charge—the Austrian Archduke Louis Salvator, who for more than twenty
years made the island his home, who travelled about among the peasants,
and who probably knows the island and its inhabitants more intimately
than do most of the natives themselves:—
“The Majorcans,” he writes, “are gentle, cheerful, open-hearted,
compassionate, and charitable to the poor; faithful in friendship, and
extremely attached to their wives and children; _very hospitable, like
all the Balearic peoples_—this applies to rich and poor alike, who all
heap kindness upon the stranger and entertain him with their best.”
How to reconcile this opinion with that of George Sand I do not know—for
it is not usual for the racial characteristics of an island people to
alter so completely in fifty years. I can only imagine that the French
authoress must have arrived in Majorca at an inauspicious moment; that
she unintentionally roused the animosity of her neighbours, and that she
may have been actually unlucky in the people with whom she came in
contact; while anxiety over the condition of her sick friend did not
improve her temper. It must not be supposed, however, that her winter at
Valldemósa was one long Jeremiad; she thoroughly enjoyed the beauty of
the scenery and the flowers, and her vivid imagination, her spirit, and
her sense of humour carried her through trials that would have depressed
many another person.
An apology is due to her memory for the deliberate charge brought
against her in Murray’s guide-book of having damaged a certain
“priceless historical document” during her stay in the island. The
document in question is a curious illuminated map of Europe and the
north coast of Africa, made for Amerigo Vespucci in the year 1439 by a
Majorcan draughtsman; and George Sand is most unjustly held up to the
reprobation of all future travellers as having obtained permission to
copy this map, and as having upset her inkpot over it.
That an inkpot _was_ upset over it she herself records in dramatic
narration, but her account of the affair goes to show that she had
neither part nor lot in bringing about the accident; her hair stands on
end with horror as she recalls the scene....
She was being shown the library collected by Cardinal Despuig, uncle to
the then Count of Montenegro, when the house-chaplain volunteered to
show her the precious map—the gem of the collection. Spreading it on a
table he unrolled the beautiful illuminated parchment—whereon large
cities share the Sahara with equally large savages mounted on camels;
but the vellum was reluctant to remain flat, seeing which, a servant
placed a full inkstand upon a corner of the map to keep it open. But
alas! its weight was insufficient! The scroll gave a crack—a leap—and
lo! it was again rolled up, _with the inkstand inside_!
Horror and confusion reigned; the chaplain fainted away; the servants
were petrified—and then, losing their heads, dashed up with sponges,
brooms, and pails of water, and fell upon the map with zeal so fatal
that kingdoms, oceans, isles, and continents were overwhelmed in common
ruin.
George Sand declares she was not even touching the table at the moment
of the catastrophe—but adds prophetically that she quite supposes the
blame of it will to all time be laid at her door. The map was
subsequently restored by skilful hands to nearly its pristine glory, and
is now to be seen under glass in the house of the Count of Montenegro at
Palma.
The big monastery-church of Valldemósa contains little of interest
beyond some good marble mosaics, and hanging on the wall is a curious
apparatus not unlike a pool-marker, with lettered pegs that fit into
holes—the talking board used by the silent monks when they wished to
communicate with one another.
From Valldemósa an hour’s drive brings one to Miramár, the large estate
purchased in 1872 by the Archduke Louis Salvator. Before arriving at the
house itself one passes the roadside _hospedéria_, kept up—with true
Majorcan hospitality—by the lord of the manor for the benefit of
travellers: free quarters for three days, with firing, salt, and olives,
are offered to all comers, and the woman in charge cooks the food that
visitors bring with them. This hospice makes an excellent centre from
which to explore the north coast of the island, and good walkers would
discover countless delightful rambles amongst the pinewoods that clothe
the cliffs down to the water’s edge.
The Archduke’s own house is a plain building standing 2,000 feet above
sea-level; the name Miramár—Sea View—has attached to the site ever since
the thirteenth century, when Don Jaime II.—acting on the recommendation
of Rámon Lull, his seneschal—founded a college there. Never was a name
better deserved; like a silver mirror the placid Mediterranean lies
outspread below one, its motionless surface flecked with tiny fishing
boats; dark, fir-clad cliffs slope precipitously to the sea, and far
below lies the red rock Foradada like some gigantic saurian in the blue
water. Look-out points, or _Miradórs_, are constructed in various parts
of the grounds, commanding glorious views; and perched upon a rocky spur
lower down the hill is a tiny chapel, recently built, dedicated to St.
Rámon Lull. One of its foundation stones was brought from Bougie in
Algeria—where the saint met his death by stoning—and another from San
Francisco, in memory of the missionary Juan Serra, the Majorcan founder
of the Pacific city.
For the last eight years the Archduke has not resided at his Majorcan
home, greatly to the regret of the people; the house is uninhabited, but
is shown to visitors by the caretaker.
Its chief interest consists in the entirely native character of its
contents; everything in the house is Majorcan—the thick, soft matting on
the floors, the string-seated rocking-chairs and the fat stools of
stuffed basket-work; the handsome brass braziers and the carved four-
post bedsteads; the inlaid chests and cabinets, and the splendid
collection of faïence ware, of which the owner is a connoisseur.
Majorcan too is the vulture in the garden—a fierce, brown bird, who
hisses at visitors, and jumps wrathfully from branch to branch of the
aviary in which he has lived for seventeen long years.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
[Illustration:
“_The port of Soller is a fishing village of narrow
streets_....”
(page 89)
]
------------------------------------------------------------------------
[Illustration:
“_We came up with a palmer from the Holy Land, posting
along at five miles an hour._”
(page 87)
]
------------------------------------------------------------------------
The Archduke is the author of a very exhaustive and profusely
illustrated work on the Balearics, “_Die Balearen in Wort und Bild_”;
but unfortunately it is too costly a work to become generally known, or
it would bring many travellers to visit the islands which the author
loves so well.
On leaving Miramár we continue along the coast to Deya, a picturesque
village of clustered houses and steep streets of steps, perched upon an
isolated peak and backed by high mountains. Here we caught sight of a
strange figure striding along the road ahead of us, and presently we
came up with a holy palmer, who might have stepped straight out of the
twelfth century—with cockleshells and staff, and with his sandal shoon.
He was posting along at five miles an hour with a dog at his heels.
“Whither away, O Father?” we asked with respectful salutation.
“Over the whole world, my children,” replied the old man, turning upon
us a rugged face framed in long grey locks.
