[Illustration: DISTANT VIEW OF BARCELONA. FROM A DRAWING
BY THE AUTHOR.]
THE SUNNY SOUTH.
AN AUTUMN
IN SPAIN AND MAJORCA.
[Illustration: The Dragonera Rock, Majorca. From a Drawing
by the Author.]
BY
CAPTAIN J. W. CLAYTON, F.R.G.S.,
LATE 13TH HUSSARS.
LONDON:
HURST AND BLACKETT, PUBLISHERS,
13, GREAT MARLBOROUGH STREET.
1869.
_The Right of Translation is reserved._
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THE SUNNY SOUTH.
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I INSCRIBE THIS BOOK
TO
ISABEL AND HAROLD,
IN THE HOPE THAT THESE PASSAGES IN THE TRAVEL-LIFE OF
THEIR FATHER MAY BE SOME DAY NOT WITHOUT
INTEREST TO THEM.
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CONTENTS.
CHAPTER I.
FOLLOWERS OF MAXIMILIAN OF MEXICO.--HAVRE DE GRÂCE.--ROUEN.--THE
CATHEDRAL.--INFLUENCE OF SACRED MUSIC.--HEART OF RICHARD I. OF
ENGLAND.--ANCIENT QUARTERS OF ROUEN.--MOUNT ST CATHERINE.--THE
SEINE.--NORMAN PEASANT GIRLS.--LISIEUX.--STOPPAGE AT MEZIDON 1
CHAPTER II.
LE MANS.--ANCIENT CITY BY NIGHT.--THE LUXURY OF BATHING.--CATHEDRAL
OF ST. JULIEN.--TOURS.--POITIERS.--ANGOULÊME.--BORDEAUX.--EN ROUTE
FOR BAYONNE.--A MERCANTILE DEFAULTER.--A LONELY REGION.--HOTEL
INTERIOR.--INGENIOUS INVENTION.--TABLE D'HÔTE 16
CHAPTER III.
THE CITADEL.--BIARRITZ.--HOW THE VISITORS KILL TIME.--EN ROUTE FOR
SPAIN.--ST. JEAN DE LUZ.--HENDAYE.--THE BIDASSOA CROSSED.--WINTER
IN SPAIN.--IRUN.--CUSTOM-HOUSE OFFICIALS.--ST. SEBASTIAN.--THE
ALAMEDA PROMENADE.--THE PLAIN OF VITTORIA 34
CHAPTER IV.
BURGOS.--THE FONDA DEL NORTE.--THE ODOUR OF SANCTITY.--SPANISH
CHARACTERISTICS.--SCENES IN THE STREETS.--THE CONVENT OF LA
CARTUJA.--TOMB OF JUAN AND ISABELLA.--THE CASTLE.--THE CID.--THE
CATHEDRAL.--HOW PRIESTS MAKE MONEY 57
CHAPTER V.
AGAIN ON THE RAIL.--VALLADOLID.--THE FONDA DEL SIGLO DE ORO.--THE
COLEGIO MAYOR DE SANTA CRUZ.--CONVENT INTERIOR.--CHAMBER OF
HORRORS.--COLEGIO DE SAN GREGORIO.--THE CATHEDRAL.--SPANISH
CHARACTERISTICS.--THE THEATRE.--USE OF TOBACCO 80
CHAPTER VI.
EN ROUTE FOR MADRID.--TYPES OF NATIONAL CHARACTER.--GEOLOGICAL
CONNECTION OF SPAIN AND AFRICA.--A STATION IN THE
WILDERNESS.--AVILA.--A FUNERAL.--THE GUADARRAMA HILLS.--THE
ADUANEROS.--MADRID.--HOTEL DE LOS PRINCIPES.--PUERTA DEL SOL 103
CHAPTER VII.
MADRID.--GREAT ENGINEERING FEAT.--THE PICTURE-GALLERY.--PASTIMES
AND OCCUPATIONS OF THE MADRILEÑOS.--THE BATH AND TOILET.--QUEEN
ISABEL AND THE KING CONSORT.--THE VIRGIN'S WARDROBE.--THE ROYAL
ARMERIA.--REMARKABLE PAINTINGS.--CHURCH IN THE CALLE DE TOLEDO 122
CHAPTER VIII.
THE ESCORIAL.--ITS PRECINCTS.--SPIRIT AND CHARACTER OF THE
EDIFICE.--MAUSOLEUM OF THE KINGS OF SPAIN.--MELANCHOLY
GUIDE.--SUBTERRANEAN PASSAGES.--ROYAL REMAINS.--CHARLES V.--PHILIP
II.--THE PLAZA MAYOR OF MADRID.--QUEEN ISABELLA AT THE OPERA 142
CHAPTER IX.
