The next day, he set apart a time and then there were full explanations from both sides. Dick's story we know already. Dr. Heremore's can be told in a few words. His daughter married, when very young and on a short acquaintance, a gentleman who was spending his summer holidays in the vicinity of Wiltshire, and, immediately upon her marriage, had gone to N—— to reside; they remained there until Richard was a month old, when his daughter made him a long—her last—visit; from there to New York, whence a letter or two was all that came for some little time; then one written evidently in great depression of spirits. Dr. Heremore, on receipt of this, went at once to New York to see her, only to hear that she had gone with her husband to Europe. A little further inquiry proved to his satisfaction that Mr. Brandon was in the South, and that his wife was not with him; his letters were unanswered, and his alarm was every day greater and more painful. At last, he followed a lady—described to be somewhat of his daughter's appearance, bearing the same name, who had joined a theatrical company, though of this last he was not aware for a long time—to Europe. As he had said before, he came back disappointed but not despairing, to hear of Mr. Brandon's death—the same false report, perhaps intentionally circulated, which his daughter had heard. Her letters to him, of which she spoke in her letter to Dick, were lost while he was away searching for her. He had not been rich, then; but coming home, he had resumed his practice, and lived patiently awaiting news of her, energetically laboring to secure a small fortune for her should she ever come to claim it. This little fortune he would divide at once, he said, between her two children; for "what," he argued with them, "what is the use of hoarding it to give to you later when, I trust, you will not need it half as much? A few hundreds in early youth are often worth as many thousands in after-years."
"That will do for Dick," Mary conceded, "because itwouldbe a great thing for him to have a little start just now; and besides, there's Somebody Else forhimto think of; but I will take my share in staying here. You will not drive me away?"
"Your father?"
"Papa would—it's a shabby thing to say—be very willing to have me away, in his present circumstances. He has been wishing and wishing for Fred and Joe constantly ever since they went; but for me—he thinks girls are a sort of nuisance, I know he does; and will be very grateful to you if you divide the burden with him."
"But if—just as I got used to loving you, there should be another Somebody Else besides Dick's? How about this out of civilization place, then?"
Mary grew very red indeed, but answered readily, "Oh! that's a long way off; and besides, he may not think this out of civilization, you know."
So it was settled. One of the clerks who had been from early boyhood in Ames and Narden's store had been long intending to start out on his own account, and Dick was very sure that they could fulfill their olden dream of partnership, now that Dr. Heremore was willing to give them a start. Dick went down to New York the day after this conversation, and there was a long talk between the members of the firm, and the two clerks, which culminated in a dinner and the agreement that all was to go on as it had been going, until the first of May, when there would be a new bookseller's firm in the New York Directory, to wit, BARNES AND HEREMORE.
After a brief conversation with Mr. Brandon, Dick hurried to Carlton, and was not long making his way to the shadowy lane. To her honor and glory be it said, Trot was the first to see him; and without waiting for a greeting, not even for the expected "dear 'ittle Titten," ran with all speed into the house, crying, "Thishter! Thishter! Mr. Dit ith toming!" at the top of her voice; and Rose, all blushing at being caught "just as she was," had no time to utter a word before "Mr. Dit," was beside her. There was great rejoicing over Dick; the children pulled him in every direction, to show him some new thing he had not yet seen, until he began to tell the story of his adventures, when they stood around in perfect silence. Mrs. Alaine and Mrs. Stoffs wiped their eyes between their smiles and their exclamations of delight; old Carl once held his pipe in one hand and forgot to fill it for nearly a minute, so absorbed was he; but Rose alone did not say a word of congratulation when Dick's good fortune and his brightened future were announced. I even think she had a good cry about it, after a little talk with Dick by herself, that evening, so hard it is to leave one's home.
"There's not a thing to wait for now," Dick had said, with beaming eyes; and poor Rose's ideas of "youth," and "time to get ready," and all that sort of remark, were put aside without the least consideration. "We will have a little house of our own," Dick continued, "we will not go to boarding, as some people do; you are too good a housekeeper forthat, I am sure; and as New York has no houses for young people of moderate means, we will have a home of our own near the city. Shall we not, Rose?"
Dick was a very busy young man for a couple of months after this. One thing Dr. Heremore did that seemed hard, but not so very unnatural, and of which no one who has never felt a wrong to some one dearly loved should judge. He begged that he might never see Mr. Brandon, nor be asked to hold any communication with him. He gave Mary a certain sum of money, which he wished her to use for her father and step-brothers; but beyond that, he left Mr. Brandon to help himself.
After attending to all his grandfather's requests and suggestions, Dick, as he had been invited to do, returned to Wiltshire to give an account of his management, and to take up some things for Mary's use. He was on his way to the boat when he suddenly started and exclaimed, "Mr. Irving!" for no less a person than his "Sir Launcelot" was standing beside him. Mr. Irving, not recognizing him, bowed slightly and passed on, and Dick began to be relieved that Mary was so far away; perhaps, after all, it was a great deal better.
