What it was like to visit Barcelona before all the crowds

Back of the city of Barcelona, in the northeast corner of the Iberian Peninsula, rises the hill El Tibidabo. From its summit there is an all-embracing view of encircling pine-clad hills, with the snowy range of the Pyrenees far away to the north. Below, outspread on the sloping plain, between the green of the Catalonian hills and the blue of the Mediterranean Sea, lies the great industrial mart and chief port of Spain, with Madrid as its only national rival in population and progress.

Barcelona's million and more inhabitants are, in greater part, Catalans, of a different blood and tongue from other Spaniards; but to its factories and foundries have come men and women from every part of the country: plodding Galicians from the verdant northwest, granite-faced Castilians from the bleak central plateau, vivacious Andalusians from the tawny south, sturdy Estremadurans, whose rugged southwest borderland gave to the New World many a valiant conquistador.

The deep-bosomed, high-coifed nurses, with their long gold earrings, who tend the upper-class children under the leafy plane trees, are highland Asturian women. The sharp-featured northern Basques, with their jaunty, visorless, blue woolen caps, are in evidence on the crowded streets. During three prolonged visits my coachmen have been honest, hard-headed Aragonese from the dry, gray land to the west.

A race of mariners and traders

Besides the Spaniards, each so distinctive in type, this city of far-reaching trade has an increasing foreign element; yet, in spite of admixture, with King and flag Spanish and Castilian the official tongue, Barcelona remains at core Catalán, civic expression of a hardy, clanny race of mariners and traders, fighters from start to finish, allied by blood and language to the peoples of southern France.

The Catalonian archeological record goes back to the misty dawn before the first Phoenician or Ionian sail appeared on the western Mediterranean. In polychrome ritual paintings on rock-shelter walls and in Cyclopean base stones in prehistoric fortifications, we have tangible contact with that brown-skinned Iberian race whose shafts and sling-stones harried the earliest adventurous navigators; who later fought valiantly in the Punic wars as allies of the Carthaginians.

By sea from the east, or over the high mountain wall which separates the Peninsula from the rest of Europe, came invaders and conquerors—Phoenician, Greek, Carthaginian, Roman, Vandal, Visigoth; with the Moslem invasion from the south, Berber, Arab, Syrian—each to add his strain to the virile native stock.

In the Middle Ages, Catalán warriors wrested Valencia and Majorca from the Moslems, conquered Sardinia, Sicily, and Naples, sending their victorious galleys as far east as Athens.

Those were the glorious days when, as a maritime power, Barcelona outranked Venice, Genoa, and Pisa, trading from Egypt to the North Sea.

In the old royal palace in Barcelona, which now houses the archives of the Crown of Aragón, comprising nearly 4,000,000 documents, I saw the original of the famous 13th-century code of maritime laws issued by the ruler best beloved of the Catalans—big, handsome, ruddy-haired Jaime I, known as "the Conqueror."

It was not until the 15th century, when Ferdinand of Aragón married Isabella of Castile, that this sparkling, seablown corner of the Peninsula became part of United Spain.

Nearly one hundred years ago the 13 historic provinces on the Spanish mainland were divided into 47. It was then that the triangular territory called Catalonia was carved into the four provinces of Gerona, Barcelona, Tarragona, and Lérida, all but the last named facing the sea; yet, in the hearts of the people, the beloved old name survives.

"Son of the mountains, singer of the mountains, son of Catalonia, forever Catalán."

Land of hills, forested with cork oak, stone pine, and carob; of fields fragrant with thyme and rosemary; of irrigated valleys with orchards and vineyards and stepping-stones in the shallow streams. Land of a farsighted, hard-working, determined race, whose metropolis now ranks among the great cities of the world—to me among its most interesting, since here the best of modern life is combined with historic associations and quaint regional survivals.

An industrial city without a pall of smoke

No pall of smoke envelops industrial Barcelona. Hydroelectric power, generated in the Pyrenees, breathes life into its suburban factories, which lie upcoast on the road to France, downcoast toward Tarragona, and inland back of the coastal range.

This back country, as seen from Tibidabo, is one of warmly tinted villas set in murmuring pine woods, white villages dotting the sunlit plain. In the distance an isolated jagged-topped mountain mass rises abruptly from the valley floor, looking for all the world like a medieval castle. High up among its crags is the famous monastery-shrine of Montserrat.

