FOOTNOTE:
[34] Corridas de toros.
CHAPTER XV.
CONSIDERATIONS ON SANITARY MATTERS.—THE MEDICAL PROFESSION IN SPAIN.—THE ART OF PACKING.—NIGHT SIGNALS.—EL GRAO.—CHASSE AUX CALEÇONS ROUGES.—VALENCIA.—DRIVE THROUGH THE CITY.—THE CATHEDRAL.
THROUGHOUT Spain, as we have observed, and as all travellers will notice when they visit that country, innumerable vile odours prevail everywhere and are one of the most unpleasant characteristics of the country. This, together with a general ignorance or carelessness of all household draining, of course proves one of the most fruitful causes of the cholera which periodically creates such awful ravages throughout the land. It is quite curious how callous a Spaniard appears in the midst of the most frightful odours that can be imagined. While we can scarcely breathe, being compelled to hold our noses in such a way that we are almost suffocated, the dignified Spaniard moves along as serene and untroubled as if he were amidst the rose-gardens of "Gul in her bloom." In fact, he seems rather to like odours that to others are insupportable. If his opinion coincided with that of some medical men, who consider bad smells good for health, he could not endure them with greater equanimity.
Majorca is comparatively free from this pest, although the sanitary arrangements of Palma are still very primitive. Two years ago, cholera raged furiously in the city, and on many of the doors of the houses and palaces one still sees notices which were written in chalk at the time, for the dead-cart to wait for a load as it passed through the streets—exactly as in London during the plague two hundred years ago. On the fine old doorway of the palace belonging to an English gentleman—a post-captain in the British navy—to whom we were much indebted for great kindness and hospitality tendered to us during our sojourn at Palma,—we found the following inscription scratched in chalk:—"Muertos: Juan. Lorenzo. Faustina."
Many years ago, in order to force the Spanish doctors to be more assiduous in the study of their profession, it was ordered by Government that on the door of the house of a medical man there should be traced as many red marks or crosses as the number of patients who died under his treatment. A nervous Englishman arriving in Madrid became indisposed, and sent his servant to explore the whole city in quest of a doctor who, having the fewest red marks chalked on his door, must consequently have—as he concluded—the fewest deaths to answer for. A medical gentleman was thus discovered whose residence was distinguished by only one mark, and him the Englishman immediately retained. The invalid congratulating himself before some friends on what he considered a "treasure trove," they clasped their hands, and exclaimed—"Dios! What have you done? You have chosen the worst doctor in Spain! He never had but one patient in his life, and he died under him!"
It is astonishing the horror of fresh air entertained by Spaniards. On one blazing day—the day before our departure from Palma—while we were undergoing the agonies of packing our portmanteau, an old lady rushed violently into our bedroom without "with your leave," or "by your leave," and, while giving utterance to a torrent of incoherent sounds, expressive either of remonstrance or resentment, slammed together the window-frames, the greatest anxiety being at the same time depicted on her countenance, and her eyes looking at us with a glance which seemed to say "Are you mad?"
Packing is a great art quite as much so as the comprehension of Bradshaw. In our opinion the art of packing, Bradshaw, carving, and manners should be taught at all schools as distinct branches of education, in order to render a man what Mrs. Malaprop would have called an "Admiral Crichton." It is very curious that at every place one leaves one finds that the portmanteau holds less than ever, and has become smaller in spite of having generally left something behind at the last place, until, in very despair, one simply uses very bad language, takes up all the things, and flings them en masse into the trunk; and then, having danced a little war-dance on the lid, sits moodily down upon the same like a perspiring Banshee on a wall, and smokes a cigarillo, or makes one's notes.
What a blessing have those men lost in these climes who bathe not, neither do they swim! The bathing is perfect at Palma, in that red-hot climate and dark blue sea. The water is warm, and to good swimmers, as buoyant as a feather-bed, with the advantage of having no fleas; though perhaps, now and then, so they say, with the little inconvenience of a stray shark or two. The length of time one may remain in the water without experiencing any chill, is remarkable. One can, in fact, lie on his back, with face upturned to the soft blue skies and almost go to sleep. Indeed, the astonishing thing seems to be how anyone can sink in this heavy medium. It is so transparent at the entrance of the Bay of Palma, that, during a calm, weeds can be distinctly seen at the depth of forty fathoms, waving at the bottom among the stones and shells.
