Government, were lured into embarking for Malaga from Gibraltar, where
they had assembled, by its military commandant Moreno, and shot down to a
man on the beach below the Carmen Convent. Among the victims was an
Englishman, Mr. Boyd, whose unhappy fate led to sharp protests from
England. Since this massacre a tardy tribute has been raised to the memory
of the slain; it stands in the shape of a monument in the Plaza de Riego,
the Alameda. Again, Malaga sided with Espartero in 1843, when he
"pronounced" but had to fly into exile. Once more, in 1868, the Malagueños
took up arms upon the losing side, fighting for the dethroned Isabella
Segunda against the successful soldiers who had driven her from Madrid.
Malaga was long and obstinately defended, but eventually succumbed after a
sanguinary struggle. Last of all, after the abdication of Amadeus in 1873,
the Republicans of Malaga rose, and carried their excesses so far as to
establish a Communistic régime, which terrorized the town. The troops
disbanded themselves, their weapons were seized by the worst elements of
the population, who held the reins of power, the local authorities having
taken to flight. The mob laid hands on the customhouse and all public
moneys, levied contributions upon the more peaceable citizens, then
quarreled among themselves and fought out their battles in the streets,
sweeping them with artillery fire, and threatening a general bombardment.
Order was not easily restored or without the display of armed force, but
the condign punishment of the more blameworthy has kept Malaga quiet ever
since.
While the male sex among the masses of Malaga enjoy an indifferent
reputation, her daughters of all classes are famed for their
attractiveness, even in Spain, the home, _par excellence_, of a
well-favored race. "Muchachas Malagueñas, muy halagueñas" (the girls of
Malaga are most bewitching) is a proverbial expression, the truth of which
has been attested by many appreciative observers. Théophile Gautier's
description of them is perhaps the most complimentary. The Malagueña, he
tells us, is remarkable for the even tone of her complexion (the cheek
having no more color than the forehead), the rich crimson of her lips, the
delicacy of her nostril, and above all the brilliancy of her Arab eyes,
which might be tinged with henna, they are so languorous and so
almond-shaped. "I cannot tell whether or not it was the red draperies of
their headgear, but their faces exhibited gravity combined with passion
that was quite Oriental in character." Gautier drew this picture of the
Malagueñas as he saw them at a bull-fight, and he expresses a not
unnatural surprise that sweet, Madonna-like faces, which might well
inspire the painter of sacred subjects, should look on unmoved at the
ghastly episodes of the blood-stained ring. It shocked him to see the deep
interest with which these pale beauties followed the fight, to hear the
feats of the arena discussed by sweet lips that might speak more suitably
of softer things. Yet he found them simple, tender-hearted, good, and
concluded that it was not cruelty of disposition but the custom of the
country that drew them to this savage show. Since then the bull-fight,
shorn, however, of its worst horrors, has become acclimatized and most
popular amidst M. Gautier's own country-women in Paris. That the beauty of
the higher ranks rivals that of the lowest may be inferred from the fact
that a lady whose charms were once celebrated throughout Europe is of
Malagueñan descent. The mother of the Empress Eugénie, who shared with
Napoleon III. the highest honors in France, was a Malaga girl, a Miss
Fitzpatrick, the daughter of the British consul, but she had also Spanish
blood in her veins.
A near neighbor and old rival, as richly endowed, may again pass Malaga in
the great race for commercial expansion. This is Almeria, which lies
farther eastward and which owns many natural advantages; its exposed port
has been improved by the construction of piers and breakwaters, and it now
offers a secure haven to the shipping that should ere long be attracted in
increasing tonnage to carry away the rich products of the neighboring
districts. Almeria is the capital of a province teeming with mineral
wealth, and whose climate and soil favor the growth of the most varied and
valuable crops. The silver mines of the mountains of Murcia and the
fertile valleys of the Alpujarras would find their best outlet at Almeria,
while Granada would once more serve as its farm. So ran the old proverb,
"When Almería was really Almería, Granada was only its alquería," or
source of supply. What this time-honored but almost forgotten city most
needs is to be brought into touch with the railway systems of Spain.
