In the spring of 1906 we found ourselves with three months to devote to foreign travel, and after some deliberation we decided to spend them in exploring those “Iles oubliÉes” of the Mediterranean—Majorca, Minorca, and Iviza—and in ascertaining for ourselves whether they were worth visiting and what were the possibilities of a stay there.

Their names, it is true, lingered in our memories like some familiar echo from far-off schoolroom days, but with regard to all practical details we were extremely ignorant, and it was without knowing a soul in the islands or a soul who had ever been there, that we set out on the last day of January to visit the Balearics—those homes of famous slingers.

A railway journey of twenty-two hours takes the traveller from Paris to Barcelona by way of Toulouse. The change from France to Spain is an abrupt one. After racing through flat lands of vine, through sand dunes and salt lagoons, one crosses the frontier into a dry place of red and orange hills, where stone villages stand bare and unshrinking in the strong sunlight, and here and there a palm—solitary outpost of the south—waves her dusty plumes; and the night falls suddenly upon a sky crystal clear, as the sun slips in glory behind the strong outline of the purple Pyrenees.

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An old writer has left it on record that the thing which chiefly repented him in his life was having gone anywhere by sea when he might have gone by land. Since it is decreed, however, that islands shall be reached by water, one subject of remorse was spared us as we boarded the steamship Miramar at half-past six on the evening of February 5th. And so great is the power of comparatives to cheer, that though the worst of sailors, we derived a certain happiness from the reflection that we had at any rate chosen the lesser evil in sailing from Barcelona instead of taking the twenty-four hour crossing from Marseilles.

Behold us then at dawn gliding into the Bay of Palma and gazing around us with that undefined expectancy that even in these prosaic days of travel tinges with romance the landing on an unknown shore.

Here is nothing of the wild and rugged mountain scenery that meets the eye on approaching Ajaccio. Rather like some Fortunate Isle safe from the reach of tempests does Majorca lie serene and dreaming upon the water. The great bay opening to the south is enclosed upon the east by a level shore terminating far out at sea in the blue headland of Cape Blanco, while closer at hand the western coast line is indented with many a rocky promontory and wooded headland curving down to the harbour’s rim. A low cliff of orange sandstone encircles like a sea wall the head of the bay, and upon this cliff stands Palma, a sea of colourless houses massed upon the water’s edge and stretching backwards to the wide plain—deep blue and level well-nigh as the sea itself—that forms the background to the town and to the great cathedral that towers high above all other buildings.

At its eastern rim the plain rises slightly to the double peaks of the Puig de Randa, far inland; on the west the panorama is closed by a distant range of sapphire blue mountains, the Sierra of the interior.

We land, and are rattled quickly away in an omnibus to the Grand Hotel—but a few minutes distant from the quay. It was no small relief to find that we were spared a further encounter with the Spanish douane, for the ruthless violation of our trunks at the frontier station of Port Bou was still fresh in our memory, while the very hour of our sailing from Barcelona had been marked by a last attempt at extortion. A Customs official who was patrolling the wharf in all the glory of helmet and sword, took upon himself to detain a packing case of ours, containing a saddle, and, on the ground that he could not see what was inside, he forbade it to be put on board.

It was late—it was dark—the boat was about to sail, and we had retired to our cabin. Our hired porter raved and shrieked upon the quay, then came to us and said we must have the case opened or it would be left behind. I stumbled upstairs again, my Spanish deserting me at such a rate that by the time I reached the shore my vocabulary was literally reduced to the one word, sombrero—which, unhappily, did not bear upon the matter. The douanier was polite, but firm. With shrugged shoulders he said the Senorita would comprehend that with the best will in the world he could not see through a deal board.

At that moment the gleam of a street lamp fell upon an upturned palm protruding from beneath the military cape—and into it I slipped a peseta, which produced such a furious access of shrugging and protestation that for one brief moment I thought I had insulted the man. But on looking round I saw that all was well, porter and case being already half-way on deck—and with a sense of deep annoyance at having tipped a person I would willingly have fined, I followed them and went to bed.

On the Palma quay all is peace. By a simple arrangement involving a certain annual subsidy to the Customs officials, the proprietor of the Grand Hotel has ensured protection for his guests’ luggage, which escapes even the most nominal examination. The hotel omnibus merely draws up for a moment in front of the Douane on entering the town; the officials, armed with long probing rods, saunter out, open the carriage door and wish us good day—and on we go again.

The town is still half asleep, and as we drive up to the hotel its shutters are being unshipped by yawning faquins. We find a large and handsome five-storied building with an imposing faÇade, and balconied windows that look out upon the small central square of the town. The interior conveys a truly southern impression of silence and space, due to the great expanses of marble pavement and to the cool stone walls and passages which prevent the conveyance of sound. The dining hall is immense; so are the lobbies that run round the central well of the house, and off which the bedrooms open. We go upstairs, and within an hour of our arrival have become pensionnaires of the hotel at 10s. a head a day, and are installed in two excellent rooms on the third floor, comfortably furnished, fitted with electric bells and light, heated by hot water, and reached by a lift, while our wants are being ministered to by a cheerful white-capped chambermaid answering to the name of Dolores.

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With brains still jumbled by travel it is almost impossible to realise, in the midst of such up-to-date comfort, that we are really and actually in Majorca—an island that might, for all we knew to the contrary a few weeks ago, have proved an inhospitable rock. Memories recur of nights spent en route at Paris and Toulouse, and we go to the window half-expecting to see a vista of wide boulevards and to hear the familiar clanging of electric trams as they glide up and down some arcaded street of cafÉs and shopfronts.

We are sharply recalled from such visions: a sea of pale yellow-ochre tiles, unbroken, though intersected by narrow crevasse-like streets, stretches down to a strip of brilliant blue water in the harbour below. On flat house tops lines of wet linen flap wildly in sun and wind. Jutting up above the mass of irregular roofs are fantastic turrets and aviaries, painted blue and red, the homes of innumerable pigeons now wheeling in flocks over the town, their wings singing as they cleave the air above our heads. From scattered belfrys and towers unmelodious bells clash out wildly for a few moments and then relapse into silence; and like a running accompaniment to the murmur of the streets is heard the gobble, gobble of many turkeys, and the bright eye of one of these birds is seen watching us fixedly through the Venetian shutters of a small upper room across the way. No, truly! this is all very unlike a northern city.