A BULL-FIGHT.--THE ARENA.--THE SPECTATORS.--PROCESSION.--THE
BULL.--APPEARANCE OF THE MEN AND HORSES.--NIMBLE FOOTMEN.--THE
COMBAT.--SCENE OF HORROR.--THE BANDERILLEROS.--THE ESPADA.--DEATH
OF THE BULL 158
CHAPTER X.
TOLEDO.--VIEW OF THE CITY.--THE CATHEDRAL.--PROCESS OF
SMOKE-DRYING.--ALMANZA.--VALENCIA.--THE FONDA DE MADRID.--A
BENEVOLENT DOCTOR.--SPANISH MULETEERS.--HOW CONTROVERSIES ARE
SETTLED 171
CHAPTER XI.
VOYAGE TO THE BALEARES.--MAJORCA--PALMA DE MALLORCA.--OUR
APPREHENSION.--FONDA DE LAS TRES PALOMAS.--HISTORICAL
NOTICES.--DON JAYME.--THE RAMBLA.--COSTUME.--LANGUAGE.--CLIMATE.
--CHARACTER OF THE PEOPLE 196
CHAPTER XII.
THE VALE OF SOLLER.--INTRODUCTION OF THE TELEGRAPH.--SUPERSTITION
OF THE PEASANTRY.--PRODUCTIONS OF THE ISLAND.--THE ROAD.--GUARDIA
CIVIL.--OBLIGING LANDLADY.--BRIDGE OF LA MÀ.--BATTLE WITH THE
TURKS 219
CHAPTER XIII.
THE PORT OF SOLLER.--CONVENT OF LLUCH.--A LEGEND OF THE
MONASTERY.--CATHEDRAL OF PALMA.--REMAINS OF KING JAYME
II.--ATTRACTIONS OF THE BALEARIC ISLES.--MINORCA.--ITS CONNECTION
WITH ENGLISH HISTORY 237
CHAPTER XIV.
HOW TO STUDY SPANISH CHARACTER.--BULL-FIGHTS.--PROVISION FOR THE
SPIRITUAL WELFARE OF BULL-FIGHTERS.--FIGHT BETWEEN AN ELEPHANT
AND A BULL.--EXPEDITION TO THE CAVES OF ARTÀ 249
CHAPTER XV.
CONSIDERATIONS ON SANITARY MATTERS.--THE MEDICAL PROFESSION IN
SPAIN.--THE ART OF PACKING.--NIGHT SIGNALS.--EL GRAO.--CHASSE AUX
CALEÇONS ROUGES.--VALENCIA.--DRIVE THROUGH THE CITY.--THE
CATHEDRAL 267
CHAPTER XVI.
DEPARTURE FROM VALENCIA.--A RAILWAY JOURNEY.--DIFFICULTIES TO
WHICH TRAVELLERS ARE EXPOSED.--TARRAGONA.--SKETCHES OF ITS
HISTORY.--ARRIVAL AT BARCELONA 281
CHAPTER XVII.
BARCELONA.--HISTORICAL REMINISCENCES.--CASTLE OF MONJUICH.--THE
CATHEDRAL.--THE GRAND OPERA.--THE PLAZA DE TOROS.--THE LITTLE
ROPE-WALKER.--MONTSERRAT 295
CHAPTER XVIII.
ANCIENT BRIDGE OF GERONA.--THE POPULATION.--A FIESTA.--SEARCH
FOR AN HOTEL.--THE FONDA DE LA ESTRELLA.--LAST SIEGE OF
GERONA.--THE CATHEDRAL.--A FEW CONCLUDING WORDS ON SPAIN 313
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CHAPTER I.
FOLLOWERS OF MAXIMILIAN OF MEXICO.--HAVRE DE GRÂCE.--ROUEN.--THE
CATHEDRAL.--INFLUENCE OF SACRED MUSIC.--HEART OF RICHARD I. OF
ENGLAND.--ANCIENT QUARTERS OF ROUEN.--MOUNT ST. CATHERINE.--THE
SEINE.--NORMAN PEASANT GIRLS.--LISIEUX.--STOPPAGE AT MEZIDON.
It was almost at the last moment when, after having bid farewell to all
our friends, we found ourselves on board the steamer that was to take
us from England on an autumn tour to the sunny south. There was great
noise and bustle on deck; the friends of the departing passengers had
all left the ship, and in a few minutes the anchor was weighed.