But another surprise was in store for Dick, who—an inexperienced traveller even yet, and always in advance of time—had gone on and waited long before the boat prepared to leave; for at the last moment a carriage drove rapidly to the pier, and a gentleman sprang from it in time to catch the boat. It was "Sir Launcelot."
"Mr. Heremore, I believe," he said to Dick, when they met somewhat later on the boat. "I called on Mr. Brandon to-day, just after you met me, to pay my respects to him on my return from Europe. I found him in a different business from that in which I had left him, and very reserved. I asked after the ladies of his family, who, he told me, were at your grandfather's and his father-in-law's, in Maine, adding that there was a long story, which I had better come to you to hear, if you had not already left. I have business in Maine, so followed you up."
So they made acquaintance; and the new-found relationship with Mary was explained, as also the reverses Mr. Brandon had met with.
"His wife dead, too, you tell me! How shocked he must have been at my questions of her! How like him not to give me a hint!" exclaimed Mr. Irving.
The new friendship progressed well, as it often will between two gentlemen, one of whom is in love with the other's sister, although there was a wide difference between their characters. Mr. Irving was many years older than Dick, as his finished manners and his manly presence attested, without the aid of a few gray hairs on his temples, not visible, and half a dozen or so in his heavy moustache, very visible and adding much to his good looks, in the eyes of most of the ladies who saw him. It seemed as natural to Dick that this travelled man, so polished, so princely as he was, should be just the one to please his high-bred sister, and he captivated by her, as that he himself should belong to Rose and she to him. Consequently he did not put on any of the airs in which brothers, especially when they are very young, delight to appear before their sister's admirers.
Dick had even tact enough, when they reached Dr. Heremore's house —for, of course, Mr. Irving's "business in Maine" did not interfere with his accompanying Dick to Wiltshire—to be, very busy with the carriage and trunks, while Mr. Irving opened the little gate, and announced himself to the young lady on the porch. When Dick, a few minutes after, greeted his sister, he had no need, though Mary's color did not come as readily as Rose's, to say with Sir Lavaine:
"For fear our people call you lily maid,In earnest, let me bring your color back."
"For fear our people call you lily maid,In earnest, let me bring your color back."
I think that Dr. Heremore, though the very soul of courtesy, looked rather sadly upon Mr. Irving; but he was not long left in any uncertainty in regard to that gentleman's wishes; for the very next day his story was told; how he had known and loved Mary from her very earliest girlhood, but that he was afraid of his greater age, and, anxious that she should not be influenced by their long acquaintance and the advantages his ripened years had given him over admirers more suited to her in age, he had gone to Europe, but lacked the courage to remain half the time he had allotted, and now was back, and—"
"And, ah! yes, I understand; I am to lose her," said her grandfather sadly. "I knew I could not keep her."
"Giving her to me will not be losing her. We talked about it last night, and we are both delighted with this place; and as I am bound to no especial spot, (Mr. Irving was an author,) and she loves none half so much as this, we can well pitch our tent here."
But when further acquaintance had enabled the man of "riper years" to take a place in Dr. Heremore's life which neither Mary nor Dick could fill, it was settled that the old house was large enough for the three; and as Mr. Irving was wealthy, healthy, and wise, the sun of Mary's happiness shone very brightly.
There's nothing more for me to say except that Dick went down to Carlton still once again, and that in its church there is a little altar of the Blessed Virgin, whereon Rose had the unspeakable delight—so precious to every pious heart—of laying a beautiful veil—Mary's gift to her "sweet little sister"—which Trot looks critically at every Sunday, and may be a little oftener, and puzzles her small head wondering if its delicate texture—the veil's—will stand the wear and tear of the years that must pass before she can replace it with hers; which always makes uncle Carl laugh. And Rose has persuaded Mary to dedicate her own in the same way, and Mary has laughingly complied, a little shame-faced, too, at her own secret pleasure in doing it, at the same time half wondering "what will come of it." Rose does not wonder; she thinks she knows.
As for Dick, there is every reason to believe that this coming Christmas there will be two or three glad hearts travelling around in company with two or three rough, ragged, shaggy boys; that he will carve his own Christmas turkey at his own, own table; and that there will be acouleur de Roseover all his future life.
