Part 6

The population of Valencia, the third city in Spain, which according to the last census was 150,000, makes this an important centre, but it is not an outwardly picturesque city. This is due to the flatness of the country, which prevents a good view of its buildings, as well as to the luxuriant vegetation which, surrounding the town on all sides, hides from the observer.

Valencia has little to boast in the way of archæological prizes. Her old churches and palaces, her _tapia_ walls and massive gates, with most of her ancient monuments, are gone; and only a few beautiful bits--the late Gothic Lonja, the octagonal _Miguelete_ belfry-tower, and some odd portions of the cathedral--remain. The very beautiful Lonja (Exchange), the ornamentation of which is characteristic of the Renaissance, is situated in the large Market square. The Lonja comprises the handsome Hall of Trade, the Watch Tower, on the ground floor of which is the chapel, and the Pavilion of the Consulado de Mar, which was previously used for offices and as a commercial hall. Extensive restoration work has recently been carried out in the building, which has suffered great mutilations. The Silk Exchange, besides being a market for this article, contains the commercial bourse, the municipal courts and other government offices. But if the city has swept herself almost clean of her precious art relics, she has assumed an air of modern alertness, and developed a commendable intention to move with the times. The improvements being carried out in the city of the Cid have almost entirely transformed Santa Catalina Square. Both the Santa Catalina and the Rhein Square near by, in the heart of the city, contain magnificent buildings, luxurious cafés, and all kinds of shops. There is a vast amount of bright life and gorgeous colouring in the streets and market places, with a quite Catalan forcefulness of character. The Valenciana is, moreover, a progressive and very excitable individual, and he imparts a special charm of fervour into all his affairs. On the occasions of their feasts and sports, the varied costumes of the lower classes--especially that of the huerta man, or peasant from the garden--may be seen in perfection. With his brilliantly-coloured _manta_ thrown loosely over a white linen shirt and black velveteen jacket, and with a bright kerchief knotted round his head, he is perhaps the best-dressed individual in the whole Peninsula, and he looks as if he thought so into the bargain.

A Peep into Murcia.

There are some parts of Spain over which I have travelled as the long hand travels round a clock dial--without haste, but without stopping. I have seen Murcia, as it were, from a moving platform, and the impression I derived of “African Spain,” as this quarter of the country has been called, has left me with the desire to return and spend a round of months amid its floral enchantments. This little province was the spot cherished by the Carthagenians, who found consolation in its possession for the loss of Sicily, and from it they derived the mineral wealth which enabled Hannibal to make war against Rome itself. The Goths of Murcia held their territory so stoutly against the Moors that during the lifetime of the warlike Theodimah the province was allowed to retain its independence. Under the Moors, Murcia was transformed into one continuous _huerta_ or garden; and after the disruption of the Kalifate of the Ummeyahs, it held its own as an independent State from 1038 to 1091, when internal dissensions among the members of the ruling Beni-Tahar family prepared the way for the triumph of the Spaniards. But to this day Murcia is regarded by the Spaniards as the Bœotia of the south.

At Alicante I spent four-and-twenty hours, but half as many weeks would not exhaust its attractions. I saw the ruined Castle of San Fernando from a distance, and made the acquaintance of the Castle of Santa Bárbara only from the outside. I perambulated the palm-shaded Paseo de los Martires, and the well-paved and capacious harbour, where the work of exporting minerals from Almagra and other places was going forward. There is always an air of bustling activity about the wharf,

which is alive with small wagons, roofed over by a cover of heavy matting, made of _esparto_ grass. Esparto, which resembles the spear-grass that flourishes on the sandy sea-shores of Lancashire, grows wild in vast quantities in this district. It is very wiry and tenacious in fibre, and is worked up by the natives into an infinite variety of purposes--such as matting, baskets, soles of sandals, &c. It is also largely exported to England, France, and the United States. It is the best substitute for rags in the manufacture of paper, and between 80,000 and 100,000 tons are annually imported into this country for that purpose. The Iberian whips, described by Horace, were manufactured of this material. The women and children are largely employed in the hand manufacture of _esparto_, and in the silkworm-gut industry, of which Murcia is the centre in this part of Spain.

The huerta, or garden of Alicante, is situated at some two or three miles from the town to the north, and is irrigated from the artificial _Pantano de Tibi_, of Moorish constructure. It is an oasis in a wilderness of sand and dust. The fields that surround this garden are parched and dry; the almond and fig trees that line the road are coated with dust that clings to them like thin snow, and the almond nuts resemble plaster imitations of themselves. And in the midst of this blistered country nestles the luscious _huerta_--a wide stretch of verdant plantations, thickly foliaged, cool, sweet, and refreshing, with villas embowered among its oranges and palms, a film of dim mountains in the background, and away to the south the silent brimming sea.