It was yet early morning, and the sun was rising with great brilliance
in the east; but his appearance was only momentary, for while we were
rejoicing in the prospect of a beautiful sunlit day, he suddenly
withdrew from our sight, and hid his glorious visage behind a thick
cloud. So unexpected was his obscuration, that we could almost have
fancied he had covered his face with a veil to conceal from his sight
a scene of unexampled squalor and misery that lay heaped upon the
fore-deck. A band of fifty followers of the unfortunate Maximilian of
Mexico, who had landed in England a day or two before, were now being
wafted by a friendly breeze, not the less welcome that it came so late,
towards their homes, with simply nothing left to them but their lives.
Without other clothing than a few parti-coloured rags, which but a
short time back had composed the gay panoply of war, clinging to their
festering bodies, without that glory which, in the lack of every other
reward, is often sufficient to compensate soldiers for having left the
happy hearths of their homes and the loving eyes of their kindred,
these sons of fair-haired Austria were slowly returning, feeble in
body and broken down in spirit, to their fatherland, carrying with
them the mortifying recollection of a shameful defeat at the hands of
a distant, half-barbarous race whom they had despised, and with the
destruction of health for life, the loss of limbs, and the blighting
of hopes which they had once nourished. Such were the subjects, such
the colours, which composed this little illustrative picture of the
pomp and circumstance of glorious war. Those young soldiers, all of
whom were either suffering from wounds or prostrated by sickness, were
standing on the deck in haggard groups, chatting about their native
place, about the home of their youth, or about the plans which they
intended to carry out when they arrived there. A few were groaning with
pain, some of them suffering so severely as to be almost insensible to
what was passing around them. Others who were in a comparatively sound
condition were laughing and dancing, forgetting with the light spirit
of soldiers both what they themselves had endured, and the anguish of
their suffering comrades. The garb of all was in the most miserable and
tattered condition, showing how soon the gaudy uniform of the soldier
is tarnished in the tug of actual war. Falstaff's wretched band of
followers did not exhibit more diversity in the colour and fashion of
their habiliments than did these followers of an imperial prince.
One poor ragged wretch in a darkly stained red jacket, with a wisp
of clotted canvas round his head, lay on his back helpless, without
arms or legs, and totally blind. A cannon had burst close to him, and
inflicted on him those injuries which must render him henceforward
dependent on the bounty and kindness of others. I was informed that
his mental sufferings from seeing himself reduced to such a miserable
condition were so severe that they had partially affected his mind, and
some fears were entertained that he might never recover the use of his
faculties. His, in fact, was one of those cases in which mental eclipse
would almost be the greatest of mercies. It was sad to see the poor
fellow moving the stumps of his arms to and fro like fishes' fins, as
they appeared to me; while from time to time some rough comrade tended
him gently, and fed him like an infant.
These men, the followers of an emperor, were the intended regenerators
of a barbarous state, the agents of the bright spirit of civilization;
and what was their state now as they lay there, prostrate in filth,
overcome by sorrow, suffering from wounds, and overrun with vermin?
They were all swathed in the foul old clothes they had begged by the
way, or tricked out in faded remnants of old uniforms, some of them
spotted with blood, and others, that had perhaps belonged to officers,
covered with rusty patches of gold lace. It is always a sad sight
to see misery like this that one cannot relieve, and we were glad
when our eyes no longer rested on such illustrations of the pomp and
circumstance of glorious war. We came across them afterwards at Havre,
enclosed in a sort of sheep-pen at a railway station. The mob were
jeering at them through the railings, and the gentle passed them with a
sigh.
After a pleasant passage, we glided quickly into the port of Havre, and
landed amidst a jargon of bad English and worse French, the British
Cockney preferring to explain all manner of difficulties in a foreign
tongue, however imperfectly understood, while the cocked-hatted
individual whom he addressed manfully persisted in his endeavours to
make everything intelligible in his own peculiar mode of speaking
the English language. Here at Le Havre, all good little boys and
girls should remember, Bernardin de St. Pierre, the author of "Paul
and Virginia" was born; also Casimir Delavigne. Here, too, Henry
the Seventh embarked _en route_ for Bosworth Field; and close by is
Honfleur, where most of the new-laid eggs that one gets in London come
from. Two thousand dozen are despatched per week to England.
Delightful old Rouen, city of a hundred memories, sitting by the
winding waters of the Seine, which glide like memories away! Where
can we go now-a-days, in this blessed nineteenth century, to see a
city so complete an embodiment of the past? Perhaps Pompeii; certainly
not the boulevards, the gas-lit streets, and the flaming shops of the
generality of French towns. However, there before us is the glorious
old cathedral, the handiwork of our Norman ancestors, defying shocks,
storms, and time. The Gothic façade, the impression produced by which
is so imposing, is a miracle of profuse lace-work petrified; and the
dark towers and pinnacles, which rise high over all, are so richly
ornamented as to resemble filigree work.