I.She knelt, expectant, through the night:For He had promised. In her faceThe pure soul beaming, full of grace,But sorrow-tranced—a frozen light.But, ere her eastward lattice caughtThe glimmer of the breaking day,No more in that sweet garden layThe buried picture of her thought.The sealed stone shut a void, and lo!The Mother and the Son had met!For her a day should never setHad burst upon the night of woe.In sudden glory stood He there,And gently raised her to his breast:And on his heart, in perfect rest,She poured her own—a voiceless prayer.Enough for her that he has died,And lives, to die again no more:The foe despoiled, the combat o'er,The Victor crowned and glorified.II.What song of seraphim shall tellMy joy to-day, my blissful queen?Yet truly not in vain, I ween,Our earthly alleluias swell.It is but just that we should thusOur Jesus' triumph share with thee.For us he died, to set us free.Thou owest him risen, then, to us.But thou, sweet Mother, grant us moreThan here to join the festive strain:To hymn, but never know, our gainWere ten times loss for once before.Thy faithful children let us be.Entreat thy Son, that he may giveThe wisdom to our hearts to liveIn his, the risen life, with thee.For so, amid the onward years,This feast shall bring us strength renewed;To pass secure, o'er self subdued,To Easter in the sinless spheres.
I.She knelt, expectant, through the night:For He had promised. In her faceThe pure soul beaming, full of grace,But sorrow-tranced—a frozen light.But, ere her eastward lattice caughtThe glimmer of the breaking day,No more in that sweet garden layThe buried picture of her thought.The sealed stone shut a void, and lo!The Mother and the Son had met!For her a day should never setHad burst upon the night of woe.In sudden glory stood He there,And gently raised her to his breast:And on his heart, in perfect rest,She poured her own—a voiceless prayer.Enough for her that he has died,And lives, to die again no more:The foe despoiled, the combat o'er,The Victor crowned and glorified.II.What song of seraphim shall tellMy joy to-day, my blissful queen?Yet truly not in vain, I ween,Our earthly alleluias swell.It is but just that we should thusOur Jesus' triumph share with thee.For us he died, to set us free.Thou owest him risen, then, to us.But thou, sweet Mother, grant us moreThan here to join the festive strain:To hymn, but never know, our gainWere ten times loss for once before.Thy faithful children let us be.Entreat thy Son, that he may giveThe wisdom to our hearts to liveIn his, the risen life, with thee.For so, amid the onward years,This feast shall bring us strength renewed;To pass secure, o'er self subdued,To Easter in the sinless spheres.
September 9, 1868.
To-day, while they are yet celebrating the Nativity of the Blessed Virgin, we enter Spain, that mysterious world behind the Pyrenees, so different from all others, and of which we know so little! To-day is also the anniversary of my birthday into the Catholic Church, and now it is my birthday into Catholic Spain! "La tierra de Maria Santisima."
Leaving Perpignan (in the Pyrénées Orientales) by diligence, we pass through a most tropical looking country, amidst hedges of aloe, and oleander, and pomegranates, (reminding one of Texas in the character of the soil, the productions, and even the houses;) we soon begin the ascent of the mountains; and, before it is quite dark, we are across the Pyrenees. By the light of a beautiful sunset we have some grand mountain views, and encounter a group of Spanish gypsies, dark, ragged, and dirty, but highly picturesque. All along these mountains are cork-trees of prodigious size, with black, twisted trunks, from which the bark has been stripped—their fantastic shapes taking the form of nuns or monks—great ghosts in the dim light. Perthus, on the other side the mountains, is the last French town; high above which towers the fortress of Bellegarde, built by Louis XIV. in 1679. Just outside this town we pass a granite pyramid, on which is written "Gallia." A fellow-passenger tells us we are on Spanish soil. All cry, "Viva España!" and we look out upon a solemn-looking soldier, who stands by a cantonnier, above which floats the red and yellow flag of Spain. La Junguera is the first Spanish town; and here is a rival fort to the towering French one so lately seen. Here our luggage is visited, and we have our first experience of Spanish courtesy. The gentlemen passengers all come to ask, "Will the ladies have fruit?" "Will they have wine?" And one of our party, wishing to give alms to a blind beggar, and asking change for a franc, one of the gentlemen gives her the money in coppers, and refuses to take the franc; which, it seems, is the Spanish custom.
At Figueras we eat our firstSpanish supper; no inconsiderable meal, if we may judge by this one. First came the inevitable soup, (puchero;) then, boiled beef; next in course, cabbage and turnips, eaten with oil and vinegar, and the yellow sweet-pepper which is the accompaniment to everything, or may be eaten alone, as salad. The third course was stewed beef; next, fried fish, (fish, in Spain, never comes before the third course;) and now, stewed mushrooms; but, as they are stewed in oil, (and that none of the sweetest,) we pass them by. After this, lobster; then cold chicken and partridge; and now the delicious fruits of the country, and the toasted almonds which are universal at every meal, and cheese. Coffee and chocolate terminate this repast, for which we pay three and a half francs, and after which one might reasonably be expected to travel all night.
