records. The bookcases, which are not more than six feet high, stand on
either side of the vast library, at some distance from the wall, made
staircase-wise; one set of volumes just above the other, with the result
that no accumulation of dust is possible, and that each set is equally
accessible. The effect on the eye of these symmetrically-placed volumes in
white vellum is very novel and pleasing. We seem to be in a hall, the
walls of which are of fluted cream-colored marble.
The little museum of local antiquities in the ruined Church of Santa
Agneda, the somber old churches of San Pablo del Campo, Santa Maria del
Mar and Belen, the fragments of mediæval domestic architecture remaining
here and there--all these will detain the archæologist. Of more general
interest are the modern monuments of Barcelona. In no city have civic
lavishness and public spirit shone forth more conspicuously.
A penny tramway--you may go anywhere here for a penny--takes you to the
beautiful Park and Fountain of Neptune. The word "fountain" gives an
inadequate notion of the splendid pile, with its vast triple-storied
marble galleries, its sculptured Naiads and dolphins, and on the summit,
towering above park and lake and cascades, its three gigantic sea-horses
and charioteers richly gilt, gleaming as if indeed of massive gold. Is
there any more sumptuous fountain in the world? I doubt it. In spite of
the gilded sea-horses and chariot, there is no tawdriness here; all is
bold, splendid, and imposing. Below the vast terraced galleries and wide
staircases, all of pure marble, flows in a broad sheet the crystal-clear
water, home of myriads of gold fish. The _entourage_ is worthy of so
superb a construction. The fountain stands in the midst of a
scrupulously-kept, tastefully laid-out, ever-verdant park or public
pleasure-ground. In November all is fresh and blooming as in an English
June. Palms, magnolias, bananas, oleanders, camellias, the pepper-tree,
make up a rich, many-tinted foliage. Flowers in winter-time are supplanted
by beds of brilliant leaved plants that do duty for blossoms. The purple,
crimson, and sea-green leaves are arranged with great effect, and have a
brilliant appearance. Here surrounded by gold green turf, are little lakes
which may be sailed across in tiny pleasure skiffs. At the chief entrance,
conspicuously placed, stands the fine equestrian monument to Prim,
inaugurated with much civil and military pomp some years ago. It is a bold
statue in red bronze. The general sits his horse, hat in hand, his fine,
soldier-like face turned towards the city. On the sides of the pedestal
are bas-reliefs recording episodes of his career, and on the front these
words only, "Barcelona à Prim." The work is that of a Spanish artist, and
the monument as a whole reflects great credit alike to local art and
public spirit.
But a few minutes' drive brings us within sight of a monument to one of
the world's heroes. I allude to the memorial column recently raised to
Columbus by this same public-spirited and munificent city of Barcelona.
Columbus, be it remembered, was received here by Ferdinand and Isabella
after his discovery of America in 1493. Far and wide over hills and city,
palm-girt harbor, and sea, as a lighthouse towers the tremendous obelisk,
the figure of the great Genoese surmounting it, his feet placed on a
golden sphere, his outstretched arm pointing triumphantly in the direction
of his newly-discovered continent as much as to say, "It is there!"
Never did undertaking reflect more credit upon a city than this stupendous
work. The entire height of the monument is about two-thirds of the height
of the Monument of London. The execution was entrusted to Barcelonese
craftsmen and artists; the materials--bronze, stone, and marble--all being
supplied in the neighborhood.
On the upper tier of the pedestal are statues of the four noble Catalans
who materially aided Columbus in his expedition--by name Fray Boyl, monk
of Montserrat, Pedro Margarit, Jaime Ferrer, and Luis Sentangel. Below are
allegorical figures representing, in the form of stately matrons, the four
kingdoms of Catalonia, Castille, Aragon, and Leon. Bas-reliefs,
illustrating scenes in the career of the discoverer, adorn the hexagonal
sides, six magnificent winged lions of greystone keep jealous watch over
the whole, and below these, softening the aspect of severity, is a belt of
turf, the following inscription being perpetually written in flowers:
"Barcelona à Colon." The column is surmounted by a globe burnished with
gold, and above rises the colossal figure of Columbus.