We lift a heavy curtain, and facing us as we enter, motionless, on
a high stool placed in a corner, sits an awful creature, completely
draped in a costume of coarse black serge, with bent head deeply
veiled. It seems some living thing from a few low moans which issue
occasionally from underneath the drapery, but otherwise is without
form, though it can scarcely be called void. A pale skeleton hand
nevertheless now and then slowly turns from one side to another a tin
box full of copper coins. Throughout the live-long days, year after
year, sits this dismal-looking being, concealing, it may be, beneath
that dark veil and hood, some mystery which excites a painfully intense
curiosity as one stands in its presence amongst the tombs and gloom of
the old cathedral.
The grand Gothic arches are lofty and beautifully proportioned, meeting
above and lessening away into perspective, like the great avenue of
some old forest of an earlier world, with its stems and foliage now
turned into everlasting stone. The large rose-windows let in from the
day without floods of rich and mellow lights, colouring the dim, heavy
air with a splendid diversity of hue. The chaunt of gaudily-robed
priests rises upward with the pomp and incense of High Mass, and a
dark crowd kneels on the cold stones which cover the bones of ancient
chivalry. No language can describe the elevation of feeling which one
experiences as he treads these solemn aisles where generations of
worshippers have in succession raised their thoughts to Heaven. As
the organ peals forth its solemn notes we feel inspired by the spirit
of devotion, and are sensible of that diviner principle within us
which carries the thoughts of man beyond the bounds of time and space.
We have heard organs innumerable, but never have we listened to one
which produced such an effect as that of which we were sensible on the
occasion in question. A perfect storm of passion seemed to be swept
from the great pipes, and when that was succeeded by the soft strains
of the _voix céleste_, one felt as if he were yielding to the gentle
influence of some radiant presence, not of this, but of a better world.
When men can produce such music, we may naturally ask if the spirits of
the departed are near, quickening the soul of the unconscious musician
with a spark of the music-spirit of a higher world? This may be
considered by many as wild talk; but there are still some human beings
who, at least once in their lives, have felt a strain of melody fall
with entrancing power upon their hearts, inspiring diviner thoughts
than they had ever known before, and so subliming the feelings, that
for a time they felt a consciousness of their heavenly origin. He who
has never experienced an enthusiasm like this can have no soul for
music, but must be entirely of the earth, earthy--"only a clod."
Near the high altar the lion-heart of Richard I. of England was buried.
It is now in a very shrunken state, enclosed in a casket, and kept
in the museum. It was left as a legacy to Rouen, for which favour no
doubt the good inhabitants have been very grateful up to the present
hour. His body is in the undisturbed possession of the population of
Fontevrault.
Notwithstanding all the modern improvements which have swept away most
of ancient Rouen, there still remain some wonderful old quarters, where
the crazy wooden houses of centuries back nod towards each other, in
a general state of paralysis, across the dark and narrow streets. How
they manage to stand at all, leaning upon one another for support,
is a mystery; and why they don't sit down bodily upon their occupants
is a subject of painful speculation to those good people. It is most
interesting to wander in the nooks and corners of this solemn old city;
and if the visitor loses his way in the narrow old streets, he may
come unexpectedly upon some venerable remnant of antiquity. In many
parts every turn reveals some splendid relic of bygone days, of an age
of cross-bows, of processions headed by men-at-arms bearing naming
braziers through the dark streets, of gallant companies of splendid
dames, and flaunting cavaliers in slashed doublets, trunk hose, and
inconveniently long swords, all flashing and clanking in the glare as
they pass; of an age of night broils, when the clash of arms was heard
beneath the dark tower, grated window, and overhanging eaves. Within
that ancient palace, ploughed and seamed from gabled roof to the carved
monsters on the balustrades beneath, with one rich mass of florid
Gothic fretwork, armorial bearings, and quaint gargoyles, we might see
the cruel Cardinal of Winchester pacing to and fro in the oak-panelled
hall, fretting that the preparations in the square outside, for the
burning of Jeanne d'Arc, were proceeding so slowly as to make him late
for dinner.