Meanwhile, Almeria, awaiting better fortune, thrives on the exports of its
own products, chief among which are grapes and esparto. The first has a
familiar sound to British ears, from the green grapes known as "Almerias,"
which are largely consumed in British households. These are not equal to
the delicately flavored Muscatels, but they are stronger and will bear the
packing and rough usages of exportation under which the others perish.
Esparto is a natural product of these favored lands, which, after long
supplying local wants, has now become an esteemed item in their list of
exports. It is known to botanists as the Spanish rush, or bass feather
grass, the Genet d'Espagne, and is compared by Ford to the "spear grass
which grows on the sandy sea-shores of Lancashire." It is still
manufactured, as in the days of Pliny, into matting, baskets, ropes, and
the soles for the celebrated Alpargatas, or rope sandal shoes, worn
universally by Spanish peasants in the south and Spanish soldiers on the
line of march. The ease and speed with which the Spanish infantry cover
long distances are greatly attributed to their comfortable chaussures.
Nowadays a much wider outlet has been found for esparto grass, and it is
grown artificially. When rags became more and more scarce and unequal to
the demands of the paper-makers, experiments were made with various
substitutes, and none answered the purpose better than the wild
spear-grass of southern Spain.
Almeria, while awaiting the return of maritime prosperity, can look with
some complacency upon a memorable if not altogether glorious past. Its
very names, Portus Magnus under the Romans, and Al Meriah, the
"Conspicuous," under the Moors, attest its importance. All the
agricultural produce of the prolific Vega, the silks that were woven on
Moorish looms and highly prized through the East, were brought to Almeria
for transmission abroad. The security and convenience of this famous port
gave it an evil reputation in after years, when it became an independent
kingdom under Ibn Maymum. Almeria was the terror of the Mediterranean; its
pirate galleys roved to and fro, making descents upon the French and
Italian coasts, and carrying back their booty, slaves, and prizes to their
impregnable home. Spaniards and Genoese presently combined against the
common enemy, and Almeria was one of the earliest Christian conquests
regained from the Moors. Later still the Algerian Moors took fresh
revenge, and their corsairs so constantly threatened Almeria that Charles
V. repaired its ancient fortifications, the old Moorish castle now called
the Alcazaba, the center or keep, and hung a great tocsin bell upon its
cathedral tower to give notice of the pirates' approach. This cathedral is
the most imposing object in the decayed and impoverished town. Pigs and
poultry roam at large in the streets, amidst dirt and refuse; but in the
strong sunlight, white and blinding as in Africa, the mean houses glisten
brightly, and the abundant color seen on awnings and lattice, upon the
women's skirts and kerchiefs, in the ultramarine sea, is brought out in
the most vivid and beautiful relief.
The scenery on the coast from Malaga eastward is fine, in some parts and
under certain aspects magnificent. Beyond Almeria is the famous Cape de
Gatt, as it is known to our mariners, the Cabo de Gata of local parlance,
the Agate Cape, to give it its precise meaning. This remarkable
promontory, composed of rocks encrusted with gems, is worthy a place in
the "Arabian Nights." There are miles and miles of agates and crystal
spar, and in one particular spot amethysts are found. Wild winds gather
and constantly bluster about this richly constituted but often
storm-tossed landmark. Old sailor saws have perpetuated its character in
the form of a proverb, "At the Cape de Gatt take care of your hat." Other
portions of the coast nearer Malaga are still more forbidding and
dangerous: under the Sierra Tejada, for example, where the rocky barriers
which guard the land rise tier above tier as straight as a wall, in which
there are no openings, no havens of safety for passing craft in an inshore
gale. Behind all, a dim outline joining hands as it were with the clouds,
towers the great snowy range of southern Spain, the Sierra Nevada,
rejoicing in an elevation as high as the Swiss Alps, and in some respects
far more beautiful.