Majorca is in fact a stepping-stone between Europe and Africa, where the East and West—rather than the north and south of her geographical position—may be said to meet.

She has had many masters in her day: the earliest colonists of whom we have any record were the sea-faring Rhodians, who were said to build “as though for eternity.” But not the faintest trace of their occupation survives. Their successors were the Carthaginians, who left footprints in Minorca by founding Mahon, the capital, the reputed birthplace of Hannibal. Then came the Romans, who in 123 B.C. founded Palma and Pollensa; Balearic slingers fought under Julius CÆsar in Gaul as they had done under Hannibal at CannÆ. Five hundred years later the islands were captured by the Vandals—were retaken by the Byzantine general Belisarius, and fell subsequently with the greater part of Spain into the hands of the Visigoths.

In the eighth century came the resistless tide of the Saracens, who held the island for an uninterrupted period of nearly five hundred years, and might have kept it longer had they not strained the patience of their Christian neighbours to breaking point by their piratical habits. They had become such a menace to the marine commerce of Europe that the then Pope preached a crusade against the Balearic bandits, and an allied fleet sailed from Pisa and Catalonia in the twelfth century. The pirates’ nest was smoked out, Palma succumbing after a long and stubborn siege. The allies, however, proved unable to retain their prize, and the island relapsed to the Moors, who so far took their lesson to heart as to somewhat amend their ways.

But the great assault was yet to come. On Sept. 6, 1229, Don Jaime I—King of Aragon and Count of Barcelona—destined to live in history by the title of El Conquistador, set sail for Palma with 150 galleys and 18,000 soldiers, besides a great company of Spanish knights aflame with religious zeal, the lust of conquest, and the hope of glory. We are told that the Christian host encountered a great storm on the way, and that they were grievously sick before they landed near Porto Pi to the west of the town.

Here the infidels attacked them, but were beaten back and besieged within the city, which fell some three months later after a desperate resistance, and was entered by the victorious Spanish army on December 31, 1229.

From that memorable day may be said to date modern Palma. Everything around one testifies to the break that separates the history of the town since the conquest from the old period of Arab domination. The names of the streets immortalise the Conqueror and succeeding sovereigns or notables of the invading race. The scutcheons that ornament the public buildings display the arms granted to Palma by Don Jaime—a castle in the sea, with a palm-tree issuant, quartered with the arms of Aragon and surmounted by the Bat, cognisance of the Counts of Barcelona.

The town houses of the aristocracy are the old palaces of the nine noble families whose ancestors accompanied the Conqueror and settled in the island. The Governor’s residence stands where did the Moorish sheikh’s palace; the Cathedral occupies the site of the principal mosque. So thorough were the invaders in destroying or converting to other uses the Moorish buildings, so fierce was their Christian zeal—“which spared not even stones”—that hardly a trace remains of the oriental Palma, that city crowned with minarets and peopled with 80,000 souls, which attained under the Moors a glory and magnificence that have never since been equalled.

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The Palma of the present day is a prosperous town of some 60,000 inhabitants. She has burst her ancient limits, and her eastern outskirts are thick with factories and windmills extending to the plain, while outside her western fortifications has sprung up a large residential suburb, and the wooded slopes above the bay are thronged for miles with villas and summer residences. Only the town that lies inside the walls is the old Palma, and this—in its main features—has probably altered little since the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries.

A wide thoroughfare divides the town into the upper and lower Villas, and starting from the harbour, takes a right angle near the Grand Hotel and makes its exit through the Porte JÉsus in the north-west walls. This is the principal artery of the town, and was originally—like the Rambla of many another Spanish city—the bed by which the river found its way to the sea; but in the year 1403 a disastrous flood, causing the loss of hundreds of houses and lives, so alarmed the inhabitants that the river was turned from its course and conducted into the moat that surrounds the town. Spanish rivers are proverbial for their lack of water, and it is difficult to credit the RiÉra—which in its normal state suggests nothing more dangerous than a gravel pit after rain—with such powers of destruction in bygone days.

The gigantic scale of Palma’s encircling fortifications may perhaps best be realised by a glance at the accompanying picture, where the RiÉra is seen flowing beneath the bridge that leads from the gate of Santa Catalina to the suburb of the same name.

The fortifications date from very different periods. The completed design of moat and rampart as it now stands was originated in the sixteenth century and only finished a hundred years ago; but remains of the old Moorish defences still exist, though they suffered severely in the great siege of 1229, and were strengthened and largely rebuilt by the Spanish conquerors.

A picturesque gateway on the north of the town, now called Santa Margarita, but dubbed by the Moors the Gate of the Christians, is pointed out as having been the one by which Don Jaime made his triumphant entry into Palma. This gateway, like the other survivals of the ancient fortifications, stands some way within the Muralla of the present day, which encompasses the town as with a raised highway—one might almost say a common, so incredibly vast are the earthworks within the walls. Hither the townsfolk ascend at evening to enjoy the sea breeze and the glorious view over land and sea. Cows graze peacefully along the ramparts, surrounded by children at play; and wheeling flights of pigeons execute aerial manoeuvres overhead, while squads of new recruits march unendingly backwards and forwards from morning to night in the dry bed of the moat below, and the bastions re-echo the sharp words of command.

The moat on the eastern side is devoted to rope-making, and there men are seen walking backwards all day long, spinning as they go, and the dull thud of heavy mallets is heard as they beat out the bundles of esparto grass.

On the southern ramparts overlooking the harbour and immediately beneath the cathedral, is the broad terraced walk that forms Palma’s most beautiful promenade. At intervals along the low parapet stand ancient sentry-boxes of weathered sandstone, and one looks past them out to sea, with a bird’s-eye view of the harbour and its shipping backed by the white suburb of Santa Catalina and the pinewoods of Bellver. Above us rise clustered houses, with here and there a group of slender palm-trees leaning from some garden, and crowning all stands the great cathedral, rich with pinnacles and flying buttresses, and turning to the harbour a cliff-like face of sandstone deep tanned by centuries of sun and sea.

Small wonder that the townspeople love to stroll on their beautiful Muralla de Mar. It is probably the only portion of the ramparts that will survive the work of destruction now proceeding—for the doom of the fortifications is sealed. The last part they played in history was during the Spanish war of succession in 1715, when Palma hotly espoused the cause of the Austrian archduke and was reduced by General Aspheld with an army of 10,000 men. Modern science has rendered the old walls useless as a defence—modern hygiene considers them an undesirable barrier to fresh air.

