Although it falls to the lot of few of us to remain as sublimely unconscious of geography as was Charles Lamb—who asserts that though he held a correspondence with a very dear friend in New South Wales he was unable to form the remotest conjecture as to the position of that Terra Incognita—yet I think I may safely assume that not many of my readers are familiar with the geography of Majorca, and a glance at the sketch-map given in this volume may be of service in acquainting them with the principal places of interest in the island.

The fact which perhaps chiefly strikes one is the miniature scale of distances. Just as the mouse occupies the same space on the page of a book on natural history as does the elephant, so does Majorca appear in its own particular map to be as large as Ceylon; and it gives one repeated shocks of surprise to find that what looks like a day’s journey is a matter of two hours by rail, or a morning’s carriage drive. There are half a dozen excursions which visitors to the island rarely fail to make; one is to SollÉr, only a day’s expedition by carriage from Palma—though, as it possesses a comfortable little hotel and is in the midst of beautiful scenery, it is a favourite place for a lengthened stay. The old towns of Pollensa and AlcÚdia upon the east coast attract a certain number of foreigners every season; and the fame of Arta’s stalactite caves draws thither a large number of sightseers, being easy of reach from the railhead at ManacÓr.

But with these exceptions the interior of Majorca enjoys an almost perpetual immunity from tourists, most of whom are far from enterprising.

It was to Arta that we ourselves were bound when we quitted Palma on March 12th, but having plenty of time before us, and being fond of driving tours, open air, and scenery, we decided to do the whole journey by road, and to spend as many nights en route as we found desirable. Our carriage was one of the hotel victorias, drawn by an excellent pair of little grey horses; our luggage was of the most modest description, consisting of two of those feather-weight valises, made of brown cardboard, that can be bought for a few shillings in most Continental towns, and that belie their frail appearance by resisting ill-usage to an almost incredible degree. Our driver was a friendly and reliable native, who in all the years he had driven hotel carriages had never been asked to conduct anybody across the island. It was indeed an unheard-of thing to do. Was not the railway there to take people to Arta? and was it not well known that the southern districts of the island contained nothing that could be of any possible interest to any one? However, it was no affair of his if English ladies were eccentric; his not to question why. Their motives might be inscrutable, but he was there to carry out their wishes, whether wise or foolish.

No June morning could have been more glorious than the one on which we left the Grand Hotel, and, rattling over the cobbles down to the harbour, struck out southwards towards LluchmayÓr. For a couple of hours we crossed a great plain, carefully tilled and tended. In the orange gardens the golden crop was being gathered by peasants mounted on easel-shaped ladders. Stretches of corn and beans alternated with extensive fig orchards, which in July supply a harvest so bounteous that even the pigs fare sumptuously upon the fruit. Thick as faggots of dead wood were the leafless branches of the old trees—their elbows stuck out at an aggressive angle as though resenting the proximity of their somewhat heathenish-looking neighbour, the prickly pear, which in Majorca is termed the “Moorish fig,” as opposed to the “Christian fig” of cultivation.

Standing up above the level of the orchards, and extending over the plain in numbers that suggest an immense pyrotechnic display in preparation, are countless wind wheels, twenty or thirty feet in diameter, furnished with a tail to keep their heads to the wind, and with sets of wooden slats that furl and unfurl like a fan, according to the strength of the breeze. Raised upon stone platforms and spinning round rapidly, these wheels are engaged in raising water from wells and pumping it into the great reservoirs that in summer supply the irrigation aqueducts intersecting the fields.

At noon we reached LluchmayÓr, and after lunching at the inn we visited the great high-backed church that prides itself on being the largest in the island outside Palma. It was deserted save for the presence of three old charwomen, who alternately chatted and laughed or piously mumbled Ave Marias and Pater nosters as they plied their flappers about the pulpit and the quaint old pews, resembling settees, with curved backs and deep seats inlaid with scenes in coloured woods. A wax figure of Santa Candida in a glass case, and some marvellous embroideries with inch-deep scrolls of gold thread set with precious stones, are amongst the most treasured possessions of this church.

On again, through Campos, whence we look back to catch a last glimpse of the Palma Cathedral—far away across the plain; and the evening shadows are lengthening fast as we drive into SantagnÝ, where we are to spend the night.

SantagnÝ is the southernmost town in Majorca, and as such suffered sorely in bygone time from the Algerian and Moroccan pirates who infested the neighbouring islet of CabrÉra. In the sixteenth century the town was encircled with walls, to prevent the repetition of a raid that devastated the whole countryside and forced the inhabitants to fly for safety to the interior of the island. But centuries of safety have razed the fortifications more surely than any piratical attack, and one massive gateway—standing in the market-place—alone remains to testify to the dangers run by the townspeople in olden days.

The fonda, or inn, at SantagnÝ proved to be one of those truly primitive establishments that cause one to ponder the eternal question as to which comes first—the tourist or the inn. The problem regarding the hen and the egg is itself not more elusive than the vicious circle in which one becomes involved when dwelling on this subject. It is highly improbable that the accommodation at SantagnÝ will undergo any improvement until visitors have shown some sign of wishing to come to the town; it is equally improbable that visitors will show any signs of wishing to come to SantagnÝ until the accommodation has been improved.

I must admit that the supper passed off in comparative style. We sat in a small, whitewashed room downstairs—our driver and a soldier also supping there at another table—and in place of the bell of conventionality we clapped our hands between the courses, which consisted of an excellent omelette, a dish of meat and rice, and oranges sliced with sugar. Our hostess’s attentions were somewhat spasmodic owing to the periodical raids she made on certain small boys whose noses were flattened on the window-pane, and at whom she dashed out very suddenly—belabouring such as came under her hand with a large market basket. In the outer room a guitar was being strummed, and the voices of the men sitting drinking there broke out now and then in a resonant chorus. All this was very nice and native; but when we went upstairs to our bedrooms it was still very native—only not so nice.

Three small and stuffy cubicles opened off the landing at the head of the stairs; the only one that obtained any light or air was the end one, which had a small window in the outer wall of the house, but—as if to compensate for this advantage—it lacked a door, the privacy of its occupant being dependant upon a flimsy curtain that fluttered airily to and fro in the doorway. Each cubicle contained a bed, a chair, and a straw mat on the floor; and outside, on the landing, stood one small washstand, with a set of toilet appliances destined to be shared by all the occupants of the bedrooms. That the centre room was already engaged was evident from an unmistakably masculine snore that proceeded from it. Horses munched loudly in a stall below, and the petulant voices of dreaming pigs rose to the skies from an adjoining farmyard. Even our driver—who never considered his duties at an end until he had personally inspected our sleeping quarters for the night—expressed disapproval at the prospect, although his sympathetic shrugs plainly intimated that as we had made our beds so must we lie upon them. I speak figuratively, for as a matter of fact our beds were not made at all, though we had been more than two hours in the house.

Amidst such unpromising surroundings did we eventually retire for the night, waking to find that our neighbour of the middle room had most opportunely taken himself off in the small hours of the morning, leaving us in sole possession of the washstand, so that our toilet was accomplished in comparative safety, and with no other interruption than the sudden appearance of our hostess on her way upstairs to fetch a sausage from the attic. It is but fair to say that this was the only fonda we met with in the whole of our wanderings that was so primitive in its arrangements.

On going down to breakfast our hostess presents us each with a thick tumbler containing a species of strong, brown broth, very nourishing, I should suppose, for an invalid; swelling with pride, she reveals the fact that the strange beverage we are drinking is tea—and it is doubtless on the strength of this compliment to our nationality that she presently tenders us a bill for fourteen pesetas—ten shillings and sixpence—a sum not overwhelming in itself, but absurdly high according to the standard of charges current in Majorcan inns.

Five pesetas—four shillings—a day for each person is the recognised charge for board and lodging at all the best fondas in Majorca. At a little hotel, such as that of SollÉr or AlcÚdia, one’s pension may run as high as six or even seven and a half pesetas; but these are the outside prices; and one’s driver’s food—for which one is expected to pay while on tour—should never exceed two pesetas a day.

At small native inns an arrangement as to terms should always be made on arrival. Particularly is this the case in out-of-the-way villages where strangers are rarely seen, and where the innkeeper will occasionally endeavour to make a profit out of all proportion to the accommodation provided for his guests. This sharp dealing is so little in keeping with the character of the average Majorcan that I can only explain it by quoting the people’s own saying, to the effect that there is not room for honour and profit in the same pocket. I think that the opportunity offered of enriching themselves easily at the expense of well-to-do foreigners proves too great a temptation for certain fondistas who have lost the finer feelings possessed by their compatriots not engaged in trade.

Quitting SantagnÝ we drove on to Felanitx, a pretty little town surrounded by low hills whose crests are occupied by many windmills frantically waving their arms on the sky line. Windmills are everywhere. Some stand singly upon barrow-like mounds crowned with cactus tangles, others are massed upon ridges in the gregarious manner characteristic of Majorcan corn mills. All have either six or eight sails, which gives them a very full-bodied appearance; and some are furnished with tail feathers, and resemble large dragon-flies that have interrupted their whirring flight to settle for an instant with outspread gauzy wings upon a little tower of dazzling whiteness. An old miller leans out of a little upper window in one of the mills, filling it up so completely that we wonder if he will ever get back again.

“Buena vista!” we call up to him as he watches us from his lofty perch.

“Ah, yes!” he replies, looking far out over the sunny landscape, “from here one sees all the world!”

It is in truth a very lovely world upon which he looks down this bright March morning. The almond orchards are streaming down the hill slopes and invading the town in torrents of young spring verdure; the houses are screwing up their eyes in the sunshine, even the tiniest windows being half built up with slabs of freestone, while many are closed entirely. Old women sit at their doorways plaiting and spinning, and greet us cheerfully as we pass, and leaving the town we take a pretty road through pine and heath, almond and olive, arbutus and carob, and set out to visit the old castle of SantuÍri. Within half an hour of our destination the carriage halts, and a rocky goat-path leads us to the summit of the crag upon which the ruins stand.

SantuÍri was one of the great mediÆval burgs of Majorca, and is in far better preservation than either of its fellows of AlarÓ or Pollensa. In the fifteenth century its walls were strengthened against an expected attack of the Moors, and much of these defences still remains.

Proud, and most desolate, is this old sentinel of the southern coast. Buzzards hang in mid-air beneath the battlements—brown specks against the dim blue plain below; sheep graze amongst spurge and St. John’s wort on the grassy knolls within the fortress. The old gray walls are trimmed with golden patches of coronilla and crowned with a chevaux-de-frise of bristling aloe spikes. A narrow path cut in the face of the crag, and unprotected by any parapet, leads to the machicolated gate tower; above your head there are slits for boiling oil, and at your back is sudden death in the shape of a precipice, with nothing to break your fall but the fixed bayonets of some huge aloes rooted in the crevices of the cliff below. Assuredly it was well to be on good terms with its lord when craving admittance to the Castle of SantuÍri.

A twin height across a little valley is occupied by the Oratorio of San SalvadÓr—the shrine of a wonder-working Madonna whose fame dates from the Middle Ages, and who is visited annually by thousands of pilgrims from all parts of the island.

To this shrine we ascended in the afternoon, the latter part of the route being a steep hillside, clothed with prickly pear and a sweet-smelling dwarf gorse, up which we slowly toiled on foot, the zigzag path marked out with twelve stations of the Cross, depicted in faÏence tiles upon freestone pillars. Attached to the Oratorio upon the summit is a large hospedÉria containing some forty bedrooms, built for the reception of pilgrims; the four brown-frocked friars who minister to the wants of visitors were busily engaged in sawing timber in the entrance-hall amidst a litter of fresh shavings, and one of them interrupted his work to take us into the adjoining chapel. In pitch darkness we groped our way to a niche at the back of the high altar, and were shown by the light of a match a little old stone statue—the Blessed Virgin of San SalvadÓr—only second in power to Our Lady of Lluch.

