy, to slide down in avalanche at every burst of the storm wind.” There are huge, straight columns, the bases and shafts of which have thus been crumbling away for thousands of years; while the top, or as one may say, the capital, still hangs up in air on nothing. Impervious as those crags and cliffs appear, they are, however, crossed by paths running like threads on the edge of the precipice.

Further up, the crest is formed by the jagged teeth of the Saw. Here are a myriad points and aiguilles clustering in groups of pinnacles tapering like the fingers of a man’s hand; further, a whole multitude of rocky excrescences which have been and can be equally compared to rough-hewn chessmen in battle array, or to chessmen strewn carelessly over the board, some standing up sharp and erect, some fallen prostrate and broken. The grand rugged scenery is softened and toned down by a most wonderful profusion of vegetation, consisting of box, ilex, myrtle, ivy, heather, laurel, and other evergreens; which, growing in every crack and crevice where they can possibly find a hold, and flourishing at all seasons, transform this mountain into a marvel of grey and green.

The walk from the Monastery to the summit occupies about three hours, and is one of the most remarkable to be found in Europe. The path is narrow, but it has been planned with consummate artistic skill. It winds over a broad area among and around the various crags and stone _seracs_, onwards and ever upwards until it ends, at last, at the highest point. Sometimes it leads through a narrow valley walled in on both sides by wild sentinels of rock, again through creeping masses of myrtle, ivy, and jessamine, or under bowers of ilex and box. And then, suddenly, unexpectedly, you have attained to the apparently inaccessible summit, and you stand on the brink of precipices and overlook Monserrat spread out beneath like an enormous Medusa, its thousands of tentacles raised aloft on every side, enclosing deep abysses whose terribleness is mitigated by a lining of perpetual green. Beyond lies the sun-backed, flowerless plain, through which silver rivers turn and return on their journey to the sea. To the north, distant but clearly defined against the blue background of sky, a line of snowy Pyrenees smile coolness down upon the torrid lowlands; while to the east, beyond the hazy suggestion of Barcelona, a glittering silver rim of sea wafts inland the softest of noonday breezes.

On the East Coast.

Monserrat, according to the guide books, may be hurriedly visited from Barcelona by means of a return ticket for the day; but one can imagine few persons who would be content with so hasty an inspection of one of the most remarkable sights in Spain. One returns from the mountain to Barcelona with one’s mind crowded with wonderful sights, and one’s senses stirred with a new idea of the beautiful. Where shall one look, one asks oneself, for its equal? But Spain is full of spots of almost dazzling beauty. Within a hundred miles to the southward, following the coast-line, is situated Tarragona. To know Tarragona is to love her, for her natural self first, her oak forests, soft verdure and park-like land, then for her treasures of infinitely beautiful architectural work; and again for her simple kindness and good fellowship, her gorgeous colouring, her brilliant sky, her gorgeous sunsets, and her outlook over the long sweep of rich country, rock-bound coast and glinting sea. Here is another of Spain’s many abodes of loveliness--a paradise of far-reaching plains, dotted with villages and homesteads, coloured with rich gardens, orange-groves and vineyards, and shaded by a rich fringe of olive and fir trees, that lose themselves against the distant rich brown hills. And on the other side the fertile plain slopes gently down to the ancient pine woods, beyond which lie the fringe of yellow sands and dark green ocean.

Tarragona has her records too, and a history among the most ancient in the kingdom. She once boasted her million of inhabitants, her government, her luxury, and her art. The Phœnicians made the town a maritime settlement, the Romans made it an imperial city, the Goths selected it as their capital. The Moors “made of the city a heap,” and the ruins remained uninhabited for four centuries. She can point to her grand Cyclopean walls and gateways, her Phœnician well, her so-called “tomb” of the Scipio, her amphitheatre, her Capital, and her Roman aqueduct striding across the valley, and seemingly defying time to destroy it.

But if Tarragona’s one-time million inhabitants has dwindled to its present population of some thirty thousand souls, it must always be remembered, to its credit, that a few years ago it was only a dull, dry, sleepy old town--a place of dusty meats and sour wines--a temple of the past. But Tarragona has no intention of resting satisfied with a great yesterday; she is intent upon making a future for herself. The new has overridden the old, the town has put away its look of despairing incongruity and uselessness, and has put on the “handsomeness” of modern cityhood. The streets palpitate with the life of commerce; and the harbour shelters many ships that call for cargoes of wine, nuts, almonds and oil. Most of the native wines are excellent, and can compare with those grown in any part of Spain; but they are put, unfortunately, to base uses, and scarcely ever reach the consumer in their pure state. The lighter vintages are bought by Marseilles and Paris, where they are transformed into _vin ordinaire_, while the full-bodied varieties, known as “Spanish Reds,” are sold in England and America under the name of port.

The road from Tarragona to Valencia runs over the richly fruitful plain that is bordered on the left by great brown hills, and the lovely sea upon the right. In the Tortosa region, only the presence of the olives and _algarrobos_, instead of oaks and elms amid the soft green prettiness of the landscape, forbids the delusion that one is in Sussex or Devonshire.

The famous marble, known in Italy as _broceatello de spagna_, and largely employed in the decoration of churches in Rome, is quarried near Tortosa, and the city itself has its place in song and story. Tubal, Hercules, and St. Paul, according to Martorel, were all connected with Tortosa; and the latter is further stated to have instituted Monseñor Ruf as bishop here. Under the Moors the place became the key of the east coast, and from time immemorial it has been acquainted with warfare and the clash of arms. It withstood the siege of Louis de Débonnaire, son of Charlmagne, in 811, but two years later the city fell and had to be recaptured by the Moors. Since then it has been four times besieged and thrice taken; to-day it is chiefly noted for its imposing appearance, its fine Gothic cathedral, and its picturesque bridge of boats. Sixty-five miles to the southward is Castellon, which, though a flourishing place in a garden of plenty, is of only Moorish origin, and consequently an infant among the towns of Spain. Naturalists make it their headquarters; and it is the junction for the copper, cinnabar, and lead mines that abound at Espadeno.

A stop must be made at Murviedro, which flourished under its old title of Sanguntum. Then it was a seaport city of magnificence, richness and power; to-day it consists of a wild bare hill, studded with white houses, traversed by long lines of wall and crowned by an old castle. Two thousand years ago it was laid in ruins by the Carthagenian army, and it has been little else than a heap of ruins ever since. The Roman Theatre, which still remains, is placed in a bend of the northern skirt of the hill between the town and the immense fortress which crowns the mountain. It has seats built of blue limestone and

cement, petrified by the action of the centuries which have elapsed since it was built, which, according to the most authoritative opinion, was in the first century of our era. The stage, which measures about 165 feet in length and 19½ feet in width, was vaulted, some of the vaults being still in existence. The

amphitheatre was composed of three series or groups of steps separated by wider ones which served for landings. A spacious portico ran round with small columns, statues, and a triple row of seats. At present the theatre is surrounded by a wall which prevents it from falling entirely to ruin, a consummation which would be due more to the vandalism of men than to the ravages of time.