And so they are to go.

For the last thirty years the work of pulling them down has proceeded with but occasional pauses from lack of funds. Already a wide breach has been made on the side next the sea; to the north a large section of the moat has been filled in and converted into a square with gardens; and workmen are now engaged in throwing down the eastern walls. The outer casing of masonry is being gradually stripped off and the vast earthworks shovelled into the moat. To the onlooker it seems as if ants had been set to remove a mountain as he watches one trolley-load of rubbish after another slide down to the glacis below without making the slightest perceptible difference.

Yet it is only a question of a few years before walls and moat alike shall have vanished. Gone will be the old entrance gates with their scutcheons and turrets and their deep archways of black shadow where lurks the douanier watching for his prey. Gone will be the bridges with their ceaseless stream of passengers plying to and from the town. Gone—alas! will be one of Palma’s most picturesque features.

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A cheerful scene greets the eye of the stranger who starts out on a voyage of exploration the morning after his arrival at the Grand Hotel. Facing him, as he emerges into the street, is the Plaza del MercÁdo, lying in the shadow of the old hexagonal tower of the church of San Nicolas, and flanked by the great balconied house of the ZafortÉza family. If it happen to be a Saturday morning a busy throng is congregated on the square; the ground is strewn with displays of glass and crockery, of coarse green and brown pottery and graceful waterjars, while the sellers of young orange-trees, of toys and jewellery, of cheap rocking chairs and folding trestle bedsteads, vie with one another in attracting the attention of possible purchasers.

Long flights of steps lead to the higher part of the town—some broad and shallow, the playground of innumerable boys; others steep and so narrow that the tall houses almost meet overhead.

The cobbled streets of the oldest and most aristocratic quarters of Palma resemble ravines, and are barely wide enough to admit of the passage of the heavy two-wheeled carts that come lumbering through, scraping either wall with their axles and compelling foot passengers to seek the shelter of the nearest archway. An oriental atmosphere of mystery hangs about the massive, fortress-like walls of the great houses that tower on either side, turning to the outer world a blank and inscrutable face of reserve that offers not the faintest indication of the life existing within. External windows are represented by a few heavily-barred apertures high overhead, but if you chance to find the great nail-studded porte-cochÈre standing open you are at perfect liberty to go in and look about you.

The universal plan of all the better houses is that inherited from the Arabs—of a patio or open courtyard in the centre of the building, from which a staircase ascends to the dwelling rooms on the first floor. In some houses this patio consists of nothing more than a plain courtyard enclosed by whitewashed walls, with perhaps a clump of bananas growing in the centre; but in the palaces inhabited by the nobility and dating back some centuries the courtyard is frequently of great beauty and constitutes the chief architectural feature of the house.

The residence of the Oleza family in the Calle de MorÉy has a fine courtyard in RÉnaissance style; handsome pillars of red marble support the vaultings of the house, and the gallery that spans the marble staircase rests upon a wide flattened arch bearing the family coat of arms. The ground floor is devoted to stables, coach-house, and domestic offices, and in the court stands that characteristic feature of Moorish and Spanish patios—the well, from which the household draws its water supply. The bucket is lowered from a wrought-iron support in the form of a crozier, and on being brought up brimming its contents are upset into the font-shaped receptacle of stone close by, from which they flow through an orifice into the water jar placed on a slab below.

The palace of the Marquis de Vivot in the Calle Zavella is not as ancient as many another, dating as it does from the beginning of the eighteenth century only, but its patio is the largest in Palma and certainly one of the most beautiful. It is approached by fine portes-cochÈres and has in the centre a paved space where carriages stand at the foot of the great staircase. From eight beautiful marble columns spring the graceful arches that uphold the house, and in brilliant relief against the black shadows of the recess stands out the clear red of two immense oil-jars containing palms.

I am not competent to enter into the details of wrought work and sculpture with which the patios of Palma abound, but even to the visitor unversed in architecture a voyage of discovery in the older quarters is full of interest. The meanest back street may produce a richly-carved window frame or a staircase with a stone balustrade of quaint and original design. The Calle de Sol boasts a house front in purest RÉnaissance style, five big windows on the first floor being wreathed in gargoyles and strange stone monsters.

In the Calle de la Almudaina we come upon an ancient machicolated archway spanning the street. This once formed part of the wall that encircled the very kernel of the old Moorish city, and is the only survival of the five gateways that afforded entrance to the Citadel.

Not far from here is the equally ancient Moorish Bath, a small building some twenty feet square standing in an orange garden. It is in the Byzantine style, and is built of small bricks scarcely thicker than the intervening layers of mortar. The circular basin which no doubt occupied the floor of the building has disappeared, and the interior contains nothing but twelve much-worn pillars standing in a square, the eight centre ones supporting the cupola of the roof, while the four corner columns are by an ingenious—and I believe very unusual—arrangement omitted from the circle and left standing back in the angles of the building.

An air of incredible age pervades this blackened and cobwebbed relic of Islamism that lingers, unaltered and half forgotten, in the very heart of the Christian city. It forms—with the Almudaina arch and the signal tower of Porto Pi—the only authentic memorial of the race which occupied Majorca for a period of five hundred years.

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The churches of Palma are many. One of the oldest is that of Monte Sion, which is said to have adopted both the site and the name of a still older Jewish synagogue: as one skirts its walls, huge, blank, and dungeon-like, one is quite unprepared for its exquisite doorway—one of the richest pieces of sculpture in Palma. It is a fine specimen of rococo, dating from 1683, and constituting in its delicacy of detail and beauty of proportion one of the finest of the many beautiful church doors for which Palma is famed.

Scarcely less magnificent is the west front of the great church of San Francisco, with its immense doorway in late RÉnaissance style, surmounted by an exquisite rose window. This church contains the tomb of a scion of a noble Catalonian house—the famous RÁmon Lull, warrior, scholar, and saint—who in the reign of Jaime II. founded a college for the instruction of twelve monks in oriental tongues, and was himself martyred in Algeria by the infidels whom he went forth to convert. His body was secured by some Genoese fishermen, who set sail for Italy with their precious burden; but when off the coast of Majorca their boat refused to advance till the martyr’s body was brought on shore, where it was laid to rest in its native soil by the monks of San Francisco.

The tomb is a beautiful Gothic monument of red marble, but the effigy of RÁmon Lull, surrounded by fretted canopies and fantastic heraldic beasts, is only dimly visible in the deep gloom of the church.