I received an invitation to inspect the tobacco factory in the northern suburb, and listened to enthusiastic descriptions of the beauty of many of the 6,000 girls employed there; but my time was limited, and I was compelled to postpone the pleasure of a visit.

From Alicante, past Elche to Murcia, lies a tract of African Spain--a vast plain covered with plantations of orange, lemon, pomegranate, fig and olive, among which scattered palms lift their broad heads with stately pride. At intervals, small towns, very Oriental in appearance, with domed, azure-tiled mosques, nestle among the palms, and add to the attractiveness of a scene of enthralling beauty. “Why is this lovely corner of the world so little known?” wrote a German enthusiast; and his question has been capped by the more prosaic cyclist, who asked: “Why are the people of these towns so rude and annoying, and why do the children favour us with a shower of stones?” One has not to ponder long in order to solve the cyclist’s problem. Cycles are as rarely seen in Murcia as bears in Bloomsbury, and it is scarcely surprising in the circumstances if the indefatigable wheelist is regarded with many wondering and sarcastic stares. But the peasant children in Spain, and especially in Southern

Spain, are, as a rule, chartered libertines. Until they are old enough to make themselves useful they are quite spoiled. On the assumption that children can do no wrong, they are permitted to do exactly what they please. The girls amuse themselves with singing and dancing, and the boys, in Southern Spain especially, find a favourite diversion in imitating the perils of the bull ring. Amongst themselves they are, even in argument, punctiliously polite; with the inoffensive stranger they are wary and not disobliging; but to the peripatetic oddity they are annoying in the manner that boys, given the same provocation, display all the world over.

Elche, rising from among its thousands of date-palms to a height of fifty feet, resembles an oasis in the desert. All around, the country is flat and fertile--a slumberland of soft greens and unbroken peacefulness. From Elche one passes to Granja, with its double-towered Moorish church, its old castillo clinging to the frowning height, its houses built into the rock of the mountain, and overgrown with aloes, fig, and cacti. There are Calossa de Segura and Albatera, flat-roofed and minareted; and from these spots may be seen the Montaña de Calossa, where amethyst steeps, glowing in the afternoon light, contrast with the varied tints of the plain in an ensemble of colour and outline nowhere surpassed in effect.

Carthagena, one of the three arsenals of Spain, and the largest

port in the country after Vigo, lies to the south. From here is shipped the silver and lead ores, iron ores, manganiferous iron ores, calamine, blend and copper ores from the rich mines in the surrounding districts, and also from the mines of the interior. In the suburbs of Sta. Lucia are extensive lead smelting and desilverization works, and the goods terminus of the steam tramway which connects Carthagena with La Union, the centre of the mining district. Escombreras, on a bay just outside the harbour, was at one time an important smelting and shipping place, but at the present time only one large furnace is open there. The country around Carthagena has been so wastefully denuded of forest as to make it an unmitigated desert. The landscape is a barren, burning waste, and the city itself is destitute of any semblance of greenness. Carthagena, which is considered impregnable to a foreign foe, was besieged by the Government soldiery in 1873, when a Commune was established there by Roque Barcia. A very little artillery practice directed against the walls, however, impressed Barcia with the advisability of taking a trip to Africa, and the Commune was at an end. There is an academy for cadets in the place, and blind people are numerous--a fact which may be owing to the excessive dazzle of the sunlight and absence of verdure. The men of Carthagena are so big, and the donkeys are so minute, that the latter are almost hidden beneath their human burdens.

The Moorish city of Murcia, the capital of its province, is a picturesque town in a beautiful setting. The city is one magnificent mass of varied colours, and all around, as far as the eye can see, are rare tropical shrubs and wide vistas of luxurious vegetation. Murcia is the land of roses--the Mecca of the floriculturist--the Canaan of the tribe of Art. I did not see its Gothic Cathedral, its picture gallery, nor its churches of Sta. Catalina or San Nicolas--I was there and away again, carrying

with me an impression of sunshine, and roses, and soft airs. The country is intersected with swiftly flowing brooks, that part in and out beneath the tall palms. Here the dark-complexioned and Oriental-looking Murcian washerwomen, dressed in brightly-coloured garments, assemble to follow their daily avocations; and the chatter, the laughter, and the brilliant hues of the many shawls are a perpetual delight to the ear and the eye. The men have the reputation of being the most ill-disposed and revengeful of any in Spain. The only indication I could discover of abnormal belligerency about them was in their practice of carrying the long Albacete knife; but I am inclined to the opinion that it is worn more for ornament than use. The teamsters, it is true, have a fierce aspect, and their manners are not improved by strong drink; but I have never met teamsters

in any part of the globe who were celebrated for remarkable sobriety, or angelic dispositions. The Murcian girls, as the traveller will observe at the various railway stations where they sell flowers and sweets, are pretty and engaging, and their costumes are charmingly picturesque.