There are, however, no such grim glaciers, no such vast snow-fields as in
Switzerland, for here in the south the sun has more power, and even at
these heights only the peaks and pinnacles wear white crests during the
summer heats. This more genial temperature encourages a richer vegetation,
and makes the ascents less perilous and toilsome. A member of the Alpine
Club would laugh to scorn the conquest of Muley Hacen, or of the Picacho
de la Veleta, the two crowning peaks of the range. The enterprise is
within the compass of the most moderate effort. The ascent of the
last-named and lowest, although the most picturesque, is the easiest made,
because the road from Granada is most direct. In both cases the greatest
part of the climbing is performed on horseback; but this must be done a
day in advance, and thus a night has to be passed near the summit under
the stars. The temperature is low, and the travellers can only defend
themselves against the cold by the wraps they have brought and the fuel
they can find (mere knotted roots) around their windy shelter. The ascent
to where the snow still lingers, in very dirty and disreputable patches,
is usually commenced about two in the morning, so that the top may be
reached before dawn. If the sky is clear, sunrise from the Picacho is a
scene that can never be forgotten, fairly competing with, if not
outrivaling, the most famous views of the kind. The Mediterranean lies
below like a lake, bounded to the north and west by the Spanish coast, to
the south by the African, the faintest outlines of which may often be seen
in the far, dim distance. Eastward the horizon is made glorious by the
bright pageants of the rising sun, whose majestic approach is heralded by
rainbow-hued clouds. All around are the strangely jagged and contorted
peaks, rolling down in diminishing grandeur to the lower peaks that seem
to rise from the sea.
The highest peak of the Sierra Nevada is Muley Hacen, although it has only
the advantage over the Picacho de la Veleta by about a couple of hundred
feet. It is a longer and more difficult ascent, but in some ways the most
interesting, as it can best be reached through the Alpujarras, those
romantic and secluded valleys which are full of picturesque scenery and of
historical associations. The starting point, as a general rule, is
Trevelez, although the ascent may be equally made from Portugos, somewhat
nearer Granada. Trevelez is the other side and the most convenient coming
from Malaga by way of Motril. But no one would take the latter route who
could travel by the former, which leads through Alhendin, that well-known
village which is said to have seen the last of the departing Moors. This
is the point at which Granada is finally lost to view, and it was here
that Boabdil, the last king of Granada, took his last farewell of the city
whose loss he wept over, under the scathing sarcasm of his more heroic
mother, who told him he might well "weep like a woman for what he could
not defend as a man." Near this village is the little hill still known as
the site of "El Ultimo Suspiro del Moro, the last sigh of the Moor." This
same road leads through Lanjaron, an enchanting spot, posted high upon a
spur of the hills, and famous as a bathing place with health-giving
mineral springs. From Portugos or Trevelez the climb is easy enough: to be
accomplished a great part of the way on horseback, and in its earlier
levels ascending amid forests of evergreen oak; after that, long wastes of
barren rock are passed, till at length the summit is reached, on a narrow
strip of table-land, the highest in Southern Europe, and with an unrivaled
view. The charm of the Muley Hacen peak is its isolation, while the
Picacho looks better from it than Muley Hacen does from the Picacho, and
there is a longer vista across the Mediterranean Sea.
IV
BARCELONA
The flower market of the Rambla--Streets of the old town--The
Cathedral of Barcelona--Description of the Columbus monument--All
Saints' Day in Spain--Mont Tibidaho--Diverse centers of intellectual
activity--Ancient history--Philanthropic and charitable institutions.
"Barcelona, shrine of courtesy, harbor of the wayfarer, shelter of the
poor, cradle of the brave, champion of the outraged, nurse of friendship,
unique in position, unique in beauty!"
Such was the eulogium bestowed upon Barcelona by the great Cervantes
several hundred years ago, an eulogium warranted by a stranger's
experience in our own day. The matchless site of the second city of Spain,
its luxuriant surroundings, awaken enthusiasm as of old, whilst even the
briefest possible sojourn suffices to make us feel at home. A winning
urbanity, a cosmopolitan amiableness, characterize the townsfolk, Spanish
hauteur is here replaced by French cordiality. Softness of manner and
graces of speech lend additional charm to a race conspicuous for personal
beauty. The Barcelonese are described by a contemporary as laborious and
energetic, ambitious of social advance, tenacious of personal dignity,
highly imaginative, at the same time eminently practical, steadfast in
friendship, vehement in hate. The stir and magnificence of the city
attest the progressive character of the inhabitants.
