BEACHING THE BOATS.
which is alive with small wagons, roofed over by a cover of heavy matting, made of esparto grass. Esparto, which resembles the spear-grass that flourishes on the sandy sea-shores of Lancashire, grows wild in vast quantities in this district. It is very wiry and tenacious in fibre, and is worked up by the natives into an infinite variety of purposes—such as matting, baskets, soles of sandals, &c. It is also largely exported to England, France, and the United States. It is the best substitute for rags in the manufacture of paper, and between 80,000 and 100,000 tons are annually imported into this country for that purpose. The Iberian whips, described by Horace, were manufactured of this material. The women and children are largely employed in the hand manufacture of esparto, and in the silkworm-gut industry, of which Murcia is the centre in this part of Spain.
THE “MARTYR’S” PROMENADE, ALICANTE.
The huerta, or garden of Alicante, is situated at some two or three miles from the town to the north, and is irrigated from the artificial Pantano de Tibi, of Moorish constructure. It is an oasis in a wilderness of sand and dust. The fields that surround this garden are parched and dry; the almond and fig trees that line the road are coated with dust that clings to them like thin snow, and the almond nuts resemble plaster imitations of themselves. And in the midst of this blistered country nestles the luscious huerta—a wide stretch of verdant plantations, thickly foliaged, cool, sweet, and refreshing, with villas embowered among its oranges and palms, a film of dim mountains in the background, and away to the south the silent brimming sea.
THE “MARTYR’S” PROMENADE, ALICANTE.
I received an invitation to inspect the tobacco factory in the northern suburb, and listened to enthusiastic descriptions of the beauty of many of the 6,000 girls employed there; but my time was limited, and I was compelled to postpone the pleasure of a visit.
From Alicante, past Elche to Murcia, lies a tract of African Spain—a vast plain covered with plantations of orange, lemon, pomegranate, fig and olive, among which scattered palms lift their broad heads with stately pride. At intervals, small towns, very Oriental in appearance, with domed, azure-tiled mosques, nestle among the palms, and add to the attractiveness of a scene of enthralling beauty. “Why is this lovely corner of the world so little known?” wrote a German enthusiast; and his question has been capped by the more prosaic cyclist, who asked: “Why are the people of these towns so rude and annoying, and why do the children favour us with a shower of stones?” One has not to ponder long in order to solve the cyclist’s problem. Cycles are as rarely seen in Murcia as bears in Bloomsbury, and it is scarcely surprising in the circumstances if the indefatigable wheelist is regarded with many wondering and sarcastic stares. But the peasant children in Spain, and especially in Southern