The present city was built by the Moors from the remains of the Roman _Murgi_ in the early part of the 8th century. It was taken by the Spaniards under St. Ferdinand in 1240, and was reconquered by Alonso el Sabio, who left his heart and bowels to the Dean and Chapter; and these precious relics, preserved in a sarcophagus, are still to be seen in the Presbytery of the Gothic Cathedral.

From the palm-land of Murcia one passes over the unvarying, toneless plains of La Mancha to the Sierra Morena mountains, and beyond them to the daisy and buttercup-spread fields of Andalucia, which stretch away to the south, and lose themselves in a wide perspective, bounded by gold-shot undulating hills. The road runs down long slopes of flaming poppies, and beside gardens of blooming wild roses, amid extremes of perfectly-blended colour, to Bailen and Jaén, and the snow-crowned Sierra Nevada which surrounds Granada. Bailen is famous only as being the scene of the battle in which the French, under Duport, were defeated by the Spanish forces led by Castaños. Jaén, or _Gien_, the Arab word for fertility, is delightfully situated amid a jumble of mountains which are covered with luxuriant vegetation. Under the Moors it was a petty independent kingdom; but its ancient walls and its castle, which stands like a sentinel commanding the gorge of the mountain approach from Granada, have been almost entirely destroyed, and its own formidable bulwarks are reduced to a single gate. Jaén, like Baeza, surrendered to the victorious St. Ferdinand in the XIIIth century, and the two towns conjointly form the see of a Bishop.

Toledo and Cordova.

Spain is a country that has never laid aside the sword, or cast off her armour. Her martial spirit is lulled to rest, but its memory is kept alive in the frowning battlements, the gaunt fortresses that crown each peopled eminence, and guard the approaches of its ancient, war-scarred cities. Imperial Toledo, “the crown of Spain, the light of the world, free from the time of the mighty Goths,” as Padilla describes it, is a rock built upon a rock 1,820 feet above the sea. It is a mighty citadel, almost engirdled by the rushing Tagus, and armed at every point by massive Moorish masonry--solid, venerable, invincible. Toledo, in the heyday of its history, contained, beside the cathedral, one hundred and ten churches, thirty-four hospitals, a university, and four colleges. Toledo, or Toledoth, the Hebrew “city of generations,” has now only fifty-nine churches; its hospitals have been reduced to four; its fame as a seat of learning is a tale that is told. John Lomas, who wrote of this city that it “never had rest until it entered into the tomb; blighted, but not destroyed. There is the old Toledo yet, simply fossilised--a theatre with the actors gone and the scenery left. But the curtain will never be drawn up again, or the music re-commence. Rome may play the wanton with each succeeding age, and deck herself out in obedience to every passing fashion. But Toledo--? She is at least faithful to the dead past. The liveliest imagination cannot picture her as a creature of to-day, a receptive pupil of nineteenth century science and improvement. And so she keeps her old ways: her old tongue, thank heaven! knowing nothing of the mixed dialects and slang that mark off progress; her old narrow streets and solid buildings that are so beautifully fitted for defence, intrigue, and shelter, and would spell ruin to any enterprising company that should attempt to adapt them to the requirements of the new life that has come into the world. She has been poked at--twice--by inquisitive, bustling railroads, without the slightest electrifying results. So she retains her old Soko, and will have nought to do with the correct _Plaza de la Constitucion_, her old stern inconveniences and her old traditions.”

In many respects the foregoing is a faithful picture of Toledo of to-day. But will the curtain never be drawn up again? Will the music never re-commence? I may be wrong, but I cannot share this opinion. Writing eighteen years after Mr. Lomas, I have been privileged to find his prognostications already proving incorrect. The power and virility upon which Spain built up her greatness may slumber for awhile; but even in the fastnesses

of the Castilian mountains it has never died. The machinery of the curtain of the theatre of Toledo is a trifle rusty, the pulleys are jambed from long disuse; but that curtain is rising steadily if slowly, and already I can hear the tuning up of fiddles in its ancient orchestra. The ancient spirit still burns in the Toledans, and the ancient prosperity of their city is surely recovering itself. Since 1884 much re-building has been done, and more is in progress; whilst new and handsome shops are seen in the principal thoroughfares where an increase of population and traffic is apparent.