A trap door leads down to an immense crypt, where a huddled-up human skeleton is pointed out and the story told of a bloody tragedy enacted in the church in the year 1490. Two of Palma’s greatest families were at deadly feud, and while attending the ceremonies of the Jour des Morts, upon some slight pretext came to blows. The church became a slaughter-house, and before swords were sheathed more than three hundred dead and wounded were left on the field of battle.

Whether the skeleton in the crypt is one of those that fell that memorable day may be doubted; but it is not improbable, for the church and its monastery were founded shortly after the conquest—by monks of the order of St. Francis of Assisi—and were from earliest times one of the chief places of burial for the nobility. The walls of the adjoining cloisters are thick with scutcheons and memorial tablets to those who were once the greatest in the land.

A beautiful colonnade of slender Gothic pillars encloses the monks’ garden, where two geese—sole occupants of the Paradiso—chatter angrily at the intruder. No other sound but the soft rustlings of palm branches and the whispers of the wind in the orange-trees breaks the silence of the long galleries and deserted cells.

From the upper corridor with its broken pavement chequered with dazzling patches of sunshine one looks out from under the deep overshadowing eaves to where the cathedral spires rise dim and distant across half the city. The atmosphere of infinite peace that pervades these cloisters—the sense of seclusion, although so near the busy life outside the walls—must have appealed deeply to the brown-frocked friars who once paced these beautiful walks “revolving many memories.”

Bitter must have been the day of expulsion when this monastery, like all the others in the island, was suppressed in 1835.

The church of San Nicolas contains a statue of Santa Catalina, a Majorcan saint of great fame, and—incorporated in the outer wall, is the rock on which she was sitting in the bed of the RiÉra at the moment when she was informed of her admission into the convent of St. Magdalen. The interiors of these southern churches are so dark that it is with difficulty possible to make out the statues that occupy the side chapels; here may be seen a black Madonna and child of miraculous power; there a group of saints laden with ex-votos in the shape of flat silver images of men and women and models of human limbs, hung upon their arms by grateful devotees; in another niche is a life-sized Christ upon the cross—wearing a fringed crimson petticoat to the knees and a broad silver girdle with a bunch of artificial roses stuck in it, while matted locks of real hair straggle out from beneath the crown of thorns.

In the Cathedral the darkness is so intense by contrast with the blinding light outside that it is some considerable time before one’s eyes become sufficiently accustomed to the gloom to perceive the details of the rich interior. The roof of the nave rises 150 feet above the level of the pavement, and is divided from the side aisles by fourteen great columns 70 feet in height, slender and stately as the shafts of forest trees. High overhead—where the delicate ribs of the vaulting cross—are carved the armorial shields of knights, who for this privilege paid heavy sums in bygone days towards the building of the church. Eight chapels, gorgeous with statues and gilding, occupy either side aisle, and above them are Gothic windows—so little suited to this land of fierce light that they have had to be bricked up, with the exception of a few tiny apertures through which the sun shoots golden arrows. The faint light that penetrates the rich rose windows above the choir lies in jewelled stains upon the pavement, and does little to dispel the solemn gloom.

From the dim east end, far away, where wreaths of incense rise and the high altar is outlined in brilliant points of light, comes the distant chanting of priests and the response of choir boys—and suddenly a great rush of harmony fills the cathedral as the voice of the organ sinks and swells like a storm-wind among the columns, and dies trembling away in the uttermost recesses of the great building.

Worshippers move to and fro in constant succession; men spread their handkerchiefs upon the stone floor and remain upon their knees in prayer, wholly oblivious of the coming and going around them. Women, dressed in deepest black, kneel motionless at the grilles of the various chapels, where lamps burn with a dull red spark before the image of saint or Saviour. A stately Suisse in wig and gown paces up and down and receives the visitor desirous of seeing the treasures of the sacristy; here are exhibited heavy silver candelabra, embroidered vestments, jewelled crosses, and reliquaries—and in company with these may be seen, bedizened with tawdry velvet and sham ermine, the mummified body of Majorca’s second king, Don Jaime II., who died in the year 1311.

It was in the old church of Santa Eulalia, not far away, that in 1256 a general assembly was called to proclaim this Don Jaime—the second son of the Conqueror—heir to the crown of Majorca, his elder brother’s inheritance being the throne of Aragon, which carried with it a merely nominal suzerainty over the island kingdom. Before long, however, a dispute arose over the terms of allegiance due to the King of Aragon, and in 1285 Don Jaime was dispossessed of his kingdom by Alfonso III. for thirteen years, after which time it was restored to him by the usurper’s son, and retained till his death.

He was succeeded by his son Sancho, who died without children, and the crown then passed to his uncle, the fourth son of the Conqueror, and through him to Don Jaime III., the last King of Majorca, who fell upon the field of Lluchmayor in 1349, in a last attempt to regain the crown wrested from him by Pedro IV. of Aragon.

So ended—within little more than a hundred years of its creation—the independent monarchy founded by Jaime the Conqueror, and the islands have from that time been incorporated with the kingdom of Aragon.

In the fine sixteenth-century town hall is preserved a full-length portrait of the Conqueror, which represents him as a grave-faced man with a pointed beard and hair cut square upon the shoulders, robed in crimson mantle, ermine collar, crown, and sword. For many centuries it was the custom to celebrate the anniversary of the capture of Palma by exhibiting this portrait outside the town hall, surmounted by the royal standard of Aragon and surrounded by the portraits of eminent Majorcans.

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The town contains innumerable other features of interest, but before leaving this portion of my subject I must not omit a mention of the LÓnja—the Exchange—a large building standing near the harbour, and one of the first objects to attract the attention of the traveller as he nears the quay. Its keep-like walls and turreted parapets are usually the subject of much admiration, but I must confess that to us the great building seemed too symmetrically square and too conspicuously new to awaken in us any enthusiasm for its exterior.

Severely rectangular it undoubtedly is—but its appearance of newness is misleading, for it dates from the fifteenth century, when it was the custom for Spanish towns to vie with one another in the splendour of their Exchanges; its claim, therefore, to be one of the finest LÓnjas in Spain is a legitimate source of pride.

It is said to have been begun in 1409, when the merchants of Palma, having rendered the King of Aragon great aid in the conquest of Sardinia, received permission to levy a tax on all the outgoing and incoming wares of foreigners and pirate persons; and so large was the sum accruing from this protective toll that after applying part of it to the defence of their commerce at sea they devoted the remainder to building this splendid Exchange—a testimony to future generations of the extent and prosperity of Palma’s trade in the Middle Ages.