We learnt that he was a native of Spain, and had for years been on a
pilgrimage to the most sacred shrines in all lands; he had been in the
Holy Land and in Egypt—had visited St. James of Compostella, and Rome,
and Lourdes—and now was on his way to the shrine of Our Lady of Lluch.
His wallet contained his papers—viséd at his various halting places—
together with a few treasured relics from the Holy Sepulchre; of money
he had no need, since the faithful everywhere would give him food and a
night’s lodging, for the labourer is worthy of his hire. But he dare not
tarry, for he had yet far to go, and with a “_Buen viaje!_” we drove on
and soon lost sight of the solitary pilgrim who in this strange fashion
was working out his own salvation.
The town of Sollér lies almost at sea-level, in a spacious valley ringed
round with mountains around whose grey peaks buzzards and ravens—dwarfed
by distance to the size of midges—circle and slant for ever to and fro.
Warm and sheltered, rich with orange and lemon groves, date palms and
loquats, and entirely enclosed with hills but for an opening down to the
little port on the north, Sollér is Majorca’s garden of the Hesperides.
Though it is only April 3rd, the roses are running riot in the gardens
of _Son Angelāts_, a fine house on the outskirts of the town belonging
to a Marchésa who only resides there in summer time; it has terraces
overlooking Sollér, and large grounds laid out with orange groves, tall
palms, and flowering shrubs; roses cover the terrace walls and climb up
into the grey olive-trees from whence they fall back in festoons—and the
gardener breaks off branch after branch for us as we go along, great
yellow Marshal Niels, pink La France, crimson tea roses, butter-coloured
Banksias, miniature _roses de Meaux_, and fragrant Madame Falcot; we
have more roses than we can carry. The borders are full of pansies and
polyanthus, Parma violets and carnations; we are given bouquets of
spirea, freesias, peonies, and heliotrope, and we drive away with our
little _carreta_ decked out as if for the Carnival.
The Marchésa has beautiful grounds—carriages and horses, and many
servants; and to these possessions she adds, with true Southern
incongruity, a most remarkable approach to her entrance gate; several
yards of decayed cobble paving—bestrewn with loose blocks of stone and
full of deep holes—over which a small stream swirls rapidly, intervene
between her carriage gate and the road outside. The bumps and crashes
with which our cart forded the water nearly threw the pony down, and we
feared at one time that a wheel was coming off, but we got through
intact. That the marchioness should enjoy this episode as part of her
daily drive strikes even the natives, I think, as a little strange.
The modest little hotel _La Marina_ at Sollér is a great improvement on
the ordinary village _fonda_; the cooking is good, the bedrooms plainly
but suitably furnished, and the proprietor and his daughters spare no
pains to make their guests happy. Mules can be procured in the town for
mountain expeditions, a carriage and pair is kept for hire, and there is
a toy _carreton_ belonging to the hotel in which one may drive out
alone—feeling somewhat like a coster going to the Derby; the minute
white pony hurries one along at extraordinary speed and stops for
nothing but the Majorcan word of command—Poke-a-parg!
The port of Sollér, about half an hour distant, is a little land-locked
harbour with a fishing village of narrow streets and picturesque houses.
Majorca’s northern coast is in general so precipitous and inhospitable
that the safe anchorage offered by the Sollér harbour was a great
attraction to the corsairs of the Middle Ages, and many and terrible
were the struggles that took place in the sixteenth century between them
and the inhabitants of Sollér; on one of these occasions they sacked and
then burnt to the ground the great Oratory of Santa Catalina, which
stands on a headland at the mouth of the harbour. After this a castle
was built, whose guns commanded the entrance to the port; but of this
nothing remains except part of a tower, now incorporated in a modern
dwelling-house.
There are many expeditions to be made on foot and on muleback into the
mountains that surround Sollér; stalwarts can make the ascent of the
snow-crowned _Puig Mayor_—Majorca’s highest peak, five thousand feet
above sea-level—or visit the _Gorch Blau_, a ten hours’ expedition, with
several miles of rock steps to come down on the way back, but both of
these require strength and endurance. Then there is the _Barránco_, a
ravine, clean cut as with a knife, upon the summit of a grey mountain
ridge from whence a splendid view is obtained; and there is the _Torrent
de Pareys_ on the north coast, to be reached by boat on a calm day in
about two hours.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
[Illustration:
“_The white town of Soller lying in the lap of the hills,
framed by converging mountain slopes_ ...”
(page 92)
]
------------------------------------------------------------------------
[Illustration:
“_Many of the houses at Fornalutx are extremely old, with
quaint staircases and old stone archways._”
(page 91)
]
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Of the shorter excursions one well worth making is to the hill village
of Fornalutx; the road runs up the valley of the Torriente, a bubbling
hill stream with banks of blue and white periwinkle and a masonry bed
overhung with thousands of orange and lemon trees, beneath which lie
oranges in golden mounds, like cider apples in a Somerset orchard. In
spite of the scale disease, which in latter years has wrought havoc in
many groves—blackening the fruit and destroying the foliage—the oranges
of Sollér are still famous, and fetch market prices ranging from a penny
to fivepence a dozen, according to quality, while a dozen of the best
lemons are here sold for twopence.
The streets of Fornalutx are principally flights of broad cobbled steps,
and many of the houses are extremely ancient and fascinating, with
quaint wooden balustrades, carved window frames, and old stone archways.
One of those we visited had an oil mill on the premises, and we were
shown the stone bins into which the panniers of olives are first
emptied, and the great trough in which they are subsequently crushed
with a millstone turned by a mule; the olive pulp is then placed in
flat, circular baskets, and when these are piled up in layers to a
considerable height, boiling water is poured over them and they are
crushed flat by an immense baulk of timber that descends upon them from
above. The exuding liquid flows into a tank below, where by the happy
provision of Nature the oil is able to be drawn off by a surface pipe
while the water is carried away by one at the bottom. The olive harvest
takes place in October and November; the oil is much used in Majorcan
cookery—though not to any unpleasant extent—and children are often seen
eating slices of bread spread with oil in place of the jam or dripping
with which it would be flavoured in our own country.
* * * * *
Our stay at Sollér was cut short by the unkindness of the weather. For
two days the rain held off, grudgingly; but on the third we awoke to
find the whole valley enveloped in a dense Scotch mist; our host looked
up at the blurred outlines of the mountains, and he looked at the gusts
of cloud that were blowing through the _barranco_, and he shook his
head; he was honest, and he confessed that the prospect was not hopeful.