Gerona appeared with the early dawn; a curious old town of 14,000 inhabitants, on the river Oña, and looking not unlike Rome with its yellow river, its tall houses, and balconies. Both this town and Figueras have made themselves memorable in wars and sieges. Indeed, what Spanish town has not its tale of heroism and brave defence during the French invasion of 1809-11? These towns were both starved into capitulation, after sieges which lasted seven or eight months, the women loading and serving the guns during the siege, and taking the places of their fallen husbands or lovers, like the "Maid of Saragossa." We were glad to leave the diligence for the railway which runs by the lovely Mediterranean coast, passing many pretty towns with ruins of old Moorish fortresses and castles on the hills beyond. In one of these towns, Avengo de Mar, the dock-yards are very famous, and a naval school was here established by Charles III.
Mataro, a place of 16,000 people, seemed very busy and thriving. This, too, has its tale of siege and slaughter. The French have left behind them in Spain a legacy of hate. Of the ruins of a monastery near one of these towns a pretty story is told. Two Catalonian students passing by this beautiful site, one exclaimed, "What a charming situation this would be for a convent! When I am pope, I will build one here." "Then," said the other, "I will be a monk, and live in it." Years after, when the latterhadbecome a monk, he was sent for to Rome, and being presented to the pope, (Nicholas V.,) recognized in him his old friend and companion, when in the act of receiving his blessing. The pope embraced him; reminded the monk of his promise; built the convent, in which, we presume, the latter lived and died. The beautiful convent was utterly destroyed in the civil wars of 1835, when the monks were all driven from Spain.
"The sacred taper-lights are gone,Gray moss hath clad the altar stone,The holy image is o'erthrown,The bell hath ceased to toll."The long-ribbed aisles are burnt and shrunk,The holy shrine to ruin sunk,Departed is the pious monk;God's blessing on his soul!"
"The sacred taper-lights are gone,Gray moss hath clad the altar stone,The holy image is o'erthrown,The bell hath ceased to toll."The long-ribbed aisles are burnt and shrunk,The holy shrine to ruin sunk,Departed is the pious monk;God's blessing on his soul!"
Barcelona, Province Of Catalonia.Hotel De Las Cuatro Naciones.
September 10.
How charming looks this gay, busy city, with its shady streets, beautiful gardens and fountains, the sea before it, the mountains behind, fortifications on every side, seemingly impregnable. Our hotel is on the "Rambla," a wide boulevard, like those of Paris, upon which most of the fine buildings are situated, and which is the principal promenade. In the evening, we go to one of the theatres, and hear a French opera beautifully sung.
Friday, 11.
The books tell us that Barcelona was founded by Hamilcar, the Carthaginian, B.C. 237. Cesar Augustus raised it to a Roman colony. Ataulfo, the first king of the Goths, chose it for his court. In 713, it fell into the hands of the Moors, who were expelled by Charlemagne in 801. From this time, it belonged to the Duchy of Aquitaine, and was governed by counts, until Charles the Bold made it an independent kingdom, to reward Count Wilfred el Velloso, who had aided him against the Normans. Count Raymond Berenguer IV. united Catalonia with Arragon, by marrying the heiress of that kingdom, from which time it was the rival of Genoa and Venice. It has always been the centre of revolutionary movement, restlessly endeavoring to regain its independence. The Catalans are industrious, bold, and enterprising.Indeed, so much do they surpass the people of other parts of Spain in activity and enterprise, that they are called the Spanish Yankees, and Barcelona is termed the Manchester of Spain. Manufactories of cotton and silk; the most famous laces of Spain; a most flourishing trade, as well as fine schools and public libraries, are to be found here. They boast that the first experiment with steam for navigation purposes was made in Barcelona, the inventor having displayed his steamboat before Charles V. and Philip II., in 1543. Charles, being occupied in foreign conquests, took little notice of this, and, through fear of explosion, the discovery was abandoned, and the secret died with the inventor.
Barcelona has a very large French population. In the Calle Fernando, we see shops handsome as those of Paris. Already we find most tempting Spanish fans for a mere trifle; and at every turn the delicious chocolate is being made into cakes by machinery. There are many fine churches. The cathedral is a grand specimen of the Gothic Catalan of the thirteenth century—one of the most imposing churches we have seen in Europe. "Sober, elegant, harmonious, and simple," as some traveller describes it. The Moors converted the old cathedral of their Gothic predecessors into a mosque. James II., "el conquistador," one of the greatest of the Catalan heroes, commenced this in 1293. The cloisters are very interesting; have a pretty court, with orange-trees and flowers, and a curious old fountain of a knight on horseback; the water flowing from the knight's head, his toes, and from the tail and mouth of the horse. In the crypt is the body of St. Eulalia, the patron saint of Barcelona; removed from St. Maria del Mar, where it had been kept since the year 878. Before this shrine Francis I. heard mass, when a prisoner in Spain, after the battle of Pavia. In the choir, over each finely sculptured stall, is painted the shield of each of the knights of the Golden Fleece. Here was held a "chapter," or general assembly, presided over by Charles V., March 5th, 1519. Charles, then only king of Spain, occupied a throne on one side hung with damask and gold; opposite was the empty throne of Maximilian, first emperor of Germany, (his grandfather,) hung in black. Around the king were assembled Christian, King of Denmark; Sigismund, King of Poland; the Prince of Orange, the Dukes of Alba, Friaz, Cruz, and the flower of the nobility of Spain and Flanders.
