THE walks around Soller are varied and beautiful, presenting to the delighted eye a charming blending of savage wildness and fertile cultivation. In no part of the world can one behold a more complete picture-gallery of all the varieties of natural scenery than in the Isle of Majorca. The day following our arrival at Soller was warm and radiant, as, indeed, every day appears to be in this favoured spot. After a breakfast of fresh figs, new milk, and a stew of pigeons and rice, we started through the orange-gardens to the mountains. The morning air was so warm and fragrant that, as it gently fanned us, we felt as if we were in a perfumed bath, until we stepped upon the first incline of the rocky slopes, where, as we were under the shade of immense rocks, the atmosphere was colder. Sometimes we found ourselves in great chasms where the mountain appeared to have been rent asunder by some violent explosion of the forces of nature; and when, occasionally alarmed by a sharp and piercing cry, we looked upwards, we saw the lordly eagle with outstretched wings hovering over the abyss.

After ascending a steep path winding between perpendicular walls of rock, we came suddenly upon a scene of great grandeur, lonely, dark, and gloomy. Away in our front a mighty ravine, cleft by some great throe of nature, yawned to such an enormous depth that it seemed to disclose the very core of the mountain. While standing on the verge of a narrow pathway, the eye, as it looked over it, plunged down into a great abyss of darkness, from which, far below, arose black towers of rock and broken pinnacles looming in the rising mists. It made the senses reel to fancy, if the foot slipped, or the edge of the pathway gave way, to what unknown recesses of the earth we should descend! High above were tossed, like the giant waves of a granite sea, a wild chaos of dark and lofty peaks, while, over all, stern in its grand and gloomy majesty, frowned against the bright blue sky the vast black head of the Puig Mayor. [32]

This splendid gorge, which, as a specimen of the grandeur of mountain solitudes must be one of the most characteristic in Europe, is called El Barranco. [33] When one stands alone in such a scene—far removed from all familiar associations—it is almost impossible to describe in any language that would not be deemed extravagant, the sensation by which he is overpowered. From the summit of the Puig, the magnificence of the prospect will repay a good walker for the trouble of the ascent. Raised high above a region of mountain peaks, black stupendous gorges, and a wild chaos of riven rocks, shot up from the bowels of the globe in some primeval convulsion, soars the massive summit. While we were standing on it we watched the afternoon sun slow wheeling down to the westward seas. Immediately beneath, fantastic clouds and long weird streaks of vapour curled and eddied like strange aËrial phantoms amongst the solemn recesses of the lonely mountains, sinking into the darkness of the vast depths below.

Over the wide plains of the island stretched like a giant's chart at our feet, green savannahs, broad dusky tracts of olive, and expanses of yellow sand, sparkling here and there in all directions, were exhibited to our delighted gaze. Towns surrounded by glittering white walls, and scattered hamlets peeping from out the deep recesses of spreading woods and groves of orange, greeted the wondering eye; while away towards the horizon, encircling the magnificent prospect, was the sea, flecked in all directions with tiny sunlit sails.

After scrambling down the great mountain walls, when the shades of night began to gather around us, we descended to the Convent of Lluch, which we reached, thanks to our wary guide, in safety. The wild tracks and narrow paths, sometimes skirting precipices of enormous depth, naturally suggested thoughts of danger. In some formidable gaps of the mountain there was nothing but the dull twilight and the deep sapphire of the skies to light us on our narrow way; and, had it not been for the implicit reliance we placed in our practised guide, the heart of the bravest might well have quailed. We two Englishmen, plodding on at night in the steps of a wild mountaineer, guided only by the occasional gleam of his cigarette, among the lonely crags of the Majorcan hills, were conscious of a certain romantic pleasure which we experienced in contemplating the novelty and danger of our position.

We slept that night at the Convent of Lluch, a lonely place in a hollow of the mountain. A forlorn-looking and cadaverous young man, in a long garment of neutral tint, and with a greasy black angular cap on his head, opened the door when we rang for admittance. His reception of us was rather peculiar. After yawning and scratching himself, he turned his back and went into the building, looking very like Noah going into the ark, as popularly delineated in the familiar toy in vogue amongst British infants. He, however, returned in a moment, with a candle which shed a watery gleam on the bare walls, and ushered us into the convent, where we were entertained in a rather frugal manner.

After discussing, at the extreme end of a very long table, in a very long room, and in a very short time, a repast of sour wine, like very inferior African port, with black bread and hard eggs, tasting as if they had been boiled in lamp-oil, we retired to rest in a bare, whitewashed cell, where we slept upon a couple of mattresses, covered over with striped woollen mule rugs. We observed in our chamber, hanging on a nail, a very depressing picture of some saint or other with a catherine-wheel apparently exploding from the back of a very bald head. The Convent of Lluch, or Luke, is celebrated as a place where the Virgin, at some former period, descended from Heaven. She came only once, we were told, and considering all things, we really cannot wonder at her having found one visit quite sufficient.