In the Middle Ages, Majorca suffered much from the inroads of the Barbary pirates. Even now the old custom is kept up of lighting beacons every night all round the island. As soon as one is lit, the next follows until the entire circle display their signals. All remain lighted one hour after the last has been trimmed, and are then extinguished to show that the island is in perfect security.
We were sorry when the time for our departure from Majorca arrived. As we left its shores, we looked back with regret on the bright villages nestling amongst the orange groves and olive lands. We felt sad when the pretty city of Palma, with its towers, terraces, and cathedral, was hidden for ever by a projecting headland. Our gaze lingered with a melancholy feeling on the Great Dragonera Rock, with its flaming beacon—the westernmost point of Majorca—and on those mountain peaks with which we had become so familiar, as they melted away into the warm haze of the Mediterranean.
"On the wide waste of waters was no living thing,
Save the vanishing gleam of the sea-bird's white wing."
And the Evening Star looked down on the wave like the eye of the mariner's guardian angel. The night was calm and balmy, scarce a breath disturbed the surface of the waters, and enwrapped in a Valencian manta, we lay down to rest under the clear firmament, and were lulled to sleep by the Arabic drone of the man at the wheel.
The early rays of the dawn as we awoke were lying warm on the white walls of a place with which we were familiar, the port of El Grao, and lighting up the distant towers and spires of Valencia. El Grao, with its flat-roofed eastern houses, and its long line of white meeting the blue sea below, together with the lofty lateen sails of its shipping, and the palm-trees fringing the coast, might have been, as far as appearance went, some Syrian port.
I was again compelled to incur the pity and contempt of the good Spaniards by getting into a boat to do a little natation before landing. I excited their astonishment, if not wrath, by climbing out of the water up the side of a vessel at anchor, for the purpose of taking a header from its bowsprit. On the sudden appearance of my naked form and red caleçons upon the deck, the mariners at once came to the conclusion that I was either a maniac or an Englishman, an idea which emboldened them so much that they chased me from one end of the ship to the other, uttering loud cries. The chasse aux caleçons rouges, however, soon came to an end; for on arriving at the figure-head of the vessel, I simply disappeared, head foremost, overboard, to the undisguised amazement of my pursuers. On rising to the surface I saw seven men, and a marine with fixed bayonet, staring dumbly at me over the bulwarks. "Addios, Señores," cried I, and swam off to my friend in the boat, who also had been sporting like a dolphin in the deep while taking his bath.
In Valencia cows' milk is as great a luxury as ginger-beer in Yucatan. The milk of goats and mares is the staple commodity—that of cows, when it is to be procured, being advertised about the town on placards at a heavy price to tempt the rich, in the same manner as one sees rare wines announced in London. In fact, to the common herd of mortals, Spain is not a land flowing with milk and butter. Oil, however, is universal, being found in cakes, in pastry, in soup, in fact in every dish, betraying its presence even in the very air itself.
Amongst the rules of etiquette in vogue with the lower classes in Spain, is the custom of offering you a mouthful of whatever they may be eating while you are holding intercourse with them. We are happy to add, however, that it is equally the custom to refuse. It is bad enough to have to astonish our organs of digestion by eating all the strange compounds we do eat at la mesa redonda, or table d'hôte, in the hotels of Spain. What a doom must it be for a member of the Reform Club to travel for a few weeks in the Peninsula! The very idea would make Soyer turn in agony in his tomb in that country whose stomach he left his native land on purpose to benefit.
After landing at El Grao from our swim, we again jumped into the "taratana," and once more were bumping through the dust, stones, and ruts of that ridiculously bad road under the acacias, towards the pest-house hotel, where we supposed the one-eyed beggars would be awaiting us, not only on the stairs, but at the very doors of our bedrooms. On we went through the green avenue, past the battalions of red-legged, white-capped soldiery, drilling on the broiling sand and under a vertical sun. We crossed the yellow bridge of the Guadalaviar, with the statues of virgin and saint with tin hats on their marble brows. Again we were in the midst of the long, dark, cool streets, in which resounded the clanging of church bells, and looking up at houses behind the coloured awnings and blinds of which dark, laughing, wicked eyes gleam like those of snakes from the obscurity within the half-curtained windows. We rode quickly past the arabesque buildings, the rich Gothic churches, the sculptured palaces, and the Moorish courts, through the gaudy, noisy market-place, with its stirring crowd, in garb as bright and various as that of a harlequinade, and out into the blazing white squares and sunny gardens, until the cool dim vault of the old cathedral once more hung over us like a grey cloud of stone.