There are some curious old monuments in the church, and a crucifix called "Cristo de Lepanto," which was carried on the prow of the flagship of Don John, of Austria, in the battle of Lepanto. The figure—of life size—is all inclined to one side; and the faithful of that day assure us that the sacred image turned itself aside, to avoid the Moslem bullets which were aimed at it. Certain, it was never struck.
While in the church, we see a funeral mass, which is peculiar in some of its ceremonies, and very solemn in the dim religious cathedral light, where every kneeling figure, with its black mantilla, seems to be a mourner. After the credo, little tapers are distributed, and, at a certain part of the mass, are lighted. The priest comes to the foot of the altar. Each person, bearing a lighted taper, goes forward in procession, the men on one side, the women on the other. Each one kisses the cross upon the stole of the priest, as if in submission to the will of God. The candles are extinguished, and deposited in a plate.
Walking on the Rambla this evening, we hear a drum, and, following the crowd, witness the performance of a Spanish mountebank, whose sayings must have been very witty, to judge by the plaudits of the crowd. He had a learned dog, which so far surpassed all the dogs we had ever seen that I am persuaded he was cleverer than his master.
Saturday, September 12.
A rainy day. But we take a long walk through the crooked, narrow streets; going into the Calle de la Plateria (the street of the jewellers) to see the curious long filagree earrings worn by the peasants. We are as much objects of curiosity to these people, as they are to us, (bonnets and parasols being rarely seen in Spain.) An old man, touched my blue veil, yesterday, asking, "Queste paese?" and when I told him we were "Americanos," he rejoined, "Me speak England; me like Americanos." Even the poorest people here are courteous and respectful; and their language seems to have borrowed so much that is flowery and poetic from their Arab progenitors, that it would seem exaggerated and insincere, were it not accompanied by a grave and earnest manner as well as gesticulation. We ask a beggar the way to a certain street. He accompanies us all the way, declines any remuneration, and at parting says, "Go, and may God go with you!" A policeman, seeing us endeavor to enter the Plaza Real, to look at the monument to the king, opens the gate, though the public are not admitted. We thank him for making an exception in our favor; and upon going out, he bids us "Adios," adding,' "May your beauty never be less." At thetable d'hote, every Spaniard bows as we enter, and all rise when we leave the table. In the centre of the table is a pyramid of cigars and matches most fantastically arranged; and it is the custom for gentlemen to smoke at every meal! We visit St. Maria del Mar, a church considered by many to be superior to the cathedral, architecturally. It was built in 1329, on the site of a former church, erected to contain the body of St. Eulalia. The arched roof is of immense height; the main altar of black and yellow marble. The church is hung with many pictures by Spanish artists, and has the usual amount of stucco and gilding for which Spanish churches have been remarkable since the days of Columbus, when gold was so plentiful with them.
Sunday, 13th.
We hear mass in the little Gothic church of St. Monica, hard by, and go afterward to the cathedral, which is even more impressive upon a second view. Several baptisms are going on, and the very babies are dressed in mantillas—the white mantillas worn by the lower classes, which are very pretty. White silk, trimmed with white lace, or of the lace alone; the silk, which is a long strip, is pinned to the hair on top of the head, and the lace falls over the face, or is folded back. Young ladies wear them of black lace, in the street or for visits; silk, for the churches; and these with the never-failing accompaniment of the fan, belong to all alike; rich and poor, old and young. The fan serves as parasol, and strange to say, that, with this alone to shelter them from the sun, these women should be so beautifully fair; and in Valencia they are famed for their white complexions! Surely the sun in Spain is kinder than in America, for freckles and sun-burn are never seen.
The men wear a red or purple cap, which they call "gorro;" a sort of bag which hangs down behind, or at the side, or is more generally folded flat across the forehead; a red or purple sash, (faja;) a short jacket; sandals (espardinya) of hemp or straw, tied with strings. We drive through the streets, and find most of the shops closed, (Sunday;) and see through the open doors that every house, even the very poorest, looks nice and clean.
In the evening, we drive upon the Prado del Gracia, which terminates in the little town of Gracia, where are pretty villas, and stop at a convent for the evening service. It is of this very convent that they tell how, in the Moorish invasion of Al Mansour, when his soldiers were recruiting for the harems of the Balearic Islands, (Minorca and Majorca,) the poor nuns, thinking to avoid so horrible a fate, heroically cut off their noses to disfigure themselves; but it did not avail to save them; for history records that they were carried off, in spite of their noses, or, rather, in spite of the want of them.