A rain wind sobbed round the house as we sat over the wood fire that
evening, and from an adjoining room came the singularly monotonous
chant—high, nasal, and quavering—with which a Majorcan servant girl can
accompany her sweeping for hours at a time. The effect was indescribably
triste, and our thoughts turned to the flesh pots of Palma.
The following morning showed no improvement, so our host’s victoria was
requisitioned and we set out on our return to the Grand Hotel. For an
hour and a half our two sturdy horses toiled up out of the valley, the
winding zigzags of the road affording us now and again a backward glance
at the little white town lying in the lap of the hills, framed by
converging mountain slopes. On reaching the top of the pass we met a
fresher air, and we rattled merrily down the beautifully graded road
towards the plain, drawing up presently at the wayside villa of Alfádia.
Alfádia is an ancient caravanserai that still bears traces of its
Moorish origin; passing under the high entrance gateway, which has a
Moorish ceiling of carved and painted wood, one enters a vast courtyard,
surrounded by stables and containing a fountain and a pepper-tree of
immense size and age. When first we entered the great quadrangle it was
absolutely deserted, but no sooner did our camera mount its tripod than
with the mysterious suddenness of Roderick Dhu’s men figures emerged
from all sides, anxious to be included in the picture.
Hardly had we regained our carriage when the rain that had long been
threatening began to come down—first gently, then harder, and finally
with a terrific clap of thunder we were overtaken by a kind of
cloudburst. Whipping up the horses our driver made a dash for a wayside
inn on the Palma road, and driving in under the deep verandah-like porch
running along the whole front of the building we drew up and were
gradually joined by other refugees till every inch of standing room was
taken up. Cheek by jowl with us were white-tilted orange carts from
Sollér, a countryman and his cow, a post cart, sundry mules, and a
number of pedestrians who arrived half drowned beneath their umbrellas;
and in this most welcome shelter we all remained imprisoned while for
the next half hour it rained as I have never seen it rain before.
Cascades fell from the edge of the verandah roof, the road became a
river, and from the olive grounds gory floods were descending and were
struggling and leaping through the culverts like the legions of red rats
charmed out of Hamelin by the pied piper.
It is with diffidence that I venture to observe that a _very unusual_
amount of rain fell around Palma this spring—for there is a growing
feeling of incredulity on the subject of unusual seasons. I have heard
of a man who had lived for thirty years in Algiers, and who asserted
that in that time he had experienced thirty unusual seasons. Few winter
resorts perhaps could equal this record, but I fancy that in most places
abnormal seasons of one kind or another are sufficiently common for the
really normal one—when it does make its appearance—to be almost, if not
quite, as unusual as the rest.
* * * * *
On April 16th we took the train for Alcúdia and set out on our fourth
and final tour in Majorca. When I say that we took the train for Alcúdia
I mean that we went as far in that direction as the train would carry
us, for with a strange perversity the railway line, instead of running
right across the island from Palma to Alcúdia and so connecting the
latter and its Minorcan service of boats with the rest of the world,
stops short some ten miles from the coast, perhaps with a view to
annoying possible invaders.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
[Illustration:
“_Alfadia is an old caravanserai.... In its great courtyard
is a fountain and an enormous pepper tree_....”
(page 93)
]
------------------------------------------------------------------------
[Illustration:
“_We passed out of the town of Alcúdia by the Roman gate
called the Puerta del Muelle._”
(page 95)
]
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Two hours after leaving Palma we descended at the terminus of La Puébla,
where we and five other persons scrambled with difficulty into an
immensely high two-wheeled carrier’s cart covered with a canvas tilt.
For an hour and a half the stout horse jogged slowly along a flat road,
and then we drove under the great fortified gateway of San Sebastian and
entered Alcúdia, an ancient town of dingy-looking houses, with paved
alleys so narrow that our horse had to put his head right in at people’s
front doors in order to turn the sharp street corners.
Alcúdia is still surrounded by strong walls and a moat, fortifications
dating partly from Roman and partly from Moorish days. During the great
peasant revolt of the sixteenth century the Aragonese nobles came here
for refuge; their yoke had been a heavy one, and since the annexation of
the island by the crown of Aragon discontent and unrest had filled the
population. Oppressed and heavily taxed, they at last rose in
insurrection, and forming themselves into armed bands laid siege to
Alcúdia till the arrival of a Spanish fleet turned the scales against
them. Their leader, Colom, was beheaded, and his head sent to Palma,
where for more than two hundred years it hung in an iron cage at the
_Puerta Margarita_, near to which is a square that still bears his name.
We did not stop in Alcúdia, but passing out of the town by the fine
Roman gate called the _Puerta del Muelle_ we drove on to the harbour,
about a mile distant.
The _Fonda de la Marina_ on the seashore is a large and quite civilised
inn, with whitewashed corridors and rows of numbered deal doors; it is a
very marine _fonda_ indeed, being situated actually on the water’s edge,
so that our driver before putting us down takes a short turn in the sea
to wash his cart wheels. Fishing-smacks lie under our windows, and
Francisca the general servant—in whose absence everything is at a
standstill and who is being perpetually screeched for from the front
door—comes up hurriedly in a small boat from the mole where she has been
buying fish for our dinner.
Our host informed us that two visitors were already installed in the
house, but when we inquired their names and nationality he was
hopelessly vague. To the Majorcan innkeeper foreigners are foreigners,
and as such will naturally know all other foreigners; and he describes
bygone guests by their appearance, age, and such traits as he has
observed in them, confident that they will be at once recognised by the
person to whom he speaks. To his disappointment, however, we entirely
failed—in spite of his most graphic description—to identify our fellow
guests, and it was not till we were sitting at table that evening, over
our raisins and cabbages, our lobster salad and cutlets, that we saw two
strangers enter whom we perceived to be English. They told us they had
been here more than a week, and had thoroughly enjoyed their stay.
Very peaceful is the great bay of Alcúdia, with its sand dunes and pine
woods, its reedy marshes, and its sickle-curve of dazzling white sand
encircling the deep blue water. One may wander for miles along the
lonely shore, watching the ways of the burying-beetles that live in
large colonies among the bee orchises and cistus bushes above high-water
mark, or searching for shells and fragments of coral among the seaweed
rissoles of the _Poseidonia oceanica_ that bestrew the beach in
countless numbers.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
[Illustration:
“_Very peaceful is the bay of Alcúdia with its sickle curve
of snow-white sand encircling the turquoise-blue water._”
(page 96)
]
------------------------------------------------------------------------
[Illustration:
“... _one of the_ norias _introduced by the Moors, and
still used in Majorca for raising water from wells_.”
