THE Vale of Soller, some thirty miles across the island, is the most delightful excursion the tourist can make. As, of course, we had resolved to visit it, behold us twisting round the sharp corners of the narrow streets of Palma in an open carriage, drawn by a team of four splendid mules at full gallop, with the driver's whip keeping up a running fire, and the driver himself uttering volleys of yells, while the people in the street flew right and left like parting waters, and a crowd of yelping dogs pursued us. After rattling through an old Moorish arch, and over a drawbridge, we dashed into the open country. In a short time we came upon a region of gigantic olive-trees. Many centuries must have fallen upon them, for they were grey and hoar. Some of the great gnarled trunks, fifteen feet in circumference, were twisted and tortured by wayward nature into a thousand weird and uncouth shapes. These wonderful trees, old when the Moor ruled the island, have outlived many a change in its history. Since their birth, whole peoples have become dust, and dynasties have passed away. They are relics of a younger world; and as twilight falls around them, they loom with their long, lean arms and distorted trunks, gaunt and ghastly, against the dull grey air, like an assembly of ancient ghosts.

From this scene we emerged into wide plains, green with sprouting corn, and bordered by gigantic aloes. These plains yield three crops a year. On jog the jingling mules, while the clouds of yellow dust whirl away in the morning breeze. We pass pretty flat-roofed, Oriental-looking houses, with coloured blinds and balconies, buried in groves of acacia and prickly pear. We were saluted on our way by many a dark-eyed maid, hooded in her gauzy capote, and with the one long plait of hair, or by stalwart labourers as they walked briskly to their day's work.

There were other peasants working in the fields, dressed in long, loose Turkish trousers and bright sash, their heads bound in gaudy kerchiefs, who all paused from their labour to wave a greeting as we passed, and to cry, "Tenga, SeÑores, tenga." [28] In character, these good people are the reverse of their neighbours of Valencia or Catalonia. They are so simple and honest, that crime in Majorca is a great exception; while in Valencia it is dangerous to walk abroad after dark without some weapon of defence, and that, of course, is useless against the assassin who approaches from behind. In this homely isle one may wander about as much as he pleases, in the alleys of the city or amidst the mountain passes, secure and unmolested. There are few or no means of escape for the criminal, and, therefore, his detection is certain, for the people refuse him all shelter. Majorcans eagerly desire to maintain peace and order in their island, and crime is, therefore, rendered a losing game.

The Majorcan peasants, however, are superstitious to a degree, and densely ignorant. This may be accounted for by the fact that the mass of the population consists of the labouring classes, and that they are so completely isolated from the rest of mankind. To attempt, therefore, to engraft upon their primitive minds any scientific or artistic improvement is an unfruitful task. A few years ago a line of telegraphic communication was attempted between Soller and Palma; but as soon as the poles and wires were erected, they were in many places destroyed, not from wilful malice, but from a fixed notion that the telegraph was some diabolical invention of the Evil One, destined to bring them to any amount of grief. It was in vain to expostulate or explain. The wires were cut and cut again. However, upon the magnetic principle being made known to the peasantry of the district, some more enlightened than the rest wished to test its efficacy by positive proof; and when they heard that messages might be sent along the wires, they concluded that goods and chattels might be transported in the same manner from place to place. Consequently, during the first week after the telegraph had commenced operations, all sorts of things were found hanging on the wires for a distance of nearly five miles—bundles of clothes, pairs of knickerbockers, petticoats, baskets of edibles, and even wigs. In fact, an olla podrida of domestic articles, all neatly ticketed and addressed, was found waving in the breeze. The good peasantry, however, finding that the telegraph was longer in its transmission of these articles to their destination than they had anticipated, naturally concluded that the whole thing was a hoax and a swindle on the part of the Government and Satan, and wreaked their vengeance upon the unfortunate poles and wires by knocking them down.