Few European capitals can boast of finer public monuments, few indeed
possess such a promenade as its famous Rambla. The Rambla may be regarded
as an epitome, not only of the entire city, but of all Spain, and here the
curious traveller should take up his quarters. A dozen brilliant or moving
spectacles meet the eye in a day, whilst the normal aspect is one of
unimaginable picturesqueness and variety. The dark-eyed flower-girls with
their rich floral displays; the country folks still adhering to the
costume of Catalonia--the men sandaled and white-hosed, for headgear,
slouch caps of crimson, scarlet, or peach-colored felt, the women with
gorgeous silk kerchiefs pinned under the chin--the Asturian nursemaids in
poppy-red skirts barred with black, and dainty gold and lace caps; the
ladies fanning themselves as they go in November, with black lace
mantillas over their pretty heads; the Guardia Civile in big,
awe-inspiring cocked hats and long black cloaks reaching to the ankle; the
trim soldiery in black and red tunics, knickerbockers and buskins, their
officers ablaze with gold braid and lace; the spick-and-span city police,
each neat as a dandy in a melodrama, not a hair out of place, collars and
cuffs of spotless white, ironed to perfection, well-fitting costumes,
swords at their sides; the priests and nuns; the seafaring folk of many
nationalities; the shepherds of uncouth appearance from the neighboring
mountains--all these at first make us feel as if we were taking part in a
masquerade.
Now way is made for the funeral train of some rich citizen, the lofty car
of sumptuous display of black and gold drapery, wreaths of fresh roses,
violet, and heliotrope, large as carriage-wheels, fastened to the sides,
the coffin, encased in black and violet velvet, studded with gold nails;
following slowly, a long procession of carriages bearing priests,
choristers, and mourners. And now the sounds of martial music summon the
newcomer a second time to his window. It is a soldier who is borne to his
rest. Six comrades accompany the bier, carrying long inverted tapers;
behind march commanding officers and men, the band playing strains all too
spirited it seems for such an occasion. There is always something going on
in this splendid avenue animated from early morning till past midnight,
market-place, parade ground, promenade in one.
The daily flower-market of itself would almost repay the journey from
London. When northern skies are gloomiest, and fogs are daily fare, the
Rambla is at its best. The yellowing leaves of the plane-trees look golden
under the dazzling blue sky, and brilliant as in a picture are the
flower-sellers and their wares. These distractingly pretty girls, with
their dark locks pulled over the brow, their lovely eyes, rich olive
complexions, and gleaming white teeth, have nothing of the mendicant about
them. As they offer their flowers--perhaps fastening roses to a
half-finished garland with one hand, whilst with the other a pot of
heliotrope is reached down--the passer-by is engagingly invited to
purchase. The Spanish language, even the dialect of Catalonia, is music to
begin with, and the flower-maidens make it more musical still by their
gentle, caressing ways. Some wear little mantillas of black, blonde, or
cashmere; others, silk kerchiefs of brightest hue--orange, crimson, deep
purple, or fanciful patterns of many colors. Barcelona is a flower-garden
all the year round, and in mid-winter we stroll between piled-up masses
of rose, carnation, and violet, to say nothing of dahlias and
chrysanthemums.
It is especially on All Saints' and All Souls' Days that the flower-market
of the Rambla is seen to advantage; enormous sums are spent upon wreaths
and garlands for the cemetery, the poorest then contriving to pay his
floral tribute to departed kith and kin.
In striking contrast with the wide, airy, ever brilliantly illuminated
Rambla, electric light doing duty for sunshine at night, are the streets
of the old town. The stranger may take any turning--either to right or
left--he is sure to find himself in one of these dusky narrow
thoroughfares, so small ofttimes the space between window and opposite
window that neighbors might almost shake hands. With their open shops of
gay woolen stuffs, they vividly recall Cairene bazaars. Narrow as is the
accommodation without, it must be narrower still within, since when folks
move from one house to another their goods and chattels are hoisted up and
passed through the front windows. The sight of a chest of drawers or a
sofa in cloudland is comical enough, although the system certainly has its
advantages. Much manual labor is thereby spared, and the furniture
doubtless escapes injury from knocking about.