Barceloneta is a suburb where live the fishermen, and where we find docks crowded with shipping. From this we have a fine view of the Fort Montuich, built upon a high rock. There is also a citadel near the sea, and a beautiful promenade upon the walls, (Muralea del Mar.) And amongst the public buildings is a university, said to be the finest in Spain; many hospitals and charitable institutions, and a theatre (the Lycée) which they claim to be larger than San Carlo, in Naples, the Scala, in Milan, or even the new-opera house in Paris. Barcelona is the birthplace of Balmes, the author of that great work,Protestantism and Catholicity compared in their Influence upon Civilization.
Valencia Del Cid, Sept. 14.
Yesterday, at six in the morning, we leave Barcelona for "the City of the Cid," arriving at ten o'clock at night; a long, fatiguing, but interesting day. The railway runs by the blue Mediterranean, with stern, bleak mountains close on the other side; or through vineyards, and fig and olive groves, with which are mingled peaches, apples, and quinces, showing that all varieties of fruits meet together in this favored clime. In passing Martorell, the third or fourth station from Barcelona, we have a fine view of Montserrat; a picturesque, jagged mountain 1000 feet high, where is a monastery, one of the most celebrated pilgrimages in Spain. On the opposite side is a famous old Roman bridge (over the Llobregat river) called "del Diablo," built in 531 B.C., by Hannibal, in honor of Hamilcar. At one end is a triumphal arch. Here the views are particularly fine.
Villafranca comes next, the earliest Carthaginian colony in Catalonia, founded by Hamilcar. Next we see Terragona, an ancient city, on a steep and craggy eminence, founded by the Scipios. It was long the seat of the Roman government in Spain; now famous for its fine wines.
Here the costume of the peasants begins to look more eastern. The full, short linen pantaloons, (on each leg a petticoat;) a red handkerchief, worn as a turban; sometimes leather leggings, but more frequently legs red from the wine-press, where they have been treading out the grape-juice. The peasants are simple and friendly, and, seeing few strangers, look upon them as guests, and seem never disposed to speculate upon our ignorance of the prices of things. One of our party offered to pay for a tempting bunch of grapes which we saw in a man's basket, who pressed to look at us in one of the stations. With difficulty he was prevailed upon to take a real, (five cents.) He then offered more, which we in turn declined.Waiting till the train moved off, he sprang forward, and dropped into my lap a bunch which must have weighed several pounds, and I looked back to see him smiling most triumphantly. At another station (a poor place in the mountains) a modest, clean-looking woman came forward with glasses of water. No one paid anything for drinking it. But when she came to our carriage, one of the party gave her two reals, (ten cents in silver.) The poor thing shook her head sadly, saying, "No tengo cambia." (But I have no change.) When she was made to comprehend that she was to keep itall, her face glowed with delighted surprise; and as we moved off, we saw her showing the money to all around her. No doubt she took my friend for the queen herself!
At Tortosa, on the Ebro, we begin to see the palm-trees. And here we enter the province of Valencia, the brightest jewel in the crown of Spain. The Moors placed here their paradise, and under their rule it became the garden of Spain. From them the Cid rescued it in 1094, and here he governed like a king, and died here in 1099. It was then annexed to Castile and Arragon. It is a fortified town, about three miles from the sea; and with its narrow streets, tall houses, balconies, with curtains and blinds hanging outside into the street, looks perennially southern and Spanish. We come up from the station in a "tartana," a vehicle peculiar to Valencia, a sort of omnibus on two wheels, made to hold six persons; without springs, and with one horse. The driver sits on the shaft, with his legs dangling down, or supported by a strap. This vehicle jolts horribly, but is very cheap and convenient.
Tuesday, September 13.
To-day we first see the museum, in which are many pictures of Spanish artists, both ancient and modern—two of Spagnoletto, and several of Ribalta and Juanes—two Valencian artists of whom they are very proud. The last is especially famed for his beautiful pictures of our Lord. We saw here the ancient altar used by James the Conqueror, "Don Jaime," as he is called—the great hero of Catalonia, son of Pedro I. He was one of the first sovereigns who established standing armies in Europe. Amongst other wise institutions, the municipal body of Barcelona was his work. He died in Valencia, 1276, on his way to the monastery of Poblet to become a monk, confiding his goodly sword, "La Tizona," to his son Don Pedro, in whose favor he had abdicated that year.
In this museum are many remains of the ancient Saguntum, (now called Murviedro,) which is but a few miles from Valencia, and a model of its old Roman theatre. In the court of the building are some palm-trees three hundred years old.