No happier site could have been selected. The monument faces the sea, and
is approached from the town by a palm-bordered walk and public garden. The
first object to greet the mariner's eye as he sights land is the figure of
Columbus poised on his glittering ball; the last to fade from view is that
beacon-like column towering so proudly above city and shore. A little
excursion must be made by boat or steamer, in order to realize the
striking effect of this monument from the sea.
To obtain a bird's-eye view of Barcelona itself, the stranger should go
some distance inland. The Fort of Montjuich, commanding the town from the
south, or Mont Tibidaho to the north, will equally answer his purpose. A
pretty winding path leads from the shore to a pleasure-garden just below
the fort, and here we see the entire city spread as in a map at our feet.
The panorama is somewhat monotonous, the vast congeries of white walls and
grey roofs only broken by gloomy old church towers and tall factory
chimneys, but thus is realized for the first time the enormous extent of
the Spanish Liverpool and Manchester in one. Thus, indeed, may
Barcelona be styled. Looking seaward, the picture is animated and
engaging--the wide harbor bristling with shipping, lateen-sailed fishing
boats skimming the deep-blue sunny waves, noble vessels just discernible
on the dim horizon.
[Illustration]
The once celebrated promenade of the Murallo del Mar, eulogized by Ford
and other writers, no longer exists, but the stranger will keep the
sea-line in search of the new cemetery. A very bad road leads thither, on
All Saints' and All Souls' days followed by an unbroken string of
vehicles, omnibuses, covered carts, hackney carriages, and private
broughams; their occupants, for the most part, dressed in black. The
women, wearing black Cashmere mantillas, are hardly visible, being hidden
by enormous wreaths, crosses, and bouquets of natural and also of
artificial flowers. The new cemetery is well placed, being several miles
from the city, on high ground between the open country and the sea. It is
tastefully laid out in terraces--the trees and shrubs testifying to the
care bestowed on them. Here are many costly monuments--mausoleums, we
should rather say--of opulent Barcelonese, each family possessing its tiny
chapel and burial-place.
It is to be hoped that so progressive a city as Barcelona will ere long
adopt the system of cremation. Nothing can be less hygienic, one would
think, than the present mode of burial in Spain. To die there is
literally--not figuratively--to be laid on the shelf. The terrace-like
sides of the cemetery ground have been hollowed out into pigeon-holes, and
into these are thrust the coffins, the marble slab closing the aperture
bearing a memorial inscription. Ivy and other creepers are trained around
the various divisions, and wreaths of fresh flowers and immortelles adorn
them; the whole presenting the appearance of a huge chest of drawers
divided into mathematically exact segments. To us there is something
uncanny--nay, revolting--in such a form of burial; which, to say the least
of it, cannot be warranted on æsthetic, much less scientific, principles.
It is satisfactory to find that at last Protestants and Jews have their
own burial-place here, shut off from the rest, it is true by a wall at
least twenty feet high, but a resting-place for all that. It was not so
very long ago that Malaga was the only Spanish town according Protestants
this privilege, the concession being wrung from the authorities by the
late much-esteemed British consul, Mr. Mark.
For some days preceding the festival of All Saints the cemetery presents a
busy scene. Charwomen, gardeners, masons, and painters then take
possession of the place. Marble is scoured, lettering is repainted, shrubs
clipped, turf cut--all is made spick and span, in time for the great
festival of the dead. It must be borne in mind that All Saints' Day in
Spain has no analogy with the same date in our own calendar. Brilliant
sunshine, air soft and balmy as of July, characterize the month of
November here. These visits to the cemetery are, therefore, less
depressing than they would be performed amid English fog and drizzle. We
Northerners, moreover, cannot cast off gloomy thoughts and sad
retrospection as easily as the more elastic, more joyous Southern
temperament. Mass over, the pilgrimage to the cemetery paid, all is
relaxation and gaiety. All Saints' and All Souls' days are indeed periods
of unmitigated enjoyment and relaxation. Public offices, museums, schools,
shops, are closed. Holiday folk pour in from the country. The city is as
animated as Paris on the 14th of July.