But one must live in such a city as Toledo in order to appreciate the changes that are being wrought in her. The casual visitor cannot hope to detect the specks of modernity in this vast temple of the antique. Its ancient grandeur is comparatively impervious to the pretty wiles of modern improvement. One’s eyes wander from the newly-built emporiums to the immensity of its enduring monuments, and one’s mind flings back instinctively into the past, out of which they arose to defy the hand of Time himself. And so the majority of book-makers, who take Spain for their subject, overlook the present condition of the country; the instant life that rushes before their eyes escapes their notice. And, indeed, it requires an effort, even on the part of a shrewd and unemotional observer, to stand beneath the shadow of the ruins of the old Alcázar and keep one’s mind from slipping backwards into the history of a city which presents an epitome of the principal arts, religions, and race-lives which have dominated the world for the last two thousand years. This was the theatre in which grim tragedy was ever played, where waves of strife, rapine, and misfortune swept remorselessly across its stage in constant succession; where Jew and Roman, Goth and Moor in turn played their stern parts. Here the voice of the Goth echoes amid Roman ruins, and the step of the Christian treads on the heel of the Moor. Here are palaces without nobles, churches without congregations, walks without people; and over all that silence which is so peculiar to the ancient cities of Spain. Before England was, Toledo had been.

In a city which holds one spellbound by its past, it must be difficult for the present to make headway. Wörmann has well described Toledo as “a gigantic open-air museum of the architectural history of early Spain, arranged upon a lofty and conspicuous table of rock;” and Street has declared: “Few cities I have ever seen can compete in artistic interest with it; and none, perhaps, come up to it in the singular magnificence of its situation, and the endless novelty and picturesqueness of its every corner.” And the grandeur is emphasised by the silence that serves to enhance the awe that the place inspires in the heart of the visitor. Such occasional sounds as are heard echo along the narrow streets, and turn innumerable corners, and the noise of a passing horse reverberates like the clatter of a charging squadron. But horses are few, and carriages are very far between, for the ascents of Toledo are formidable, and its turnings are endless. One must be resident in the city for months in order to learn its topography: the visitor must engage a guide, or be prepared to make a dozen inquiries on a journey from the Hotel de Castilla to the Cathedral. It is a maze built of masonry; an ideal place in which to lose oneself. One can walk for miles through these stone passages and make

but little progress, and zig-zag among the same houses for hours. Without a guide it is possible to live for weeks in Toledo and yet not see one quarter of the city. But, with an obliging cicerone to lead one about, the “Spanish Rome” may be superficially examined in a few days.

Special admirers of ecclesiastic sculpture and architectural detail will find in the famous cathedral of Toledo not one, but several weeks of study and enjoyment laid out for them. To attempt even a general survey of its marvels would be impossible in a volume of this size and design, and I must refer the antiquarian to Señor Parro’s exhaustive book on Toledo. In this work of 1,550 pages, one half is devoted to the cathedral, which is justly considered one of the most beautiful in the world. It is situated in the very heart of the city, around which cluster multitudinous churches and convents. So closely do the surrounding buildings press upon it, that no free view of the structure can be obtained, and one passes with a feeling of infinite relief from the congested vicinity of the exterior into the broad quietude, the lonely shade, and the austere gravity of the interior. I am told that it would take a week to minutely examine the high altar; it would take as long to inspect the accumulation of treasures in the sacristy--treasures of silver and gold, of pearls, rubies, and diamonds, sufficient, it is said, to entirely replenish the exchequer of Spain. The frescoed ceiling by Luca Giordano is the best in Spain; while pictures by Francesco Bassano, Giovanni Bellini, Titian, Rubens, Goya, Guercino, Van Dyck, and Carlo Maratta are to be seen on every side. Through the beautiful Oriental-looking cloister garden, with its shade of great trees, its grove, and its mass of luxurious verdure, one arrives at the bell-tower, from which one can enjoy a magnificent view of the city and the surrounding country.

But an even finer panoramic view of Toledo is to be obtained from one of the four great towers of the Alcázar. Involuntarily one catches one’s breath, and pays a silent tribute of amazed admiration as the spectacle discloses itself to view. From this vantage ground, every street, and turning, and detail of the city is revealed, with the cathedral rising like a mountain of granite in the midst of it. The statues on the terrace of San Juan de los Reyes look like dolls, the houses like dolls’ houses, and the horses like huge beetles climbing the tiny alleys. Towers and fortifications lie below us. A little further off, near the _Puente de_

_Alcántara_, are the ruins of the old _Castillo de San Servando_; and beyond and around lies the great green plain, stretching outwards to the distant rocks and mountains. At the foot of the city, and almost surrounding it, runs the River Tagus.