A special room is set aside for the votive offerings presented to her: the walls are thickly hung with uniforms, children’s garments, and bridal gowns; there are toys and medals, and stacks of crutches; there are rows of photographs of the Virgin’s protÉgÉs, who attribute their escape from accident and illness to her shielding power; there are crude childish representations of fires, shipwrecks, thunderbolts, runaway horses, and all the perils that humanity is heir to. Some of the ex-votos date from the attack of the Moors in 1737; others come from far countries—such as the one “promised to Our Lady in the fire of Santiago.”

One of the most pathetic offerings that I saw at another Majorcan shrine was a thick plait of long black hair—“promised to Our Lady” on such and such a date, doubtless by some soul in sore need. The belief in miraculous intervention as an answer to personal sacrifice is deeply ingrained in the islanders, and is, I should imagine, a source of much consolation to them.

After buying a few rosaries and ribbons bearing the name of Our Lady of San SalvadÓr we walked to the end of a hill-spur where stone seats invite the wayfarer to rest before beginning the steep descent. The sun was setting, and the scene before us recalled some Egyptian evening in its strength of colouring; far beneath us lay the great dim plain with its white towns, wrapped in the violet mists of sunset and melting away into the transparent blues and purples of the distant sierra. The roofs and walls of the Oratorio and the pine-trees upon the hilltop stood out in inky relief against a sky stained with orange and crimson, fiery lake and scarlet; the clouds were black, glowing coals backed with gold—the whole heavens were aflame in conflagration.

Long after the glory had faded away a pure, brilliant glow illuminated the sky and lighted us on our homeward way, and we returned to Felanitx with the memory of San SalvadÓr for ever associated in our minds with the most beautiful sunset we ever saw in Majorca.

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On March 15th we left Felanitx and continued our journey across the great southern plain. The road to ManacÓr runs along a low ridge and commands extensive views on either hand; asphodels fringed the wayside, and every patch of waste ground displayed the Spanish colours in gay yellow daisies and a tiny scarlet ranunculus, the Adonis vernalis. The weather was glorious; a shower during the night had laid the dust and cleared the air, and blue cloud-shadows chased merrily across the landscape.

“Bon dia tengan!” comes in cheerful greeting from the fields where groups of peasant women, in big straw hats, ply their hoes among the wheat. When they found we wished to take a photograph of them their amusement was unbounded, and their merry laughter was quite infectious.

Unceasing is the care of the crops, and unremitting is the labour bestowed upon the land before it assumes that market-garden-like neatness that is the ideal of the Majorcan peasant. Centuries of cultivation have converted much of the land into rich, productive soil, but a glance at a recently reclaimed field shows one the difficulties with which the original cultivator has to contend, difficulties that would surely daunt a less stout-hearted race. Slabs of bed-rock and countless myriads of loose stones cover the surface of the ground: by blasting and patient excavation a certain proportion of these are removed, and the intervening patches of earth are dug by hand, the first harvest being represented by a scanty crop of wheat sprouting in the interstices of the rock paving. The second or third year it will perhaps be possible to drive a narrow sharp-pointed ploughshare between the stones, lifting it briskly out of the ground when the shaft mule is brought up with a jerk by a more than usually stubborn boulder. Each year hundreds of tons of loose stone are collected and disposed of in one way or another; some are stacked in cairns among the crops and go by the name of clÁpers; others are carried with infinite toil to the boundaries of the field and built into a dry wall a yard or more thick—coped with the masses of rock that work up through the soil almost as quickly as they are removed from the surface; others again are thrown into great stone reservoirs built for the purpose and filled to the brim with blocks big and little. Gradually the plague of stones begins to abate. What one generation has begun, a future one will accomplish, and eventually the land will assume the appearance of a rich alluvial plain, and Dame Nature will put on as benevolent a smile as though she had proposed from the very first to bountifully reward the industrious peasant.

But always there will be miles upon miles of beautifully built stone walls to tell a different tale. Truly may it be said of the Majorcans, as of their Catalonian forefathers—that from stones they produce bread.

All the morning we drove, and by noon we had passed the town of ManacÓr and were descending towards the sea through a silent, sun-steeped land of rock and asphodel. Asphodels surrounded us for miles, their starry sceptres swaying in the wind and shining like silver where the sunlight struck through them. It is strange that no southern artist has painted us a Madonna of the Asphodels.

Down by the seashore stands a small group of freestone houses called the Port of ManacÓr, and after lunching at the fonda we set off on foot to visit the famous stalactite caves close by. There is nothing in the surface of the surrounding country to suggest the existence of vast subterranean caverns; the guide simply leads the way across the wide moor to a walled enclosure, where, half concealed by boulders and scrub, a flight of rock steps leads down to the Cuevas del Drach—the Dragon Caves of ManacÓr.

Armed with acetylene lanterns we descend, and plunge into a perfect labyrinth of halls and passages; some of the scenes are very beautiful; there are “cascades of diamonds”—frozen falls that sparkle like hoar frost in the sun—and wonderful statuesque formations under fretted canopies fringed with glittering icicles; there are myriads of stalactites hanging from the roof, some snow-white and thorny, others like pink glass, that ring musically when struck with a stone. There is an immense cavern where one sits down to rest; weird shadows cast by the lamps dance upon the walls, and falling drops of water tinkle loudly in the silence. There are precipices and bottomless pits—into which the guide tosses stones—and atmospheric lakes, into which one is liable to walk unawares—the surface of the water being invisible to the sharpest scrutiny. There are bright blue pools, crystal clear, in the depths of which stalagmites appear like white sea-anemones and seem to mirror back the pendant bosses of the roof. One may walk for miles and not have seen all, but the heat in these caves is trying to many people, and one is not sorry to come out into the cold upper air after spending an hour or two in a temperature of nearly 90 degrees Fahrenheit.

Many years ago some Spaniards were lost for days in the Drach caves, and the spot is still shown where in their despair they scratched upon the walls: No hay esperanza—There is no hope!

In the caves of Arta, people are said to have entered who have never been seen again, alive or dead.

The little inn at the Puerto de ManacÓr is a typical Majorcan fonda. Our rooms were floored with cheerful red tiles, and the walls were almost awe-inspiring in their spotlessness; it is a popular saying that on Saturdays the Majorcans whitewash everything within reach. From our windows—furnished with wooden shutters in place of glass—we looked down upon a vine-covered pergola and a little bright blue bay encircled by a snow-white beach. Our beds were good, and the bed-linen excellent—the lace-trimmed pillow-cases and beautifully embroidered monograms testifying to the skill with which the women ply their needle. Supper was served on the first-floor landing, and consisted of fish, omelette, chicken and rice, and dessert; and at nine o’clock our hostess mounted the stairs to inform us that there would be no milk for our morning coffee unless some could be procured from ManacÓr (an hour distant)—the local dairy being inconsiderate enough to have two fine kids at the moment.

She bade us a friendly good-night, and as an afterthought pointed out that being in the country here, it was the custom to empty bedroom basins out of the window. We promised to avail ourselves of the permission, and retiring, were gently lulled to sleep by the rhythmic breathing of the tide below.

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It is strange to hear of snow and frost at home while we are living in a long succession of June days. Under a cloudless expanse of blue—unbroken save by a transparent white moon in the eastern sky—did we leave the Puerto on the morning of March 16th. Retracing the road to ManacÓr, we drove through tracts of pine wood and rosemary, and at midday reached Arta—an oriental-looking town of white houses and palm-trees—the Yartan of the Moors, in whose day it was an important colony. Their principal mosque was converted by the Conqueror into the great church that stands upon the hillside and with fortress-like walls and wide-arched upper gallery dominates the town. Crowning the same hill is the wall-encircled church of San SalvadÓr, used in olden times as a refuge for non-combatants during Saracen attacks, and in more recent days as a lazaretto in time of pestilence—which led to its being pulled down and rebuilt about a hundred years ago.

In the vicinity of Arta are to be found certain tumuli of unknown origin, that correspond more or less to those monuments of a pre-historic race which exist in most of the islands of the Mediterranean. In a deserted olive-yard—where the poisonous solanum sodomacum trailed its miniature yellow and green melons among the stones and big, pale periwinkles grew—we came upon the ClÁpers de Gegants, or Giants’ Cairns. A ring wall of large stones weighing several tons apiece had evidently existed at one time; but most of the blocks had fallen in, and the central mound—whether watch tower or burial tumulus—was a mere chaos of stones and brambles. To any one who has seen the far finer megalithic monuments of Minorca, no Majorcan remains will appear of much importance.

From Arta it is a pretty drive to the castle of Cap de PÉra, an old fortress with portcullised gateway and peaked Moorish battlements, around which one can walk on a narrow ledge laid on stone brackets. Prickly pear and masses of crimson and white stocks run riot within the walls and cluster about the little chapel of the summit. Beyond the castle the road winds by a steep ascent to the lighthouse of the Cap de PÉra—built upon the extreme eastern point of the island, whence a splendid view is obtained, the low coastline of Minorca being dimly discernible far out at sea.

At nine o’clock the following morning we set out for the stalactite caves of Arta—said to be the most wonderful ones in the world, with the exception of certain caverns in New South Wales. For an hour and a half we descended towards the coast through a plain of fig orchards and palmetto clumps—the latter portion of the route being a mere cart-track of surprising badness—and finally drew up under a grove of picturesque old Pinus maritima near the seashore—the finest trees we had yet seen in an island where good timber is rare.

Fifteen minutes’ walk along a cliff path, with a turquoise blue sea below, and the scent of pines and gorse filling the warm air, and we come to the entrance to the caves. A great cleft opens in the face of the cliff overhead—a natural ante-chamber to the caves, supported by Herculean pillars of live rock, and to this we ascend by a long flight of massive stone steps, as though to the portals of some grand old Egyptian temple. Following our guide we pass through an iron grille and descend through cool depths of grey rock till we seem to have reached the very heart of the hills.

So strange is the under world through which one is led for the next two hours that at times one doubts whether it is not all a dream. Now we wander through lofty halls hung from roof to floor with stony curtain folds, where tall stalagmitic palm-trees stand in groups—their rugged stems hard as marble, white as though bleached by long confinement in these sunless caves. Now we seem to be exploring a coral world in the depths of the sea, and half expect to meet startled fishes darting hither and thither among the fantastically sculptured grots and low-fretted arches through which we creep. Now we enter the great hall of columns, and wait in darkness upon a high rock-platform, while our invisible guide busies himself below with Bengal lights. Suddenly a vista of gigantic columns leaps out of black space, monstrous shadows retreat into a perspective of infinite extent, and—as though in some strange operatic scene—we find ourselves standing in a great vaulted crypt, Gothic in its indescribable richness of architectural detail, Egyptian in its gigantic proportions and massive grandeur. Still larger is the great cavern known as the Cathedral, the roof of which attains a height of a hundred and fifty feet; so weird and grand beyond belief is the effect created by this vast interior when lighted up—so wonderful is the mimicry of hangings and sculpture—so regular the slender turrets and fretted pinnacles that enrich the structure, that it is difficult to realise that the scene before one is Nature’s own handiwork.