Turning seaward, we look past brilliant patches of hill-sloped garden to a compact city crossed by wide, tree-bordered avenues. A single hill, like a great rock left stranded on the shore, stands guard over the capacious harbor. Barcelona friends tell me that on exceptionally clear days they have seen from these heights the nearest of the Balearic Isles, away to the southeast.

"Of late years the Mother City has gathered under her skirts many outlying villages," said a Catálan historian who accompanied me on my first visit to Tibidabo's summit. "The original town was a little walled settlement near the shore, down where you see the Cathedral spires. Some say the Basques founded it, others the Phoenicians. I'm inclined to think that the Carthaginian, Hamilcar Barca, father of Hannibal, was its founder, and that the name 'Barcelona' came from the family name, 'Barcino,' our version of 'Barca.'"

"Then Hannibal must have camped here, with his army and his African elephants, on his way to France and Italy. Where did he cross the Pyrenees?" I asked, as we turned toward the formidable barrier along the northern frontier.

"Through that deep gap in the mountains, the Coll de Portus," said my mentor. "It's the natural portal used by automobilists today, on a straight line and about halfway between French Perpignan and Spanish Figueras. Pompey and Caesar crossed those mountains with their invading armies, and each erected a monument at the summit."

The railway hugs the coast. This line on the eastern seaboard and another on the Atlantic side were long the only railroads connecting Spain with France; but recently a third central Pyrenean railway was completed, the first rail link between the two countries which actually crosses the mountains.

I asked the meaning of "Tibidabo." From the Latin, I was told, "I will give unto Thee," referring to Satan's offer to the Savior, of the world viewed from the heights.

A funicular railway carries us down Tibidabo's steep incline to the city, where the high lights of geography and history fade as we watch the wheels of the modern commercial world go round.

A visit to the old quarter

We will go first to the old quarter of the town, near the sea, that part inclosed, in former turbulent days, by massive walls pierced by fortified gates. Some of the streets are as narrow as those in Toledo or Caidíz, with only a thread of sky above the tall, constricted, flat-roofed buildings. Yet some call Barcelona "too modern"!

The one-way street is just wide enough for a single vehicle. As the evening lights shine out, the narrow sidewalks are thronged with shoppers in single file, mostly toilers, with their lunch boxes and clay water jugs, returning home from the factories. The women are dressed in black, their dark, glossy heads uncovered. Many of the men wear long navy-blue smocks, close-fitting blue caps, and rough canvas shoes with esparto-grass soles. Walking sticks are not here a mark of class; the poorest carry them.

The shallow little shops display an astonishing variety of wares, from ornate jewelry to charcoal sold by the basket. It is bewildering, from our viewpoint, to see melons and perfume, cheese and powder puffs, in a single window.

Other types of shops specialize: one in rope and hempen sandals; another in olive-oil soap; a third in altar candles. Women linger before windows where fans of every variety are displayed, or where high Spanish combs, lace mantillas, and embroidered silk shawls are on sale. These last, called "mantones de Manila," reached Spain centuries ago from China by way of the Philippines. Like the combs and mantillas, they are now manufactured in Spain.

We enter a dingy antique shop in search of massive carved wooden chests, old majolica, copper pots, and Aragonese peasant jewelry.

The horse has played a big role in Spanish history

The barber shop next door carries over its entrance, as a trade sign, a copper basin, crescent-shaped to fit the neck.

Our one-way street is blocked by a high country cart laden with wine in pigskins. It has stopped in front of a cavernlike bodega (wine cellar, or warehouse) filled with huge casks.

At the corner the name of the street appears in two languages—Castilian and Catalán. For those who cannot read either language there is a picture of a man driving a cart, indicating the direction and the type of traffic permitted.

A big cart passes drawn by three horses tandem, wearing straw bonnets as a protection from the sun. Beside the cart trots a greyhound, a variety of canine frequently seen in eastern Spain.

Here comes a smart little tartana, typical of the Catalonian countryside—a two-wheeled, canvas-hooded vehicle entered from the back, with seats running lengthwise, drawn by a stocky little horse who feels his importance, for he wears a necklace of bells.

The horse has played an important role in Spanish history. His likeness appears on the earliest Iberian coins unearthed in the valley of the Ebro. What would the brilliant pageantry of the Middle Ages have been without him?