(page 99)
]
------------------------------------------------------------------------
There are many excursions in the neighbourhood that good walkers can
easily accomplish on foot. Between the harbour and the town of Alcúdia
are the remains of a Roman amphitheatre, supposed to mark the site of
the old Pollentia—long disappeared; on a rocky slope, converted into a
wild flower garden by a gorgeous tangle of yellow daisies, convolvulus,
borage, asphodel and mallow, can be traced partial tiers of seats and
flights of steps cut in the rock; and in a depression of the ground are
seen the caves originally destined for wild beasts, but now inhabited by
nothing more ferocious than a family of black pigs couched upon a bed of
seaweed.
Here and there among the flowers one stumbles into a grave; there are
rows upon rows of these Roman graves—narrow, shallow tombs cut in the
surface of the rock and half filled with earth. Fragments of Roman
pottery, broken lamps, skulls and bones are constantly picked up, and
two years ago a grave was found intact by some men who were quarrying
freestone. Like the rest, it was quite shallow, and in it was found a
quantity of gold jewellery that had evidently belonged to a Roman lady.
We were shown the ornaments, which comprised a brooch set with rubies,
an oval locket—which at one time had apparently contained a portrait—a
long chain necklace with clasps, set with small pearls and two emeralds;
two handsome gold and pearl earrings, and a few smaller trinkets. In
another tomb was found a gold bracelet, and a silver coin said to be of
the reign of Tiberius. All these are now in the possession of the
finder.
Close to the Roman cemetery are some other graves, half hidden by rough
grass. As our guide turned over the earth with his foot he disclosed a
jawbone furnished with a row of splendid molars; from the style of
burial and other indications these graves have been decided to be
Moorish, but as far as we could learn no systematic investigation of the
ground has yet been attempted.
The following morning we drove to the _Castillo de Moros_, in one of the
usual tilted carts, drawn by a big mule that for some time showed no
sign of being able to go at any pace but a walk; our remark, however,
that a horse would have been swifter, put the driver on his mettle, and,
declaring that his mule had great velocity, he urged the animal into a
fast trot which was kept up as long as the condition of the road
rendered it in any degree possible.
Skirting the town by an arrow track cut in the bedrock, and dating
probably from Roman times, we struck out across country to the Moorish
fort that stands on a promontory overlooking the bay of Pollensa. In
spite of its age the little _Castillo_ is in good preservation; moat and
bastions are almost intact, and a squat pylon of yellow freestone gives
entrance to the building and to a broad, flagged terrace on the side
towards the sea. Goats browse around the ramparts among palmetto and
lentisk, cactus and asphodel; and framed in the embrasures of the
masonry is the gorgeous blue of the bay, with the long serrated ranges
of Cap Formentór visible in the far distance.
Below us, silhouetted against the distant headland of the Cap de Pinár,
stood one of the _nórias_, or Persian wheels, introduced by the Moors
and still used in the island for raising water from wells. Bushes of
pink stock clambered into the ancient stone aqueduct, which led away
from the nória across the bean fields; some sheep were grazing the stony
ground, watched by a boy in an enormous straw hat, who stood in the
shade of a clump of pines. It was a pretty pastoral scene, typical of
the peaceful tide of life that flows on around the Moors’ old fort.
The southern shore of the Bay of Pollensa is very beautiful, and by an
amazingly bad road it is possible to drive a considerable way along it,
to the Cap de Pinar, a wild headland where we spent a delightful hour;
at our feet—far, far below—lay the waters of the bay, and beyond it the
trackless sierra of Cap Formentór stretches its arm northwards till it
ends in a bold cliff that plunges sheer into the sea. Behind us is a
mountain range, on the slopes of which is visible the pilgrimage church
of Our Lady of Victory, and looking inland we can see the pale blue
pyramid of the Puig Mayór.
It was a _fête_ day, and crowds of holiday makers were returning from
the Cap—whole family parties laden with palmetto roots slung over their
shoulders; the heart of this dwarf palm is considered a delicacy by the
Majorcans; the plant is chopped out of the ground with an axe, and the
lower leaves trimmed off close, leaving only a tuft of young shoots at
the top, which gives the root an almost precise resemblance to a
pineapple. But it is a woody form of nourishment, and not a taste to be
acquired after childhood I should imagine.
On April 18th we left Alcúdia for Pollensa. A gale had arisen in the
night, and we awoke to find the bay flecked with foam caps and the white
sand flying like smoke along the shore. The Barcelona boat was many
hours overdue, and the fishing fleet could not put out to sea, so that
the men, who had stocked their boats overnight with kegs of water and
provisions, instead of being off at daybreak as was their wont, were
reduced to mending their nets and splitting firewood while they waited,
with all the philosophic patience of their kind, for the wind to abate.
Pollensa is about an hour and a half’s drive from Alcúdia. Surrounded by
ancient olive groves and rockeries planted with patches of beans and
wheat, the old town lies secluded among the hills, out of sight and out
of sound of the sea—only three miles distant. On one side of the town
rises the green Calvary hill, on the other the bare grey _Puig de
Pollensa_, crowned by a pilgrimage church and _hospedéria_; this passion
for building a church on the highest and most inaccessible spot
attainable is a really curious phenomenon.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
[Illustration:
“_Very picturesque is the little blue bay of San Vicente,
with its cliff walls and jagged peaks._”
(page 103)
]
------------------------------------------------------------------------
[Illustration:
“_The generation now dying out is the last that will be
seen in the dress worn by their forefathers for a thousand
years past._”
(page 101)
]
------------------------------------------------------------------------
An atmosphere of old-world tranquillity pervades the place; undisturbed
by railways, approached by only one good road—that from La Puebla—and
brought in touch hardly at all with the outside world, Pollensa is the
most characteristically Majorcan town in the whole island. The older men
still wear the wide Moorish breeches, the woollen stockings and strong
leather shoes latched across with a bow, which the younger ones have
forsaken in favour of the less picturesque modern garb. The generation
now dying out is the last that will be seen in the dress worn by their
forefathers for a thousand years past, and I am glad to have visited the
island before the costume has become a mere tradition.