We next visit an ancient church of the Jesuits to see one of Murillo's "Immaculate Conceptions," which is very beautiful. Then the "Audiencia," an ancient building of the sixteenth century, where are the courts of justice and other courts. Here is some wonderful old carving, and curious portraits of Inquisitors; civil, on one side, ecclesiastical on the other. We were glad to see that the former greatly outnumbered the latter. After this, we go to one of the finest hospitals in the world; with marble floors, and pillars supporting a lofty ceiling; the great windows opening into gardens of orange, and myrtle, and jessamine; all clean, fresh, and cool; with an altar so placed in the centre, under a lofty dome, that every patient could see and hear the divine office. The whole building was alike well arranged; the kitchen large and convenient, and the dispensary grand.Certainly, in all our experience—and we have visited hospitals everywhere—we have seen nothing soinviting, so really elegant, as this. Here we meet the two loveliest women we have seen in Spain; both sisters of charity; one having charge of the dispensary, and the other of the foundling institution connected with the hospital. Such white complexions; lovely color; such eyes, and eyelashes, and teeth! Specimens of the beauty of Valencia. And such charming groups of children as we saw amongst these unhappy disowned ones! Unconscious of their fate, they played merrily in the cool court, till, seeing strangers, many ran to hide their beautiful eyes behind the sister's apron. The school-room would have done honor to the most "enlightened nation," which might here take a lesson from "benighted Spain." Great placards hold the "A B C." Slates hang in order by the little benches against the wall; pictures of beasts and birds, for natural history; maps, for geography; drawings, for mathematics; balls strung on wires, for counting; large books filled with colored engravings of Bible history, from the birth of Adam to the end of the Apocalypse. And such neatness and order! There is one department for the little ones whose mothers leave them each morning, when they go out to work, returning for them at night. Their tiny baskets hung in a row. Some, who were quite babies, were being greatly petted, because it was their first day away from the mother.
While in the school-room, one of the party began examining a large map of Spain with reference to our projected route. The sister seeing this, lowered the map by a cord, and calling a little fellow of five years, he pointed out the oceans by which Spain is surrounded, named the rivers and mountains, the provinces of Spain, and the principal towns; never once making a blunder, though he often paused to recollect himself.
We drive to see the queen's garden, where is every tropical tree and flower. This, with other gardens, borders upon the Alameda, a broad, shady promenade extending three miles to the sea. There is another promenade called the "Glorieta," where the band plays every morning from nine to eleven. We see, also, the Plaza de Toros, (the arena for the bull-fights,) one of the finest in Spain, capable of holding twenty thousand people; built so exactly like a Roman amphitheatre that we feel as if we looked upon the Colosseum in the days of its glory. It is evident that these people inherit the love of this their national pastime from their Roman ancestors. Happily, the fashion is dying out. In Valencia, the bull-fights occur but once or twice a year. They are now making preparations for a three days' "funcion," to begin on the 24th. We saw the poor horses doomed to death. Forty a day is the average number. The men are rarely killed, but often badly hurt.
Wednesday, September 16.
This morning we go to the markets to see the wonderful display of fruits for which Valencia is so famous. Never were such grapes and peaches, melons and figs, oranges and lemons, apples and pears, the last as fine as could be seen in all New England; the nuts and vegetables equally good. Potatoes, and tomatoes, and peppers, of mammoth size, and even the Indian corn and rice as good as those of America. But even the Spanish gravity is here upset at sight of our round hats, short veils, and parasols.The women hold their their sides with laughter, and we are driven to resolve upon wearing mantillas and fans, which fashion we soon after, in self-defence, adopt. We go to the shops to buy fans, which are a specialty of Valencia, as are also the beautiful striped blankets, (mantas,) which are as indispensable to a Valencian as the fan is to the Valencienne; and is at once his cloak, his bag, his bed, his coverlet, and his towel. They say of a Valencian, that he has two uses for a watermelon—to eat his dinner, and make his toilette. After eating the melon, he washes his face with the rind, and wipes upon his manta. They wear it slung gracefully over the left shoulder, or over both shoulders, the ends falling behind; and over the head-handkerchief is often worn the pointed hat of Philip II.'s time, with wide, turned-up brim.
To-day we visit the cathedral and San Juanes. Like most of the great churches of Spain, the cathedral occupies the site of a Roman temple. This, made into a church by the Goths, was changed to a mosque by the Arabs, and now (since 1240) it is again a Christian church. Some of the doors, and many of the ornaments, are Moorish. The gratings—of brass—are very handsome; as are the altars and screen, of marble and alabaster. This last is most abundant in Spain. A palace opposite to our hotel (that of the Marquis de los Aguas) is beautifully adorned on the outside with statues, and vases, and flowers of alabaster in relievo.
All these Spanish churches are much ornamented with stucco and gilding, according to the taste of the time in which they were built. The cathedral has some good pictures in the sacristy; and within the sanctuary hang thespursof Don Jaime upon his shield. His body is in one of the chapels.
In an old chapter-house we were shown some great chains taken from the Moors, and a series of portraits of all the archbishops of Valencia; and so much is it the habit to gesticulate in this country, that even these dignitaries, instead of being painted inecclesiastical attitudes, have their fingers in every imaginable position. One must know their expressive language to read what each of these worthies may be saying.