In the forenoon it is difficult to elbow one's way through the crowded
thoroughfares. Every street is thronged, men flocking to mass as zealously
as devotees of the other sex. In these early hours most of the ladies wear
black; their mourning garb later in the day to be exchanged for
fashionable toilettes of all colors. The children are decked out gaily, as
for a fancy fair. Service is being held in every church, and from all
parts may be heard the sonorous Cathedral bells. Its vast, somber
interior, now blazing with wax-lights, is a sight to remember. Crowds in
rapt devotion are kneeling on the bare stones, the ladies heedless of
their silks; here and there the men kneeling on a glove or
pocket-handkerchief, in order to protect their Sunday pantaloons. Rows of
poor men--beggars, it would seem, tidied up for the occasion--sit in rows
along the aisle, holding lighted tapers. The choir is filled with
choristers, men and boys intoning the service so skilfully that they
almost seem to sing. Soon the crowds fall back, and a procession passes
from choir to high altar--priests and dignitaries in their gorgeous robes,
some of black, embroidered with crosses in gold, others of white and
purple or yellow, the bishop coming last, his long violet train borne by a
priest; all the time the well-trained voices of the choristers--sweet
treble of the boys, tenor, and base--making up for lack of music. At last
the long ceremony comes to an end, and the vast congregation pours out to
enjoy the balmy air, the warm sunshine, visits, confectionery, and other
distractions.
Such religious holidays should not be missed by the traveller, since they
still stamp Spain as the most Catholic country in the world. Even in
bustling, cosmopolitan, progressive Barcelona people seem to spend half
their time in church.
In the capital of Catalonia, twentieth-century civilization and the
mediæval spirit may still be called next-door neighbors. The airy
boulevards and handsome villas of suburban Algiers are not more strikingly
contrasted with the ancient Moorish streets than the new quarters of
Barcelona with the old. The Rambla, its electric lights, its glittering
shops, cafés, clubs, and theaters, recalls a Parisian boulevard. In many
of the tortuous, malodorous streets of the old town there is hardly room
for a wheelbarrow to be drawn along; no sunbeam has ever penetrated the
gloom.
Let us take a penny tramway from the Rambla to the gloomy, grandiose old
church of Santa Maria del Mar. Between the city and the sea rises the
majestic monument to Columbus, conspicuous as a lighthouse alike from land
and sea. We follow a broad palm-bordered alley and pleasure garden beyond
which are seen the noble harbor bristling with masts and the soft blue
Mediterranean. Under the palms lounge idle crowds listening to a band,
shading themselves as best they can from the burning sun of November! What
a change when we leave the tramway and the airy, handsome precincts of the
park, and plunge into the dark, narrow street behind the Lonja Palace. The
somber picture is not without relief. Round about the ancient façade of
the church are cloth-shops, the gay wares hanging from each story, as if
the shopmen made a display of all their wares. Here were reds, yellows,
greens of brightest hue, some of these woolen blankets, shawls, and
garments of every description being gay to crudeness; grass green,
scarlet, orange, sky-blue, dazzled the eye, but the general effect was
picturesque and cheerful. The dingy little square looked ready for a
festival. In reality, a funeral service was taking place in the church. If
Spanish interiors are always dark and depressing, what must they be when
draped with black? No sooner does the door swing behind us here than
daylight is shut out completely as on entering a mine; we are obliged to
grope our way by the feeble rays of light penetrating the old stained
glass of the clerestory. The lovely lancets of the aisles are hidden by
huge black banners, the vast building being only lighted by a blaze of wax
tapers here and there. Sweet soft chanting of boys' voices, with a
delicious organ accompaniment, was going on when I entered, soon to be
exchanged for the unutterably monotonous and lugubrious intoning of
black-robed choristers. They formed a procession and, chanting as they
went, marched to a side altar before which a priest was performing mass.
The Host elevated, all marched back again, the dreary intoning now
beginning afresh. It is impossible to convey any adequate notion of the
dreariness of the service. If the Spaniards understand how to enjoy to the
uttermost what Browning calls "the wild joy of living," they also know how
to clothe death with all the terrors of mediæval superstition. It takes
one's breath away, too, to calculate the cost of a funeral here, what with
the priests accomplished in the mystic dance--so does a Spanish writer
designate the performance--the no less elaborate services of the
choristers, the lighting up of the church, the display of funeral drapery.