In a diminutive plaza, flanked by ancient gray walls, three wrinkled old women and a Madonna-faced little girl are filling classic terra-cotta water jugs at the blue and-white tiled fountain. Big-hatted, flowing-robed priests flit across the plaza. There is not a 20th century touch in the picture. It is Old Spain.

A violent contrast in the new quarter

Only a few squares away, in this city of marked contrasts, we find the new quarter, known locally as "El Ensanche" (the Enlargement), with its magnificent modern boulevards. Few avenues in Europe can rival the Paseo de Gracia and its mates.

Gracia, thronged with modishly dressed people, afoot and in smart limousines, is divided in width into five sections. In the center is the wide paved motor and carriage road. On either side, shaded by double rows of spreading plane trees, brought to Spain from eastern Europe by the Romans, are the walks for pedestrians, streets in themselves, flanked at intervals by stone benches. Beyond these, next to the sidewalks, are the one-way streets for electric trams and heavy vehicles.

Five- to seven-story buildings, with narrow balconies and corner towers, face this magnificent avenue. Owing to high ceilings, a five-story building in Barcelona compares with an eight-story building in New York. On Lower Gracia are the smartest shops and apartment houses; farther out toward the hills the most palatial homes.

Dignified Catalán-Gothic, with its lack of elaborate ornamentation and pure beauty of outline, is to be seen in the city's historic buildings; but on the modern avenues we find a very different type of architecture—most ornate, all curves and protuberances. Facades, balconies, statues, and park benches follow this new style. In house and garden bright-hued tiles are much employed.

The modern Temple of the Sagrada Familia (Holy Family), now in course of construction, is most extravagant in form. There is nothing like it in Europe. "Not one straight line in the entire edifice," is the boast of the Barceloneses. In this florid reproduction in stone of nearly every form of life, the originality, exuberance of spirit, and prosperity of the Catalán finds expression.

There is a marked difference of opinion among foreigners regarding this peak of modern Catalonian architecture. Some are enthusiastic; others disapprove.

"What was your first impression of the Sagrada Familia ?" I asked a noted American architect who sings the praises of most things Spanish.

"I was like the farmer," the architect told me, "who attended his first circus and saw his first giraffe. He shook his head sadly and said, 'There ain't no such animal.'"

I was assured, however, that from this architectural jungle a mighty edifice would evolve.

Rounded street corners in the new corner

An admirable feature of this modern architecture is the shape of the corner buildings, which end in curves and obtuse angles instead of right angles. The sidewalks also curve at the end of each block.

Where a cross-street meets the Paseo de Gracia, an imposing mounted policeman, called "Guard of the Security," is posted, his Arab steed standing like a statue while automobiles speed by. The courteous traffic "cop" on foot wears a red coat, black trousers with red stripes, and a black helmet with a red band.

Gracia sweeps down from the hills to meet the Plaza de Cataluña, which I first knew as a big, friendly, open place, where market people gathered and where, every Sunday morning, country folk held hands in a circle and danced the ancient sardana, introduced centuries ago by the Greeks. Now it has "grown up" into an impressive square, with fountains, statues, and flower beds. Subway stations mark its corners; tram line and the long, red motor busses, with their yellow advertising signs, encircle it, and here automobiles and taxicabs park. It is here I can still find the old-fashioned, rubber-tired, horse-drawn victoria which lures me to the cities of Spain.

But it is not the Plaza de Cataluña which is the throbbing heart of the city. That role is played by the famous Rambla, stretching from this main plaza to the water front, called locally Las Ramblas, in the plural, because it bears five different names on its triumphant march to the sea.

The famous Rambla is the heart of Barcelona

It is on the site of the ancient city wall and is in reality a wide shaded walk rather than a boulevard, with narrow one-way traffic streets on either side—a walk joyously alive by day and by night.

Barcelona is the pedestrian's paradise, Las Ramblas his open-air salon. Facing it are theaters, shops, clubs, restaurants, and sidewalk cafés. Its sylvan canopy shelters refreshment booths, newsstands, and comfortable chairs, which can be rented for a few centavos.

One fascinating section is occupied by the racks of the flower sellers, gay with roses, carnations, gladioli, camellias, and violets; another by the bird market, where, under blue and white striped awnings, wise, gray African parrots, noisy songsters, and silent, gorgeous-plumed birds of the Tropics await their future owners.