After some shopping, we go to call upon the present archbishop, a graceful and dignified person, who received us most kindly, and presented us each a chapelette and scapular. He has a grand old palace, very plainly furnished; a pretty chapel; and, in a fine old hall, with groined roof, were portraits of his predecessors from the sixth century to the present day.
We have a visit from the English consul, to whom we brought letters. He is very kind and friendly, and full of offers of service. The Spanish sun seems to have warmed the English heart, which seldom gives out so much, save in its own foggy island. He sends us some fine wine, which, with some iced orgeat, secures us a merry evening.
Thursday, 17.
This morning we hear mass in the Church of the Patriarch, into which no woman may enter without being veiled. Then we visit the house in which St. Vincent Ferrer, the patron of Valencia, was born, and where is a fountain greatly esteemed for its miraculous powers.
While at breakfast, a young man enters, whom we take for a Spaniard, but who proves to be an American, and from Maine! He has lived in Cuba, however, and it turns out that his father is a friend of the Spanish ladies with whom we are travelling.He gives a pleasant account of his travels in the north of Spain; tells of the wonders of Burgos; of the railway between that and Miranda, which shows such extraordinary engineering skill; and of the fine scenery through which he has passed. Yesterday, on the mountains, he saw three sunsets; or rather, saw the sun set three times, in descending from range to range.
It is delightful to meet an American who, instead of complaining of the discomforts of travelling in Spain, as most of our people do, sees only what is pleasant. For ourselves, we have been most fortunate; good hotels, most obliging people, and, so far from being extortionate, (as we were told to expect,) we find Spanish hotels cheaper than those of any other part of Europe. To-day we eat the "pollo con arroz," one of the national dishes, (rice with chicken and saffron,) and find it very good.
Hans Andersen, in his little book on Spain, says:
"Connected with Valencia, are several of the old Spanish romances about the Cid—he who in all his battles, and on occasions when he was misjudged, remained true to his God, his people, and himself; he who, in his own time, took rank with the monarchs of Spain, and down to our own time is the pride of the country which he was mainly instrumental in rescuing from the infidels. As a conqueror he entered Valencia, and here lived with his noble and heroic wife, Zimena, and his daughters, Doña Sol and Doña Elvira; and here he died in 1099. Here stood around his bed of death all who were dear to him. Even his very warhorse, Babieca, was ordered to be called thither. In song, it is said that the horse stood like a lamb, and gazed with his large eyes upon his master, who could no more speak than the poor horse himself. … Through the streets of Valencia passed at night the extraordinary cavalcade to San Peder de Cordoña, which the departed chief had desired should be his burial-place. The victorious colors of the Cid were carried in front. Four hundred knights protected them. Then came the corpse. Upright upon his war-horse sat the dead; arrayed in his armor with his shield and his helmet, his long white beard flowing down to his breast.
"Gil Diaz and Bishop Jeronymo escorted the body on either side; then followed Doña Zimena with three hundred noblemen. The gate of Valencia toward Castile was opened, and the procession passed silently and slowly out into the open fields, where the Moorish army was encamped. A dark Moorish woman shot at them a poisoned arrow, but she and a hundred of her sisters paid the forfeit of their lives for that deed. Thirty-six Moorish princes were in the camp; but terror seized upon them when they beheld the dead hero on his white charger.
'And to their vessels they took flight,And many sprang into the waves.Two thousand, certainly, that nightAmid the billows found their graves.'
'And to their vessels they took flight,And many sprang into the waves.Two thousand, certainly, that nightAmid the billows found their graves.'
"And the Cid Campeador thus won, after he was dead, good tents, gold and silver; and the poorest in Valencia became rich. So says the old 'Song of the Cid in Valencia.'
Cordova — Province Of Andalusia — Fonda Suiza — Hotel Suisse.
September 18.
After a long night journey, (by rail,) we reach a hotel rivalling the cleanness and comfort of the genuine Swiss hotel, and find ourselves in the ancient capital of the Moorish empire, and in that lovely, bright Andalusia, so famed throughout the world.
From the time we leave Valencia until we reach Jativa, (about fifty miles,) we pass over the "Huerta" (the "garden") of Valencia, one continuous plain of verdure; pastures which are cut from twelve to seventeen times a year. Golden oranges, and other fruits hang above these green fields; and dates, and figs, and peaches, and pears, and quinces, pomegranates, plums, apples, melons, and grapes, and olives, with Indian corn, rice, and every vegetable in equal perfection. Well might the Moors term this plain (with Andalusia) "the Paradise of the East." For centuries after their expulsion, their poets still sang verses expressive of their grief for its loss, and it is said they still mention it in their evening prayers, and supplicate Heaven to restore it to them.