Wending our way down the Devil’s Staircase we next descend to a spot below sea-level to visit the “lost souls”—a company of black and burnt-up looking little figures seated beside a salt-water pool that goes by the name of the Styx. Endless is the imagery suggested by the stalactite formations; some resemble isolated statues, others intricate groups of Hindu gods. There is an organ with musical pipes, there are strange echoes that live far away among the rock caverns of the roof, and huge lurking shadows that—startled by the light of our lanterns—glide swiftly out of their recesses and disappear into the darkness ahead. But always we return to the aisles of ghostly columns that distinguish these caves from all others I have ever seen.

Questioned as to the presumed age of these columns our guide throws up his hands in despair, and, leading us to a small stalagmite in process of formation, shows us a couple of copper sous embedded in its glassy surface; it is twenty years since they were placed there, and in that time the stalagmite has risen to the rims of the coins and they are now fixed in their place by the most delicate silver film. Allowing fifteen sous to the inch, a rough computation sets the rate of growth of this particular stalagmite at something between three and four thousand years to the foot—a period doubtless considerably exceeded in the case of the larger columns.

The gem of the whole collection is the great palm-tree that stands alone in one of the outer courts. There are others that equal it in girth—its stem measures little more than three feet in diameter—but its splendid shaft ascends flawless, joint above joint of white coral-like stalagmite, till it unites with the roof sixty or seventy feet above the level of the floor. Since the world was young it has stood in these Halls of Silence—a silence of Æons, broken only by dropping water and occasional earthquake shocks that have flung masses of stalactite to the ground. These horizontal rings in its stem may have been deposited in the days of palÆolithic man; while that joint was being formed Babylon and Nineveh rose and passed away, and the Pharaohs in long procession filed across the world’s stage and vanished.

The falling drop has now finished its work and has shifted to another spot where it has begun the base of a second column. Some day the capital of this one also will be completed....

It is a glimpse into Eternity that appals one.

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On March 18th we left Arta. A hum and a buzz in the street proclaimed it Sunday morning, and on emerging from our inn we found a couple of hundred people—including two Civil Guards and all the elders of the place—assembled to see us off. This interest was centred less in ourselves than in our victoria, for to people whose only notion of a carriage is the Spanish one of the baker’s-cart pattern, the sight of so long, low, and altogether remarkable looking a vehicle was of thrilling interest. It was probably the first ever seen in this part of the island, and had it been a motor-car it could not have made a greater sensation. Beasts of burden bolted at so novel an apparition, mules in carts swerved violently; children would drag their small brothers and sisters half a mile across country to catch a glimpse of us, and we brought whole village populations running to their doors.

Stepping into our carriage with a gracious and comprehensive bow to the throng around, we were whirled away at a gallop down the crowded street, and quitting the town we struck out for Santa Margarita on our return to Palma. Long processions of country carts were returning from Mass, with men and women seated upon sacks at the bottom of the vehicles; but the fields were deserted save for an occasional swineherd tending his beasts among the carob groves.

Near Sineu we passed a large corral of young mules with their mothers; so proudly do these quaint, long-eared infants follow the handsome black mares that one is irresistibly reminded of the inquiry put by an interested listener to the man who was boasting of his mother’s beauty—“C’Était donc Monsieur votre pÈre qui n’Était pas beau?”

The night was spent at Sineu, and returning to Palma the following morning we settled down at the Grand Hotel for a week before starting on our second driving tour, which was to introduce us to the North-western corner of the island.

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For the next few days the weather behaved as badly as it occasionally will do in southern lands where its reputation is at stake. The Palma natives became first apologetic, then exasperated;—“Fie, for shame!” screamed an old woman angrily, addressing the rain from her shop door where we had taken shelter in a downpour—“Fie, for shame! What, then, will the English ladies think of us!”

But the spirit of perversity had entered into the Spring; she sprinkled snow upon the mountains, and kept the mail-boats imprisoned at Barcelona; she drenched the shivering population till the very swallows sat disconsolately on the clothes lines, drooping their wet wings; and she persisted in making such ugly threatening faces that it looked as if we should never start for Andraitx at all. Reason certainly pointed to our remaining at Palma; we were warm and comfortable at the Grand Hotel—we got far better food than we ever did on our travels, and the Dark-room itself was more commodious than might be our future quarters in some village fonda. On the other hand time was passing, and we had yet much to see; finally we decided to risk all and to go.

The heavens were black with clouds when we set off on the morning of March 27th, but before we had been gone half an hour our lucky star shone out, and the weather executed a complete volte-face such as one is led to believe any climate but our own would be ashamed of. Brilliant sunshine dried up the puddles with that amazing rapidity peculiar to porous soils, and the day suddenly decided to be quite, quite fine.

So excellent may be the results obtained from flying in the face of Providence—if only it be done at the right moment.

Merrily our little horses jingled along the splendid carretera real—the royal road—that leads to Andraitx; now we follow the coastline and catch glimpses of blue waves and fringes of white foam between the stems of the pine-trees; now we turn inland among the olive groves—where the old trees pirouette airily or stand with feet gracefully crossed upon the hill slopes, amidst pink and white cistus and bushes of wild mignonette. In three hours we reach Andraitx, where the carriage road terminates, and having no further use for our victoria we send it back to Palma, with instructions to meet us the next day but one at the village of Estallenchs beyond the mountains.

Andraitx, the old Andrachium of the Romans, is a prosperous-looking town lying in a green valley of almond orchards; most of the inhabitants are sea-faring folk, and down by the shore—five miles distant—we found a little colony of houses where fishermen in red Phrygian caps were mending their nets until the gale should abate. It was assuredly no day to put out to sea so long as white foam was running up the face of the cliffs, driven by a wild west wind.

The church of Andraitx is one of the oldest in the island; it stands upon rising ground above the town, its great blank walls plain—even in a land of plain exteriors; and beside it stands the fine old Possession-house of Son Mas, said to date back to the time of the Moors. The Possession-houses of Majorca were originally the country seats of the Spanish nobility; once inhabited by the great landowners, they have now descended to the level of farmhouses and have become the residence of the principal tenant farmer upon the estate, who goes by the name of the Amo, or master. These fine old buildings usually stand in the centre of some large property, and are almost invariably fortified and adapted to stand a siege.

Very picturesque is the straggling yellow pile of Son Mas, with its high walls and machicolated tower. Passing under a heavy stone archway we cross a large courtyard, where pigeons are stepping through stately minuets upon a vine pergola, and ascend by a flight of steps to a broad open gallery, supported on pillars, that runs along the front of the house. We are shown the spacious kitchen and living rooms of the present occupants, and are then led through suite after suite of disused apartments—whitewashed, stone-flagged, shuttered, given up to bats and cobwebs. In the rooms occupied by the SeÑor, when on rare occasions he pays a visit to his estate, are a few pieces of the old furniture—some wooden chests, such as take the place of wardrobes in Majorcan households, a carved bedstead, and a few old paintings—fast going to decay. Soon there will be nothing save the stone scutcheon in the courtyard to preserve the memory of the founder of Son Mas.

Behind the house is an enormous reservoir containing a water supply that would outlast any conceivable siege to which the inhabitants might be subjected. The cement roof of the tank forms a wide terrace—some ninety by thirty feet—and two well-shafts, thickly lined with maidenhair fern, give access to the water.

A winding staircase leads to the summit of the old watch-tower, where from an open loggia under the roof the besieged could hurl down missiles upon the foe before the gate. In an unguarded moment I attempted the ascent of this tower, and never shall I forget the sensation of that climb; losing sight of my feet from the very start—my head being always three turns higher up the steps—and momentarily expecting to stick fast for good, I thrust myself in spirals up the narrowest corkscrew stairs it has ever been my fate to encounter. Judging by my own sensations I should guess the staircase to have measured nine inches in width—but it is possible it may have been rather more.

As we sat at supper that evening there came a knock at the door and the Alcalde was announced; a shy little man fingering a felt hat slipped into the room and made us a low bow; he was the Burgomaster, come to pay his respects and to inquire if we had all we wanted. While entirely appreciating the kindness that prompted his visit we could willingly have dispensed with it, on account of the immense exertion required to express ourselves in Spanish at all, and the impossibility of doing so as we should wish. We gathered that he was placing himself and all he possessed at our disposal, and we did our best to rise to the occasion; but sentiments of gratitude are sadly lamed by a limited vocabulary. We tried to improve our position by asking if he could speak French, and expressing our disappointment when he negatived the question. The interview was punctuated by rather painful silences—and it was with a certain sense of relief that we saw our friendly visitor bow himself out again on being assured there was nothing he could do for us.

All that night a terrific storm raged. Mingled with the rattling of hail and the crash of thunder came the sound of the Sereno hammering at the house door to wake the fondista, and shortly afterwards we heard the latter come upstairs and pound lustily upon the door of an adjoining bedroom; some seÑor had to be called to catch the diligence, which—according to Spanish custom—leaves Andraitx at the extraordinary hour of two o’clock in the morning.

By the time we had finished breakfast the sun was shining hotly once more, and we were able to start for San Telmo. Seated in a small carreta—a very light skeleton cart on two wheels, with rush mats spread over the bars of the bottom and sides—we set out at a foot’s pace to visit the old castle on the coast, an hour and a half distant. For a mile or so one ascends by a very steep mountain road, but after crossing the col this road deteriorates into the roughest of cart tracks, winding down to the sea through a valley of pine-trees, olives, and carobs.

A country road in Majorca may mean anything—from a tract of bedrock scattered with loose stones of any size, to a soft, uneven hill-path, barely wide enough for a wheeled vehicle to pass. Short of coming to actual steps, a carreta is expected to follow anywhere where a pony can obtain a footing, and many a time did the bumps and lurches to which we were subjected recall George Sand’s driving experiences in the year 1838.

Speaking of what is now one of the finest roads in the island she narrates in lively French how in her day the journey was perilously accomplished—“with one wheel on the mountain and one in the ravine.... The jolting is indescribable ... yet however frightful a concussion the driver receives, he sings all the time in a loud voice—only breaking off to bestow curses upon his horse if the animal hesitates for an instant before plunging down some precipice or climbing some rock wall.... For it is thus one proceeds—ravines, torrents, quagmires, ditches, hedges, all present themselves in vain—one does not stop for so little. Besides, it is all part of the road; at first you think you must be steeplechasing for a wager, and you ask your driver what possesses him. This is the road, he replies. But that river? It is the road. And this deep pit? The road. And that bush also? Always the road.... A la bonne heure! And all that remains for you to do is to commend your soul to God and to contemplate the landscape, while awaiting death or a miracle.”

Descending from the carreta shortly after starting, to lighten the load of the floundering pony, I had at first persuaded the stout proprietor to follow my example; but within a very short time he had climbed in again, observing with a loud gasp that the way was long. It was not the first time he had been to San Telmo; only a year ago he had driven two English ladies there, and they too had had a camera, and on the way it fell out of the cart and was lost. To this day he could remember their lamentable cries of “La mÁquina, la mÁquina!” But five days later it was picked up by an old man, who thought it was a bomb and carried it home very cautiously. The ladies were very pleased—oh yes, they gave him more than a day’s wages for it.

The little castle of San Telmo was built in the sixteenth century for the protection of Andraitx. It stands on a rocky prominence by the seashore, and is in good preservation, its barrel-vaulted dining hall serving as a workshop for the old man who lives there. From the flat roof of the tower, where rusty cannon still occupy the embrasures, one looks down upon a pretty beach, where long green waves, lit up by the sun, break gently upon the sand, and great conch shells are sometimes found amongst the foam fringes of the surf. Some three hundred yards out from the shore is the low turtle-backed rock Pentaleu, where the Conqueror first set foot on quitting his storm-tossed galley; and screening the northern side of the little bay are the bare grey flanks—dreaded by sailors—of the DragonÉra, Majorca’s westernmost outpost. A lighthouse occupies the knife-like ridge of the summit, and cutting along through the Freu—the narrow strait between the island rock and the mainland—comes a little white steamer, the Barcelona boat, bringing a welcome cargo of mails after a silence that has lasted more than a week.