To this informal market come the sellers of country honey that varies in color, taste, and name with the season—honey gleaned from field flowers, almond and orange blossoms; from the aromatic heather of the Catalonian hills, where I have seen, as far as the eye can reach, stretches of purple heath and the white bloom of cistus, so like the wild rose.

"Buy a lottery ticket! The lucky number!" chants a tall, black-eyed girl, who also offers for sale tuberoses on stalks four feet high.

Here come street musicians; an artist offering small paintings for three pesetas each; a man selling flower seeds; a woman with a basket full of attractive handmade lace. There are few children among the venders. Bootblacks and sellers of newspapers are more often men. We award a prize for diligence to the fat little pony who drags a small watering cart up and down the broad walk to lay the dust.

The most distinctive of the Rambla types is the mozo de cuerda (servant with a cord), the local "red cap," with a coil of rope over one shoulder. He wears that most ancient of headgear, the scarlet Phrygian cap, now known as the barretina. This same bag-shaped cloth cap is to be seen in the Pyrenees; around Tarragona, where it is purple instead of red; through out central Portugal, where it is black. On the Rambla it is worn at a rakish tilt, with several folds over the forehead.

A game of dominoes is in progress in one of the sidewalk cafes. This rattle of the ivory and ebony counters on the marble-topped table is a familiar sound in Spain.

Three gypsies, just arrived from Hungary, pass. They are tall, swarthy, bearded men, quite unlike the usual Spanish variety. The Romany tongue, spoken in Spain a century ago, has now been absorbed by the Castilian.

An old man, who says he is from the mountains of Navarre, over to the west, leads a trained black bear across the Rambla. There is a certain valley in the Pyrenees where the natives formerly made a specialty of training dancing bears, one of these animals being the usual dowry of a bride; but the bruins are getting scarce.

Among the produce stalls

Entering one of the many big markets, we note the excellent quality of the produce and its amazing quantity, all "made in Spain." There are crates of chickens from Majorca, cheese and eggs from Gerona, the ever-present sausage from Lérida. The cauliflower is purple-topped and the artichokes and tomatoes small in size.

In the surrounding country sheep and goats are raised; cereals, principally wheat, and sugar beets are grown. The almond, filbert, and olive crops are important. Spain is the chief olive-producing country of the world. One of the minor exports is licorice paste, used in America in the preparation of chewing tobacco.

In the overflowing fish market are lobsters from the Balearic Island of Iviza and eels from the mouth of the River Ebro, whose fame was borne eastward by the first Ionian craft to reach these shores. Rice and eels, to which mussels and slices of the edible octopi have been added, is a favorite dish; so is fish soup.

With the exception of muscatel grapes from transplanted Almería vines. Catalonian fruit is disappointing; but Barcelona food on the whole is excellent. In the United States there is an erroneous impression that all Spanish food reeks of garlic and fried oil. This does not apply to the food of the upper classes. Meat is lightly rubbed with garlic before being cooked. A famous French chef once told me that it was the Spaniards who taught his countrymen to stuff turkeys with chestnuts and to serve orange salad with wild duck.

Tempting sweets and nuts

Few sweets are quite as delicious as those of Spain, especially the honey and almond paste (turrón), which appears around October from the southeast province of Alicante. Past the pastry shops, with their cream cakes covered with grated nuts and their wild strawberry tarts, it is well for those of increasing girth to walk with downcast eyes.

Almonds, roasted a deep brown, like coffee beans, are served in their crisp jackets, which come off as easily as peanut skins. Chocolate, served hot, thick and sweet, in very small cups, is a favorite winter beverage. If you like milk in your chocolate, ask for it "French style." A favorite all-season drink is cool, creamy horchata de chufas, in tall glasses, made from the roots of a rushlike plant growing around Valencia. It is said to be excellent for nursing mothers. Another drink of this type is made from powdered almonds.

Although breakfast throughout Spain consists only of coffee or chocolate, with bread, Catalans who can afford it are inclined to overeat, consuming six and seven substantial courses both at the noon and the evening meal. With luncheon at 1 and dinner at 9 or 10, afternoon tea seems to them a necessity. The frugal country peasants eat sparingly and retain their health longer.

Apéritifs before, coffee and cognac after meals, with a glass of beer in between, are "time-killers" in the cafés; but Spaniards drink temperately. During years of Iberian travel, I cannot recall having met a drunkard.

