The red-capped, lazy, brown, one-eyed old boatman was much astonished at the fact that any human beings could be so mad as to enjoy a dip in the sea in such a glorious climate. When he had so far overcome his surprise as to be able to row us back to shore, we flew on the wings of hunger to a breakfast of fresh sardines, cutlets, quails, figs, and amontillado, the interval between each dish being occupied by smoking a cigarillo, à la manière Espagnole.
By the way, in order to illustrate the carelessness, timidity, obstinacy, malice, or whatever flaw it may be in the Barcelonese boatman's character, I may observe that, having placed great confidence in the fact of my having a boat ready to follow me in my swimming excursion, I quietly swam in this delightful blue, warm, and buoyant water about a mile out to sea, never dreaming but that the boatman would follow. Upon turning round, however, with a view of re-entering the boat, I descried it, to my amazement, about a quarter of a mile astern, and in it two human beings, apparently engaged in fierce dispute, gesticulating violently and waving about their arms. These were the boatman and my friend, who had just emerged himself from his bath. The latter naturally wished the boat to follow me, in case of any sudden current carrying me away to seaward, but the boatman distinctly objected to that proceeding, remarking, "Me no go, Engleeshman out dare too mosh wash!" meaning, "This friend of yours out there has swam out too far for me to care about following him, so now he will have to come back by himself, for I shall go no farther." However, the oars were soon in the stalwart hands of my friend, and in a few minutes the boat was alongside of the Englishman who had "too mosh washed" himself.
Thus refreshed, we could now enjoy a stroll in the town. The day was beautiful, the sun shining brilliantly. And so onwards through the shady boulevards and the cool narrow streets, in which we mingled with a half-bred sort of French provincial capital population. The fine mule, with its gaudy trappings, is not frequent here; and all such Spanish sights as picturesque, dirty men in old velvet hats, sashes, coloured blankets, and sandals, are, alas! as rare as ortolans in Tottenham-court Road. In the course of our walk we came to the town gates, and emerging from them, found ourselves on a white road, glaring beneath the rays of an African sun, the heat insupportable, and the dust insufferable. Picking our way among stones and aloes, we began the ascent of Monjuich, the name of which is derived from Mons Jovis—a temple dedicated to Jupiter having been built upon the summit of this mountain by the Romans.
From the fortress cresting the mountain is seen the entire town of Barcelona lying below, with the harbour and its crowd of shipping gay with the flags of every nation. On the southern side is spread out a wide tract of pestilential marshes, seething in the sun, and yet occupied by a number of human habitations. Fever, it need scarcely be said, rages throughout these regions the greatest part of the year. Only those who are compelled by the hardest necessity live and work in such an unhealthy locality. It is painful to think that in a scene so attractive, where nature clothes herself in some of her most beautiful forms, sickness and death should strike down so many victims. To the west, the sunny slopes of the distant mountains are seen gradually lessening in the far haze, until they appear to be lost in the sea. The castle of Monjuich is a most important stronghold, and in case of revolution, invaluable to those in possession of it, its guns commanding the entire town.
Barcelona is the second largest town in Spain, and the most prosperous and flourishing in a mercantile point of view. Its marts, quays, and ware-houses are strongly built, and the general aspect of this Manchester of Spanish Lancashire is busy, thriving, and cheerful. Connected with the Atlantic ports by railways, and with the world by the sea, upon which it is so charmingly situated, Barcelona, with its industrious, bold, intelligent, and good-natured population, should allow no rival to supersede it in the arts of commerce. The climate of its winter is bright, mild, and even. Snow is seldom seen, and the average number of days in which rain falls is but sixty-nine out of the 365. The heat of summer is no doubt great, but it is tempered by the Mediterranean breezes. In the country around the city, the plains are covered with orange and pomegranate groves, and the hill sides are variegated with the pretty country seats, or torres, which so enraptured Washington Irving.
It must be confessed, however, that it is rather disappointing to find so little of the real Spanish element in so large a town of Spain. Valladolid and Barcelona are alike, inasmuch as they both possess arcades; but where one is intensely Spanish, the other is terribly Lowtherian, and recalls Burlingtonian memories. The system of begging seems, too, to be carried on here in a very refined manner. In one of the most frequented plazas in the city, we were, on one occasion, suddenly accosted by an elderly lady covered with a quantity of black lace, and otherwise dressed with great care and propriety. Upon taking off our hats to inquire what service we could have the happiness of rendering her—thinking, perhaps, that she might be ill and wished us to call a fiacre, or still better, that she was going to ask us to dinner—she simply demanded a few reals "for the love of God and Saint James."
During the recent revolution a few urchins, either from mischief or from the design of their dupers, shouted one day upon the public promenade, when at its fullest, the words Viva Prim! Instantly the over-zealous gendarmes on duty pointed their carbines in the direction from whence issued the cry, and a flight of bullets was sent among the terrified groups of people in the streets. Several perfectly innocent persons, including two ladies and an infant, were mortally wounded. The knowledge of this melancholy fact, which had occurred only recently, did not make it more pleasant to us during the hours which we spent daily in the society of a Spanish gentleman who had taken a fancy to us. Being a violent democrat and of a most impulsive disposition, he was in the constant habit of talking in a dangerously free manner, in a painfully loud and distinct tone of voice, about the above-named general, bringing out the word "Prim" so sharply and distinctly that we really expected, every time he uttered it, to experience the sensation of being riddled with balls and slugs from any point of the compass. As we repeatedly urged upon our "dear friend," we did not in the least care who was who, or what was what. It was a matter of no concern to us that in Spain the wrong men were in the wrong places—the square men in the round holes, and the round men in the square holes—nor would it cause us the slightest uneasiness if they remained there till Doomsday. All this we took the greatest pains to impress upon our acquaintance, especially after hearing the before-mentioned anecdote; but still, at disagreeably short intervals, the word PRIM, ever and anon, rang out with startling distinctness, causing us as much uneasiness as we should have felt if we had every moment expected the explosion of a shell at our sides.
The cathedral, of course, had to be done; and it is wonderful how instinctively the tourist hunts out his natural mental food unaided. In Italy, after breakfast, at any new place, it is always "Now for the Duomo!" And so in Spain, in spite of the intricate windings of streets and general labyrinthine state of the towns, sure as the trained hunter upon his quarry, does the tourist seek out and find his chasse café—the cathedral. Well, perhaps, there is nothing on earth more sublime, majestic, and imposing than one of those masterpieces of Christian architecture, a Spanish cathedral, no temple more fit and worthy for the worship of the Eternal.
The Cathedral of Barcelona, like many others in Spain, is built upon the site of a Moorish mosque, and is magnificent in design, though the impression which it produces is perhaps rather sombre. Darkened chapels, dimly lit with twinkling lights, throw out a subdued blaze of splendour from their gorgeous retablos and glinting brazen railings. Above, the glorious Gothic arches meet in all their florid beauty, like the trees in some heavenly avenue. Long rows of stalls and seats—miracles of wood-carving, surmounted with spiry pinnacles of the darkest oak, whose wondrous tracery seems like a canopy of heavy lace spread upon them—surround the choir. Bare marbles gem the walls, the air is stained with rich and solemn colouring from the gorgeous windows, and the fragrant smoke of incense rolls in slow grey clouds around the ancient columns.