Of course we are not going to describe Rouen and its wonderful
architectural remains, nor conjure up visions of mailed Norman chiefs,
nursed in war, whose unscrupulous will and iron hearts, backed by the
moral weight of great warrior prelates, enforced submission upon all
races between Normandy and the far East, from their stern old capital
at Rouen. Tempting as is the subject, we have no intention of entering
upon any disquisition regarding the vigorous race who founded the city,
or of describing the antiquarian relics of which it possesses so rich a
store.
It is pleasant to ascend the Mont St. Catherine, and look down upon
the fine old town, with its broken walls and ramparts, which have
witnessed the gallant struggles of the stout hearts of earlier days,
which opposed the onset of Henry V. of England and Henry of Navarre,
now overgrown with hoar moss or buried in labyrinths of modern streets,
with scarce a thought bestowed upon the past of those mighty chiefs
who in old times assailed or defended them--men who, by their deeds,
laid the foundations of modern history. It is pleasant to see and feel
the solemn air of repose or gentle majesty which hangs over the more
silent streets where still stand those time-honoured buildings, the
fortresses, palaces, and convents, with piles of toppling planks and
wooden turrets, witnesses of ancient story and actors in its varied
scenes. There, from the midst of the venerable city, spire up to the
level of the wood-crowned heights surrounding Rouen, the fretted
pinnacles of the cathedral towers, and beneath them the gables of
Gothic houses pierce the air, while afar off the silver windings of the
Seine, studded with green islets, lose themselves in the mist which
hangs in the distance, seaward.
In the city below died the simple-minded, heroic, and betrayed Maid
of Orleans. There, forsaken by his own sons, and his menials even, in
agony and neglect, William, the Conqueror of England, and of our Saxon
Harold, departed this life. There died also the great Clarendon; and
there Corneille and Boieldieu were born.
It is pleasant to look at all this from afar, but very unpleasant
to be in the midst thereof; for it is a remarkable fact, alike
observable in Cologne as in Rouen, that the more historical the
city, the more horrible the smells. Coleridge counted in the former
city a certain and distinct number of odours vile; we wonder to what
numerals his inquiring nose would have extended itself at Rouen. The
prevailing type of flavour in the latter city seems to be a compound
of extra-sour vinegar, stale slop pails, and burnt india-rubber. It
is also unpleasant to be ferried over a rapid river in a thing like a
worn-out gondola, with several holes in the direction of the keel, the
portentous effects of which the strenuous baling powers of two men with
a sardine box and a coffee cup could scarcely allay. It was, however,
observed of us before we embarked, by a funny friend who accompanied
us, and whose miserable puns often made us melancholy, that if we
trusted ourselves to such a craft we should be _in Seine_.
No one in these parts, excepting idiots or princes, being in the habit
of travelling in a first-class carriage, we started in a second (we
mean no pun) _en route_ for Le Mans, in the fresh and healthy society
of some young Norman peasant girls. No abominable chignon disfigured
the backs of their neat little heads, for there was no necessity
with them to shine with borrowed plumes. Their smooth hair was neatly
arranged beneath the small linen cap of snowy white, while a striped
kerchief was drawn modestly across the breast. "There is no joy without
alloy," however, and certainly the old peasant woman up in the corner,
with a bottle of red acid liquor and a stout staff of bread--the real
staff of life--guarding-like a halberdier the well-closed windows, did
not strike the eye as anything peculiarly attractive, excepting perhaps
at times, when, from the red acid which she occasionally imbibed, her
face took a sympathetic tone, and being completely encircled by her
large frill, produced an effect which a rather extravagant imagination
might regard as something like that of the setting sun in a nightcap.
The girls were young--_she_, doubtless, at some time or other had
been so too; but grey moustaches are not generally associated with
any distinct type of beauty in ladies. Notwithstanding the aforesaid
head-gear she certainly could not be pronounced _cap_-tivating as our
punning friend said and, wonderful to say, she knew it!
Our train passed through Lisieux, where Henry II. was married to
Eleanor of Guienne, and where the modern inhabitants are chiefly
employed in the manufacture of horse clothing and general flannelry.
Near this not very striking town, M. Guizot spends his summer months,
and in it, by-the-by, Thomas à Becket passed his banishment in 1169.
About four o'clock P.M. our train turned us out high and dry, bag and
baggage, on to a lonely wooden platform in the midst of a dreary flat
tract of country, compared with which Cambridgeshire is extremely steep
and alpine.
"Où sommes-nous donc?" asked we.
"À Mezidon, m'sieu," said an official. "Deux heures d'attente."
We immediately left our luggage with this trusty man, set our watches
by the clocks of the _gare_, pulled our hats with determination on to
our heads, and walked desperately four miles straight along a dusty
high road, then turned round and walked four miles back; by which time
the train was ready to start again.
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