Evening performances at theaters and motion-picture houses begin at 10. American films are the most popular, with Italian in second place. During the winter season I have heard grand opera sung by Spanish, French, German, Italian, and Russian companies and seen performances of light opera and drama in Spanish and Catalán. In theaters men often keep their hats on until the play begins. It is their custom between acts to walk to the front of the house, raise their opera glasses, and scan the audience. There is a good deal of personal liberty. A lady may keep her hat on in a theater if she chooses. Bobbed hair and short skirts are in evidence.

At 2 in the morning the Rambla is very gay. Those returning home from after theater supper meet country carts coming to market. At no hour are the downtown streets deserted. There are few electric street signs as compared with our large cities. Advertisements are usually regulated in size and artistically framed.

Cities, like individuals, have their personalities. Barcelona is versatile, sometimes sober, more often gay. Its tremendous vitality reflects the Catalán's power of concentration on work and on play.

Catalán is the language of the masses

The language of the Rambla is 70 percent Catalán. Castilian is the tongue of officialdom, church, school, and national trade; but Catalán is the home tongue of the masses, of their hours of recreation at bull ring, pelota court, and football field.

In its varying dialects, this Romance language is spoken from the old Province of Roussillon, in southeastern France, which, until the signing of the Treaty of the Pyrenees, in 1659, was part of Catalonia; through the semi-independent State of Andorra; down the coast of the Spanish Levant into the ancient Kingdom of Valencia; on the Balearic Islands; and even as far afield as Alghero, in Italian Sardinia, where there was once a Catalán colony.

"It's just a pose with these people, speaking that harsh tongue," the Castilians tell you. "Save in old Provencal literature, their language had nearly died out when the agitation, some years ago, over the separatist movement revived it. Now they speak it just to annoy us."

But the Catalans tell another story—of two dailies and various weeklies published in the regional tongue—and point to the bookstore windows filled with modern works in Catalán.

The first book to be printed in Spain, called "The Barcelona Book," came from a Valencian press, but by 1478 books began to be printed in Barcelona. Today the foremost publishing houses in Spain are here. On my last visit the most popular book in literary circles was one entitled "Catalan Expeditions to the Orient in the Thirteenth Century," a live subject with this race of mariners, who once boasted that so Catalán was the western Mediterranean no fish could swim these waters without bearing on its body the heraldic bars of the Kingdom of Aragón.

There is a tradition that the four diagonal red bars on a yellow field originated in this fashion: A Catalán warrior, fatally wounded, dipped his four fingers into his own blood, drew them across a yellow scarf, and offered it to his compatriots.

Barcelona's university admits women on equality with men

With the possible exception of Madrid, education is further advanced here than in any other part of the country. In the University, which dates from the 15th century, women are admitted on the same plane as men. Literature, science, art, music, and drama are fostered by the municipality. Splendid art galleries and archeological museums have been developed in recent years. The museums are rich in the remains of Greek and Roman art, which once flourished on this coast, and in church paintings and sculpture of the Middle Ages.

They have reason to be proud of their beautiful, progressive city, these pleasant faced, robust men and women, with their fresh color and big, clear eyes. There are blue and gray eyes here as well as brown. The men, on the whole, are finer looking than the women, especially in youth.

Marshal Joffre is a Catalán from the French side of the Pyrenees. During the World War, Catalonia was strongly in favor of the Allies and sent volunteers to fight for their cause.

Barcelona has become not only the chief port of Spain, but one of the most important on the Mediterranean.

Out of this great harbor Spanish, French, Italian, and American ships sail directly for New World ports, from New York to Buenos Aires. To the United States they bring such varied products as cork, olive oil, hides, skins, paper-base stocks, artificial pearls, and antiques. Among the things we send back are raw cotton, mineral oils, automobiles, machinery, lumber and staves, refined copper, leather, and leaf tobacco. The United States is the chief exporter to Spain. About one-third of the country's entire imports comes into Barcelona harbor.

"Why," ask my Barcelona friends, "should we travel? Here we have everything, including a perfect climate."

I have not yet "checked up" on Barcelona's boasted "3,000 yearly hours of sunshine," but that the climate of the Spanish Riviera is mild and equable is certain, the mountains on the north shutting off cold winter winds.