In the interior of the cathedral are hung the spurs and horse-bit of the Cid. When Valencia was conquered from the Moor, those pieces of rusty iron were placed there by the hero's hand hundreds of years ago, and remain till now as witnesses of his immortal chivalry. He died in Valencia in 1099.
Within the old cathedral are noble classic arches composed of rare and various marbles. Lofty Corinthian columns support magnificent domes, from the coloured windows of which the sun-rays stream upon the curling smoke of incense which, rising in circling clouds, gradually disappears in the immense arched vault above. The choir, so richly adorned with carved oak, is filled with crimson-clad priests, attended by dark-eyed boys swinging silver censers, and bearing aloft great flaming candles. Besides the display of wonderful carving and gilding, there are brazen railings of the finest workmanship, a multitude of gems of dazzling brightness, and figures of the Virgin Mother and Christ arrayed in robes of unexampled magnificence—altogether such a display of ecclesiastical wealth as is seen nowhere but in Spain in these modern days. On the walls are portraits of saints and paintings of scenes from sacred history, most of them, if not all, works of great value.
In strange contrast to the wealth of the church are the crowds of beggars crawling in an unutterable state along the marble pavements, on which all sorts of foul abomination are allowed to lie for days. In the midst of this ecclesiastical splendour, the altars are specially to be noted for the wealth that has been expended on them, and for the beauty of their design. But from these we turn to the arches and pillars of stone which carry us back to that remote era, darkened by ages, when the church was founded. The organ too is evidently a noble instrument, as we can judge by the fine tones which it emits while accompanying the monotonous chaunt of the priests. The rich coloured glass of the windows gives such variety to the hue of the light which it admits, as to add very much to the solemn impression produced by so magnificent a temple.
We climbed up to the summit of the cathedral tower, panting in the hot air and dust, and amidst those sour unpleasant odours which seem to be a sine quâ non with all the interiors of Spanish and Italian churches, not excepting the towers. If these are the odours of sanctity of which we hear so much, they are certainly far from agreeable. Arrived on the summit of the old lofty yellow belfry, from which a beautiful young woman had thrown herself for love a week before, a view of fairy beauty was spread out before us. Beneath lay the city with all its domes, towers, and pinnacles, its fantastic architecture, its gloomy Moorish gateways, and its piles of Saracenic ruin towering in melancholy grandeur, like ghosts of departed power, amidst the downfall of all their pride.
There lay the green gardens, gleaming with marble fountains and statues. The houses are of every hue. Noble mansions are flecked all over with white lace-like arabesque decorations. Spacious squares and teeming market-place are seen amid the confusion of the labyrinthine streets, rendered sombre and cool by their overhanging eaves, almost apparently touching each other, and thus shading the winding way below from the burning rays of the sun. Away in the distance, all around the yellow walls of the city, are fruitful plains, with here and there masses of deep green foliage streaked with the grey of the olive. From north, west, and south, a noble amphitheatre of purpling mountains surrounds the city. In all directions orange groves, with their golden burden, and shrubs of gaudy hue, give a rich appearance to the land. The splendid chestnut and the tall palm-tree wave their branches, fanned by the warm and scented air. Sparkling villas, slender spires, and sunny villages, scattered far and near, are shining in the midst of the green and smiling plain, while afar off, bright, broad, blue, and beautiful, appears the hushed and trembling sea. Truly nowhere is a nobler view to be seen than that around Valencia, the fairest of Mediterranean cities.
CHAPTER XVI.
DEPARTURE FROM VALENCIA.—A RAILWAY JOURNEY.—DIFFICULTIES TO WHICH TRAVELLERS ARE EXPOSED.—TARRAGONA.—SKETCHES OF ITS HISTORY.—ARRIVAL AT BARCELONA.
