BARCELONA, once the rival of Venice, and now the chief sea-port of Spain, seems to be a bright, clean, and prosperous city. Its aspect, so far at least as regards its principal thoroughfares, is that of a feeble imitation of Paris. Its streets in general are as bad specimens of paving as are to be found in the Peninsula. The only truly national thing about the place is the odours, which we must regard as essential properties of a Spanish town. The long-suffering traveller's nose must resign itself with the best grace possible to the incessant inhalation of that variety of oleaginous and ammoniac smells which to Spaniards, we suppose, must be among the necessities of existence. There are few Moorish remains, as the Moors held Barcelona only for the comparatively short space of eighty-eight years, being expelled in 801 by Charlemagne, who added the city to his duchy of Aquitaine. The wise and the curious have determined amongst themselves that Barcelona was founded by Hamilcar the Carthaginian, who was also called Barca (Anglice, thunderbolt). However, it is quite certain that Augustus CÆsar raised it to considerable importance, making it a colonia under the appellation of Julia Augusta, Pia, Faventia, and the rest. During the Middle Ages, Barcelona was the centre of learning and the resort of troubadours. Columbus was there received by the Catholic king to whom he had given a world. In 1543, steam was first applied to ships of 200 tons at Barcelona by Blasco de Garay; but from certain political complications and rivalries the experiment, though successful, was discouraged. Of course we had the constant pleasure of meeting, "whene'er we took our walks abroad," our old friends the sunburnt cigarette-smoking beggars, who with Maffeo Orsini cried, "Il cigaretto per esser felice!" Black with sun-burn, dirt, and age, having apparently nothing on earth to do, and plenty of time to do it, with lots of people to help them, they lounged about the portals of those wonderful churches one meets with so often in Italy and Spain—church, barn, and fortress lumped together, as if the building had not yet made up its mind what order of architecture it wanted to belong to—to what purpose, temporal or sacred, it was to be devoted.

"Donde el mar?" cried we, on descending from the knifeboard.

"Par ici, M'sieu, coom vid me, va bene—all right;" and away we go with the commissionnaire, having provided ourselves with towels, to the boats, and in a quarter of an hour were lying on our backs on the dark blue wave, as on a sofa, looking up at the great brown isolated hill of Monjuich, with its fortress crest rising eight hundred feet sheer out of the sea, turning our eyes to the forest of masts in the distant harbour, regarding with interest the white sparkling town, its domes, towers, and wharves roaring with busy life, backed in the distance by clusters of purple mountains, or curiously watching the sea-gulls, as with their white pinions they wavered slowly in the soft warm blue air above us. This was luxury. The French say the English do not understand luxe. Ignorance is a voluntary misfortune, and it is a pity that our censors don't see to it.

The red-capped, lazy, brown, one-eyed old boatman was much astonished at the fact that any human beings could be so mad as to enjoy a dip in the sea in such a glorious climate. When he had so far overcome his surprise as to be able to row us back to shore, we flew on the wings of hunger to a breakfast of fresh sardines, cutlets, quails, figs, and amontillado, the interval between each dish being occupied by smoking a cigarillo, À la maniÈre Espagnole.

By the way, in order to illustrate the carelessness, timidity, obstinacy, malice, or whatever flaw it may be in the Barcelonese boatman's character, I may observe that, having placed great confidence in the fact of my having a boat ready to follow me in my swimming excursion, I quietly swam in this delightful blue, warm, and buoyant water about a mile out to sea, never dreaming but that the boatman would follow. Upon turning round, however, with a view of re-entering the boat, I descried it, to my amazement, about a quarter of a mile astern, and in it two human beings, apparently engaged in fierce dispute, gesticulating violently and waving about their arms. These were the boatman and my friend, who had just emerged himself from his bath. The latter naturally wished the boat to follow me, in case of any sudden current carrying me away to seaward, but the boatman distinctly objected to that proceeding, remarking, "Me no go, Engleeshman out dare too mosh wash!" meaning, "This friend of yours out there has swam out too far for me to care about following him, so now he will have to come back by himself, for I shall go no farther." However, the oars were soon in the stalwart hands of my friend, and in a few minutes the boat was alongside of the Englishman who had "too mosh washed" himself.

Thus refreshed, we could now enjoy a stroll in the town. The day was beautiful, the sun shining brilliantly. And so onwards through the shady boulevards and the cool narrow streets, in which we mingled with a half-bred sort of French provincial capital population. The fine mule, with its gaudy trappings, is not frequent here; and all such Spanish sights as picturesque, dirty men in old velvet hats, sashes, coloured blankets, and sandals, are, alas! as rare as ortolans in Tottenham-court Road. In the course of our walk we came to the town gates, and emerging from them, found ourselves on a white road, glaring beneath the rays of an African sun, the heat insupportable, and the dust insufferable. Picking our way among stones and aloes, we began the ascent of Monjuich, the name of which is derived from Mons Jovis—a temple dedicated to Jupiter having been built upon the summit of this mountain by the Romans.