Discovery of New World brought ruins to the Catalans

Near the Gate of Peace is an imposing monument to the memory of Christopher Columbus. The Great Admiral stands high on his pedestal, looking out to sea. It was to Barcelona he came, overland from Palos, on the return from his first voyage to the New World, since Ferdinand and Isabella were at that time holding court in the Catalonian metropolis.

We look in vain in Barcelona's archives for the name of "Cristóbal Colón," a sorry reminder of the bitterness that long existed, for his gift of "the Indies" spelled ruin to the great Catalán city of that day. Isabella of Castile had her way, and her law, favoring her own realm, decreed that no Catalán should sail to the new-found lands or share in the growing trade. Castilians and Andalusians flocked to the Americas. Cádiz and Seville became the chief Spanish ports. It is only in later, more tolerant, years that Barcelona has recorded the visit of Columbus.

It was in the royal chapel of Santa Agueda, now used as an archeological museum, that Columbus attended mass with their Catholic Majesties and young Prince John, who did not live to rule. In the glorious 13th century Cathedral, which stands on the site of a pagan temple, the red men whom Columbus brought from America and erroneously called "Indians" received Christian baptism.

In spite of the long embargo, Catalans later figured in New World history, among them Father Junipero Serra, who founded the Franciscan missions in California.

Progress threatens historic buildings

The fury of expansion, which sweeps everything before it, has already struck down a row of buildings perilously near Barcelona's architectural gems; but the Catalans are very proud of their glorious history and assure us that the old quarter will be preserved. What can this age of embellishment offer in any way comparable to those dignified gray churches and palaces; with that hoary square, guarded by its defiant Roman towers, where the tramp, tramp of the legionaries sounds down the years; or that other, flanked by its noble town halls, where jousting knights met in combat, saints were beheaded, and rulers were acclaimed?

During recent excavations for the installation of underground wires for the automatic telephone system, remains of Roman occupation in the days of Augustus came to light. In the Plaza del Rev, and hidden within a building in the heart of the old town, stand great marble columns which once supported the Temple of Hercules in this Roman city of Julia Faventia.

Barcelona's cathedral epitomizes the city's history

The Cathedral is Barcelona's most notable building. For 2,500 years a temple has surmounted its knoll. To it, for comfort and inspiration, have come men of many races and creeds. Hamilcar and Hannibal knew this hill of Taber, and Phoenician and Greek sailors before them. Here came Scipio Africanus the Younger, whose valiant sword won Iberia for Rome, to be held for more than 500 years. The Temple of Venus became in time a Christian basilica, which was converted into a mosque when the Moslem hurricane swept up from the south.

Rebuilt by conquering Christians, who drove out the Moslems, this humble basilica has evolved through the centuries into one of the great churches of Spain. It differs in architecture from its renowned sisters in Burgos, Toledo, and Seville. Here, in the 14th and 15th centuries, an original provincial style of architecture was created—a church very high, very wide of nave, noble, simple, exceedingly somber, with small stained-glass windows set high in the wall. It is, in fact, so dark inside that repeated visits cannot dispel the subtle air of mystery. Occasional shafts of light, stained red, blue, and orange, falling on the cold gray stone, only deepen the surrounding gloom.

Down in the crypt beneath the high altar we see, by glimmering candlelight, the alabaster tomb of Santa Eulalia, patron saint of Barcelona, put to death, with other Christian martyrs, in the fourth century, under Emperor Diocletian's rule. Tradition says she was young, golden haired, and beautiful.

In Spanish churches the priests' choir has an unusual position in the center of the nave. On the choir stalls of this church are painted coats of arms of the knights of the military Order of the Golden Fleece, a reminder of a momentous spring day four centuries ago when the King of Spain, Charles I, grandson of Ferdinand and Isabella, with other kings and princes and grandees of Spain and Flanders, all knights of the order, here held conclave.

"I had rather be Count of Barcelona," Charles I is quoted as saying, "than King of Rome." From here he went to France to be crowned Emperor Charles V, with Spain one of his many realms.

In marked contrast with the somber church is the friendly Cathedral cloister, with doors open wide to the street and gay flowers, waving palms, and a sweet-scented magnolia under the blue sky. There is a moss-covered fountain where women fill their water jugs, and a pond where white geese swim.

