MONSERRAT, according to the guide books, may be hurriedly visited from Barcelona by means of a return ticket for the day; but one can imagine few persons who would be content with so hasty an inspection of one of the most remarkable sights in Spain. One returns from the mountain to Barcelona with one’s mind crowded with wonderful sights, and one’s senses stirred with a new idea of the beautiful. Where shall one look, one asks oneself, for its equal? But Spain is full of spots of almost dazzling beauty. Within a hundred miles to the southward, following the coast-line, is situated Tarragona. To know Tarragona is to love her, for her natural self first, her oak forests, soft verdure and park-like land, then for her treasures of infinitely beautiful architectural work; and again for her simple kindness and good fellowship, her gorgeous colouring, her brilliant sky, her gorgeous sunsets, and her outlook over the long sweep of rich country, rock-bound coast and glinting sea. Here is another of Spain’s many abodes of loveliness—a paradise of far-reaching plains, dotted with villages and homesteads, coloured with rich gardens, orange-groves and vineyards, and shaded by a rich fringe of olive and fir trees, that lose themselves against the distant rich brown hills. And on the other side the fertile plain slopes gently down to the ancient pine woods, beyond which lie the fringe of yellow sands and dark green ocean.

Tarragona has her records too, and a history among the most ancient in the kingdom. She once boasted her million of inhabitants, her government, her luxury, and her art. The Phoenicians made the town a maritime settlement, the Romans made it an imperial city, the Goths selected it as their capital. The Moors “made of the city a heap,” and the ruins remained uninhabited for four centuries. She can point to her grand Cyclopean walls and gateways, her Phoenician well, her so-called “tomb” of the Scipio, her amphitheatre, her Capital, and her Roman aqueduct striding across the valley, and seemingly defying time to destroy it.

But if Tarragona’s one-time million inhabitants has dwindled to its present population of some thirty thousand souls, it must always be remembered, to its credit, that a few years ago it was only a dull, dry, sleepy old town—a place of dusty meats and sour wines—a temple of the past. But Tarragona has no intention of resting satisfied with a great yesterday; she is intent upon making a future for herself. The new has overridden the old, the town has put away its look of despairing incongruity and uselessness, and has put on the “handsomeness” of modern cityhood. The streets palpitate with the life of commerce; and the harbour shelters many ships that call for cargoes of wine, nuts, almonds and oil. Most of the native wines are excellent, and can compare with those grown in any part of Spain; but they are put, unfortunately, to base uses, and scarcely ever reach the consumer in their pure state. The lighter vintages are bought by Marseilles and Paris, where they are transformed into vin ordinaire, while the full-bodied varieties, known as “Spanish Reds,” are sold in England and America under the name of port.

The road from Tarragona to Valencia runs over the richly fruitful plain that is bordered on the left by great brown hills, and the lovely sea upon the right. In the Tortosa region, only the presence of the olives and algarrobos, instead of oaks and elms amid the soft green prettiness of the landscape, forbids the delusion that one is in Sussex or Devonshire.

The famous marble, known in Italy as broceatello de spagna, and largely employed in the decoration of churches in Rome, is quarried near Tortosa, and the city itself has its place in song and story. Tubal, Hercules, and St. Paul, according to Martorel, were all connected with Tortosa; and the latter is further stated to have instituted MonseÑor Ruf as bishop here. Under the Moors the place became the key of the east coast, and from time immemorial it has been acquainted with warfare and the clash of arms. It withstood the siege of Louis de DÉbonnaire, son of Charlmagne, in 811, but two years later the city fell and had to be recaptured by the Moors. Since then it has been four times besieged and thrice taken; to-day it is chiefly noted for its imposing appearance, its fine Gothic cathedral, and its picturesque bridge of boats. Sixty-five miles to the southward is Castellon, which, though a flourishing place in a garden of plenty, is of only Moorish origin, and consequently an infant among the towns of Spain. Naturalists make it their headquarters; and it is the junction for the copper, cinnabar, and lead mines that abound at Espadeno.

A stop must be made at Murviedro, which flourished under its old title of Sanguntum. Then it was a seaport city of magnificence, richness and power; to-day it consists of a wild bare hill, studded with white houses, traversed by long lines of wall and crowned by an old castle. Two thousand years ago it was laid in ruins by the Carthagenian army, and it has been little else than a heap of ruins ever since. The Roman Theatre, which still remains, is placed in a bend of the northern skirt of the hill between the town and the immense fortress which crowns the mountain. It has seats built of blue limestone and

cement, petrified by the action of the centuries which have elapsed since it was built, which, according to the most authoritative opinion, was in the first century of our era. The stage, which measures about 165 feet in length and 19½ feet in width, was vaulted, some of the vaults being still in existence. The

amphitheatre was composed of three series or groups of steps separated by wider ones which served for landings. A spacious portico ran round with small columns, statues, and a triple row of seats. At present the theatre is surrounded by a wall which prevents it from falling entirely to ruin, a consummation which would be due more to the vandalism of men than to the ravages of time.

The population of Valencia, the third city in Spain, which according to the last census was 150,000, makes this an important centre, but it is not an outwardly picturesque city. This is due to the flatness of the country, which prevents a good view of its buildings, as well as to the luxuriant vegetation which, surrounding the town on all sides, hides from the observer.

Valencia has little to boast in the way of archÆological prizes. Her old churches and palaces, her tapia walls and massive gates, with most of her ancient monuments, are gone; and only a few beautiful bits—the late Gothic Lonja, the octagonal Miguelete belfry-tower, and some odd portions of the cathedral—remain. The very beautiful Lonja (Exchange), the ornamentation of which is characteristic of the Renaissance, is situated in the large Market square. The Lonja comprises the handsome Hall of Trade, the Watch Tower, on the ground floor of which is the chapel, and the Pavilion of the Consulado de Mar, which was previously used for offices and as a commercial hall. Extensive restoration work has recently been carried out in the building, which has suffered great mutilations. The Silk Exchange, besides being a market for this article, contains the commercial bourse, the municipal courts and other government offices. But if the city has swept herself almost clean of her precious art relics, she has assumed an air of modern alertness, and developed a commendable intention to move with the times. The improvements being carried out in the city of the Cid have almost entirely transformed Santa Catalina Square. Both the Santa Catalina and the Rhein Square near by, in the heart of the city, contain magnificent buildings, luxurious cafÉs, and all kinds of shops. There is a vast amount of bright life and gorgeous colouring in the streets and market places, with a quite Catalan forcefulness of character. The Valenciana is, moreover, a progressive and very excitable individual, and he imparts a special charm of fervour into all his affairs. On the occasions of their feasts and sports, the varied costumes of the lower classes—especially that of the huerta man, or peasant from the garden—may be seen in perfection. With his brilliantly-coloured manta thrown loosely over a white linen shirt and black velveteen jacket, and with a bright kerchief knotted round his head, he is perhaps the best-dressed individual in the whole Peninsula, and he looks as if he thought so into the bargain.