Castillian is little spoken in Pollensa, and our stay at the inn of
Antonio de Sollér was complicated by the fact that our good host and his
daughter knew rather less Spanish than we did ourselves. The old woman
who swept the floors was, I think, a little touched in the head, and she
annoyed us considerably for some time by pausing in front of us with
uplifted broom—as we sat in our rocking chairs, peacefully reading—and
haranguing us in Majorcan, of which she knew we did not understand a
word.
“_Les silents ont toujours tort_”—and at last we turned the tables on
her by suddenly bursting forth in emphatic English, which had the effect
of silencing her completely, and she departed, muttering darkly, no
doubt more convinced than ever that we were mad.
We found our inn to be comfortable, and, in spite of being in the middle
of the town, exceedingly quiet. The Majorcan cookery is always good, and
though liable to become monotonous, a certain variety of diet is
obtained by moving from place to place. Chicken stewed with rice, or a
ragout, supplemented by fish and an omelette, form the staple dishes of
Majorcan _fondas_; and each inn has its own idea of what a sweet course
should be, to which it rigorously adheres; at Felanitx we got into a
stratum of enormous jam puffs—larger than I could have conceived
possible; at Arta it was figs, stuffed with aniseed; at Alcúdia, slabs
of quince jelly; at Pollensa heavy pastry starfish, which made their
appearance twice a day with unfailing regularity.
For breakfast coffee can always be obtained—although it must be
remembered that coffee does not necessarily imply milk, unless specially
ordered; and with the coffee it is the custom to eat an _ensaimáda_—a
kind of sweet sugar-besprinkled bun. Except at Palma and Sollér, butter
is not to be had; we usually supplied its place with jam we carried with
us, but at Pollensa we found ourselves reduced to our last pot, and that
pot we decided to save up as emergency rations, for rumour had it that
at Lluch, whither we were bound, we might be glad of anything at all.
The morning after our arrival at Pollensa we drove out to the _Cala de
San Vicente_, a bay on the north coast of the island; after driving over
a bad road for some miles we left the _galaréta_ and walked down to the
sea by a charming path leading through pine woods and a wild rock-garden
of pink and white cistus and yellow broom, where for the first time we
heard the nightingale. Near the shore are large freestone quarries—
smooth-walled pits of cream-coloured stone—where men are employed in
detaching great blocks with wedges, and shaping them with saw and axe;
so plentiful is the freestone in many parts of the island that not only
the houses, but the field-walls and even the pigstyes are built of it.
It is extremely soft and easy to work when first quarried, and has the
invaluable property of hardening more and more as time goes on, when
exposed to the air. This causes many of the ancient buildings—such as
the Lonja and others—to look quite disappointingly modern, owing to the
smooth, unweathered surface of the walls and the sharp lines of all
angles.
Exceedingly picturesque is the little blue bay of St. Vincent, with its
enclosing cliff walls and jagged peaks; on a small headland stands a
ruined _ataláya_ of curious construction, the tower being rounded on the
land side, but forming an acute angle towards the sea.
Amongst the prickly pear and boulders of this headland we noticed a
large, almost circular, block of stone that attracted our attention from
its bearing traces of a rude square cut in its upper surface. We asked
the daughter of our _fondista_, who was with us, whether there was any
legend attaching to the ancient stone, but she was interested not at all
in pre-historic man:
“That _mésa_,” she explained—_mésa_ means table, and is the term applied
to all the megalithic altars in the Balearics—“that _mésa_ is there for
visitors to have their luncheon upon.”
This lack of observation and of intelligent interest in their
surroundings we found not uncommon among the people, who have an almost
Oriental incuriosity with regard to things that do not practically
concern them. Many a time did we draw the attention of a native to some
conspicuous plant growing in profusion around his home, and ask him what
kind of flower it bore when in bloom; whereupon he would reply without
hesitation that that particular plant never flowered at all, and
consider himself well out of the matter.
I remember being told by a traveller in Spain that once when in the very
centre of the liquorice industry he inquired of his landlord what part
of the plant was used, to which he replied that it was the root:
“And what kind of plant is it that supplies these roots?”
“Oh, there is no plant at all—nothing to be seen above ground.”
Pursuing his inquiries further, he found a man who admitted that there
was certainly a plant, but he maintained that it never flowered. This
was in the neighbourhood of acres of the plant, then in full flower!
In the afternoon our host drove us to Aubercuix in a tilted cart, with
an old flea-bitten Rosinante in the shafts. Passing the quaint _Fuente
de Gallo_—an urn-shaped stone fountain presided over by a spruce cock,
where all day long the women fill their water jars—we had not proceeded
more than half a mile on our way when the back bench of our conveyance,
on which we both were sitting, broke down with a loud crack, and in the
confusion our best umbrella fell out in front and got badly kicked by
the horse. Our host was aghast; he jumped down and repaired the damage
as quickly as possible—propped up the seat with some chunks of firewood
that happened to be in the cart—disengaged the umbrella from the horse’s
hind leg—and tried to assure us that all was well. But it was far from
well. Our appearance had for some time past not been our strong point;
repeated wettings and dryings had not improved our hats; our clothes
were almost worn out—and now the best umbrella was just as baggy and
bent and stained as the other, and, moreover, would only open in a lop-
sided way.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
[Illustration:
“_The_ Fuente de Gallo, _an urn-shaped stone fountain,
presided over by a spruce cock_.”
(page 104)
]
------------------------------------------------------------------------
[Illustration:
“... _the fine old Roman bridge at the entrance to
Pollensa_.”
(page 107)
]
------------------------------------------------------------------------
We were not a little annoyed at this mishap, but our annoyance was soon
quenched in amusement, so curiously unconventional was our host’s style
of driving; hollerin’ and bellerin’ like Prince Giglio of immortal fame,
as though driving half a dozen plough teams at once, our good host urged
the old horse to speed with a running accompaniment of vituperation and
ceaseless objurgations, ranging from threats to cajolements, thence to
sarcasm, and occasionally rising to heights of scathing laughter, which
startled the old horse more than anything else. It must not be imagined,
however, that our progress was rapid; the noise served to clear the road
for half a mile ahead of us, it is true, but the old horse had to be
allowed to walk down every descent, while on the flat he was not
expected to exceed a gentle trot; he understood his master perfectly,
and feared him not at all. Never did we see an animal ill-treated in
Majorca.