The following morning, March 29th, we set out for Estallenchs, our cavalcade consisting of one riding mule and a sturdy donkey to carry the luggage. No expedition could have offered a greater contrast to our tour of the preceding week than did this journey across the mountains. On the southern plain a whole day’s march of thirty miles is accomplished in a morning’s drive; in the Sierra we take four hours to cover a distance of twelve miles. Up and down among the hills winds the mule track; now we are high above the lapis lazuli sea, on a mountain path knee deep in palmetto fans and the red-velvet flower of lentiscus bushes; now we descend to a torrent bed hemmed in by great grey cliffs scarred with red scarps where part of the hillside has broken off and poured like an avalanche into the bed of the valley. Now we enter the pine woods where the white allium and many orchises grow, and the air is fragrant with rosemary and gorse. Further on we come to a winding rock staircase cut in the face of the cliff, down which, our guide tells us, it is not safe to ride; the only surprising thing is that any animal except a goat should be expected to descend it; and here our baggage donkey distinguished himself by slipping down and lying motionless, but quite unhurt, till he was unloaded and dragged on to his legs again.

A rough cart track winds for some way into these lonely hills, and we meet timber carts descending with loads of fir-trees, the mules stumbling and sliding on their haunches down the steep hillside—the heavy two-wheeled carts, with powerful brakes on, crashing and jolting behind them over boulders and tree-stumps.

As we approach human habitations again, traces of cultivation once more appear; small terraces are levelled on the mountain side and planted with almond-trees, from which our men snatch handfuls of young milky nuts in passing—a universal habit that has given rise to the sarcastic proverb, “The laden almond-tree by the wayside is sure to be bitter.” At last, after a long and fatiguing descent by shallow paved steps, we come in sight of Estallenchs—a pretty village nestling in a fold of the hills, backed by cliffs, grey peaks of sun and shadow; in front a valley opening down to the sea, with hill slopes clothed in almond, olive, and fir.

The inn is a very humble building, and does not even entitle itself a fonda. The master of the house was absent, and the old woman left in charge spoke no Spanish; we spoke no Majorcan, and by way of facilitating conversation she suddenly sent an urgent message to the village doctor, who arrived post haste, thinking that some accident had befallen the English seÑoras. Somewhat dashed at finding us both uninjured and in good health, he yet conversed with us very pleasantly in our attic chamber, offered to show us the place, translated various requests for us, and before leaving ordered our dinner. Thanks to his ministrations we lacked for nothing that night, the only hitch occurring at bedtime, when our best efforts to obtain candles resulted in a dish of olives being set before us.

The following morning a cheerful jingle of bells announces the arrival of our good PÉpÉ and the victoria; the approach to the inn being too narrow for a carriage to pass, our belongings are carried up to the main road and there bestowed upon the box. Village dames look on from their doorways and nod affably, and one of them invited us to come in while waiting for the carriage to be packed, and took the deepest interest in our proceedings when we proposed photographing her room—only regretful that her floor was not yet covered with the tiles she showed us stacked in readiness. The only light streamed through the great stone archway of the outer door, and revealed the usual spotless interior of a Majorcan house, the walls snowy with repeated coats of whitewash. Good string-seated chairs and stools were ranged neatly round the room, and on the shelves stood the graceful water-jars in daily use among the people. Boxwood spoons and forks hung in a rack by the chimney corner, and over a clear fire of almond-shells upon the hearth bubbled a pot of bean soup; nothing would content the good housewife but that we should taste it—and most excellent it was. Everything about the place was tidy and exquisitely clean.

You might search in Majorca for a long time I fancy before you would find a slattern.

The scale of wages in the island is low—a labourer rarely earning more than eighteen pence a day; but there is every sign of general prosperity. The necessaries of life are very cheap, and a well-built stone house can be obtained in country villages at a rental of from two to three pounds a year.

The drive from Estallenchs to BaÑalbufÁr is—from the point of view of scenery—one of the finest in the island; high above the sea runs the road, following every curve of the rugged coast; dark, fir-crowned cliffs tower overhead, and mountain ranges in splendid perspective jut out into the blue Mediterranean. Headland upon headland, point upon point—each intervening bay outlined with a semicircle of snow-white foam—they stretch back to where the faint blue battering-ram of the DragonÉra is still dimly visible in the haze of distance.

Perched on a rock pinnacle above the sea stand the yellow walls of an old watch tower; these towers, or atalÁyas as they are called, were in olden days tenanted by coastguards, who from their lofty eyries watched the sea and gave the alarm to the countryside when any suspicious sail appeared on the horizon; a system of smoke-signals was in use by which the movements of a hostile fleet could be communicated to all the other atalÁyas along the coast and to the inhabitants of the interior.

BaÑalbufÁr is a small village built upon a mountain slope high above the sea, chiefly noticeable for the marvellous terracing of the surrounding hillsides; the terraces are so narrow and the walls so high that seen from below the effect is that of an unbroken stone wall several hundred feet in height, while from a little distance they resemble a gigantic flight of curved steps or an inverted amphitheatre upon the hillside. Vines and tomatoes are largely grown by the industrious inhabitants.

Down by the sea, in the cavernous recesses of overhanging rocks, are some curious corn mills, to which one descends by a steep paved path, the tiny mountain stream that works the mills raging and sluicing alongside in a polished aqueduct at such prodigious speed that upon touching the water your hand receives a smart blow.

Here upon a small headland below the village we ate our luncheon, among clumps of purple stock and bushes of bright green spurge—devouring the while a week’s budget of letters that PÉpÉ had brought out with him; after which we rejoined our carriage and began the long ascent of the Col that lay between us and Palma. Like a snake does the white road wind in loops up the mountain side; the Pinus maritima clothes the hill slopes to the very summit, but rarely attains an even respectable size. In this respect Majorca differs strikingly from Corsica, where grand forests of Laricio pine flourish in the rockiest of soils. Natural timber is indeed a feature entirely lacking in the greater part of Majorca, owing to the fact that whenever it is in any way possible to utilise the ground it is devoted to the more profitable culture of the olive and almond.

Leaving the mountains behind us we presently pass EsporlÁs, with its rushing stream bordered by Lombardy poplars, and its great cloth factory, where hanks of dyed cotton are hanging out to dry; and soon after reaching Establiments—a trim and prosperous townlet nine kilometres from Palma—the rain comes down in torrents. We meet flocks of drenched sheep, and tilted country carts returning from market, each carter fast asleep inside, with his head on a pile of sacks and a blanket drawn up to his chin, leaving all responsibility to the sagacious mule who steps aside to let us pass. The wheat fields are dripping, the wet air is heavy with the scent of flowering may, and Palma itself is spanned by a bright rainbow. Let it rain! we are back in comfortable quarters once more!

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On the 2nd of April we went to spend a few days at SollÉr—the one inevitable expedition for all visitors to Palma. By the most direct route the drive only occupies three hours, but it is best to make a dÉtour by way of ValldemÓsa and MiramÁr, so as to include the beautiful scenery of the north coast.

Long and straight and flat is the road to ValldemÓsa, the cornfields on either side decked out with blue borage, gladiolus, and pink allium, and bordered with a fringe of flaring yellow daisies—the kind known in English gardens as annual chrysanthemums. A brilliant touch of colour is given by a row of bright vermilion flower-pots, set out on the snow-white parapet of a country house; but actual flower gardens are as lacking among the homesteads of Majorca as among those of most southern lands—and the peasants would no doubt marvel greatly at the sentiment which induces an English cottager to allot so much valuable space to flowers when he might devote it to the utilitarian onion or the practical potato.

A couple of hours’ drive brings one to the foot of the mountains, and passing through a fine gorge the road ascends to the village of ValldemÓsa, perched upon a saddle among the hills. It was here that in the sixteenth century Santa Catalina was born—the pious maiden who on her walks used the leaves of the olive and lentisk as rosaries, and who from her cell heard mass being celebrated in Palma Cathedral, ten miles distant; but ValldemÓsa’s chief claim to fame lies in her great Carthusian monastery, a huge yellow pile occupying the ridge above the village. Originating as the summer palace of the Moorish rulers of Majorca, the great building was subsequently used as a residence by the kings of Aragon, and it was not till the year 1400 that it fell into the hands of the monks; fortified, restored, and added to at various times, the monastery eventually covered an enormous area of ground, and sufficient still remains to amaze us at the lavish style in which twelve Carthusian friars and their Father Superior were housed.

When the monastery was suppressed in 1835, the Spanish government made over the newer wing of the building to private persons, and nine Majorcan families occupy the monks’ old quarters to this day. Very charming are these monastic residences, entered from the cool, whitewashed cloisters; each set of rooms is quite secluded from the rest, and each has its small terrace garden to the south, where lemon-trees bask in the sunshine, screened by the high walls that divide each monk’s territory from that of his neighbour on either side. From the low parapet in front one looks out over a steep declivity of orange groves and ranges of hills stretching down to the gorge—the gate of the plains.

It was in one of these apartments that George Sand passed the winter when she visited the island with her two children in the year 1838, accompanied by the invalid Chopin. The accommodation provided for one Carthusian friar—three good-sized rooms and a kitchen on the ground floor, with as many bedrooms above stairs—afforded ample living room for the party of four; but the winter proved bitterly cold, and all the comforts of a northern home were lacking in an island where open fireplaces are unknown, and a brazier filled with charcoal is the only means of warming a room. At great expense an iron stove was brought up to ValldemÓsa and installed in one of the rooms, where it smelt abominably. In other matters the unfortunate strangers were no happier; the grand piano—imported from France—gave such endless trouble at the Palma customs that they would willingly have had it sunk in the harbour—but even that was not permitted. It was only after protracted wrangling that it was finally liberated upon the payment of four hundred francs.

The attitude of the ValldemÓsans too was anything but pleasant or conciliatory to the French exiles; the expulsion of the monks was too recent for them to have become reconciled to the occupation of the monastery by lay residents, and they looked with intense suspicion on these foreigners who never came to church and who scandalised society by allowing a little girl of nine to roam the country attired in rational costume.

There were doubtless faults on both sides; if the peasants regarded George Sand as a heathen, she looked upon them as uncharitable and bigoted barbarians, and she contrasts the result of their so-called religion with the abomination of desolation of philosophy in which—as she ironically remarks—her own children were brought up.

Life in Majorca seems to have offered few attractions to the foreigner in those days; setting aside the difficulties of transit—difficulties rendered doubly trying in the case of an invalid—the discomfort of the pig-boat by which one came to Palma, and the shocking state of the roads, to which I have previously alluded—setting all this aside, the very character of the islanders seems to have been radically different when George Sand sojourned amongst them from what it is now. According to her, the Majorcans were dirty and impertinent; they cheated one shamelessly at every turn; they were calculating, selfish, and utterly heartless where their own interest was concerned; letters of recommendation to twenty Palma residents would hardly suffice to prevent a stranger from wandering homeless about the town on arrival; and if any luckless foreigner presumed to complain of the treatment he received, or so much as ventured to express disapproval at the presence of scorpions in his soup, a torrent of indignation and contempt descended on his head.

