Chapter 9

Bay of San Vicente“Very picturesque is the little blue bay of San Vicente, with its cliff walls and jagged peaks.”(page103)

“Very picturesque is the little blue bay of San Vicente, with its cliff walls and jagged peaks.”

(page103)

Ancient Costume of Majorca“The generation now dying out is the last that will be seen in the dress worn by their forefathers for a thousand years past.”(page101)

“The generation now dying out is the last that will be seen in the dress worn by their forefathers for a thousand years past.”

(page101)

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 tobecome 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 Majorcanfondas; 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 anensaimáda—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 theCala de San Vicente, a bay on the north coast of the island; after driving over a bad road for some miles we left thegalarétaand 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. Nearthe 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 ruinedataláyaof 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 ourfondista, 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:

“Thatmésa,” she explained—mésameans table, and is the term applied to all the megalithic altars in the Balearics—“thatmésais 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 quaintFuente 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.

Cock Fountain at Pollensa“TheFuente de Gallo,an urn-shaped stone fountain, presided over by a spruce cock.”(page104)

“TheFuente de Gallo,an urn-shaped stone fountain, presided over by a spruce cock.”

(page104)

Roman Bridge, Pollensa“...the fine old Roman bridge at the entrance to Pollensa.”(page107)

“...the fine old Roman bridge at the entrance to Pollensa.”

(page107)

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 theCap de Formentórby 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 theFáro; 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 ourfonda.

The following morning we rode to theCastillo 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 theCastillo del Reyafter 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.

Castillo del Rey“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.”(page108)

“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.”

(page108)

Gorch Blau“We found the Gorch Blau filled with a rushing whirl of foaming, emerald-green water....”(page115)

“We found the Gorch Blau filled with a rushing whirl of foaming, emerald-green water....”

(page115)

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 verybonitoindeed.

But when morning dawned it was far from beingbonito—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 lessenthe 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 expressionlesscountenance 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, thehospedéria, 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—theMáre de Deuas 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 thehospedériafor 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 therectoria.

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 thehospedériawere 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 thefondistacooks 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 thehospedéria, 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 onthe second morning we were reduced to a kind ofnettoyage 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 theGorch 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 reallymauvais 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 makingdétourswherever 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 thelandscape. As we wound along the heights we could hear theTorrent de Pareysin its deep cañon bed, thundering down in flood to the sea, and we found theGorch Blaufilled 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 thePla 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 coarsecarritxgrass 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 unusualgirth 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 thegalarétawe 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—forvoila!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 surprisetwoempty carriages cross the green and draw up before the monastery.

Pla de Cuba“ThePla de Cubais a high valley through which runs the mule path to Soller, five hours distant.”(page115)

“ThePla de Cubais a high valley through which runs the mule path to Soller, five hours distant.”

(page115)

View of the Plain around Inca“Now and again we got a peep of the plain and its white town far below....”(page117)

“Now and again we got a peep of the plain and its white town far below....”

(page117)

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—agalarétahad 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 werethe 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—theFiesta 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 afterwardsdistributed amongst the townspeople, who fasten them to their house-fronts and balconies as a protection against lightning.

TheFiesta de Rámostakes 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.

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