The interior is extremely striking, containing nine fluted and twisted columns of great height, their delicate groinings spreading in palm-like tracery over the roof. The building has long been disused, and the light that enters as the shutters are flung wide of the great windows looking out to sea discloses nothing but some old paintings upon the walls and a jumble of sculptured fragments piled upon the stone seats that surround the hall.

It will perhaps be thought strange that a town so comparatively easy of access as Palma, and possessing so much to attract the artist and the antiquarian, should be so little known to the world at large. Yet if we reflect how small a distance from the beaten track will suffice to deflect ninety-nine per cent of the travelling public, it is no subject for wonder that Majorca is still an unknown isle.

A certain number of travellers pass through Palma on their way to and from Algiers, but the island in general is as yet barely aware of the existence of the tourist, and he is quite a recent institution even in Palma itself, where the opening of the Grand Hotel three years ago may be said to have inaugurated a new era.

Viewed in the light of a tourist resort the old town is so far behind the times that she brings me in mind of some old-fashioned chÂtelaine who with dignity offers her guests of her best, without in any way altering her mode of life to suit the standard of modern requirements. I can recall but two shopkeepers in Palma who knew any language but Spanish, and at the Bank a special clerk is hastily summoned if an Englishman chances to enter the door. An English church—the earliest sign of a recurring visitors’ season—is as yet only represented by a mission-room in the suburb of Santa Catalina, where the Church of England service is read every Sunday by a Wesleyan minister.

To the globe-trotter it will come as a surprise to find that he is no longer under the world-wide Ægis of Thomas Cook, and that that name by which he has hitherto conjured conveys nothing whatever to a Majorcan official. The foreigner who visits the remoter villages of the interior is still looked upon as something of a curiosity; he will have to drive in native carriages, live on native food, and bid a temporary farewell to that cosmopolitan standard of comfort provided for all who travel the world’s highways. But he will at least be sure of one thing—an unfailing welcome by an island race noted for its charming manners.

I think the courtesy of the natives is one of the first things to strike the new-comer in Palma. Many a time as we rambled about the labyrinthine streets of the town did a Spanish lady come out of her way to ask if she could be of any use in directing us; in any difficulty you may apply without hesitation to one of the common soldiers with which the town swarms, and with all the instinct of a well-bred man he will immediately do his utmost to be of assistance, nor would his own colonel more deeply resent the inference of inferiority conveyed by the offer of a tip.

The bow with which a native gentleman asks you to enter his patio and photograph what you will is only equalled by that of the peasant who rises from table at a wayside cottage to ask the passing stranger to be seated and to share his meal.

In a country where manners cease to form a distinction between the classes social intercourse becomes easy and natural. A market-woman will enter the democratic tram, dragging with her an unmanageable and overflowing basket, and the gentleman seated next her will without hesitation accept half of it on his knees, hand it after her when she rises, and raise his hat as she turns to thank him. There is neither thought of condescension on his part nor of presumption on hers.

School attendance is not compulsory in Majorca, and many of the peasants with whom we came in contact were wholly illiterate; yet in no instance had the proverbial twopence extra for manners been spared in their education. I remember how when talking to a muleteer we once regretted our inability to speak Spanish more fluently.

“Ah, but the SeÑora speaks well!” he said quickly; “think how difficult I should find it if it was I who had to learn her language!” And an old man chimed in, “And I, SeÑora, cannot even write!”

The patois spoken by the peasants is a dialect composed of the old Catalonian tongue alloyed with a strong dash of ProvenÇal French, and it bears very little resemblance to the Spanish of Castile, which became the language of the educated classes after the union of Ferdinand and Isabella. The latter is, however, the tongue taught in the schools, and the stranger who can speak “castellÁno” will find himself understood throughout the Balearic Islands, barring by a few of the older and more illiterate peasants.

The people of Palma are so little accustomed to Spanish-speaking foreigners that some of the shopkeepers cannot be brought to mention the price of an article to their customers, but persist in counting out the required sum into their own hand and exhibiting it in dumb show—to the exasperation of a certain German lady who objected to being “treated like a child.”

The shopping expeditions of more or less speechless tourists must necessarily be productive of many a laughable incident, yet I never saw a native betray the slightest amusement at the mistakes committed; I have indeed had my hand wrung with heartfelt sympathy by a good woman to whom I was struggling to explain myself.

The chief shopping centre for visitors is perhaps the PlaterÍa—a narrow street occupied by working silver-smiths—where gold and silver chains are measured off and sold by the palm, and bits of old enamel and peasant jewellery, in the shape of antique pendants and crosses, are displayed in the little windows. Amongst the most fascinating objects are clusters of silver-gilt buttons set with amethyst and garnet, such as are worn by the countrywomen on fÊte days, and dozens of minute silver charms representing baskets, lanterns, tubs, and other familiar objects, reduced to the scale of a mouse’s belongings; while hanging everywhere, of all sizes and shapes, are the silver chain purses used by every Majorcan, and exported by the thousand—to be sold at double the price by fashionable jewellers in London.

Few foreigners leave Palma without a souvenir in the form of a piece of old-fashioned faÏence or majolica—the latter an imitation of the Arab lustre ware—manufactured at the neighbouring fabrique, along with the pretty glazed tiles, originally introduced from Valencia, with which the Majorcans face the steps of their staircases. Other local industries include lace-making and embroidery, basket-weaving, the plaiting of complicated string seats and backs to the native chairs, tanning and shoemaking—in which latter branch a large export trade is carried on with South America. Shoes are cheap, and it is quite noticeable how neatly shod the Majorcans of all classes are.

The Majorcans are good workers, and their charges moderate. The scale of wages is low, but so is the cost of living, and it would be difficult to find a more contented and prosperous-looking race than these islanders.

Extreme cleanliness is one of their most salient characteristics; they are noted too for their good looks, and it is indeed rare to find a plain face among them; and this, combined with a sensible, cheerful expression and a natural talent for effective colouring in dress, renders them a remarkably picturesque and attractive people. The country girls still retain the muslin coif, or rebosillo, which once formed the universal female headgear, but in Palma this has given way to a handkerchief worn somewhat far back on the head over beautifully dressed hair.

