The Royal Opera-house of Barcelona is one of the largest in the world, and when it is filled has a most enchanting aspect. As the Barcelonese are particularly partial to amusements, and, in fact, to all kinds of gaiety, they have acquired such taste in self-decoration and personal adornment, that a very fine general effect is produced when the great salle is packed to overflowing with the beau monde. At this opera-house one sees a perfect galaxy of dark, and, we may say, blazing beauty; for amidst the rich silks, the gorgeous satins, and the gay ribbons of all colours, brilliant with sparkling jewels, there shines out from every female face the yet brighter jewelry of large Spanish eyes flashing the quick emotions of the human soul as the music falls, stirring like a breeze, upon its chords. The number of uniforms, too, glowing from all parts of the great theatre, render the scene very gorgeous; and the manner in which the glittering multitude occasionally rises excitedly en masse to applaud and wave their kerchiefs, as they spontaneously feel the sudden effect of some passage of unusual power, is perfectly electric.
The performance, however, compared with that witnessed at Madrid, and still more with that of the London or Paris Operas, was, when we were at Barcelona, tame and mediocre. The whole company seemed more or less in a general state of chronic melancholy and chromatic scales. Roderigo chiefly relied upon his legs and one high note, and was continually poising himself on one of his feet like a zephyr beginning his training. Why, we wonder, are all Othellos on the lyric stage in a general state of perspiration? And when a gentleman in an opera wants to curse his daughter, why does he invariably dress himself in black velvet and imitation point lace, while the lady herself must appear with her back hair down? It certainly is very curious, though quite Spanish, to observe, in about four minutes after the descent of the curtain at the end of each act, the entire opera-house filled with the smoke of tobacco, and one experiences a novel sensation when, walking on the grand staircase, he stops to light his cigarillo at one of the gilded lamps. It is of little use for English ladies to complain of tobacco in Spain, and it is questionable taste in them to be indignant, as we have seen many, on finding themselves involved in clouds of smoke. Besides which, all mankind have to bear their burdens in one way or another, and the fragrant scent of the Havannah leaf is surely a trial light enough to endure amongst the greater trials of life. Men have to tolerate women in their vapours, why should women not make the same allowance for men during theirs? Each nation, like each individual, has its idiosyncrasy, and the great maxim, "What can't be cured must be endured," ought never to be forgotten by travellers, especially those who are strangers to the customs of the country in which they are temporarily sojourning.
The Plaza de los Toros, or Bull Ring, situated in the quartier called Barceloneta, where the poorer and labouring classes, together with a community of ship-chandlers, reside, has no pretensions in appearance to anything else than what it is, namely, a great wooden slaughter-house. When we arrived in the city the bull fights were over for the season, and the ring was used as a circus and gymnasium for acrobats and athletes. We witnessed within it, however, a spectacle, bloodless indeed, but still with the scent and thirst of blood—and human blood, too—about it, which we may hope can scarcely be witnessed in any other civilised land, whose fiercer passions are not kept in a chronic state of ferment by festive shows of wanton cruelty, and whose tender youth are not deadened from the dawn of their sensibilities to all love of mercy and sympathy for suffering. A female child of seven years was brought into the great arena, which was covered with human beings, their faces all turned upwards. She was engaged to walk the entire length of a rope inclined from the floor on one side of the building up to the roof on the other, about a hundred feet in height. Upon taking her place on the rope, just before commencing her perilous journey, the poor child, suddenly seized with a panic, burst into tears, and evidently shaking with fear, implored to be excused. At this sight, the helpless child trembling in sight of her death, it might be, what emotions filled the breast of the great crowd? Sorrow for young innocence in deadly peril for the idle amusement of the spectators? An imperative desire to rush forward and rescue that tender child from wanton destruction? Did any mother's heart, fluttering with loving thoughts of her own infant, yearn for the rescue of this poor little being, tricked out in sparkling tinsel and pink gauze, trembling alone in mid air on a single rope? No! they all thought only of the value of their miserable pence, and loud rough voices were heard in all directions execrating the child. "Push her on—make her go," they cried, and shook their fists at the poor little creature, whose tears now rained down her cheeks as she looked from side to side, imploringly for one friendly glance. But there was none. With a sudden impulse, however—apparently of pride—she shook her head defiantly, gulped down a sob, and grasping the balancing pole, started on her high and narrow path. She arrived, thank God, at her destination safe and sound, not only, however, without a note of approval or applause, but amidst hisses and jeers. This certainly was a painful page in the study of a nation's characteristics, without one redeeming trait to soften the painful effect it produced, it is to be hoped, on many minds.
Near Barcelona is Montserrat, the Mons Serratus of the Romans. Upon a wild and rugged mountain, hewn and carved into a weird distorted mass by the mysterious forces of nature, is pitched a monastery. The view from the summit is, of course, magnificent, and the innumerable grottoes with which the great serrated mountain is honeycombed, are as usual very dark, damp, fatiguing, and unwholesome. Though no doubt they are curious and wonderful, one is apt, after having done a certain amount of grottoes and stalactite caverns in various parts of the world, to say, when the words "How marvellous!" are dinned into the ear, "We wish to goodness it was impossible!" as Dr. Johnson observed when he was listening to some celebrated performer on the fiddle. The blunt lexicographer, who was no respecter of persons, was, however, possibly right, for, when flatterers meet, Satan goes to dinner—there is no need for him to stay, in fact; those whom he leaves behind him will do all the work for him.
The railway from Barcelona to Gerona passes through a succession of lovely landscapes. The traveller is carried past lofty chains of hills clothed up to their summits in the deep green of the waving pine. The iron road then passes through sweet valleys, the gentle floors of which, smiling in the sunshine, are covered with the richest verdure. Occasionally the eminences which crown these valleys are crested with the broken masonry of other days; as we journey onwards—castles, forts, old ramparts, crumbling walls, rear up in all directions like skeletons of the past. When the scene begins to show signs of human habitation, we pass white villas and farm-houses, terraced round and hung with balconies, over which grow luxuriant creepers. Solitary mansions are sometimes seen gleaming out from the dark verdure of the woods, or sitting on the velvet surface of ample plains. Then the railway carries us past the channels of dried-up rivers, and over stony plains, which appear to stretch away until, in the distant horizon, they meet the soft blue line of the Mediterranean. There we enjoyed from a considerable distance our last few glimpses of those fairy waters, with many a white lateen sail resting upon them, like the weary wings of some exhausted sea-bird.