Now our own impressions of the Majorcans differed so wholly from the above description that it is difficult to realise that the writer was referring to the same people. Our experience of the island was, however, necessarily a brief and superficial one—and though I have endeavoured faithfully to record all that befell us on our travels I am open to the charge of having taken too couleur-de-rose a view, or—in the more pithy Minorcan phrase—of having unconsciously resembled “the ass of Moro, who was enchanted with everything.”

I therefore quote the following words written by one not open to this charge—the Austrian Archduke Louis Salvator, who for more than twenty years made the island his home, who travelled about among the peasants, and who probably knows the island and its inhabitants more intimately than do most of the natives themselves:—

“The Majorcans,” he writes, “are gentle, cheerful, open-hearted, compassionate, and charitable to the poor; faithful in friendship, and extremely attached to their wives and children; very hospitable, like all the Balearic peoples—this applies to rich and poor alike, who all heap kindness upon the stranger and entertain him with their best.”

How to reconcile this opinion with that of George Sand I do not know—for it is not usual for the racial characteristics of an island people to alter so completely in fifty years. I can only imagine that the French authoress must have arrived in Majorca at an inauspicious moment; that she unintentionally roused the animosity of her neighbours, and that she may have been actually unlucky in the people with whom she came in contact; while anxiety over the condition of her sick friend did not improve her temper. It must not be supposed, however, that her winter at ValldemÓsa was one long Jeremiad; she thoroughly enjoyed the beauty of the scenery and the flowers, and her vivid imagination, her spirit, and her sense of humour carried her through trials that would have depressed many another person.

An apology is due to her memory for the deliberate charge brought against her in Murray’s guide-book of having damaged a certain “priceless historical document” during her stay in the island. The document in question is a curious illuminated map of Europe and the north coast of Africa, made for Amerigo Vespucci in the year 1439 by a Majorcan draughtsman; and George Sand is most unjustly held up to the reprobation of all future travellers as having obtained permission to copy this map, and as having upset her inkpot over it.

That an inkpot was upset over it she herself records in dramatic narration, but her account of the affair goes to show that she had neither part nor lot in bringing about the accident; her hair stands on end with horror as she recalls the scene....

She was being shown the library collected by Cardinal Despuig, uncle to the then Count of Montenegro, when the house-chaplain volunteered to show her the precious map—the gem of the collection. Spreading it on a table he unrolled the beautiful illuminated parchment—whereon large cities share the Sahara with equally large savages mounted on camels; but the vellum was reluctant to remain flat, seeing which, a servant placed a full inkstand upon a corner of the map to keep it open. But alas! its weight was insufficient! The scroll gave a crack—a leap—and lo! it was again rolled up, with the inkstand inside!

Horror and confusion reigned; the chaplain fainted away; the servants were petrified—and then, losing their heads, dashed up with sponges, brooms, and pails of water, and fell upon the map with zeal so fatal that kingdoms, oceans, isles, and continents were overwhelmed in common ruin.

George Sand declares she was not even touching the table at the moment of the catastrophe—but adds prophetically that she quite supposes the blame of it will to all time be laid at her door. The map was subsequently restored by skilful hands to nearly its pristine glory, and is now to be seen under glass in the house of the Count of Montenegro at Palma.

The big monastery-church of ValldemÓsa contains little of interest beyond some good marble mosaics, and hanging on the wall is a curious apparatus not unlike a pool-marker, with lettered pegs that fit into holes—the talking board used by the silent monks when they wished to communicate with one another.

From ValldemÓsa an hour’s drive brings one to MiramÁr, the large estate purchased in 1872 by the Archduke Louis Salvator. Before arriving at the house itself one passes the roadside hospedÉria, kept up—with true Majorcan hospitality—by the lord of the manor for the benefit of travellers: free quarters for three days, with firing, salt, and olives, are offered to all comers, and the woman in charge cooks the food that visitors bring with them. This hospice makes an excellent centre from which to explore the north coast of the island, and good walkers would discover countless delightful rambles amongst the pinewoods that clothe the cliffs down to the water’s edge.

The Archduke’s own house is a plain building standing 2,000 feet above sea-level; the name MiramÁr—Sea View—has attached to the site ever since the thirteenth century, when Don Jaime II.—acting on the recommendation of RÁmon Lull, his seneschal—founded a college there. Never was a name better deserved; like a silver mirror the placid Mediterranean lies outspread below one, its motionless surface flecked with tiny fishing boats; dark, fir-clad cliffs slope precipitously to the sea, and far below lies the red rock Foradada like some gigantic saurian in the blue water. Look-out points, or MiradÓrs, are constructed in various parts of the grounds, commanding glorious views; and perched upon a rocky spur lower down the hill is a tiny chapel, recently built, dedicated to St. RÁmon Lull. One of its foundation stones was brought from Bougie in Algeria—where the saint met his death by stoning—and another from San Francisco, in memory of the missionary Juan Serra, the Majorcan founder of the Pacific city.

For the last eight years the Archduke has not resided at his Majorcan home, greatly to the regret of the people; the house is uninhabited, but is shown to visitors by the caretaker.

Its chief interest consists in the entirely native character of its contents; everything in the house is Majorcan—the thick, soft matting on the floors, the string-seated rocking-chairs and the fat stools of stuffed basket-work; the handsome brass braziers and the carved four-post bedsteads; the inlaid chests and cabinets, and the splendid collection of faÏence ware, of which the owner is a connoisseur. Majorcan too is the vulture in the garden—a fierce, brown bird, who hisses at visitors, and jumps wrathfully from branch to branch of the aviary in which he has lived for seventeen long years.

The Archduke is the author of a very exhaustive and profusely illustrated work on the Balearics, “Die Balearen in Wort und Bild”; but unfortunately it is too costly a work to become generally known, or it would bring many travellers to visit the islands which the author loves so well.

On leaving MiramÁr we continue along the coast to Deya, a picturesque village of clustered houses and steep streets of steps, perched upon an isolated peak and backed by high mountains. Here we caught sight of a strange figure striding along the road ahead of us, and presently we came up with a holy palmer, who might have stepped straight out of the twelfth century—with cockleshells and staff, and with his sandal shoon. He was posting along at five miles an hour with a dog at his heels.

“Whither away, O Father?” we asked with respectful salutation.

“Over the whole world, my children,” replied the old man, turning upon us a rugged face framed in long grey locks.

We learnt that he was a native of Spain, and had for years been on a pilgrimage to the most sacred shrines in all lands; he had been in the Holy Land and in Egypt—had visited St. James of Compostella, and Rome, and Lourdes—and now was on his way to the shrine of Our Lady of Lluch. His wallet contained his papers—visÉd at his various halting places—together with a few treasured relics from the Holy Sepulchre; of money he had no need, since the faithful everywhere would give him food and a night’s lodging, for the labourer is worthy of his hire. But he dare not tarry, for he had yet far to go, and with a “Buen viaje!” we drove on and soon lost sight of the solitary pilgrim who in this strange fashion was working out his own salvation.

The town of SollÉr lies almost at sea-level, in a spacious valley ringed round with mountains around whose grey peaks buzzards and ravens—dwarfed by distance to the size of midges—circle and slant for ever to and fro.

Warm and sheltered, rich with orange and lemon groves, date palms and loquats, and entirely enclosed with hills but for an opening down to the little port on the north, SollÉr is Majorca’s garden of the Hesperides. Though it is only April 3rd, the roses are running riot in the gardens of Son Angelats, a fine house on the outskirts of the town belonging to a MarchÉsa who only resides there in summer time; it has terraces overlooking SollÉr, and large grounds laid out with orange groves, tall palms, and flowering shrubs; roses cover the terrace walls and climb up into the grey olive-trees from whence they fall back in festoons—and the gardener breaks off branch after branch for us as we go along, great yellow Marshal Niels, pink La France, crimson tea roses, butter-coloured Banksias, miniature roses de Meaux, and fragrant Madame Falcot; we have more roses than we can carry. The borders are full of pansies and polyanthus, Parma violets and carnations; we are given bouquets of spirea, freesias, peonies, and heliotrope, and we drive away with our little carreta decked out as if for the Carnival.

The MarchÉsa has beautiful grounds—carriages and horses, and many servants; and to these possessions she adds, with true Southern incongruity, a most remarkable approach to her entrance gate; several yards of decayed cobble paving—bestrewn with loose blocks of stone and full of deep holes—over which a small stream swirls rapidly, intervene between her carriage gate and the road outside. The bumps and crashes with which our cart forded the water nearly threw the pony down, and we feared at one time that a wheel was coming off, but we got through intact. That the marchioness should enjoy this episode as part of her daily drive strikes even the natives, I think, as a little strange.

The modest little hotel La Marina at SollÉr is a great improvement on the ordinary village fonda; the cooking is good, the bedrooms plainly but suitably furnished, and the proprietor and his daughters spare no pains to make their guests happy. Mules can be procured in the town for mountain expeditions, a carriage and pair is kept for hire, and there is a toy carreton belonging to the hotel in which one may drive out alone—feeling somewhat like a coster going to the Derby; the minute white pony hurries one along at extraordinary speed and stops for nothing but the Majorcan word of command—Poke-a-parg!

The port of SollÉr, about half an hour distant, is a little land-locked harbour with a fishing village of narrow streets and picturesque houses. Majorca’s northern coast is in general so precipitous and inhospitable that the safe anchorage offered by the SollÉr harbour was a great attraction to the corsairs of the Middle Ages, and many and terrible were the struggles that took place in the sixteenth century between them and the inhabitants of SollÉr; on one of these occasions they sacked and then burnt to the ground the great Oratory of Santa Catalina, which stands on a headland at the mouth of the harbour. After this a castle was built, whose guns commanded the entrance to the port; but of this nothing remains except part of a tower, now incorporated in a modern dwelling-house.

There are many expeditions to be made on foot and on muleback into the mountains that surround SollÉr; stalwarts can make the ascent of the snow-crowned Puig Mayor—Majorca’s highest peak, five thousand feet above sea-level—or visit the Gorch Blau, a ten hours’ expedition, with several miles of rock steps to come down on the way back, but both of these require strength and endurance. Then there is the BarrÁnco, a ravine, clean cut as with a knife, upon the summit of a grey mountain ridge from whence a splendid view is obtained; and there is the Torrent de Pareys on the north coast, to be reached by boat on a calm day in about two hours.

Of the shorter excursions one well worth making is to the hill village of Fornalutx; the road runs up the valley of the Torriente, a bubbling hill stream with banks of blue and white periwinkle and a masonry bed overhung with thousands of orange and lemon trees, beneath which lie oranges in golden mounds, like cider apples in a Somerset orchard. In spite of the scale disease, which in latter years has wrought havoc in many groves—blackening the fruit and destroying the foliage—the oranges of SollÉr are still famous, and fetch market prices ranging from a penny to fivepence a dozen, according to quality, while a dozen of the best lemons are here sold for twopence.

The streets of Fornalutx are principally flights of broad cobbled steps, and many of the houses are extremely ancient and fascinating, with quaint wooden balustrades, carved window frames, and old stone archways. One of those we visited had an oil mill on the premises, and we were shown the stone bins into which the panniers of olives are first emptied, and the great trough in which they are subsequently crushed with a millstone turned by a mule; the olive pulp is then placed in flat, circular baskets, and when these are piled up in layers to a considerable height, boiling water is poured over them and they are crushed flat by an immense baulk of timber that descends upon them from above. The exuding liquid flows into a tank below, where by the happy provision of Nature the oil is able to be drawn off by a surface pipe while the water is carried away by one at the bottom. The olive harvest takes place in October and November; the oil is much used in Majorcan cookery—though not to any unpleasant extent—and children are often seen eating slices of bread spread with oil in place of the jam or dripping with which it would be flavoured in our own country.