The road to Aubercuix takes one down to the port of Pollensa, and thence
round the bay as far as the little lighthouse on the opposite point;
beyond this one can only penetrate into the _Cap de Formentór_ by a bad
mule track, or by taking a sailing boat and landing in some little cove
along the coast.
Wonderful was the view, glorified by the golden evening light, that we
obtained as we wound along the water’s edge and followed the gravelled
causeway leading to the _Fáro_; across the bay shone the white town of
Alcúdia, seemingly built on the seashore, though in reality far inland;
looking back towards Pollensa the scene was of marvellous beauty—in the
foreground the curve of the shore, broken by black clumps of rushes, a
few stunted trees, and an upturned boat lying on the sand; beyond, some
fishermen’s huts, with here and there a dark pine-tree, sharp-cut
against the dim distance of the sierra. Rank behind rank, their planes
parted by the evening mist, veiled in shimmering tints of pink and
violet, dove colour and indigo, and melting away into the sunset sky
itself, stretched the mountain chains behind Pollensa. Their peaks were
tinged with flame, and the rays of the setting sun descended like fire-
escapes of golden web into the azure mist that filled the valleys.
For a few minutes the unearthly light lingered, and then the sun sank
out of sight; a chill sea-breeze sprang up as we set our faces homeward,
and the stars were shining serenely before we regained our _fonda_.
* * * * *
The following morning we rode to the _Castillo del Rey_, the route
taking us, soon after starting, over the fine old Roman bridge at the
entrance of the town. For an hour and a half we pursued a good mule-
track up the gorge of the Ternallas, a mountain stream dashing down
through woods of ilex and pine, with bare grey peaks towering overhead;
leaving the forest we came out into a grassy and boulder-strewn trough
among the hills, and presently arrived at the foot of the crag on which
the castle stands. So inaccessible does the rock look, crowned by the
skeleton ribs of the old banqueting hall—yellow rock and yellow masonry
welded in one—that at first sight one wonders how the ascent is to be
even attempted. Up a steep hillside, covered with rocks, loose stones,
and prickly shrubs, we scrambled and toiled on foot for nearly half an
hour; more and more desperate grew the path as we advanced, larger and
larger the rocks to be surmounted; but at last, with a final effort, we
scaled a boulder over six feet in height and were hauled up by our
muleteers into the arched doorway of the old fortress.
The origin of the castle is lost in the mists of antiquity; it is
supposed to have existed in the time of the Romans, and under the Moors
it formed an important stronghold to which they retreated after
evacuating Palma. Later on the flag of Jaime III. still waved over the
_Castillo del Rey_ after the whole of the rest of the island had gone
over to Pedro of Aragon, but in the year 1343 the loyal garrison was
forced to surrender after a siege of more than two months.
Not much of the fortress survives at the present time; three pointed
freestone arches belonging to the central hall form the most conspicuous
feature of the ruins. Beyond this there is little except some
subterranean chambers, and a few fragments of rock-like wall and pointed
battlement, still untouched by time, that survive amidst a chaos of
masonry. From the northern edge of the cliff—an appalling precipice
descending sheer to the sea—a magnificent view over the coast and the
surrounding mountains is to be had on a clear day, but on the occasion
of our own visit ominous stormclouds were closing in around us, and the
horizon was a blank pall of rain.
Hardly had we sat down to luncheon when heavy drops began to fall;
seizing our cutlets and oranges we fled to the rock tunnel leading from
the entrance to the interior of the castle, and in that narrow and
draughty passage continued our interrupted meal; but to our dismay
rivulets soon began to invade our retreat, the heavens poured down water
through a machicolation overhead, and before long we were sitting, like
the Blessed Catalina, on stones in the middle of a river bed, while a
growing torrent flowed beneath our feet. Our men wrapped their blankets
around them and squatted patiently in the doorway. Presently footsteps
were heard, and a wet stranger scrambled breathlessly in at the tunnel’s
mouth, accompanied by a guide in wide indigo breeches soaked to the
consistency of jelly bags, while rivulets ran from the brim of his felt
hat.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
[Illustration:
“_Presently we came in sight of the Castillo del Rey
... built upon a crag crowned by the skeleton ribs of the
ancient banqueting hall—yellow rock and yellow masonry
welded in one._”
(page 108)
]
------------------------------------------------------------------------
[Illustration:
“_We found the Gorch Blau filled with a rushing whirl of
foaming, emerald-green water_....”
(page 115)
]
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Still it poured—steadily—without intermission; the landscape below us
was blotted out by a veil of driving rain; banks of cloud were sweeping
in from the sea and settling in woolly folds upon the hills, which
appeared and disappeared as one storm after another broke over them and
passed on. For two hours we waited, and then there came a lull; sallying
out in desperation we slid and scrambled down the slippery rocks and
soaking vegetation of the steep hillside, and rejoining our equally wet
mules set out for home. The red path was now a quagmire under foot, and
the little watercourses were leaping and chasing down the hills to join
the river; but the rain held off and we got back in safety, being met at
the inn door by a chorus of inquiries as to how we had fared, laments
over our wetting, and an optimistic assurance that on the morrow the
weather would be very _bonito_ indeed.
But when morning dawned it was far from being _bonito_—it could hardly
look worse. Nevertheless we determined on making the march to Lluch—a
ride of about four hours across the mountains. The charge for a mule
with its attendant muleteer is six pesetas for this journey if they
return the same day; but if, as in our case, they are retained at Lluch
for further expeditions, an additional five pesetas is asked for the
return trip to Pollensa. One of our mules was a very smart-looking
beast, ridden with the iron noseband which in Majorca usually takes the
place of a bit, and carrying the English side-saddle we had brought with
us, covered with a sheepskin to lessen the slipperiness so fatiguing to
the rider when going up or down a steep mountain path for hours at a
time. The other one was a sturdy pack animal, bridled in inferior manner
with a hemp halter and furnished with pack saddle and panniers.
These pack saddles are extremely comfortable to ride on if they are well
balanced; one sits as on a broad, soft platform between the panniers,
dangling a foot on either side of the mule’s neck, the idea being that
if the beast falls you will alight on your feet and get clear of him
whichever way he rolls. As a matter of fact you find it impossible to
move at all, partly owing to the adhesive nature of the sheepskin on
which you are seated, and partly to a heterogeneous mass of luggage—
rugs, valises, and fodder bags—piled high on either hand, while
umbrellas and tripod-legs close your last avenue of escape.