The expense, fortunately, can only be incurred once. These ancient
churches--all somberness and gloom, yet on fête days ablaze with light
and colors--symbolize the leading characteristics of Spanish character. No
sooner does the devotee rise from his knees than the Southern passion for
joy and animation asserts itself. Religious exercise and revel, penitence
and enjoyment, alternate one with the other; the more devout the first,
all the more eagerly indulged in the last.
On the Sunday morning following the Festival of All Saints--the 4th of
November--the splendid old cathedral was the scene of a veritable pageant.
Wax lights illuminated the vast interior from end to end, the brocades and
satins of priestly robes blazed with gold embroidery, the rich adornments
and treasure of altar and chapels could be seen in full splendor. Before
the grand music of the organ and the elevation, a long, very long, sermon
had to be listened to, the enormous congregation for the most part
standing; scattered groups here and there squatted on the stone piers, not
a chair to be had anywhere, no one seeming to find the discourse too long.
When at last the preacher did conclude, the white-robed choristers, men
and boys, passed out of the choir, and formed a double line. Then the
bishop in solemn state descended from the high altar. He wore a crimson
gown with long train borne by a priest, and on his head a violet cap, with
pea-green tuft. The dresses of the attendant clergy were no less gorgeous
and rich in texture, some of crimson with heavy gold trimmings, others of
mauve, guinea-gold, peach color, or creamy white, several wearing fur
caps. The procession made the round of the choir, then returned to the
starting-point. As I sat behind the high altar on one of the high-backed
wooden benches destined for the aged poor, two tiny chorister boys came
up, both in white surplices, one with a pink, the other with sky-blue
collar. Here they chatted and laughed with their hands on the bell-rope,
ready to signal the elevation. On a sudden the tittering ceased, the
childish hands tugged at the rope, the tinkling of the bell was heard, and
the multitude, as one man, fell on its knees, the organ meantime being
played divinely. Service over, the crowds emerged into the dazzling
sunshine: pleasure parties, steamboat trips, visits, theaters, bull-fights
occupied the rest of the day, the Rambla presenting the appearance of a
masquerade.
An excursion northwards of the city is necessary, in order to see its
charming, fast-increasing suburbs. Many, as is the case with those of
Paris, Passy, Auteuil, Belleville, and others, were formerly little towns,
but are fast becoming part of Barcelona itself.
Most musically named is Gracia, approached by rail or tramway, where rich
citizens have their orange and lemon gardens, their chateaux and villas,
and where religious houses abound. In this delightful suburban retreat
alone no less than six nunneries may be counted; somber prison-like
buildings, with tiny barred windows, indicating the abode of cloistered
nuns of ascetic orders. That of the Order of St. Domingo has been recently
founded. The house looks precisely like a prison. Here also are several
congregations of the other sex--the Missionaries of the Sacred Heart, the
Fathers of San Filipe, and others.
Gracia may be called the Hampstead of Barcelona. Hardly a house but
possesses its garden. Above the high walls trail gorgeous creepers and
datura, whilst through the iron gates we obtain glimpses of dahlias in
full splendor, roses red and white, and above these the glossy-leaved
orange and lemon trees with their ripening fruit. The pleasantest suburb
of Barcelona is well worthy of its name. As Sarria is approached, the
scenery becomes more rural, and under the brilliant November sunshine
reminds the traveller of the East, the square, white, low-roofed houses
rising amid olive and palm trees. The aloes and prickly pears on the waste
ground again and again recall Algeria. Here are vast stretches of
vegetable gardens and vineyards supplying the city markets, and standing
in their own grounds on sunny hill-sides, the quintas or country houses of
rich citizens and grandees.
From the little town of Sarria--hardly as yet to be called suburban--a
glorious view is obtained of city, port, and sea. The narrow dusty
streets, with their close-shuttered houses, have a sleepy look; yet Sarria
possesses one of the largest cotton-mills in Spain, several thousand hands
being employed by one firm. The branch railway ends at Sarria. Here
tourists and holiday-makers alight; the hardy pedestrian to reach the
summit of Mont Tibidaho on foot--a matter of two hours or so--the less
enterprising, to accept one of the covered cars awaiting excursionists
outside the station. Mont Tibidaho is the favorite holiday ground of the
citizens. Even in November numerous pleasure parties are sure to be found
here, and the large restaurants indicate the extent of summer patronage.