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Our stay at SollÉr was cut short by the unkindness of the weather. For two days the rain held off, grudgingly; but on the third we awoke to find the whole valley enveloped in a dense Scotch mist; our host looked up at the blurred outlines of the mountains, and he looked at the gusts of cloud that were blowing through the barranco, and he shook his head; he was honest, and he confessed that the prospect was not hopeful. A rain wind sobbed round the house as we sat over the wood fire that evening, and from an adjoining room came the singularly monotonous chant—high, nasal, and quavering—with which a Majorcan servant girl can accompany her sweeping for hours at a time. The effect was indescribably triste, and our thoughts turned to the flesh pots of Palma.

The following morning showed no improvement, so our host’s victoria was requisitioned and we set out on our return to the Grand Hotel. For an hour and a half our two sturdy horses toiled up out of the valley, the winding zigzags of the road affording us now and again a backward glance at the little white town lying in the lap of the hills, framed by converging mountain slopes. On reaching the top of the pass we met a fresher air, and we rattled merrily down the beautifully graded road towards the plain, drawing up presently at the wayside villa of AlfÁdia.

AlfÁdia is an ancient caravanserai that still bears traces of its Moorish origin; passing under the high entrance gateway, which has a Moorish ceiling of carved and painted wood, one enters a vast courtyard, surrounded by stables and containing a fountain and a pepper-tree of immense size and age. When first we entered the great quadrangle it was absolutely deserted, but no sooner did our camera mount its tripod than with the mysterious suddenness of Roderick Dhu’s men figures emerged from all sides, anxious to be included in the picture.

Hardly had we regained our carriage when the rain that had long been threatening began to come down—first gently, then harder, and finally with a terrific clap of thunder we were overtaken by a kind of cloudburst. Whipping up the horses our driver made a dash for a wayside inn on the Palma road, and driving in under the deep verandah-like porch running along the whole front of the building we drew up and were gradually joined by other refugees till every inch of standing room was taken up. Cheek by jowl with us were white-tilted orange carts from SollÉr, a countryman and his cow, a post cart, sundry mules, and a number of pedestrians who arrived half drowned beneath their umbrellas; and in this most welcome shelter we all remained imprisoned while for the next half hour it rained as I have never seen it rain before. Cascades fell from the edge of the verandah roof, the road became a river, and from the olive grounds gory floods were descending and were struggling and leaping through the culverts like the legions of red rats charmed out of Hamelin by the pied piper.

It is with diffidence that I venture to observe that a very unusual amount of rain fell around Palma this spring—for there is a growing feeling of incredulity on the subject of unusual seasons. I have heard of a man who had lived for thirty years in Algiers, and who asserted that in that time he had experienced thirty unusual seasons. Few winter resorts perhaps could equal this record, but I fancy that in most places abnormal seasons of one kind or another are sufficiently common for the really normal one—when it does make its appearance—to be almost, if not quite, as unusual as the rest.

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On April 16th we took the train for AlcÚdia and set out on our fourth and final tour in Majorca. When I say that we took the train for AlcÚdia I mean that we went as far in that direction as the train would carry us, for with a strange perversity the railway line, instead of running right across the island from Palma to AlcÚdia and so connecting the latter and its Minorcan service of boats with the rest of the world, stops short some ten miles from the coast, perhaps with a view to annoying possible invaders.

Two hours after leaving Palma we descended at the terminus of La PuÉbla, where we and five other persons scrambled with difficulty into an immensely high two-wheeled carrier’s cart covered with a canvas tilt. For an hour and a half the stout horse jogged slowly along a flat road, and then we drove under the great fortified gateway of San Sebastian and entered AlcÚdia, an ancient town of dingy-looking houses, with paved alleys so narrow that our horse had to put his head right in at people’s front doors in order to turn the sharp street corners.

AlcÚdia is still surrounded by strong walls and a moat, fortifications dating partly from Roman and partly from Moorish days. During the great peasant revolt of the sixteenth century the Aragonese nobles came here for refuge; their yoke had been a heavy one, and since the annexation of the island by the crown of Aragon discontent and unrest had filled the population. Oppressed and heavily taxed, they at last rose in insurrection, and forming themselves into armed bands laid siege to AlcÚdia till the arrival of a Spanish fleet turned the scales against them. Their leader, Colom, was beheaded, and his head sent to Palma, where for more than two hundred years it hung in an iron cage at the Puerta Margarita, near to which is a square that still bears his name.

We did not stop in AlcÚdia, but passing out of the town by the fine Roman gate called the Puerta del Muelle we drove on to the harbour, about a mile distant.

The Fonda de la Marina on the seashore is a large and quite civilised inn, with whitewashed corridors and rows of numbered deal doors; it is a very marine fonda indeed, being situated actually on the water’s edge, so that our driver before putting us down takes a short turn in the sea to wash his cart wheels. Fishing-smacks lie under our windows, and Francisca the general servant—in whose absence everything is at a standstill and who is being perpetually screeched for from the front door—comes up hurriedly in a small boat from the mole where she has been buying fish for our dinner.

Our host informed us that two visitors were already installed in the house, but when we inquired their names and nationality he was hopelessly vague. To the Majorcan innkeeper foreigners are foreigners, and as such will naturally know all other foreigners; and he describes bygone guests by their appearance, age, and such traits as he has observed in them, confident that they will be at once recognised by the person to whom he speaks. To his disappointment, however, we entirely failed—in spite of his most graphic description—to identify our fellow guests, and it was not till we were sitting at table that evening, over our raisins and cabbages, our lobster salad and cutlets, that we saw two strangers enter whom we perceived to be English. They told us they had been here more than a week, and had thoroughly enjoyed their stay.

Very peaceful is the great bay of AlcÚdia, with its sand dunes and pine woods, its reedy marshes, and its sickle-curve of dazzling white sand encircling the deep blue water. One may wander for miles along the lonely shore, watching the ways of the burying-beetles that live in large colonies among the bee orchises and cistus bushes above high-water mark, or searching for shells and fragments of coral among the seaweed rissoles of the Poseidonia oceanica that bestrew the beach in countless numbers.

There are many excursions in the neighbourhood that good walkers can easily accomplish on foot. Between the harbour and the town of AlcÚdia are the remains of a Roman amphitheatre, supposed to mark the site of the old Pollentia—long disappeared; on a rocky slope, converted into a wild flower garden by a gorgeous tangle of yellow daisies, convolvulus, borage, asphodel and mallow, can be traced partial tiers of seats and flights of steps cut in the rock; and in a depression of the ground are seen the caves originally destined for wild beasts, but now inhabited by nothing more ferocious than a family of black pigs couched upon a bed of seaweed.

Here and there among the flowers one stumbles into a grave; there are rows upon rows of these Roman graves—narrow, shallow tombs cut in the surface of the rock and half filled with earth. Fragments of Roman pottery, broken lamps, skulls and bones are constantly picked up, and two years ago a grave was found intact by some men who were quarrying freestone. Like the rest, it was quite shallow, and in it was found a quantity of gold jewellery that had evidently belonged to a Roman lady. We were shown the ornaments, which comprised a brooch set with rubies, an oval locket—which at one time had apparently contained a portrait—a long chain necklace with clasps, set with small pearls and two emeralds; two handsome gold and pearl earrings, and a few smaller trinkets. In another tomb was found a gold bracelet, and a silver coin said to be of the reign of Tiberius. All these are now in the possession of the finder.

Close to the Roman cemetery are some other graves, half hidden by rough grass. As our guide turned over the earth with his foot he disclosed a jawbone furnished with a row of splendid molars; from the style of burial and other indications these graves have been decided to be Moorish, but as far as we could learn no systematic investigation of the ground has yet been attempted.

The following morning we drove to the Castillo de Moros, in one of the usual tilted carts, drawn by a big mule that for some time showed no sign of being able to go at any pace but a walk; our remark, however, that a horse would have been swifter, put the driver on his mettle, and, declaring that his mule had great velocity, he urged the animal into a fast trot which was kept up as long as the condition of the road rendered it in any degree possible.

Skirting the town by an arrow track cut in the bedrock, and dating probably from Roman times, we struck out across country to the Moorish fort that stands on a promontory overlooking the bay of Pollensa. In spite of its age the little Castillo is in good preservation; moat and bastions are almost intact, and a squat pylon of yellow freestone gives entrance to the building and to a broad, flagged terrace on the side towards the sea. Goats browse around the ramparts among palmetto and lentisk, cactus and asphodel; and framed in the embrasures of the masonry is the gorgeous blue of the bay, with the long serrated ranges of Cap FormentÓr visible in the far distance.

Below us, silhouetted against the distant headland of the Cap de PinÁr, stood one of the nÓrias, or Persian wheels, introduced by the Moors and still used in the island for raising water from wells. Bushes of pink stock clambered into the ancient stone aqueduct, which led away from the nÓria across the bean fields; some sheep were grazing the stony ground, watched by a boy in an enormous straw hat, who stood in the shade of a clump of pines. It was a pretty pastoral scene, typical of the peaceful tide of life that flows on around the Moors’ old fort.

The southern shore of the Bay of Pollensa is very beautiful, and by an amazingly bad road it is possible to drive a considerable way along it, to the Cap de Pinar, a wild headland where we spent a delightful hour; at our feet—far, far below—lay the waters of the bay, and beyond it the trackless sierra of Cap FormentÓr stretches its arm northwards till it ends in a bold cliff that plunges sheer into the sea. Behind us is a mountain range, on the slopes of which is visible the pilgrimage church of Our Lady of Victory, and looking inland we can see the pale blue pyramid of the Puig MayÓr.

It was a fÊte day, and crowds of holiday makers were returning from the Cap—whole family parties laden with palmetto roots slung over their shoulders; the heart of this dwarf palm is considered a delicacy by the Majorcans; the plant is chopped out of the ground with an axe, and the lower leaves trimmed off close, leaving only a tuft of young shoots at the top, which gives the root an almost precise resemblance to a pineapple. But it is a woody form of nourishment, and not a taste to be acquired after childhood I should imagine.

On April 18th we left AlcÚdia for Pollensa. A gale had arisen in the night, and we awoke to find the bay flecked with foam caps and the white sand flying like smoke along the shore. The Barcelona boat was many hours overdue, and the fishing fleet could not put out to sea, so that the men, who had stocked their boats overnight with kegs of water and provisions, instead of being off at daybreak as was their wont, were reduced to mending their nets and splitting firewood while they waited, with all the philosophic patience of their kind, for the wind to abate.

Pollensa is about an hour and a half’s drive from AlcÚdia. Surrounded by ancient olive groves and rockeries planted with patches of beans and wheat, the old town lies secluded among the hills, out of sight and out of sound of the sea—only three miles distant. On one side of the town rises the green Calvary hill, on the other the bare grey Puig de Pollensa, crowned by a pilgrimage church and hospedÉria; this passion for building a church on the highest and most inaccessible spot attainable is a really curious phenomenon.

An atmosphere of old-world tranquillity pervades the place; undisturbed by railways, approached by only one good road—that from La Puebla—and brought in touch hardly at all with the outside world, Pollensa is the most characteristically Majorcan town in the whole island. The older men still wear the wide Moorish breeches, the woollen stockings and strong leather shoes latched across with a bow, which the younger ones have forsaken in favour of the less picturesque modern garb. The generation now dying out is the last that will be seen in the dress worn by their forefathers for a thousand years past, and I am glad to have visited the island before the costume has become a mere tradition.