The mounting of a laden pack-saddle is a problem in itself, and to the
last I could discover no system upon which the feat is accomplished; a
wild, spasmodic leap, taken from some wall near the animal, usually—but
not always—lands one in the saddle, and once in position a fatalistic
calm is the best attitude with which to confront the perils of the
ensuing ride. The most well-meaning of mules has habits which do not
conduce to the happiness of his rider upon a mountain track; he will
pause on a hogsback ridge of slippery cobbles in the middle of a swift
stream, to gaze entranced, with pricked ears, at the distant landscape;
with an absolutely expressionless countenance he carries one under a low
bough—or anchors himself in front by fixing his teeth firmly in a tough
shrub as he strides by, and then falls over himself as his stern
overtakes him. In short he awakens in his rider a lively sympathy with
Dr. Johnson, who was carried as uncontrollably on a horse as in a
balloon.
The paths were in an unusually bad state that day owing to the recent
heavy rain; great parts of the track were under water; every torrent was
swelled to twice its normal size, and miniature Lauterbrunnen falls were
leaping down the faces of the cliffs. We forded several streams,
slithered down causeways of loose sliding blocks, and scrambled up
slippery rock steps where it was all the mules could do to keep their
feet and avoid falling backwards.
For the first hour we rode in drenching rain through dark ilex woods and
fine mountain scenery; but as we got higher the weather improved—the sun
came out, the birds began to sing, the scent of wet cistus bushes filled
the air, and emerging on to a grassy plateau we presently came in sight
of the monastery of Lluch, lying in a level valley high up among the
hills—a great pile of yellow buildings backed by grey rocks and ilex-
trees.
Crossing the wide green, with its long range of stabling, its poplar-
trees and fountain, we dismount—wet and tired—under the entrance
archway, and pass into a large quadrangle formed by the college, the
_hospedéria_, the priests’ house, and the oratory, an ornate chapel hung
with embroidered banners presented to Our Lady of Lluch.
The history of this oratory goes back to a date shortly after the
conquest in the thirteenth century, when a herd-boy named Lluch—or
Lucas—while driving his flock home one night, noticed a strange light
upon the mountain side; on relating this to a priest, the latter went to
examine the spot whence the light proceeded, and there discovered a
stone statue of the Blessed Virgin and Child, which was installed
forthwith in a little chapel built for the purpose; and this Virgin of
Lluch—the _Máre de Deu_ as she is called—became in course of time the
patroness of the Majorcans, and a great power in the land. Bequests of
money and land were made to her, and in the fifteenth century the
Oratory was founded, together with a college for the instruction of
twelve poor children. The original college now forms the _hospedéria_
for visitors, having been superseded by a newer building where to this
day twelve boys receive education and instruction in church singing from
the four priests who inhabit the _rectoria_.
The wants of visitors are attended to by six lay brothers, and at times
the resources of the establishment are strained to their utmost. We were
told that at Easter no fewer than six hundred people had made the
pilgrimage hither, coming from all parts of the island and staying two
or even three nights; those for whom there was no room in the
_hospedéria_ were bedded in the corridors and stables, while the rest
slept in their carts and carriages outside.
Until recently all comers had to bring their own food, but some few
years ago a kind of restaurant—independent of the monastery—was
established, where visitors can get simple meals at a very moderate
charge. The wife of the _fondista_ cooks well, and though neither meat,
milk, nor butter are to be had, the staple provisions of sausage,
sardines, cheese, bread, coffee, and condensed milk—with the addition of
a fowl or an omelette—constitute a diet with which any traveller may be
content. After supper one crosses the great quadrangle to the
_hospedéria_, which contains some fifty beds, placed two, three, and
even four in a room.
In answer to the bell at the iron grille a lay brother made his
appearance and took us upstairs and down a long, spacious, echoing
corridor to one of the whitewashed cells, where he presented us with a
key and a pair of damp sheets and left us to our own devices. The room
was sparsely furnished, and contained two beds, with a pile of
mattresses and blankets, a small table, a chair, a diminutive tripod
supporting a basin, an equally diminutive towel, and an earthenware jar
with some water.
For the moment it did not strike us that we were expected to make our
own beds, and after waiting some time we sent an urgent message to our
friar by a young man we met on the stairs and who seemed faintly amused
at the errand. No one came, however—and neither on that nor on any
subsequent occasion did Brother Bartholomew condescend to attend to us
in any way whatever, or even supply us with more water, so that on the
second morning we were reduced to a kind of _nettoyage à sec_. The only
thing he did for us was to come and rattle our door loudly at five
o’clock in the morning to make us get up—and failing in his attempt, to
go away, having either by accident or with malice aforethought turned
the key in the door and locked us in.
It was not till breakfast time that we discovered our plight, and we
should have been constrained ignominiously to call for help from the
window had we not succeeded in picking the lock with a buttonhook and so
regained our freedom.
At nine o’clock we set out on our mules for the _Gorch Blau_, a two
hours’ ride from the monastery. It is hopeless to ascertain beforehand
from one’s muleteers the nature of the road that lies before one, for
they admit no difference between one mountain path and another, and
assure one invariably that the road will be good the whole way; nor are
they in any way abashed when presently you come to a slippery rock
staircase, so impossible that they advise you—in your own interest—to
dismount and proceed on foot. The ride to the Gorge includes, as far as
I can remember, only one really _mauvais quart d’heure_—but the rain had
converted the paths into sloughs, and our poor men soon had their shoes
soaked through and through, in spite of making _détours_ wherever
possible to avoid the floods through which our mules splashed
recklessly.
But if all this water increased the difficulties of the march it also
added immensely to the beauty of the landscape. As we wound along the
heights we could hear the _Torrent de Pareys_ in its deep cañon bed,
thundering down in flood to the sea, and we found the _Gorch Blau_
filled with a rushing whirl of foaming emerald-green water instead of
containing—as it often does—a supply so scanty as hardly to deserve the
name of torrent at all.