After our fatiguing climb amongst the mountains, we were glad to find ourselves again in the sunny city of Palma, with its old carved gateways, its yellow, flat-roofed houses, dusty roads, acacia avenues, picturesque population, and Damascus-like scenes. It was pleasant to retire from the blaze of the midday sun into the cool shade of old Gothic cloisters, with their beautiful pillars and arches. We wandered with delight in the bright green garden in the midst, or strayed at will into half-ruined courtyards, with grand old Moorish arches, offering a dim and silent retreat. Everything in the city has an Oriental character. The numerous actual remains of Saracenic architecture, the splendid mansions built by mediÆval knights or merchants, the yellow walls on which the aloe grows, and the arched windows here and there perched in picturesque irregularity, or looking down into gardens filled with palms, cacti, and feathery shrubs, all remind one of the East.

The cathedral, a noble pile, was commenced in 1230, by Don Jayme, and finished in 1346. Standing on an elevated position overlooking the sea, its heavy mass, with all its great buttresses and flying arches, is seen from some distance. Below are the broad stone ramparts, and on either side the beautiful Bay of Palma stretches towards it its long azure arms. At the present moment, extensive repairs and additions are being made, and a magnificent faÇade is to be erected at its western extremity; but, to our eyes, the garish brightness of the new stone contrasts unpleasantly with the time-honoured grey of its grand old walls, which have stood in all their majesty through so many centuries.

The interior, as we enter, makes a great and solemn impression upon the mind. The light of day reaches the holy space tempered and subdued by windows of stained glass; and the noble height of the nave seems doubly lofty from being supported by pillars not of heavy and clumsy breadth, but of graceful and delicate proportions.

The choir, as usual in Spanish cathedrals, is situated in the very centre of the building. Although magnificent in itself, it interferes with the otherwise imposing length of the whole interior, and seems like a great mass of lumber, carelessly left on the pavement, which one would have gladly swept away, in order that the beautiful perspective and the architectural proportions might be rendered distinctly visible. With its lofty aisles, its slender columns, and coloured windows, it has some resemblance to Westminster Abbey, without the ugly statues.

Within a marble sarcophagus near the choir is the body of Don Jayme II., King of Majorca, and son of the Conquistador, Don Jayme I.; and anyone, upon the payment of a few reals, may minutely inspect all that remains of that ancient personage. A spring is touched, a panel of the tomb opens, and a long glass case or coffin is pulled out, and rested on a trestle. Dressed in royal robes of scarlet, gold, and ermine, the wrinkled, grinning corpse of the King of Majorca is exhibited as a spectacle. The bones are protruding through the brown leather-like hide, and piercing the embroidered gloves. The mouth is stretched widely open, showing a dark chasm within, guarded by three long teeth, shaking in the jaw as the glass coffin is moved. The round sockets, where once sparkled the proud and kingly eyes, are now receptacles for dust and a dead fly or two; while a few grisly hairs escape from under the velvet cap which covers the skull. The ears, shrivelled into bits of dried parchment, stick out on either side of the head like those of a monkey. Pieces of tanned flesh hang here and there by slender fibres, in some places peeling off the throat and face, and leaving dark little pits beneath. This is all that remains of a once noble king; and to the complexion of being made a shocking peep-show for the morbid herd of modern gapers, has Don Jayme Segundo come at last. We join in the prayer, Requiescat in pace, inscribed on his tomb; but whether in such circumstances he can be said to do so is more than doubtful.

It has often struck me as very surprising that, seeing there is so much throughout this lovely Mediterranean isle to interest the mind in a hundred various ways, so much to ravish the eye, and such a climate for the ailing and the sick, not to speak of the attractions of its chief city, no mention has hitherto been made of Majorca in the guide-books of the day. In fact, Messrs. Bradshaw and Murray ought, without delay, to make reparations for their past neglect; for truly there are no parts of the coast of the Mediterranean Sea—no isles on its bosom—more attractive to the tourist than these Spanish dependencies. Irrespective of the beauties and interest of Majorca, one would think the fact that the island of Minorca had for a certain period been connected with the history of England would be sufficient to warrant the bestowal of more attention on the Balearic Isles. Port Mahon, too, one of the finest harbours in the world, is situated in Minorca.

The name of this island, as all know, is also sadly associated with that of one of our naval heroes, Admiral John Byng. It was to the relief of Minorca from the French that Byng was dispatched on that expedition which ended in results so unfortunate for himself. Although a brave, gallant seaman, highly distinguished for his knowledge of naval matters, the tactics of this commander were ever those of caution, and his hesitation to attack a fleet of far superior force, and risk the reputation of his country by possible, if not probable, defeat, excited great odium against him. Upon the intelligence of the cautious manner in which he had conducted his operations becoming known in England, the Ministry, too feeble and cowardly to bear honestly the consequences of their own mistaken measures, threw the entire blame upon the Admiral, and roused afresh the anger of the nation against him by accusing him of cowardice. He was tried by court-martial, and, although recommended to mercy, was condemned to be shot. He met his fate with calm heroism at Portsmouth, March 14th, 1757, and, by his demeanour in his last moments, put to shame the miserable calumnies of his accusers.