Castillian is little spoken in Pollensa, and our stay at the inn of Antonio de SollÉr was complicated by the fact that our good host and his daughter knew rather less Spanish than we did ourselves. The old woman who swept the floors was, I think, a little touched in the head, and she annoyed us considerably for some time by pausing in front of us with uplifted broom—as we sat in our rocking chairs, peacefully reading—and haranguing us in Majorcan, of which she knew we did not understand a word.

“Les silents ont toujours tort”—and at last we turned the tables on her by suddenly bursting forth in emphatic English, which had the effect of silencing her completely, and she departed, muttering darkly, no doubt more convinced than ever that we were mad.

We found our inn to be comfortable, and, in spite of being in the middle of the town, exceedingly quiet. The Majorcan cookery is always good, and though liable to become monotonous, a certain variety of diet is obtained by moving from place to place. Chicken stewed with rice, or a ragout, supplemented by fish and an omelette, form the staple dishes of Majorcan fondas; and each inn has its own idea of what a sweet course should be, to which it rigorously adheres; at Felanitx we got into a stratum of enormous jam puffs—larger than I could have conceived possible; at Arta it was figs, stuffed with aniseed; at AlcÚdia, slabs of quince jelly; at Pollensa heavy pastry starfish, which made their appearance twice a day with unfailing regularity.

For breakfast coffee can always be obtained—although it must be remembered that coffee does not necessarily imply milk, unless specially ordered; and with the coffee it is the custom to eat an ensaimÁda—a kind of sweet sugar-besprinkled bun. Except at Palma and SollÉr, butter is not to be had; we usually supplied its place with jam we carried with us, but at Pollensa we found ourselves reduced to our last pot, and that pot we decided to save up as emergency rations, for rumour had it that at Lluch, whither we were bound, we might be glad of anything at all.

The morning after our arrival at Pollensa we drove out to the Cala de San Vicente, a bay on the north coast of the island; after driving over a bad road for some miles we left the galarÉta and walked down to the sea by a charming path leading through pine woods and a wild rock-garden of pink and white cistus and yellow broom, where for the first time we heard the nightingale. Near the shore are large freestone quarries—smooth-walled pits of cream-coloured stone—where men are employed in detaching great blocks with wedges, and shaping them with saw and axe; so plentiful is the freestone in many parts of the island that not only the houses, but the field-walls and even the pigstyes are built of it. It is extremely soft and easy to work when first quarried, and has the invaluable property of hardening more and more as time goes on, when exposed to the air. This causes many of the ancient buildings—such as the Lonja and others—to look quite disappointingly modern, owing to the smooth, unweathered surface of the walls and the sharp lines of all angles.

Exceedingly picturesque is the little blue bay of St. Vincent, with its enclosing cliff walls and jagged peaks; on a small headland stands a ruined atalÁya of curious construction, the tower being rounded on the land side, but forming an acute angle towards the sea.

Amongst the prickly pear and boulders of this headland we noticed a large, almost circular, block of stone that attracted our attention from its bearing traces of a rude square cut in its upper surface. We asked the daughter of our fondista, who was with us, whether there was any legend attaching to the ancient stone, but she was interested not at all in pre-historic man:

“That mÉsa,” she explained—mÉsa means table, and is the term applied to all the megalithic altars in the Balearics—“that mÉsa is there for visitors to have their luncheon upon.”

This lack of observation and of intelligent interest in their surroundings we found not uncommon among the people, who have an almost Oriental incuriosity with regard to things that do not practically concern them. Many a time did we draw the attention of a native to some conspicuous plant growing in profusion around his home, and ask him what kind of flower it bore when in bloom; whereupon he would reply without hesitation that that particular plant never flowered at all, and consider himself well out of the matter.

I remember being told by a traveller in Spain that once when in the very centre of the liquorice industry he inquired of his landlord what part of the plant was used, to which he replied that it was the root:

“And what kind of plant is it that supplies these roots?”

“Oh, there is no plant at all—nothing to be seen above ground.”

Pursuing his inquiries further, he found a man who admitted that there was certainly a plant, but he maintained that it never flowered. This was in the neighbourhood of acres of the plant, then in full flower!

In the afternoon our host drove us to Aubercuix in a tilted cart, with an old flea-bitten Rosinante in the shafts. Passing the quaint Fuente de Gallo—an urn-shaped stone fountain presided over by a spruce cock, where all day long the women fill their water jars—we had not proceeded more than half a mile on our way when the back bench of our conveyance, on which we both were sitting, broke down with a loud crack, and in the confusion our best umbrella fell out in front and got badly kicked by the horse. Our host was aghast; he jumped down and repaired the damage as quickly as possible—propped up the seat with some chunks of firewood that happened to be in the cart—disengaged the umbrella from the horse’s hind leg—and tried to assure us that all was well. But it was far from well. Our appearance had for some time past not been our strong point; repeated wettings and dryings had not improved our hats; our clothes were almost worn out—and now the best umbrella was just as baggy and bent and stained as the other, and, moreover, would only open in a lop-sided way.

We were not a little annoyed at this mishap, but our annoyance was soon quenched in amusement, so curiously unconventional was our host’s style of driving; hollerin’ and bellerin’ like Prince Giglio of immortal fame, as though driving half a dozen plough teams at once, our good host urged the old horse to speed with a running accompaniment of vituperation and ceaseless objurgations, ranging from threats to cajolements, thence to sarcasm, and occasionally rising to heights of scathing laughter, which startled the old horse more than anything else. It must not be imagined, however, that our progress was rapid; the noise served to clear the road for half a mile ahead of us, it is true, but the old horse had to be allowed to walk down every descent, while on the flat he was not expected to exceed a gentle trot; he understood his master perfectly, and feared him not at all. Never did we see an animal ill-treated in Majorca.

The road to Aubercuix takes one down to the port of Pollensa, and thence round the bay as far as the little lighthouse on the opposite point; beyond this one can only penetrate into the Cap de FormentÓr by a bad mule track, or by taking a sailing boat and landing in some little cove along the coast.

Wonderful was the view, glorified by the golden evening light, that we obtained as we wound along the water’s edge and followed the gravelled causeway leading to the FÁro; across the bay shone the white town of AlcÚdia, seemingly built on the seashore, though in reality far inland; looking back towards Pollensa the scene was of marvellous beauty—in the foreground the curve of the shore, broken by black clumps of rushes, a few stunted trees, and an upturned boat lying on the sand; beyond, some fishermen’s huts, with here and there a dark pine-tree, sharp-cut against the dim distance of the sierra. Rank behind rank, their planes parted by the evening mist, veiled in shimmering tints of pink and violet, dove colour and indigo, and melting away into the sunset sky itself, stretched the mountain chains behind Pollensa. Their peaks were tinged with flame, and the rays of the setting sun descended like fire-escapes of golden web into the azure mist that filled the valleys.

For a few minutes the unearthly light lingered, and then the sun sank out of sight; a chill sea-breeze sprang up as we set our faces homeward, and the stars were shining serenely before we regained our fonda.

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The following morning we rode to the Castillo del Rey, the route taking us, soon after starting, over the fine old Roman bridge at the entrance of the town. For an hour and a half we pursued a good mule-track up the gorge of the Ternallas, a mountain stream dashing down through woods of ilex and pine, with bare grey peaks towering overhead; leaving the forest we came out into a grassy and boulder-strewn trough among the hills, and presently arrived at the foot of the crag on which the castle stands. So inaccessible does the rock look, crowned by the skeleton ribs of the old banqueting hall—yellow rock and yellow masonry welded in one—that at first sight one wonders how the ascent is to be even attempted. Up a steep hillside, covered with rocks, loose stones, and prickly shrubs, we scrambled and toiled on foot for nearly half an hour; more and more desperate grew the path as we advanced, larger and larger the rocks to be surmounted; but at last, with a final effort, we scaled a boulder over six feet in height and were hauled up by our muleteers into the arched doorway of the old fortress.

The origin of the castle is lost in the mists of antiquity; it is supposed to have existed in the time of the Romans, and under the Moors it formed an important stronghold to which they retreated after evacuating Palma. Later on the flag of Jaime III. still waved over the Castillo del Rey after the whole of the rest of the island had gone over to Pedro of Aragon, but in the year 1343 the loyal garrison was forced to surrender after a siege of more than two months.

Not much of the fortress survives at the present time; three pointed freestone arches belonging to the central hall form the most conspicuous feature of the ruins. Beyond this there is little except some subterranean chambers, and a few fragments of rock-like wall and pointed battlement, still untouched by time, that survive amidst a chaos of masonry. From the northern edge of the cliff—an appalling precipice descending sheer to the sea—a magnificent view over the coast and the surrounding mountains is to be had on a clear day, but on the occasion of our own visit ominous stormclouds were closing in around us, and the horizon was a blank pall of rain.

Hardly had we sat down to luncheon when heavy drops began to fall; seizing our cutlets and oranges we fled to the rock tunnel leading from the entrance to the interior of the castle, and in that narrow and draughty passage continued our interrupted meal; but to our dismay rivulets soon began to invade our retreat, the heavens poured down water through a machicolation overhead, and before long we were sitting, like the Blessed Catalina, on stones in the middle of a river bed, while a growing torrent flowed beneath our feet. Our men wrapped their blankets around them and squatted patiently in the doorway. Presently footsteps were heard, and a wet stranger scrambled breathlessly in at the tunnel’s mouth, accompanied by a guide in wide indigo breeches soaked to the consistency of jelly bags, while rivulets ran from the brim of his felt hat.

Still it poured—steadily—without intermission; the landscape below us was blotted out by a veil of driving rain; banks of cloud were sweeping in from the sea and settling in woolly folds upon the hills, which appeared and disappeared as one storm after another broke over them and passed on. For two hours we waited, and then there came a lull; sallying out in desperation we slid and scrambled down the slippery rocks and soaking vegetation of the steep hillside, and rejoining our equally wet mules set out for home. The red path was now a quagmire under foot, and the little watercourses were leaping and chasing down the hills to join the river; but the rain held off and we got back in safety, being met at the inn door by a chorus of inquiries as to how we had fared, laments over our wetting, and an optimistic assurance that on the morrow the weather would be very bonito indeed.

But when morning dawned it was far from being bonito—it could hardly look worse. Nevertheless we determined on making the march to Lluch—a ride of about four hours across the mountains. The charge for a mule with its attendant muleteer is six pesetas for this journey if they return the same day; but if, as in our case, they are retained at Lluch for further expeditions, an additional five pesetas is asked for the return trip to Pollensa. One of our mules was a very smart-looking beast, ridden with the iron noseband which in Majorca usually takes the place of a bit, and carrying the English side-saddle we had brought with us, covered with a sheepskin to lessen the slipperiness so fatiguing to the rider when going up or down a steep mountain path for hours at a time. The other one was a sturdy pack animal, bridled in inferior manner with a hemp halter and furnished with pack saddle and panniers.

These pack saddles are extremely comfortable to ride on if they are well balanced; one sits as on a broad, soft platform between the panniers, dangling a foot on either side of the mule’s neck, the idea being that if the beast falls you will alight on your feet and get clear of him whichever way he rolls. As a matter of fact you find it impossible to move at all, partly owing to the adhesive nature of the sheepskin on which you are seated, and partly to a heterogeneous mass of luggage—rugs, valises, and fodder bags—piled high on either hand, while umbrellas and tripod-legs close your last avenue of escape.