The wise traveller will elect to live on the Rambla, but to spend his time
in the old town. Wherever he goes he is sure to come upon some piece of
antiquity, whilst here, in a great measure, he loses sight of the
cosmopolitan element characterizing the new quarters. Novel and striking
as is its aspect to the stranger, Barcelona must nevertheless be described
as the least Spanish of Spanish towns. The second seaport of Spain is
still--as it was in the Middle Ages--one of the most important seats of
international commerce on the Mediterranean. As we elbow our way along
the crowded Rambla we encounter a diversity of types and hear a perplexing
jargon of many tongues. A few minutes suffice to transport us into the
old-world city familiar to Ford--not, however, to be described by the
twentieth century tourist in Ford's own words. "A difficult language," he
wrote just upon half a century ago, "rude manners, and a distrust of
strangers, render Barcelona a disagreeable city." Nowhere nowadays is more
courtesy shown to the inquiring stranger. He is not even obliged to ask
his way in these narrow tortuous streets. The city police, to be found at
every turn, uninvited come to his aid, and, bringing out a pocket-map,
with an infinity of pains make clear to him the route he has to take. The
handsome Calle San Fernando leads to the somber but grandiose old
Cathedral with its lovely cloisters, magnificent towers and bells,
deep-voiced as that of Big Ben itself. All churches in Spain, by the way,
must be visited in the forenoon; even then the light is so dim that little
can be seen of their treasures--pictures, reliquaries, marble tombs. The
Cathedral of Barcelona forms no exception to the rule. Only lighted by
windows of richly stained old glass, we are literally compelled to grope
our way along the crowded aisles. Mass is going on from early morning till
noon, and in the glimmering jeweled light we can just discern the moving
figures of priests and acolytes before the high altar, and the scattered
worshippers kneeling on the floor. Equally vague are the glimpses we
obtain of the chapels, veritable little museums of rare and beautiful
things unfortunately consigned to perpetual obscurity, veiled in
never-fading twilight. What a change we find outside! The elegant Gothic
cloisters, rather to be described as a series of chapels, each differing
from the other, each sumptuously adorned, enclose a sunny open space or
patio, planted with palms, orange and lemon trees, the dazzlingly bright
foliage and warm blue sky in striking contrast to the somber gray of the
building-stone. A little farther off, on the other side, we may see the
figures of the bell-ringers high up in the open belfry tower, swinging the
huge bells backwards and forwards with tremendous effort, a sight never to
be missed on Sundays and fête days.
This stately old Cathedral, like so many others, was never finished and
works of reparation and restoration are perpetually going on. Close by
stands the Palais de Justice, with its beautiful Gothic court and carved
stone staircase, the balustrade supported by lovely little statuettes or
gargoyles, each an artistic study in itself. Abutting this is the Palais
de Diputacion, Provincial or local Parliament House, a building of truly
Spanish grandeur. Its wide marble staircases, its elaborate ceilings of
carved wood, its majestic proportions, will, perhaps, have less interest
for some travellers than its art-treasures, two _chefs d'oeuvre_ of the
gifted Fortuny. Barcelona was the patron of this true genius--Catalan by
birth--so unhappily cut off in his early prime. With no little pride the
stately officials show these canvases--the famous "Odalisque" and the
"Battle of Tetuan"--the latter, alas! left unfinished. It is a superb
piece of life and color, but must be seen on a brilliant day as the hall
is somber. Nothing can exceed the courtesy of the Barcelonese to
strangers, and these pictures are shown out of the regular hours. But let
no one incautiously offer a fee. The proffered coin will be politely, even
smilingly, rejected, without humiliating reproof, much less a look of
affront. Ford's remark that "a silver key at all times secures admission"
does not hold good in these days.
Near the Cathedral, law courts, and Provincial Parliament House stands
another picturesque old palace of comparatively modern date, yet Saracenic
aspect, and containing one of the most curious historic treasures in
Europe. This is the palace of the kings of Aragon, or Archivo General de
la Corona de Aragon. The exterior, as is usual with Spanish buildings, is
massive and gloomy. Inside is a look of Oriental lightness and gaiety.
Slender columns, painted red, enclose an open court, and support a little
terrace planted with shrubs and flowers. Here in perfect order and
preservation, without a break, are stored the records of upwards of a
thousand years, the earlier consisting of vellum scrolls and black letter,
the latter showing the progress of printing from its beginning down to our
own day. The first parchment bears date A. D. 875. Among the curiosities
of the collection are no less than eight hundred and two Papal Bulls from
the year 1017 to 1796. Besides the archives of Barcelona itself, and of
the kingdom of Aragon, to which it was annexed in the twelfth century, the
palace contains many deeply interesting manuscripts found in the
suppressed monasteries.