The ancient Kingdom of Murcia, which lies to the south of Valencia, includes the two modern provinces of Murcia and Albacete. It is a wild, fierce region, where the sun’s heat scorches all vegetation from off the hill-sides. Deep and terrible chasms yawn between the rugged mountains; there are sharp and rocky peaks that seem to have been thrown up by sudden upheavals of the earth, and at their feet lie great stretches of tawny desert recalling the burning expanse of the Sahara. The shadow of long-continued drought often broods over the whole kingdom. But yet the district watered by the Segura is an earthly paradise—in spring all flowers, in autumn all fruit. Mingling with the carob-tree and broad-leaved palm glistens the gold of oranges, and luxuriant vines give pleasant promise of a sparkling harvest.

But nature has not thus blessed the land of her own free will. She needed coaxing and much wooing by the cunning Arabs. A wonderful system of irrigation prevails, and science has harnessed fast the wayward rivers. The greatest treasure of the Murcian, water, is sold by auction to the highest bidder. M. Jean BrunhÉs, in a lately published work, gives some very curious and interesting details relating to this singular system.

The volume of the Monegre is divided into old and new water, the former belonging of right to the ancient riparian proprietors, the latter to the owners of the locks and reservoirs. A very vicious system prevails at Lorca. There, a private company has obtained all rights in the water of Guadalentin, subject to the condition of supplying the old proprietors of the adjoining lands with 500 litres per second every day. Only in rainy seasons, when the company’s barrage is swept away by the torrent (as it usually is some five or six times in the year), does the water become public property. When this happens the company is not allowed to make the barrage any stronger when it is rebuilt. In seasons of drought the owners are masters of the situation, and are able to recoup themselves for the losses thus incurred by forcing up prices to a figure absolutely ruinous to all but the richest cultivators. There is only one palliation to this system, that the bidder who has bought the first lot can buy as many of the lots following as he may desire at the same figure. Notwithstanding this poor concession it would seem that the principle of private ownership has been pushed a little too far in this part of the world.

Here is M. BrunhÉs’ account of the water auction at Lorca:

“The sale takes place in a badly lit hall with naked walls, on a level with the street, with which it communicates by an immense door almost its own breadth. This door remains open during the sale, and the crowd of bidders stand partly in the street. The hall has no floor; you stand on the bare ground. Opposite the door at the end of the hall is a railed-off daÏs, entered by a side door, and without any direct communication with the public side. On the daÏs the secretaries are seated at a large table covered by a threadbare green cloth. Behind the table are five arm-chairs. In one is seated the presiding officer (a civil engineer who must own no land in the Vega). On a stool is stationed the crier.

“At eight o’clock in the morning, at a sign from the presiding officer, the crier pronounces these words in a singing monotonous voice, and without any pause between the two phrases: ‘In honour of the Holy Sacrament of the Altar, who buys the first lot of Sotellana?’ Immediately shouts go up, ‘Eight, nine, or ten reales!’ One voice overpowers the other, wide mouths vociferate loudly, necks are strained, muscles grow tense with excitement. The bidders press and crush each other against the iron railing, for the one nearest has the best chance of being heard. The presiding officer listens and follows the frantic shouting with sovereign calm. Suddenly, with a quick gesture, he designates the highest bidder. At once the clamour ceases. Amid absolute silence the man indicated calls out his name, which the clerks write down.

“The men are hatless. Some wear black or dark-coloured handkerchiefs bound round their heads, but all hold their broad-brimmed hats in their hands. No one smokes or talks till the bidding recommences, and even those in the street are silent and bareheaded. It is easy to see that all are peasants. Heads are closely cropped; here are no beards or moustaches, no one wears a collar, and most carry a cloak other than the aristocratic capa on the shoulders or arm. It is a curious and impressive sight enough these bronzed physiognomies, animated by one desire to obtain, as cheaply as may be, possession of the supreme good, water.”

Such is the province of Murcia in the twentieth century. When vegetation depended only on the sun and very infrequent rain, the land can have been very little better than an arid wilderness. And yet its possession has from the earliest times been a matter of keen dispute. To the early inhabitants have always been ascribed those simple guileless virtues with which the eighteenth century endowed the noble savage. Like the high-souled inhabitants of More’s “Utopia,” they used the gold and silver, in which their mountains abounded, for the meanest articles of domestic use. But this admirable custom seems unfortunately to have been based on mere ignorance of the value of their treasures.