Scarlet skirts are much in vogue among the working classes, but, on the whole, soft half-tones are preferred to the primary colours, and a crowd of market-women presents a gay kaleidoscopic scene in which lemon-yellows, sage-greens, salmon-pinks, brown-reds, and turquoise blues are worn side by side with charming and harmonious effect.

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In the early morning the big market-place in the upper town is the rendezvous of countless housewives, bargaining busily, basket on arm, for the day’s provisions. Under the long arcades bordering the cobbled square are installed the sellers of fruit and vegetables, with plaited ropes of garlic, pans of fresh olives, strings of scarlet capsicums and bitter tomatoes, hampers of newly picked oranges, bunches of pale Majorcan dates and still paler bananas, and masses of figs turned out en bloc from big rush baskets lined with leaves. A neighbouring booth supplies flat fig cakes stuffed with almonds and aniseed, and slices of dark red Carne de Membrillo—an excellent quince preserve, in consistency like damson cheese.

From the fish market, where the morning’s catch is displayed upon marble slabs, rises a very babel of voices. Loud and shrill is the clamour of the fishwives as they detain the passer-by with a scaly hand, and seek to repair the mischief with a no less scaly apron. Crabs and lobsters lie sprawling upon their backs, and wave stemmy legs amongst marine creatures never seen upon a hotel table—giant shell-fish, octopuses lying in knotted heaps, jelly-like squids, ugly thorny monsters who are all head, and gorgeous little fishes coloured like macaws—scarlet, blue, yellow, or glittering with metallic greens and reds.

By midday all will have been sold, and the market square given up to tall, cadaverous-looking dogs that saunter round the deserted stalls and pick up what fragments remain. Gaunt, listless, and apparently starving, these dogs of Palma attract the attention of every new-comer; and thanks to a fellow-guest at the Grand Hotel, our own interest in them was specially aroused. This Swiss scientist had come to Majorca to study the domestic animals of the island, and the result of his researches had proved a theory he had long held—that somewhere on the shores of the Mediterranean would be found descendants of the dogs of ancient Egypt.

This island breed, known locally as Iviza dogs—but dubbed by the unappreciative foreigner “degenerate greyhounds” and “pariahs”—can boast a longer pedigree than any dogs under the sun, for they are descended from the much-prized hunting dogs of the old Egyptians. Introduced ages ago by Greek or Phoenician colonists, they are now peculiar to the Balearics, where they are found in great numbers.

They are the size of a large greyhound, with smooth coats usually yellow and white. Nothing will fatten them: the pampered favourite of a great house is as lean as his scavenging confrÈre of the market-place, and, like him, he wears a look of melancholy weariness not unfitting an old, old race that has existed since the dawn of history. The chief characteristic of the breed is their long, pointed ears, which when pricked stand stiffly erect, and never droop as do those of the somewhat similar hounds imported from Algeria and Morocco. These ears, with the long, narrow muzzle, give the dogs a striking resemblance to the jackal-headed god Anubis of Egyptian sculpture.

They are mild, timid creatures, quite useless as watchdogs, but popular as pets, and—like their original ancestors—much valued for purposes of the chase. Landowners keep them for coursing hares and rabbits, of which they catch extraordinary quantities; and so devoted are the dogs to this sport that those belonging to peasants on large estates have frequently to be hobbled, and are seen wearing steel bracelets on their fore and hind leg, connected with a light chain.

Another interesting relic of a bygone race is seen in the survival in the Balearics—so our Swiss professor pointed out—of the Greek type of horse familiar to travellers who have seen the statues of Balbus—pÈre et fils—in the Naples Museum. These animals are not very common, but here and there one comes across a horse differing utterly from the prevailing Andalusian type. Round and compact, often black in colour, and with stiff mane and tail, these horses have a remarkably arched crest and a slightly convex outline of nose—the profile of head and neck being represented rather by the segment of a circle than by the right angle formed at the apex of the skull by the lines of the slender Spanish horse.

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Mules are largely used in the Balearics, Majorca being especially celebrated for its breed. They are big, handsome animals, unusually docile, owing to the gentle treatment they receive, and a good pair of carriage mules is more sought after and more valuable than is a pair of the best Continental horses. Nearly all the carriages of the Palma gentry are drawn by fast-trotting mules, and towards evening a perfect procession of galarÉtas wends its way westward along the sea road, each with its match pair of strong, sure-footed beasts that make nothing of the hills to be encountered.

Half an hour’s drive along this road brings one to the wooded knoll beyond Santa Catalina, on which stands the old castle of Bellver, a well-preserved thirteenth-century fortress, whose yellow walls rise above the surrounding pines, foursquare and stately. In olden days it was used as a residence by the Kings of Majorca—in later times it served as a state prison—and now it stands empty, the last use it was put to having been as an astronomical station for the English expedition which went out to Palma in 1905 to observe the solar eclipse. From the grounds round the castle a most lovely view of the town is obtained through the pine-trees, and it is amongst these woods that a new hotel is now being built, to be opened this year under the name of Hotel Victoria. It will be under the same management as the Grand Hotel in Palma, and being connected with the town by a service of trams it will no doubt prove extremely popular with visitors who prefer life amid country surroundings.

A mile or so beyond Bellver we come to the little harbour of Porto Pi, the mouth of the creek guarded by an old Moorish signal tower, now converted into a lighthouse, though still used for signalling purposes.

It is not till we get beyond Porto Pi that we reach the real country and find ourselves amongst olives and asphodel; and here the Spanish ladies descend from their carriages and stroll bareheaded along the road—the only form of exercise in which they indulge. The Majorcan roads are upon the whole very good, though dusty in dry weather; and they are kept in far better repair than one would be led to expect from watching the leisurely procedure of the PÉon caminÉro, who brings stones and earth upon the scene in small basketfuls, moistens them with a watering-pot, and stamps them in patiently with a small rammer. When, however, he has occasion to spread road metal in greater quantities he takes a high hand with the public, and procuring large boulders he arranges them on alternate sides of the road, so as to compel passing vehicles to drive over the fresh stone; he is considerate enough to remove these stumbling-blocks at nightfall, but it is a ludicrous sight to see a whole string of smart carriages twisting in and out of these obstacles as if in a driving competition, in obedience to the arbitrary behest of the road-maker.

The almost universal type of native carriage is the galarÉta, a light-running covered vehicle, in appearance not unlike a baker’s cart on four wheels. The hinder part is entered from the rear, and is seated like a wagonette; there is a window on either side, and another dividing it from the broad hooded seat in front on which the driver sits.