Towering fern-clad cliffs close in upon a ravine a few yards only in
width, through which the water dashes at racing speed with a noise that
prevents one from hearing oneself speak. An ancient pack-bridge spans
the stream, and a path cut in the side of the water-worn cliff leads
through the gorge into a broad open valley—a valley of desolation,
ringed round with walls of bare grey rock, and strewn with innumerable
stones, amongst which sheep and goats pick up a scanty living. For
another hour we followed the course of the stream, now flowing
tranquilly over a pebbly bed, and then reached a spot known as the _Pla
de Cuba_—a higher valley among the hills, through which runs the path to
Sollér, five hours distant. Here we made a two hours’ halt, and while
the mules ate carob beans and cropped the coarse _carritx_ grass
covering the hillside, we explored the rocky slopes in search of the
pink orchises and white cyclamen that grow here in profusion.
These high regions have a far larger annual rainfall than the rest of
the island, and the comparative dampness of the atmosphere is seen in
the mossy trunks and fern-clad limbs of the ilex woods, as also in the
unusual girth of the trees—one grand old ilex, said to be the largest
tree in Majorca, having a diameter of fully eight feet.
Clouds gather every evening upon the mountain tops around Lluch, and the
plateau itself, sixteen hundred feet above sea-level, is often shrouded
in fog for days together. In bad weather a stay at the monastery is by
no means enjoyable, and when we woke on the second morning and found the
rain falling fast, we were not sorry to think that the _galaréta_ we had
ordered from Inca to fetch us would arrive in an hour or so. Our shoes
and skirts had never dried thoroughly since the soaking they got on our
ride from Pollensa, and the unwarmed rooms felt miserably chilly.
Going across to the restaurant, where we breakfasted at an icy marble-
topped table, we found four young Frenchmen, who had arrived overnight,
stamping their feet on the cold stone floor and bitterly bewailing their
fate; they had come with the sole object of seeing the Gorch Blau—and
now, not only was the expedition out of the question, but they were
imprisoned in this dismal place—for _voila!_ by this frightful weather
it was impossible even to depart. What to do! _Mon Dieu! Mon Dieu!_
We could offer little comfort beyond suggesting that some misguided
visitor might turn up during the morning, in whose conveyance they could
make their escape—a contingency which both they and we felt to be very
unlikely ... but even as we spoke, we saw to our surprise _two_ empty
carriages cross the green and draw up before the monastery.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
[Illustration:
“_The_ Pla de Cuba _is a high valley through which runs
the mule path to Soller, five hours distant_.”
(page 115)
]
------------------------------------------------------------------------
[Illustration:
“_Now and again we got a peep of the plain and its white
town far below_....”
(page 117)
]
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Two blacks may not make a white—but two mistakes may result in a
remarkably good arrangement. Owing to a misunderstanding with our late
host of Pollensa—who, it must be remembered, spoke nothing but Majorcan—
a _galaréta_ had been sent up from La Puebla for us, besides the one
which we ourselves had ordered from Inca. Behold, then, a solution of
the difficulty! We stowed ourselves into one carriage—our four enchanted
fellow-visitors into the other—and away we bowled towards Inca, a two
hours’ drive on a splendid road engineered in giddy spirals down the
mountain side, with ever and again a peep of the plain and its white
town far below us, seen through a break in the hills.
As we get down into the zone of olives again, a warmer air meets us—the
rain has been left behind, and we are once more in sunshine; passing the
picturesque village of Selva, with its church perched on the very top of
a hill, we soon find ourselves at Inca—a large and prosperous-looking
town of fine stone houses and shops.
Here we took the train for Palma, and packed ourselves and our valises
into a little first-class compartment which we shared with an
aristocratic-looking old gentleman travelling with a large wicker
basket, apparently containing the week’s wash, and with a lady in a
graceful black mantilla, who had a market basket, and a big bundle done
up in a check tablecloth. She was evidently leaving home for a few days,
and many and anxious were the parting messages given to the two honest
servant-girls who stood at the carriage window and with a hearty embrace
bade their mistress goodbye before the train started.
The terms upon which master and servant meet in Majorca—and I fancy all
over Spain—are very much freer than with us.
* * * * *
Palma at the end of April is a very different town from the Palma of a
few weeks ago; the trees along the Borne are greening fast, and the
country is a mass of leafage. The swifts have arrived, and are wheeling
and screaming over the town in thousands; the masses of dwarf blue iris
by the seashore are over, but the waist-high corn is spangled with
poppies and corn daisies, gladioli, and a handsome crimson and yellow
scrophularia. The roads are deep in dust—the river dry as a bone. Our
rooms maintain a steady temperature of 66° Fahrenheit, and the heat in
the middle of the day is already sufficient to make us appreciate the
draughtiness of the cool, narrow streets of the town.
Palm Sunday is celebrated by a palm service in the cathedral, and by a
palm fair—the _Fiesta de Rámos_. At the palm service the bishop, mitred
and coped, and accompanied by priests, choristers, mace-bearers, and all
the dignitaries of the cathedral, processes around the outside of the
building—and all carry consecrated palm branches in their hands. These
palms are afterwards distributed amongst the townspeople, who fasten
them to their house-fronts and balconies as a protection against
lightning.
The _Fiesta de Rámos_ takes place in the Rambla, where for three days
the wide gravelled walk is occupied by a double row of wooden booths,
between which a seething throng of townspeople streams up and down;
there are toys and sweets and fruit stalls—dolls and dolls’ furniture,
and charming baskets of all sizes, down to the familiar covered market
basket made in smallest miniature by the neatest of fingers; there are
merry-go-rounds and a Japanese giant, drums, trumpets, and squeaking
whistles, and for three days there is a pandemonium of noisy instruments
which to the children is the seventh heaven of delight.
In the spring, too, the annual swearing-in of the new recruits takes
place, and is a picturesque sight; all the troops in the town—cavalry,
infantry, and artillery—are assembled on the great Plaza Santa Catalina
outside the walls, where is erected a large red and yellow marquee
surmounted by a royal crown and flanked by cannon, stacked rifles, and
warlike trophies of swords and bayonets. Inside the tent is an altar
with lighted candles, and when all the high civil and military officials
of the town have arrived, mass is celebrated—the elevation of the Host
being marked by three shrill bugle calls, at which the whole body of
troops and spectators fall on one knee and uncover—the cavalry lowering
their swords.
After this, a priest walks round the lines, and halting opposite each
regiment reads a short address, at the close of which a simultaneous
assent bursts forth from the ranks of the new conscripts. When all have
been sworn in, the recruits—who on this occasion numbered three or four
hundred—defile in front of the colours, kissing the flag and uncovering
as they go by.
And with this the ceremony is over for the year.
------------------------------------------------------------------------