More sophisticated were the Phoenicians, who scented the precious metals from afar, and here, as everywhere, established their commercial centres. Next, the Greeks swooped down and planted colonies, rivalry between the two races precipitating the fierce conflict between their respective allies, the Carthaginians and the Romans. New Carthage, or Cartagena, was founded by Hasdrubal; his son made it the starting-place of his famous march to Rome. The city made a brave resistance to Scipio, and its fall marked the downfall of the Carthaginian in Spain.

As an outpost of the Roman Empire this district was one of the first abandoned to the attacks of the barbarians. Under the Visigoths it became a duchy with the name of Aurariola, which offered so determined a resistance to the Mussulman that it was enabled to retain its independence, subject merely to the Khalifa as suzerain. Here, as in so many Iberian sieges, the women played no small part. Dressed as men, they paraded the walls of the city: and by this stratagem enabled Duke Theodomir to obtain such favourable terms.

Perpetuating the memory of this Duke, the province lasted under the name of Todmir some sixty-eight years as a self-governing State. But the last governors allied themselves with Charlemagne. Arab invaders poured in, who soon swamped the Christian population and Todmir was completely absorbed into the Moslem Empire.

A new capital, Murcia, was founded, that soon rivalled Toledo and Cordoba as a manufactory of arms. After undergoing the usual vicissitudes of Moorish States, it was taken in 1266 by Jaime el Conqueridor, and handed over to his son-in-law, the King of Castile. For two hundred years it endured the attacks of the Moors of Granada, acting meanwhile as a buffer to the Christian kingdom.

Murcia to-day seems a survival of the Middle Ages. The legend goes that Adam returning to earth recognised the province as the only relic of the world he left. The Murcians are a conservative people, clinging to the beliefs and ideas of their forefathers, untouched by the march of thought. Religion is the changeless background of their lives, and often its picturesque ceremonies completely hold the stage. One of the most interesting of their religious festivals is the Passion Procession held on Good Friday. According to tradition this has continued without interruption since 1603, except in the year 1809 only, when it was forbidden by the Government.

Organised by the Confraternity of Jesus, the great feature of the procession is the magnificent series of carved groups (known as pasos) representing scenes from the Biblical narrative. These are the work of the great master Salzillo, who is said to have carved no fewer than 1792 wooden figures in his long life of seventy-six years. During the eighteenth century the Trades Guilds of Murcia gave special support to the Confraternity. They are accordingly granted the privilege of carrying the different pasos in the procession. Thus the “Kiss of Judas” is borne by the bakers; Santa Veronica by the weavers; while the tailors carry the gigantic group of the Last Supper. The bearers, all alike clad in purple, carry lighted candles and musical instruments. Their hoods shroud their heads, the eyes alone being visible through slits; a knotted rope girdles the waist, and stockings of coarse white wool, instead of the bare feet demanded by the original statute, acknowledge the claims of the twentieth century.

It is six o’clock on Good Friday morning. The streets are thronged with eager sightseers; heads are devoutly bared and many a plain wooden cross is displayed to mark the sympathy of the crowd. A band of mounted gendarmes clears the way. The standard-bearer chants to the populace that “This is done in remembrance of the Passion of Our Lord Jesus Christ.” Smothered in flowers the first five pasos are borne along. Then to the sound of drum and trumpet, with the ringing of bells and the blare of bugles, Our Father Jesus passes, enveloped in a cloud of flaming candles, accompanied by the Holy Brotherhood. The remaining pasos follow close, the clergy and the representatives of King and Bishop bringing up the rear.

The pasos themselves will repay inspection. Though abounding in ludicrous anachronisms, often in flabby sentiment, they are beautifully carved and superbly mounted. It is said that £1000 was offered by an enthusiastic German for the uplifted arm of St. Peter in the “Kiss of Judas.”

The first group of the Last Supper is of enormous size, requiring no fewer than twenty-four bearers during the procession. Among the tailors of the city there is keen competition for this honour, for the splendid collation that is offered by the pious to the lifeless feasters is later sold by auction for the benefit of the bearers. The price it fetches is no small one, for it is regarded as true pain bÉni, bringing happiness to those who eat. The Agony in the Garden is reputed of supernatural design and is known as “The Pearl of Salzillo.” The Angel Gabriel is considered unrivalled, and the legend goes that the Duke of Wellington bid £80,000 for this one figure. The figures are magnificently clothed, the sword and crown of Jesus being set down in the accounts of the brotherhood at £200 and £120 respectively. Perhaps the finest of the groups is that which comes last—our Lady of Dolours, whose expression of supreme sorrow has rarely been equalled whether by chisel or brush. It is said that the sculptor copied it from the countenance of his own daughter, to whom, with this end in view, he had deliberately presented a forged letter announcing the suicide of her betrothed. The pasos are deposited in the Ermita de Jesus, where they can be seen by the traveller.