Horses must now wear armor in the Spanish bull rings

While openly criticizing the bullfight, most Americans secretly revel in the typically Spanish touch which it, along with gypsy dances, castanets, and mantillas, imparts. Summer is bullfight season.

A royal decree issued last year makes obligatory armored protection for horses used in the bull rings of the large cities. A public competition decided the type of cuirass adopted, which is aimed to protect the animal from neck to hind leg along the right side only, as a skillful picador does not let the bull get around to the other side.

Here are a few points gleaned on my last visit to Barcelona, at the height of the bullfight season:

Reserved seats for the corrida can be purchased at little shops where tickets for all classes of sport are on sale.

Seats in the shade are five times as expensive as those in the sun.

At the bull ring you can rent a pillow to soften your seat on the concrete bench.

Meat of bull lain in the ring is in demand among the poorer classes, being cheaper than the everyday variety.

In summer the masses flock to church festivals in surrounding villages. How they stand and stare at the flaming placards pasted on the walls of public buildings!

The old-fashioned sardana

It is at these village festivals we can still see the old Catalonian peasant costume, although with the men long trousers are taking the place of knee breeches and leggings. Some of the old men still wear the red Phrygian cap, short bolero jacket, broad sash, corduroy trousers, and hempen sandals tied round the ankles with black ribbons. The women wear full skirts, tight-fitting blouses, small shoulder shawls, and a cloth head-covering which falls over the hair in back.

We can see the sardana danced in the old-fashioned way, men, women, and children holding hands in a circle, with coats, canes, shawls, purses, and bundles piled on the ground in the center. Aboriginal dances, they tell us, are of love, battle, or religion; but this is a fourth variety, relic of gay pagan feasts. They count their steps, so many to the right, so many to the left; then a rhythmic turning of the entire circle.

Among Catalán dances of the Middle Ages the cane dance has survived. It is not unlike the Scottish sword dance. Around two canes laid on the ground a couple revolves, the canes symbolizing weapons.

After the dance, there is a feast of foezola—large white beans and sausage. The food is washed down with red wine. The old Catalan fashion of drinking throwing the head back, holding the classical wine bottle, with its long, narrow spout, at arms' length above the head, and receiving the thin stream of wine in the wide-open mouth—is still in vogue in the country.

At festivals there is always the smell of hot oil from freshly fried doughnuts—a feature of street life throughout Spain.

An industrious, frugal, contended peasantry

They are industrious, frugal, contented, these Catalonian country folk, who have made their fields fertile through incessant labor. Red-cheeked and bright-eyed in old age, they eat little meat, vegetable soup, goats' milk, dried figs, and almonds forming important items in their diet. The cost of living is exceedingly low.

While Barcelona has more to spend than any other city in the country, the standard of living demands comfort without extravagance. There is no servant problem. No more faithful servants exist than those to be found in Spain.

From Barcelona side trips can be made to fascinating historic towns: Gerona, famous for its antiquities and its heroic defense in Napoleonic wars; Lérida, by the River Segre, where Caesar defeated Pompey's generals; Tarragona, once imperial city of the Romans, with its Cyclopean foundation walls. Palma, on the beautiful island of Majorca, is a night's sail to the southeast.

The best-known excursion, which can be made in one day, is to the shrine of Montserrat, traditional guardian of the Holy Grail. This huge isolated mountain mass, more than 13 1/2 miles in circumference, has been slashed by Nature's Titanic sword into an extraordinary turreted air castle whose highest pinnacle reaches an altitude of 4,000 feet. On a ledge of a deep cleft perches the famous monastery.

Of the many parks in Barcelona, the newest and finest is on the slope of Montjuich, the hill by the shore.

From the heights of Montjuich there are splendid vistas of harbor, city, and hills, and the valley of the Llobregat River stretching along the coast to the south. As night falls, the water in the harbor is sapphire, with a sheen of silver where the lights of the moored ships are reflected in the depths. Above, one by one the silver stars appear. The lights of the great city shine out until, between Montjuich and Tibidabo, there is a sea of incandescence. Above it, on Tibidabo and the adjoining hill of Vallvidrera, the lights of the two funicular railways glide up and down like so many fairy lanterns.

The magic of this peace and beauty, and a little of mystery, contrasted with the throbbing, restless life of the city that never sleeps, is illustrative of the versatile charm which lures and holds all who come to know Barcelona, pride of the Catalans, great city of Spain.