To the foreigner these covered carriages appear intensely uncomfortable; if he be above the medium height his head comes in irritating contact with the roof; he can see hardly anything of the landscape from the windows, and he never ceases to marvel at the natives who can pack themselves in incredible numbers into one of these little-eases and emerge unruffled and cheerful at the end of a long drive. Yet it must be admitted that in its own country the galarÉta possesses several distinct advantages over the open carriage; its occupants are indifferent to sun and rain, and can protect themselves from both dust and wind; on the hottest summer’s day a draught can be created by lowering the glasses and drawing the Venetian shutters with which each window is fitted, while upon the homeward drive the chilly night air can be as easily excluded.

Like all Southerners the Majorcans dread the change of temperature that takes place at sundown, and towards evening they wrap themselves in cloaks and mufflers, while the fearless foreigner sits out on a terrace to enjoy the sunset and is extremely indignant at waking next morning with a sore throat.

In a land where the new-born year is so amazingly precocious it is difficult to remember that in England he is still in his white swaddling clothes; by the end of January the plain around Palma is decked with miles of almond orchards in full bloom, their faint scent filling the air and their laden branches covering the country with billowy white masses. The wind has forestalled the date of the Carnival, and his last night’s Battle of Flowers has flung deep drifts of snowy confetti upon the sprouting wheat beneath the trees. But there are still snow-caps on the blue hills away to the north, and a sudden rattling storm of hail reminds us that even in Majorca Spring is not yet fully enthroned.

By February a vast expanse of young wheat has clothed the land in a garment of the crudest Pre-Raphaelite green—almost startling in its intensity when seen in contrast with sea or sky.

By the first week in March new potatoes and green peas are in the market, the orchards are knee-deep in beans, and the whole island is fragrant with bean blossom. In the carob groves—where the knotted trunks and twisted limbs of the old trees cast strange shadows on the swaying corn—are purple anemones, pink gladiolus, and a blue shimmer of honey-scented grape-hyacinths.

The long days of unbroken sunshine are now devoted to excursions into the surrounding country, and visitors begin to leave the town in which they have wintered and to roam further afield.

A favourite drive is to the neighbouring ChÂteau of Raxa, a country seat belonging to the Count of Montenegro, where the grounds are laid out in Italian fashion with orange and cypress terraces, stone vases and statues, and splendid flights of marble steps. Roses, violets, freesias, and heliotrope were in full bloom in the gardens on March 3rd, and the women engaged on the orange harvest handed down to us branches heavy with fragrant golden fruit. Oranges are nothing accounted of in Majorca, and lemons are looked upon as so far below all price that they are given one for the asking, any idea of payment being vigorously scouted.

The road to Raxa runs for many miles through a red plain given up to olive culture; whether it is the soil of Majorca that is responsible for the extraordinary grotesqueness of the olive-trees I cannot say, but they resemble nothing I have ever seen in other lands. Stretching away in quaint perspective on either hand are distorted grey forms suggestive of an enchanted forest; many of the old trees stand on a kind of tripod formed by the splitting and shrinking of their own trunk; here a hoary veteran of many centuries has wound himself into an excellent imitation of a corkscrew; a group of twisted crones appears to gossip together with uplifted hands, while two sprawling wrestlers are locked as in a death-struggle in each other’s arms. Here squats a gnarled mass like nothing so much as a gigantic toad; there a boa-constrictor twines itself in folds about its prey, and an antediluvian monster stoops to examine with interest the strange human insect that has adventured itself within reach.

So endless are the variations of form assumed by these extraordinary trees, so fascinating is each fresh discovery, that one wanders on and on, like children in a bewitched wood, and a determined effort of will is required to tear oneself away from such a scene and return to the carriage awaiting one on the prosaic high-road.

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The same weird olive groves will be found on the way to AlarÓ, a small inland town lying at the foot of the mountains, near which are the ruins of the castle—famous in Majorcan history—which one morning in March we set out by rail to visit.

Majorcan trains are not fashionable in their hours, and it was little after daybreak that we steamed out of the Palma station and glided away through richly cultivated fields of beans and wheat, where pleasant homesteads stood embowered in almond orchards and fat yellow lemons bobbed over the garden walls. As the line approaches the mountains the country becomes wilder and more open; vast undulating expanses of stony red ground are being slowly ploughed by mule teams, and miles upon miles of fig-trees cast a white shimmer over the plain—their leafless branches so pale as in the distance to resemble blossoming orchards. The dark glistening green of carob groves contrasts vividly with the feathery grey of the olive, and as a background to the scene a dark belt of pine-trees crowns the red slope and stands out in brilliant relief against the indigo blue ranges of the Sierra.

Within an hour we descend at Consell and change to the branch line forming the connection with AlarÓ; a small tram was awaiting us outside the station, and this proved to be the branch line. No road was in sight, but the tram lines vanished into an endless perspective of beanfields, and through these we were slowly drawn by two horses harnessed tandem fashion. Our only fellow-travellers in the tiny front compartment—reserved for the rich who could afford to pay threepence—were a couple of buxom market-women, most deeply interested in our appearance.

Quaint things happen so easily in Majorca that we were not much surprised on reaching AlarÓ when the tram conductor got down, shouldered our camera and the heavy luncheon basket, and without a word marched away towards the village inn as though it were his business in life to conduct strange ladies there. Setting rocking chairs for us among the wine barrels, he lit a cigar and proceeded to assist in the saddling of the two donkeys that had been ordered overnight for our ascent to the castle of AlarÓ. One was a riding donkey for my companion, the other a pack animal to carry our impedimenta, its pack saddle being furnished with panniers and fitted with the native breeching strap—a wooden contrivance shaped like a Cupid’s bow, which fits across the donkey’s hind legs and rubs off all the hair.

Away we started in brilliant sunshine with an old man and a boy in attendance, and turning into a narrow track between stone walls we followed a babbling torrent through carob and orange gardens and began to wind up the hillside by a steep zigzag path. Innumerable sheep-bells tinkled among the olive yards, and the voice of a herdsman rang out in a Gregorian chant from far up the heights where he tended his goats among holm oak and pine. Sheer above us towered the perpendicular red scarp of the cliff on which the castle stands, a small white speck upon its edge the HospedÉria of the summit.

