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.
The walks around Soller are varied and beautiful, presenting to the
delighted eye a charming blending of savage wildness and fertile
cultivation. In no part of the world can one behold a more complete
picture-gallery of all the varieties of natural scenery than in the
Isle of Majorca. The day following our arrival at Soller was warm and
radiant, as, indeed, every day appears to be in this favoured spot.
After a breakfast of fresh figs, new milk, and a stew of pigeons and
rice, we started through the orange-gardens to the mountains. The
morning air was so warm and fragrant that, as it gently fanned us,
we felt as if we were in a perfumed bath, until we stepped upon
the first incline of the rocky slopes, where, as we were under the
shade of immense rocks, the atmosphere was colder. Sometimes we found
ourselves in great chasms where the mountain appeared to have been rent
asunder by some violent explosion of the forces of nature; and when,
occasionally alarmed by a sharp and piercing cry, we looked upwards, we
saw the lordly eagle with outstretched wings hovering over the abyss.
After ascending a steep path winding between perpendicular walls of
rock, we came suddenly upon a scene of great grandeur, lonely, dark,
and gloomy. Away in our front a mighty ravine, cleft by some great
throe of nature, yawned to such an enormous depth that it seemed to
disclose the very core of the mountain. While standing on the verge
of a narrow pathway, the eye, as it looked over it, plunged down into
a great abyss of darkness, from which, far below, arose black towers
of rock and broken pinnacles looming in the rising mists. It made the
senses reel to fancy, if the foot slipped, or the edge of the pathway
gave way, to what unknown recesses of the earth we should descend!
High above were tossed, like the giant waves of a granite sea, a wild
chaos of dark and lofty peaks, while, over all, stern in its grand and
gloomy majesty, frowned against the bright blue sky the vast black head
of the Puig Mayor.[32]
This splendid gorge, which, as a specimen of the grandeur of mountain
solitudes must be one of the most characteristic in Europe, is called
El Barranco.[33] When one stands alone in such a scene--far removed
from all familiar associations--it is almost impossible to describe in
any language that would not be deemed extravagant, the sensation by
which he is overpowered. From the summit of the Puig, the magnificence
of the prospect will repay a good walker for the trouble of the ascent.
Raised high above a region of mountain peaks, black stupendous gorges,
and a wild chaos of riven rocks, shot up from the bowels of the globe
in some primeval convulsion, soars the massive summit. While we were
standing on it we watched the afternoon sun slow wheeling down to the
westward seas. Immediately beneath, fantastic clouds and long weird
streaks of vapour curled and eddied like strange aërial phantoms
amongst the solemn recesses of the lonely mountains, sinking into the
darkness of the vast depths below.
Over the wide plains of the island stretched like a giant's chart at
our feet, green savannahs, broad dusky tracts of olive, and expanses of
yellow sand, sparkling here and there in all directions, were exhibited
to our delighted gaze. Towns surrounded by glittering white walls, and
scattered hamlets peeping from out the deep recesses of spreading woods
and groves of orange, greeted the wondering eye; while away towards the
horizon, encircling the magnificent prospect, was the sea, flecked in
all directions with tiny sunlit sails.
After scrambling down the great mountain walls, when the shades of
night began to gather around us, we descended to the Convent of Lluch,
which we reached, thanks to our wary guide, in safety. The wild tracks
and narrow paths, sometimes skirting precipices of enormous depth,
naturally suggested thoughts of danger. In some formidable gaps of the
mountain there was nothing but the dull twilight and the deep sapphire
of the skies to light us on our narrow way; and, had it not been for
the implicit reliance we placed in our practised guide, the heart of
the bravest might well have quailed. We two Englishmen, plodding on at
night in the steps of a wild mountaineer, guided only by the occasional
gleam of his cigarette, among the lonely crags of the Majorcan hills,
were conscious of a certain romantic pleasure which we experienced in
contemplating the novelty and danger of our position.
We slept that night at the Convent of Lluch, a lonely place in a hollow
of the mountain. A forlorn-looking and cadaverous young man, in a long
garment of neutral tint, and with a greasy black angular cap on his
head, opened the door when we rang for admittance. His reception of us
was rather peculiar. After yawning and scratching himself, he turned
his back and went into the building, looking very like Noah going into
the ark, as popularly delineated in the familiar toy in vogue amongst
British infants. He, however, returned in a moment, with a candle
which shed a watery gleam on the bare walls, and ushered us into the
convent, where we were entertained in a rather frugal manner.
After discussing, at the extreme end of a very long table, in a very
long room, and in a very short time, a repast of sour wine, like very
inferior African port, with black bread and hard eggs, tasting as
if they had been boiled in lamp-oil, we retired to rest in a bare,
whitewashed cell, where we slept upon a couple of mattresses, covered
over with striped woollen mule rugs. We observed in our chamber,
hanging on a nail, a very depressing picture of some saint or other
with a catherine-wheel apparently exploding from the back of a very
bald head. The Convent of Lluch, or Luke, is celebrated as a place
where the Virgin, at some former period, descended from Heaven. She
came only once, we were told, and considering all things, we really
cannot wonder at her having found one visit quite sufficient.