We had approached to the foot of the mountain range we had hitherto seen from afar, to which the road ascended by gradual inclines. The higher we wound from the heat below, the sharper became the breeze. On all sides Alpine vegetation spread around, perfuming the air with a hundred odours. We pursued the zig-zags until we were enclosed by a semicircle of enormous precipices and stupendous rocks, on whose beetling brows the toppling fir-trees clung. We felt overwhelmed by the sight of these stupendous masses, for it seemed as if a breath would dislodge them, and hurl them down upon us. The road, escaping for a time from the deep recesses of these adamantine walls, skirted the level edge of a lofty precipice; and, on one occasion, we splashed through a torrent which, a few feet on our left, fell in a wide arch over the rocky margin, and rushed, silvering in the sunny air, far down into the dark gulf beneath, while the roar of its waters echoed like distant thunder amongst the hollows of the desolate mountains. Again we ascended, and in proportion as we rose, the peaks seemed to rear themselves above us. Then we dived into a vast enclosure of vertical walls, in which we felt as if in a prison, deep and gloomy itself, but from which we could see the bright vault of heaven above.

After an hour's climb in this sombre valley, we sat down for rest and a cigarillo on a way-side stone to await the coming of the mules and carriage. As we looked back through the rocky pass by which we had entered the gorge, we had a pleasant, though far distant, view of light green slopes and wide spreading plains, shining brightly in the yellow glow of day, and occasionally tinted with the grey hues of the olive. Bounding these plains, in a long narrow line of dazzling light, were the white walls of Palma; while beyond, its hue contrasting with the transparent blue of the spotless sky, and flecked here and there by the white sail of the feluccas, quivered the long high line of the purple sea. Higher yet we ascend, over roads paved by the Moors six hundred years ago. Leaving the carriage on the path below, we scramble up through tangled shrubberies, through cactus, aloes, carob, evergreen oak, and ancient olive. All around and over us are piled the wild mountains, with forests of pine scaling to their very peaks, and standing out like funeral plumes in dark, black fringes against the radiant sky. We pass groups of strong sunburnt peasants, with a simple goat-skin tied upon their backs for a garment. We perceive among them timid girls, large-eyed and hooded, with streaming plaits of blue-black or golden auburn hair, and old women, squatting on mules, with their heads covered by the hat, or masculine head-gear, like that worn by the women of Wales. Wider and wider, as we rise above the lower landscape, spreads the glorious prospect behind us—wild rock, verdant slope, sunny plains, streaked with the dusky olive, the long, white line of the distant city, and the dark blue breast of the dreaming sea; until, of a sudden, we pass over a dark rocky plateau, and the scene drops quickly from view, like the dreams of boyhood, the bright yearnings of youth, and all things of beauty which are born to fade,—

But a truce to moralising, or we shall never get on with the journey.

We pass over the rocky plateau, and everything behind us, as we begin our descent, is totally eclipsed. In advance, deep and far below, resting in the very lap of one vast chaos of wild and lofty mountains, lies the white little town of Soller. Its scattered groups of toy-like houses are gleaming from out the dark-green of orange groves and bowers of citron. The long declines of the yellow road appear, from our elevated position, to wind away into the distant foliage like golden serpents. All around rise giant rocks, and enormous blocks, reft by the lightning from their parent walls, hang threatening on the very verge of lofty cliffs high above us; while the great azure circle cut out of heaven by the vast coronet of peaks which, at a great altitude aloft, sweeps round the scene, is clear and spotless, save where an eagle poised on level wing is bathing in the balmy air. Down rattles the calÈche, and the four black mules jingle merrily on. Turn after turn is made in the road, and rock and gorge assume wilder proportions, until on a sudden the enormous peak of the Puig Mayor, the loftiest mountain in Majorca, is seen towering upwards in gloomy majesty over the fair scene below.