On the breezy heights round about are the sumptuous mansions of nobles and
merchant princes; whilst down below are numerous picturesque valleys,
notably that of San Cugat. The stranger fortunate enough to obtain
admission will find himself in the kind of fairyland described by Tennyson
in his "Haroun-al-Raschid," Owen Meredith in "The Siege of
Constantinople," or Gayangos in his delightful translation of the
"Chronicles of Al-Makkari." Marble courts, crystal fountains, magnificent
baths, mosaic pavements, statuary, tapestries, aviaries, rare exotics,
gold and silver plate, are now combined with all modern appliances of
comfort. A sojourn in one of the well-appointed hotels will suffice to
give some notion of Spanish society. During the holidays many families
from the city take up their quarters here. Social gatherings, picnics,
excursions, concerts, are the order of the day, and good military bands
enliven the gardens on Sundays.
To the south-east of Barcelona lies the suburb of Barceloneta, frequented
by the seafaring population. Penny boats ply between city and suburb, on
Sundays and holidays the music of a barrel-organ being thrown into the
bargain. The harbor is then black with spectators, and the boats and
little steamers, making the cruise of the port for half a franc, are
crowded with holiday-makers. The bright silk head-dresses of the women,
the men's crimson or scarlet sombreros and plaids, the uniforms of the
soldiers, the gay dresses of the ladies, make up a picturesque scene. On
board the boats the music of the barrel-organ must on no account be paid
for. A well-intentioned stranger who should offer the musician a penny is
given to understand that the treat is gratuitous and generously supplied
by the owners of the craft. Greed being almost universal in those parts of
the world frequented by tourists, it is gratifying to be able to chronicle
such exceptions. Seldom, indeed, has the sightseer at Barcelona to put his
hand in his pocket.
If inferior to other Spanish cities in picturesqueness and interest
generally, the capital of Catalonia atones for the deficit by its
abundance of resources. It possesses nothing to be called a
picture-gallery; the museums are second-rate, the collections of
antiquities inconsiderable. But what other city in Spain can boast of so
many learned bodies and diverse centers of intellectual activity?
Excessive devotion and scientific inquiry do not here seem at variance.
Strange to say, a population that seems perpetually on its knees is the
first to welcome modern ideas.
The Academy of Arts was founded in 1751, and owes its origin to the Junta,
or Tribunal of Commerce of Catalonia. This art school is splendidly lodged
in the Lonja Palace, and attached to it is a museum, containing a few
curious specimens of old Spanish masters, some rather poor copies of the
Italian schools, and one real artistic treasure of the first water. This
is a collection of studies in black and white by the gifted Fortuny, whose
first training was received here. The sketches are masterly, and atone for
the insignificance of the remaining collection. Students of both sexes are
admitted to the classes, the course of study embracing painting in all its
branches, modeling, etching, linear drawing and perspective, anatomy and
æsthetics. It is gratifying to find that girls attend these classes,
although as yet in small numbers.
The movement in favor of the higher education of women marches at a
snail's pace in Spain. The vast number of convents and what are called
"Escuelas Pias," or religious schools, attest the fact that even in the
most cosmopolitan and enlightened Spanish town the education of girls
still remains chiefly in the hands of the nuns. Lay schools and colleges
exist, also a normal school for the training of female teachers, founded a
few years ago. Here and there we find rich families entrusting their girls
to English governesses, but such cases are rare.
We must remember, however, that besides the numerous "Escuelas pias" and
secular schools, several exist opened under the auspices of the Spanish
Evangelical body, and also the League for the Promotion of lay Teaching.
We need not infer, then, that because they do not attend the municipal
schools the children go untaught.
How reluctantly Catholic countries are won over to educate their women we
have witnessed in France. Here in the twentieth century the chief
occupation of an educated Spanish lady seems to be that of counting her
beads in church.