After our fatiguing climb amongst the mountains, we were glad to
find ourselves again in the sunny city of Palma, with its old carved
gateways, its yellow, flat-roofed houses, dusty roads, acacia avenues,
picturesque population, and Damascus-like scenes. It was pleasant
to retire from the blaze of the midday sun into the cool shade of
old Gothic cloisters, with their beautiful pillars and arches. We
wandered with delight in the bright green garden in the midst, or
strayed at will into half-ruined courtyards, with grand old Moorish
arches, offering a dim and silent retreat. Everything in the city
has an Oriental character. The numerous actual remains of Saracenic
architecture, the splendid mansions built by mediæval knights or
merchants, the yellow walls on which the aloe grows, and the arched
windows here and there perched in picturesque irregularity, or looking
down into gardens filled with palms, cacti, and feathery shrubs, all
remind one of the East.
The cathedral, a noble pile, was commenced in 1230, by Don Jayme, and
finished in 1346. Standing on an elevated position overlooking the
sea, its heavy mass, with all its great buttresses and flying arches,
is seen from some distance. Below are the broad stone ramparts, and on
either side the beautiful Bay of Palma stretches towards it its long
azure arms. At the present moment, extensive repairs and additions are
being made, and a magnificent _façade_ is to be erected at its western
extremity; but, to our eyes, the garish brightness of the new stone
contrasts unpleasantly with the time-honoured grey of its grand old
walls, which have stood in all their majesty through so many centuries.
The interior, as we enter, makes a great and solemn impression upon the
mind. The light of day reaches the holy space tempered and subdued by
windows of stained glass; and the noble height of the nave seems doubly
lofty from being supported by pillars not of heavy and clumsy breadth,
but of graceful and delicate proportions.
The choir, as usual in Spanish cathedrals, is situated in the very
centre of the building. Although magnificent in itself, it interferes
with the otherwise imposing length of the whole interior, and seems
like a great mass of lumber, carelessly left on the pavement, which one
would have gladly swept away, in order that the beautiful perspective
and the architectural proportions might be rendered distinctly visible.
With its lofty aisles, its slender columns, and coloured windows, it
has some resemblance to Westminster Abbey, without the ugly statues.
Within a marble sarcophagus near the choir is the body of Don Jayme
II., King of Majorca, and son of the Conquistador, Don Jayme I.; and
anyone, upon the payment of a few reals, may minutely inspect all that
remains of that ancient personage. A spring is touched, a panel of the
tomb opens, and a long glass case or coffin is pulled out, and rested
on a trestle. Dressed in royal robes of scarlet, gold, and ermine,
the wrinkled, grinning corpse of the King of Majorca is exhibited as
a spectacle. The bones are protruding through the brown leather-like
hide, and piercing the embroidered gloves. The mouth is stretched
widely open, showing a dark chasm within, guarded by three long teeth,
shaking in the jaw as the glass coffin is moved. The round sockets,
where once sparkled the proud and kingly eyes, are now receptacles for
dust and a dead fly or two; while a few grisly hairs escape from under
the velvet cap which covers the skull. The ears, shrivelled into bits
of dried parchment, stick out on either side of the head like those of
a monkey. Pieces of tanned flesh hang here and there by slender fibres,
in some places peeling off the throat and face, and leaving dark
little pits beneath. This is all that remains of a once noble king; and
to the complexion of being made a shocking peep-show for the morbid
herd of modern gapers, has Don Jayme Segundo come at last. We join in
the prayer, _Requiescat in pace_, inscribed on his tomb; but whether in
such circumstances he can be said to do so is more than doubtful.
It has often struck me as very surprising that, seeing there is so much
throughout this lovely Mediterranean isle to interest the mind in a
hundred various ways, so much to ravish the eye, and such a climate for
the ailing and the sick, not to speak of the attractions of its chief
city, no mention has hitherto been made of Majorca in the guide-books
of the day. In fact, Messrs. Bradshaw and Murray ought, without
delay, to make reparations for their past neglect; for truly there
are no parts of the coast of the Mediterranean Sea--no isles on its
bosom--more attractive to the tourist than these Spanish dependencies.
Irrespective of the beauties and interest of Majorca, one would think
the fact that the island of Minorca had for a certain period been
connected with the history of England would be sufficient to warrant
the bestowal of more attention on the Balearic Isles. Port Mahon, too,
one of the finest harbours in the world, is situated in Minorca.
The name of this island, as all know, is also sadly associated with
that of one of our naval heroes, Admiral John Byng. It was to the
relief of Minorca from the French that Byng was dispatched on that
expedition which ended in results so unfortunate for himself. Although
a brave, gallant seaman, highly distinguished for his knowledge of
naval matters, the tactics of this commander were ever those of
caution, and his hesitation to attack a fleet of far superior force,
and risk the reputation of his country by possible, if not probable,
defeat, excited great odium against him. Upon the intelligence of the
cautious manner in which he had conducted his operations becoming known
in England, the Ministry, too feeble and cowardly to bear honestly the
consequences of their own mistaken measures, threw the entire blame
upon the Admiral, and roused afresh the anger of the nation against
him by accusing him of cowardice. He was tried by court-martial, and,
although recommended to mercy, was condemned to be shot. He met his
fate with calm heroism at Portsmouth, March 14th, 1757, and, by his
demeanour in his last moments, put to shame the miserable calumnies of
his accusers.
"How many traitors to their God and King
Escape the death which was reserved for Byng."
FOOTNOTES:
[32] The loftiest mountain in the island--4850 feet above the sea.
[33] The Ravine.
[Illustration: [++] Decorative Image]
[Illustration: [++] Decorative Image]