A couple of hours’ stiff climb brings one to the back of the cliff, and scaling a rough rock staircase one enters the precincts of the old fortress through a Moorish gate tower with a curious double archway—the outer arch being round-headed and the inner one pointed.

Like a great wedge of cheese with straight cut sides does the cliff of AlarÓ stand out into the plain; its perpendicular front rises sheer in a terrific precipice, its only approach a steep ascent commanded by a fortified tower. Small need to be told that by assault the castle was impregnable; but it was subdued by siege and starvation in 1285, when Alfonso the Beneficent of Aragon warred with Jaime II. of Majorca. What followed the surrender of AlarÓ is known to every Majorcan; the Conqueror, exasperated by the vain but most gallant defence of the castle, had its two governors burnt alive at the stake in the presence of his whole army.

So perished the heroes Cabrit and Bassa, leaving their names to be handed down through the centuries as the names of men who died loyal to their king at a time when the greater part of the island had gone over to the usurper.

When Majorca again came into the hands of the legitimate line the ashes of the canonised heroes were placed in an urn and deposited beneath an altar in Palma Cathedral, where they remain to this day; and every succeeding generation hears from childhood up the stirring tale of how the two patriots fought and how they died.

The little oratory of Our Lady of Refuge stands upon the summit of the cliff, and no doubt originated as the chapel of the fortress. Subsequently it became a renowned sanctuary, and attached to it, as is usual in Majorca, is a small hospÉderia, or hostelry, where pilgrims and visitors can obtain a night’s shelter. The view from this point is worth coming far to see; unrolled like a map at one’s feet, far, far below, is the great southern plain, from the Bay of Palma on the west, where the dark mass of the cathedral still shows just visible above the faint haze enveloping the city, to the glittering Bay of AlcÚdia upon the far east coast. All the cities of the plain—Inca, BenisalÉm, La Puebla, MÚro, and LluchmayÓr, lie outspread before us. Behind us, range upon range, are the wooded slopes of the Sierra, the topmost peaks still crowned with snow; threads of quicksilver flash down the mountainsides, and valley, plain, and hill alike are enveloped in a grey sea of olive-trees, dwarfed by distance to the semblance of lavender bushes.

Some idea of the height of the rock on which we stand is obtained by dropping a stone over the edge; peering over the abyss as we lay full length on the ground we launched a small boulder into space, and, watch in hand, timed its descent.

“One, two, three,” the seconds ticked away, and still the stone fell, though to our eyes it appeared already to have reached the olive groves; “four, five, six,” and not till now did a dull crash come up from below to tell us that the stone was at its journey’s end. We arose cautiously and walked back along the very centre of the cliff, feeling in every nerve that were we to stumble nothing could save us from covering fully thirty feet in our fall and disappearing over the edge of the precipice.

Rejoining our donkeys, we set off on our downward ride. Midway we were overtaken by a party of boisterous young men who tore down the mountainside laughing and shouting, gave us a breathless good-day in passing, and vanished with giant strides down a precipitous shortcut, apparently intent on breaking their necks. We looked on aghast, but our guides evidently considered it no abnormal way of descending a mountain.

“Going downhill no one is old,” says the island proverb reassuringly; no doubt the subsequent stiffness of our own knees was the result of not having gone down sufficiently fast.

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The Palma carnival differs so greatly from that function as celebrated on the Riviera as to be worthy of mention. There the tourist element and its accompanying ostentation of wealth are the most conspicuous features of the performance. Here, in Palma, all this is wholly lacking, and the carnival has retained its native character to a truly refreshing degree. It is essentially a people’s festival, with hardly a foreigner present.

From three o’clock in the afternoon till late at night the whole town is en fÊte; all the shops are shut, and the shop people sit in merry groups before their doors; the balconies overlooking the Borne are crowded, and the wide Borne itself is a seething throng of people on foot sauntering up and down, and chaffing one another in high good-humour.

The troops—of which five or six thousand are quartered at Palma—send a large contingent to the crowd of holiday-makers; infantrymen in long, blue coats, crimson trousers, and bright green gloves, mingle with pretty girls in kerchief and rebosillo, whose hair is powdered thick with coloured confetti. Here is an old peasant, come in from the country, wearing under his hat a handkerchief wound round his head in the style of his Catalonian ancestors; his wife has donned her gayest shawl, and has brought the baby, who chuckles with delight at the festive scene and wears a funny little straw hat shaped like a Saracen turban trimmed with scarlet pompoms.

Tiny maidens of four and five are costumed as grand ladies, and walk about, quaintly dignified, with proudly trailing train and flaunting fan, in rich brocade skirts and velvet bodices, with long, white gloves, and hair elaborately dressed with flowers and high tortoise-shell combs. A party of Arabs, draped in white sheets and armed with spears, lead about an unfortunate comrade disguised as a dancing bear, who is vigorously kept up to his part throughout the day; and small boys, dressed as Pierrots, or rejoicing simply in the disguise afforded by a pasteboard nose and a high falsetto voice, caper unrestrained through the crowd.

Towards evening a couple of hundred carriages turn out into the streets; galarÉtas, landaus, dogcarts, and wagons form into line and follow each other in slow procession round and round the Borne. The smart barouche and pair of the Captain-General is preceded by a humble donkey-cart, and followed by a heavy country charrette overflowing with clowns. Every one is dressed according to taste, and every one is free to throw things at every one else. The imperturbably correct coachman of a stylish turn-out gets hit on the nose by an egg-shell stuffed with confetti; the gentleman seated beside him—who wears a mask and an amazing tow-wig—replies with a well-directed volley, and a furious fusillade ensues, the enemy coming up to the very windows of the galarÉtas to pour in a deadly fire among the occupants.

Mounted officers, armed with paper rockets, do battle with the people in the balconies, who, in return, hail down missiles and torrents of confetti upon their assailants. Eggshells fly in showers from carriage to carriage, smashing upon any head they meet with. On the wide Place Weyler the confetti lie so thick that the square resembles some cathedral floor—tinted by stained glass windows, and the carriages and horses are so tangled up in coloured streamers that they appear to have broken through a great rainbow spider’s web and carried it bodily away with them.

By eight o’clock the Carnival is a thing of the past, and the gay, good-humoured crowd is in full retreat, thoroughly tired out.

And at midnight the stars look down upon a sleeping city, whose stillness is only broken by the sonorous chant of the watchmen going their rounds with lantern and staff. The familiar cry—so associated with Palma—again rings out beneath our windows:—