The mounting of a laden pack-saddle is a problem in itself, and to the last I could discover no system upon which the feat is accomplished; a wild, spasmodic leap, taken from some wall near the animal, usually—but not always—lands one in the saddle, and once in position a fatalistic calm is the best attitude with which to confront the perils of the ensuing ride. The most well-meaning of mules has habits which do not conduce to the happiness of his rider upon a mountain track; he will pause on a hogsback ridge of slippery cobbles in the middle of a swift stream, to gaze entranced, with pricked ears, at the distant landscape; with an absolutely expressionless countenance he carries one under a low bough—or anchors himself in front by fixing his teeth firmly in a tough shrub as he strides by, and then falls over himself as his stern overtakes him. In short he awakens in his rider a lively sympathy with Dr. Johnson, who was carried as uncontrollably on a horse as in a balloon.

The paths were in an unusually bad state that day owing to the recent heavy rain; great parts of the track were under water; every torrent was swelled to twice its normal size, and miniature Lauterbrunnen falls were leaping down the faces of the cliffs. We forded several streams, slithered down causeways of loose sliding blocks, and scrambled up slippery rock steps where it was all the mules could do to keep their feet and avoid falling backwards.

For the first hour we rode in drenching rain through dark ilex woods and fine mountain scenery; but as we got higher the weather improved—the sun came out, the birds began to sing, the scent of wet cistus bushes filled the air, and emerging on to a grassy plateau we presently came in sight of the monastery of Lluch, lying in a level valley high up among the hills—a great pile of yellow buildings backed by grey rocks and ilex-trees.

Crossing the wide green, with its long range of stabling, its poplar-trees and fountain, we dismount—wet and tired—under the entrance archway, and pass into a large quadrangle formed by the college, the hospedÉria, the priests’ house, and the oratory, an ornate chapel hung with embroidered banners presented to Our Lady of Lluch.

The history of this oratory goes back to a date shortly after the conquest in the thirteenth century, when a herd-boy named Lluch—or Lucas—while driving his flock home one night, noticed a strange light upon the mountain side; on relating this to a priest, the latter went to examine the spot whence the light proceeded, and there discovered a stone statue of the Blessed Virgin and Child, which was installed forthwith in a little chapel built for the purpose; and this Virgin of Lluch—the MÁre de Deu as she is called—became in course of time the patroness of the Majorcans, and a great power in the land. Bequests of money and land were made to her, and in the fifteenth century the Oratory was founded, together with a college for the instruction of twelve poor children. The original college now forms the hospedÉria for visitors, having been superseded by a newer building where to this day twelve boys receive education and instruction in church singing from the four priests who inhabit the rectoria.

The wants of visitors are attended to by six lay brothers, and at times the resources of the establishment are strained to their utmost. We were told that at Easter no fewer than six hundred people had made the pilgrimage hither, coming from all parts of the island and staying two or even three nights; those for whom there was no room in the hospedÉria were bedded in the corridors and stables, while the rest slept in their carts and carriages outside.

Until recently all comers had to bring their own food, but some few years ago a kind of restaurant—independent of the monastery—was established, where visitors can get simple meals at a very moderate charge. The wife of the fondista cooks well, and though neither meat, milk, nor butter are to be had, the staple provisions of sausage, sardines, cheese, bread, coffee, and condensed milk—with the addition of a fowl or an omelette—constitute a diet with which any traveller may be content. After supper one crosses the great quadrangle to the hospedÉria, which contains some fifty beds, placed two, three, and even four in a room.

In answer to the bell at the iron grille a lay brother made his appearance and took us upstairs and down a long, spacious, echoing corridor to one of the whitewashed cells, where he presented us with a key and a pair of damp sheets and left us to our own devices. The room was sparsely furnished, and contained two beds, with a pile of mattresses and blankets, a small table, a chair, a diminutive tripod supporting a basin, an equally diminutive towel, and an earthenware jar with some water.

For the moment it did not strike us that we were expected to make our own beds, and after waiting some time we sent an urgent message to our friar by a young man we met on the stairs and who seemed faintly amused at the errand. No one came, however—and neither on that nor on any subsequent occasion did Brother Bartholomew condescend to attend to us in any way whatever, or even supply us with more water, so that on the second morning we were reduced to a kind of nettoyage À sec. The only thing he did for us was to come and rattle our door loudly at five o’clock in the morning to make us get up—and failing in his attempt, to go away, having either by accident or with malice aforethought turned the key in the door and locked us in.

It was not till breakfast time that we discovered our plight, and we should have been constrained ignominiously to call for help from the window had we not succeeded in picking the lock with a buttonhook and so regained our freedom.

At nine o’clock we set out on our mules for the Gorch Blau, a two hours’ ride from the monastery. It is hopeless to ascertain beforehand from one’s muleteers the nature of the road that lies before one, for they admit no difference between one mountain path and another, and assure one invariably that the road will be good the whole way; nor are they in any way abashed when presently you come to a slippery rock staircase, so impossible that they advise you—in your own interest—to dismount and proceed on foot. The ride to the Gorge includes, as far as I can remember, only one really mauvais quart d’heure—but the rain had converted the paths into sloughs, and our poor men soon had their shoes soaked through and through, in spite of making dÉtours wherever possible to avoid the floods through which our mules splashed recklessly.

But if all this water increased the difficulties of the march it also added immensely to the beauty of the landscape. As we wound along the heights we could hear the Torrent de Pareys in its deep caÑon bed, thundering down in flood to the sea, and we found the Gorch Blau filled with a rushing whirl of foaming emerald-green water instead of containing—as it often does—a supply so scanty as hardly to deserve the name of torrent at all.

Towering fern-clad cliffs close in upon a ravine a few yards only in width, through which the water dashes at racing speed with a noise that prevents one from hearing oneself speak. An ancient pack-bridge spans the stream, and a path cut in the side of the water-worn cliff leads through the gorge into a broad open valley—a valley of desolation, ringed round with walls of bare grey rock, and strewn with innumerable stones, amongst which sheep and goats pick up a scanty living. For another hour we followed the course of the stream, now flowing tranquilly over a pebbly bed, and then reached a spot known as the Pla de Cuba—a higher valley among the hills, through which runs the path to SollÉr, five hours distant. Here we made a two hours’ halt, and while the mules ate carob beans and cropped the coarse carritx grass covering the hillside, we explored the rocky slopes in search of the pink orchises and white cyclamen that grow here in profusion.

These high regions have a far larger annual rainfall than the rest of the island, and the comparative dampness of the atmosphere is seen in the mossy trunks and fern-clad limbs of the ilex woods, as also in the unusual girth of the trees—one grand old ilex, said to be the largest tree in Majorca, having a diameter of fully eight feet.

Clouds gather every evening upon the mountain tops around Lluch, and the plateau itself, sixteen hundred feet above sea-level, is often shrouded in fog for days together. In bad weather a stay at the monastery is by no means enjoyable, and when we woke on the second morning and found the rain falling fast, we were not sorry to think that the galarÉta we had ordered from Inca to fetch us would arrive in an hour or so. Our shoes and skirts had never dried thoroughly since the soaking they got on our ride from Pollensa, and the unwarmed rooms felt miserably chilly.

Going across to the restaurant, where we breakfasted at an icy marble-topped table, we found four young Frenchmen, who had arrived overnight, stamping their feet on the cold stone floor and bitterly bewailing their fate; they had come with the sole object of seeing the Gorch Blau—and now, not only was the expedition out of the question, but they were imprisoned in this dismal place—for voila! by this frightful weather it was impossible even to depart. What to do! Mon Dieu! Mon Dieu!

We could offer little comfort beyond suggesting that some misguided visitor might turn up during the morning, in whose conveyance they could make their escape—a contingency which both they and we felt to be very unlikely ... but even as we spoke, we saw to our surprise two empty carriages cross the green and draw up before the monastery.

Two blacks may not make a white—but two mistakes may result in a remarkably good arrangement. Owing to a misunderstanding with our late host of Pollensa—who, it must be remembered, spoke nothing but Majorcan—a galarÉta had been sent up from La Puebla for us, besides the one which we ourselves had ordered from Inca. Behold, then, a solution of the difficulty! We stowed ourselves into one carriage—our four enchanted fellow-visitors into the other—and away we bowled towards Inca, a two hours’ drive on a splendid road engineered in giddy spirals down the mountain side, with ever and again a peep of the plain and its white town far below us, seen through a break in the hills.

As we get down into the zone of olives again, a warmer air meets us—the rain has been left behind, and we are once more in sunshine; passing the picturesque village of Selva, with its church perched on the very top of a hill, we soon find ourselves at Inca—a large and prosperous-looking town of fine stone houses and shops.

Here we took the train for Palma, and packed ourselves and our valises into a little first-class compartment which we shared with an aristocratic-looking old gentleman travelling with a large wicker basket, apparently containing the week’s wash, and with a lady in a graceful black mantilla, who had a market basket, and a big bundle done up in a check tablecloth. She was evidently leaving home for a few days, and many and anxious were the parting messages given to the two honest servant-girls who stood at the carriage window and with a hearty embrace bade their mistress goodbye before the train started.

The terms upon which master and servant meet in Majorca—and I fancy all over Spain—are very much freer than with us.

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Palma at the end of April is a very different town from the Palma of a few weeks ago; the trees along the Borne are greening fast, and the country is a mass of leafage. The swifts have arrived, and are wheeling and screaming over the town in thousands; the masses of dwarf blue iris by the seashore are over, but the waist-high corn is spangled with poppies and corn daisies, gladioli, and a handsome crimson and yellow scrophularia. The roads are deep in dust—the river dry as a bone. Our rooms maintain a steady temperature of 66° Fahrenheit, and the heat in the middle of the day is already sufficient to make us appreciate the draughtiness of the cool, narrow streets of the town.

Palm Sunday is celebrated by a palm service in the cathedral, and by a palm fair—the Fiesta de RÁmos. At the palm service the bishop, mitred and coped, and accompanied by priests, choristers, mace-bearers, and all the dignitaries of the cathedral, processes around the outside of the building—and all carry consecrated palm branches in their hands. These palms are afterwards distributed amongst the townspeople, who fasten them to their house-fronts and balconies as a protection against lightning.

The Fiesta de RÁmos takes place in the Rambla, where for three days the wide gravelled walk is occupied by a double row of wooden booths, between which a seething throng of townspeople streams up and down; there are toys and sweets and fruit stalls—dolls and dolls’ furniture, and charming baskets of all sizes, down to the familiar covered market basket made in smallest miniature by the neatest of fingers; there are merry-go-rounds and a Japanese giant, drums, trumpets, and squeaking whistles, and for three days there is a pandemonium of noisy instruments which to the children is the seventh heaven of delight.

In the spring, too, the annual swearing-in of the new recruits takes place, and is a picturesque sight; all the troops in the town—cavalry, infantry, and artillery—are assembled on the great Plaza Santa Catalina outside the walls, where is erected a large red and yellow marquee surmounted by a royal crown and flanked by cannon, stacked rifles, and warlike trophies of swords and bayonets. Inside the tent is an altar with lighted candles, and when all the high civil and military officials of the town have arrived, mass is celebrated—the elevation of the Host being marked by three shrill bugle calls, at which the whole body of troops and spectators fall on one knee and uncover—the cavalry lowering their swords.

After this, a priest walks round the lines, and halting opposite each regiment reads a short address, at the close of which a simultaneous assent bursts forth from the ranks of the new conscripts. When all have been sworn in, the recruits—who on this occasion numbered three or four hundred—defile in front of the colours, kissing the flag and uncovering as they go by.

And with this the ceremony is over for the year.