In the town of Murcia itself the influence of the Cross has almost completely banished the Crescent. Gone is the Alcazar, where the Amirs mimicked the State of Cordoba and Toledo; gone is the mosque, where thousands of turbaned heads bowed daily towards Mecca. But in the centre of the city is one of those squares found in every southern and eastern city, which in Spain is always named after the Constitution, in Italy after Victor Emmanuel, and in France after the Republic. To cross it in the afternoon would mean sudden death, for Murcia is one of the hottest corners of Europe. But later a gentle breeze springs up and the citizens troop out to meet with friends upon the Malecon and admire the charming view of the Segura valley, which, as M. BrunhÉs has said, is “an admirable zone of model agricultural establishment.” This fertile huerta bespeaks industry as great as that of the Swiss or Scottish peasant, for the worship of sloth with which Mr. O’Shea charges the Murcian people is groundless and unjust.

A visit to the Cathedral will exhaust the architectural sights of Murcia. Even this is not of first-class interest. Dating in parts from 1386 and Gothic in style, the west front is Churrigueresque, though fortunately not in the most florid style of that unhappy architect. The earthquake of 1829 and a fire in the middle of the last century have greatly damaged the interior, but the general effect is sufficiently striking. The choir-stalls of carved walnut are very beautiful, but the reredos is poor. The eighth wonder of the world, in the opinion of the inhabitants, is the little Velez Chapel modelled on the Constable’s Chapel at Burgos, but parts of it, according to Don Rodrigo Amador de los Rios, show the painful caprices and aberrations which announce the death agony of a powerful art. Just beyond the Junteron Chapel, with its wealth of beautifully sculptured figures and designs in the most exuberant Renaissance style, is the urn where the city carefully guards the internal organs of Alfonso the Learned—a gruesome legacy but one greatly valued.

Much older than Murcia, the old Visigothic capital Carthagena has preserved even fewer monuments of antiquity, though it has not lost the military character first impressed upon it by its founder Hasdrubal. For this is the first arsenal of Spain and perhaps its strongest fortress. Its splendid sheltered harbour is defended by powerful forts and formidable batteries. Their fire has not always been directed upon the enemies of Spain. For many months in 1873 over them waved the red flag of the Intransigents, the extreme communistic republicans, who, simultaneously with the Carlists of the north, threatened to ruin Castelar’s Government at Madrid. The acquisition of the great national arsenal without firing a shot was, of course, of the utmost advantage to the determined revolutionaries. The garrison, in addition to the enthusiastic population, included several revolted battalions of regular troops under General Contreras.

Against this terrible stronghold of the Revolution, General Martinez Campos advanced with an army from Madrid, with orders to reduce the place with the utmost despatch. This was easier said than done. Supplies were lacking; the advantage in artillery lay entirely with the besieged. The Carlists effected diversions in favour of the Intransigents—an odd coalition. Meanwhile three of the revolutionary vessels were seized by a Prussian squadron as pirates—an utterly unjustifiable interference with the domestic affairs of another State. The Prussians and Italians exacted, moreover, a war indemnity of 50,000 pesetas from the Cantonal Junta, which body became a prey to internal dissensions. One of its members was assassinated. Taking advantage of these embarrassments of the besieged the republican troops redoubled their efforts. SeÑor Castelar came down from Madrid to assume the supreme command, and Martinez Campos was superseded by General Lopez Dominguez. An incessant bombardment was kept up, the besieged responding shell by shell. In January the frigate Tetuan was burnt to the water’s edge, and a day or two later the explosion of the magazine destroyed hundreds of the garrison. The end was near. The city had for half a year defied almost the whole kingdom and withstood the covert attacks of foreign Powers. The Government troops forced their way into wretched, blood-drenched Carthagena; Galvez, Contreras, and the leaders of the cantonal movement escaped by sea in the ironclad Numancia, which far exceeded the Government vessels in speed, and took refuge in Algeria. Thus collapsed a movement which was, after the Commune of Paris, the most determined organised attempt ever made to subvert the existing constitution of European society.

I have given at some length this chapter in the history of Carthagena, partly because the town has little interest of itself, and partly because these events though so recent and significant are ignored by most writers of travel books. Out of so much evil good came at last, for these well-nigh fatal disorders opened the eyes of the Spaniards to the instability of the Madrid Government and formed the prelude to the reign of peace inaugurated by the accession to the throne of King Alfonso XII.

Boasting less than most Spanish provinces of sights that appeal only to the casual tourist, Murcia is interesting as a region of perpetual struggle and bloodshed; of struggle against nature, of struggles between differing religions, and of the deadly internecine feuds of race and race.

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