As we descended we breathed a warmer atmosphere, and at last found ourselves in the fragrant valley of Soller, in the very heart of its green and fruitful bosom, where the air was heavy with the odour of the orange-flower, and the fig in profusion purpled on the tree. We threaded lane after lane, shaded over with the deep green branches which met overhead, the golden fruit hanging from them in festoons, and temptingly inviting us to pluck them. The whole country around seemed like a wide garden, in the midst of which waved palms and pampas-grass. There was everywhere a richness of verdure, a profusion of life, which showed the fecundity of nature in these Southern climes. The charm of the scenery was much increased by the contrast between the savage mountains, so bare and rocky, and the perfect paradise which nature in her benigner moments had created in every valley. [29]

The village of Soller is a credit to the Spanish nation and to itself. Spain and its towns are dirty and malodorous, sanitary laws being generally neglected; but here, in this remote corner of her dominions, lying unknown and buried in a deep mountain basin, and secluded from the rest of the world, she possesses a beautiful little village, remarkable for the cleanliness of its houses and people. At Soller, as everywhere throughout the island, there is a decency of deportment, a respect for law, a modesty and urbanity of demeanor which it is really delightful to witness.

The interior of the little inn, or posada—which means literally a place of repose—is washed and whitewashed, scrubbed and polished, until it is as free from speck or stain as the far-famed Dutch villages which are held up to the Great Unwashed at large as sanitary and salutary examples. The little trestle bedsteads of white wood, with their snowy sheets, in the little whitewashed bedrooms, seem in their happy ignorance of the flea to put completely to the blush those foul and noisome beds in Spanish inns in which the wearied traveller lies down, not to find repose, but to offer himself a helpless victim to myriads of enemies, who from every nook and cranny come forth, thirsting for his blood.

The valley of Soller, only six miles in circumference, realizes £25,000 per annum by the sale of its oranges and lemons, and £30,000 by its oil. The olive trees grow luxuriantly everywhere, and on terraces cut out of the slopes of the mountains are nursed into the highest perfection. The roads are in excellent condition, and so much engineering skill has been displayed in their construction that the transit of fruit over the mountains to the port of embarkation is a comparatively easy matter. All the roads, the mountain passes, and the island generally, are protected, although from the character of the Majorcans the precaution is scarcely necessary, by a fine body of police, called the Guardia Civil. They are a manly, robust body of men, numbering eleven thousand, including those who are employed on the entire eastern coast of the mainland, a comparatively small number being required in the islands. In many parts of Spain proper, brigandage exists to a considerable extent, and the whole force is therefore ordered to parade their allotted districts with loaded carbines. In Majorca their offices, as we have said, are little needed, but on the mainland their interference is often requisite, and they perform their arduous duties with all the rigour necessary for the maintenance of law amongst the daring races who inhabit the mountains and sea-coasts of Spain. If anyone who is discovered in the act of setting the law at defiance refuses to surrender, he is shot down without mercy. These intrepid men have often to maintain most unequal struggles, and are, of course, held in great detestation amongst the criminal classes, by whom they are frequently made victims to their thirst for vengeance. Their uniform is picturesque, yet workmanlike, consisting precisely of the costume of the popular Italian brigand without his tawdry finery.

The great charm of the Majorcan population is that they are a distinct island race, with a language almost of their own; and having lived for centuries happily and contentedly as one family, they are docile and orderly, and courteous to a degree to strangers. Steam has only been introduced of late years, and up to the first arrival of El Vapor they were comparatively cut off from all the world, its plots and passions, and engrossed in their own quiet industrious pursuits.

Majorca is at present free from the plague of tourists. Scarcely a stranger intrudes, beyond the city of Palma, into the recesses of its woods, mountains, and villages. Consequently the charge for everything is remarkably moderate, and on the occasion of our excursion to Soller we had a capital dinner for five people, [30] including a sack of four hundred oranges fresh from the boughs, for ten shillings, besides a deal of stroking, and patting, and shaking of hands on the part of the "fair, fat, and forty" landlady, her daughter, and mine host of the Fonda de la Paz, upon our departure for the mountain pass of El Barranco. The good landlady, who is also cook, we understood danced a characteristic dance some twelve years ago before Lord L——e, on his visit to Soller, like the daughter of Herodias before Herod. Being at the time of our visit of sufficient dimensions to put up in the middle of a room for an invalid to walk ten times round in the course of a day, as a measurement for a term of gentle exercise, that lady very properly abstained from repeating her Terpsichorean experiments upon this occasion. Had she given way to her love of the graceful exercise, she would have borne no very distant resemblance to a frisky elephant, and might probably have broken through the floor of the apartment.