From the fortress cresting the mountain is seen the entire town of Barcelona lying below, with the harbour and its crowd of shipping gay with the flags of every nation. On the southern side is spread out a wide tract of pestilential marshes, seething in the sun, and yet occupied by a number of human habitations. Fever, it need scarcely be said, rages throughout these regions the greatest part of the year. Only those who are compelled by the hardest necessity live and work in such an unhealthy locality. It is painful to think that in a scene so attractive, where nature clothes herself in some of her most beautiful forms, sickness and death should strike down so many victims. To the west, the sunny slopes of the distant mountains are seen gradually lessening in the far haze, until they appear to be lost in the sea. The castle of Monjuich is a most important stronghold, and in case of revolution, invaluable to those in possession of it, its guns commanding the entire town.

Barcelona is the second largest town in Spain, and the most prosperous and flourishing in a mercantile point of view. Its marts, quays, and ware-houses are strongly built, and the general aspect of this Manchester of Spanish Lancashire is busy, thriving, and cheerful. Connected with the Atlantic ports by railways, and with the world by the sea, upon which it is so charmingly situated, Barcelona, with its industrious, bold, intelligent, and good-natured population, should allow no rival to supersede it in the arts of commerce. The climate of its winter is bright, mild, and even. Snow is seldom seen, and the average number of days in which rain falls is but sixty-nine out of the 365. The heat of summer is no doubt great, but it is tempered by the Mediterranean breezes. In the country around the city, the plains are covered with orange and pomegranate groves, and the hill sides are variegated with the pretty country seats, or torres, which so enraptured Washington Irving.

It must be confessed, however, that it is rather disappointing to find so little of the real Spanish element in so large a town of Spain. Valladolid and Barcelona are alike, inasmuch as they both possess arcades; but where one is intensely Spanish, the other is terribly Lowtherian, and recalls Burlingtonian memories. The system of begging seems, too, to be carried on here in a very refined manner. In one of the most frequented plazas in the city, we were, on one occasion, suddenly accosted by an elderly lady covered with a quantity of black lace, and otherwise dressed with great care and propriety. Upon taking off our hats to inquire what service we could have the happiness of rendering her—thinking, perhaps, that she might be ill and wished us to call a fiacre, or still better, that she was going to ask us to dinner—she simply demanded a few reals "for the love of God and Saint James."

During the recent revolution a few urchins, either from mischief or from the design of their dupers, shouted one day upon the public promenade, when at its fullest, the words Viva Prim! Instantly the over-zealous gendarmes on duty pointed their carbines in the direction from whence issued the cry, and a flight of bullets was sent among the terrified groups of people in the streets. Several perfectly innocent persons, including two ladies and an infant, were mortally wounded. The knowledge of this melancholy fact, which had occurred only recently, did not make it more pleasant to us during the hours which we spent daily in the society of a Spanish gentleman who had taken a fancy to us. Being a violent democrat and of a most impulsive disposition, he was in the constant habit of talking in a dangerously free manner, in a painfully loud and distinct tone of voice, about the above-named general, bringing out the word "Prim" so sharply and distinctly that we really expected, every time he uttered it, to experience the sensation of being riddled with balls and slugs from any point of the compass. As we repeatedly urged upon our "dear friend," we did not in the least care who was who, or what was what. It was a matter of no concern to us that in Spain the wrong men were in the wrong places—the square men in the round holes, and the round men in the square holes—nor would it cause us the slightest uneasiness if they remained there till Doomsday. All this we took the greatest pains to impress upon our acquaintance, especially after hearing the before-mentioned anecdote; but still, at disagreeably short intervals, the word PRIM, ever and anon, rang out with startling distinctness, causing us as much uneasiness as we should have felt if we had every moment expected the explosion of a shell at our sides.

The cathedral, of course, had to be done; and it is wonderful how instinctively the tourist hunts out his natural mental food unaided. In Italy, after breakfast, at any new place, it is always "Now for the Duomo!" And so in Spain, in spite of the intricate windings of streets and general labyrinthine state of the towns, sure as the trained hunter upon his quarry, does the tourist seek out and find his chasse cafÉ—the cathedral. Well, perhaps, there is nothing on earth more sublime, majestic, and imposing than one of those masterpieces of Christian architecture, a Spanish cathedral, no temple more fit and worthy for the worship of the Eternal.

The Cathedral of Barcelona, like many others in Spain, is built upon the site of a Moorish mosque, and is magnificent in design, though the impression which it produces is perhaps rather sombre. Darkened chapels, dimly lit with twinkling lights, throw out a subdued blaze of splendour from their gorgeous retablos and glinting brazen railings. Above, the glorious Gothic arches meet in all their florid beauty, like the trees in some heavenly avenue. Long rows of stalls and seats—miracles of wood-carving, surmounted with spiry pinnacles of the darkest oak, whose wondrous tracery seems like a canopy of heavy lace spread upon them—surround the choir. Bare marbles gem the walls, the air is stained with rich and solemn colouring from the gorgeous windows, and the fragrant smoke of incense rolls in slow grey clouds around the ancient columns.

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.