From the mirador, or pretty terrace on the top of the house, entwined with vine-leaves and jasmine, and partly shaded with the fig and various sweet-scented plants, a lovely view of well-nigh the entire valley, with its mass of vegetable life, its wide orange groves, and its waving palms, is obtained, while the fragrance of the orange flower is wafted through every casement. The winter climate of the valley is mild and delicious, as its tropical vegetation amply testifies; while the heat in summer is never too intense, for an opening through the heart of the mountains towards the north-west, through which a small silver river flows to the sea, admits the freshening breeze.

From Soller we started on a beautiful walk to the port (El Puerto de Soller), situated on the north-west coast. The road lay through orange groves, and avenues of gigantic bamboos and enormous aloes, the little river flowing swiftly on by our side. When we had advanced some distance an old battered bridge appeared before us. This was the bridge of La MÁ, where in the middle of the sixteenth century a fearful struggle, accompanied with great slaughter, occurred between a host of invading Turks and the gallant men of Soller. The inhabitants of the little town, although greatly outnumbered, were nerved by the energy of despair, and it was a question of "to do or die." They must either conquer or leave their old men, their wives, their kindred, and little ones to enemies who knew no mercy, but would certainly doom them to dishonour, death, or slavery. Arming themselves, therefore, hastily with whatever weapons they could collect, the little band of six hundred [31] knelt down in the market-place and prayed fervently to the God of the Christians to bless their arms. Then, committing their families to the care of heaven, they marched to the attack. The Turkish army, having landed at three o'clock in the morning, had imagined they could take the town by surprise, while its inhabitants were sunk in slumber; but their fleet had been previously seen in the offing by the Majorcans from their watch-tower at the port, and signalled to the Soller garrison. At the bridge of La MÁ the opposing forces met, and the battle raged with equal ardour on both sides. In the midst of the struggle a rumour reached the Christian troops that another band of Turks had appeared near their town by a circuitous route, and were slaughtering their families and firing their homes. This sad message for a moment fell upon their hearts like a knell of despair, and for a short time they were so dispirited that the Turks gained some temporary advantage. At this critical moment the calm, quick wisdom of Juan Angelats, the patriot leader, saw that upon one supreme effort depended the issue of the day. Leaping upon a mound, with the banner of the Red Cross of St. George waving in his hand, and in full sight of both armies, with bare head and flaming eyes, he shouted, "Sons of Soller! if we retire we are scattered and lost. Rally, rally! Our families are in the hands of God. Charge for vengeance and Saint George, and let not an infidel escape. Forward, in the name of the Holy Virgin!" With one loud shout the gallant band rushed on with the impetuous speed of a vast bolt discharged upon the foe. Nothing could withstand the violence of their assault, and crossing the river over the heap of Turkish dead, they spread death and destruction among the Mohammedan troops, being resolved neither to ask nor to give quarter. Ysuf, the enemy's leader, fell pierced through and through, and the falling ranks of the infidels, dropping victims at every step in their retreat, fled in wild disorder to their galleys; only one-fourth of the invaders eventually landing at Algiers to attest the prowess of the Christian patriot.

Shortly after passing the bridge of La MÁ we arrived at the port of Soller, formed by a little bay, at the entrance of which, on either side, rise lofty rocks, covered with olive, and with patches of dwarf oak, while occasional pines wave their sombre heads gloomily in the breeze. It is a wild and desolate place, the only sound which is heard being that of the blue waves as they dash ceaselessly on the silent shore. A ruined Moorish tower rises up, stark and grey, on the storm-battered rocks, like some melancholy spirit brooding over recollections of the past. A few small fishing craft, which are all that seek refuge here, sway to-and-fro, moored to the shore, beneath some humble cottages overlooking the low wall of the little harbour. The bay itself is to all intents fathomless, being the basin of an extinct volcano, and there is consequently no anchorage for ships.