WE departed from Valencia, regretting to quit so soon a city where there was so much that was attractive. The train moved off, and after we had proceeded a short distance the night came on. Our appetites being sharpened by long fast and the sea air, we inquired of the guard at which station the passengers would descend to dine. Being told at Castellon, we leant back on the cushions, smiling at each other with that benevolent expression of countenance which the prospect of the refreshment of the inner man produces on the outer—a sort of artificial good-nature, in fact. So fickle, however, is the mental constitution of man, so evanescent everything appertaining to human nature, that in about an hour from the happy moment just recorded we were sitting in extreme and opposite corners of the carriage, addressing staccato remarks to each other, which, although intended to be general, and to carry with them all the suaviter in modo required by the conventionalisms of good society, were at the same time remarkable for the transparency of their tenor. And though in our conduct to each other we had been perfect models of outward politeness, the manner and tone of the conversation became somehow painfully civil, not to say rather nervous and unpleasant, like that of two persons who, having at length, as they think, found each other out, adopt a tone of studied high-polite reserve, not unmixed with a complacent consciousness of their own superiority. And why all this? Wherefore this sudden estrangement between two fond hearts? The answer is simply Stomach, and nothing more; for it is trying, very trying, after one has been assured that dinner waits at a certain station, to find upon arriving there, mad with hunger, that no adequate preparation has been made for you, and, on asking for the buffet, to be directed to a greasy board in the open air, behind some wooden palings, presided over by a dirty old man with two saucers before him full of snails, a plate of minnows, and a collection of little cakes made with rancid oil instead of butter, which condiments we have to clutch at through the railings like monkeys in a cage, the only light being the illumination afforded by a farthing candle. We say it is very difficult under such circumstances to avoid the display of a little ill-nature.
The railway from Valencia, going somewhere in the direction of Barcelona, is a miserable mockery of civilisation. The engine one would imagine was about five-horse power, by the pace at which it went; and it had to stop every five or six miles to renew its supply of water. To all appearance it was simply an old boiler, furnished in a hurry with a few mechanical intestines. Not the least of its evils was that it emitted a pestilential black fume. The motion of the train had an effect upon the passengers something analogous, we should think, to that of being tossed in a blanket.
At a dreary broken-down village called Amplora, at eleven at night, in pitch darkness and drizzling rain, the Barcelona railway came to an end. We were aroused from a feverish sort of sleep by the light of a strong lantern turned full upon our faces. Having undoubled, and stretched ourselves out from a sort of patent boot-jack position, we were hastily packed up tightly, like figs in a drum, with a snuff-coloured gentleman, and stowed away within the fragrant recesses of the coupé of what was confidently supposed by the misguided natives of those regions to be a diligence. With our heads touching the ceiling of the coupé, and knees protruding through the front windows, while our luggage, boxes, parcels, and cloaks were thrown on the top of us, as if they had been heaped there with a pitch-fork, we found ourselves, it need scarcely be remarked, in a very uncomfortable position. It was not long before a collision took place between us and the Moorish-looking gentleman, our companion, whose chief characteristics appeared to be a profuse abuse of snuff, unchanged clothes, an unwashed skin, and an eagle eye. He said he was unwell, and had been told to avoid fresh air. The Anglo-Saxons said they also were unwell, but as a renewal of the oxygen in the atmosphere was considered beneficial to health, they had been advised to avail themselves of the fresh air as much as possible. We were pressed so tightly into our seats, that we looked like owls in an ivy bush, except that those luckier birds rarely have several hundredweights of luggage piled upon their bodies, so as to leave only their heads visible inside a Spanish diligence. We do not suppose either that the owls, which are generally considered partial to the fresh night air, would much like travelling with a gentleman who preferred to be cooped up during his journeys in an exhausted receiver. We were actually packed like preserved sprats in a barrel, and the Moor, who had grumbled until he could grumble no more, was seized with a violent fit of shivering and sneezing, which on the whole was very creditably played by him, and might have established for him a second-rate notoriety in low comedy at a minor theatre. He caught hold of all the rugs and cloaks he could lay hands upon, and, utterly careless of the proprietorship of the same, built a wall thereof between himself and the deadly open windows on our side of the coupé, and so subsided into a sort of angry slumber, broken by constant snorts and groans.
Off we started, the rays of the lantern on the front of the diligence above us streaming ahead on a team of eight white horses, and into the darkness beyond. There were two coachmen sitting on a bench immediately in front of us, considerably blocking up the small windows. These two individuals cracked their whips in a wonderful manner, until they almost played tunes therewith, giving tongue at the same time to a long duet of curious howls. Having thus relieved their feelings, they again cracked their long whips over their heads, making the eight white horses dash away amidst a peal of the little bells which were suspended all round them. On we rushed at a furious pace through the darkness, and through thick clouds of dust, rolling whitely upwards through the glare of the lamp. We passed a straggling collection of weird old trees, which nodded like passing ghosts, and disappeared in the gloom. With the earliest streaks of dawn, wild-looking mountains, dark and distant, arose in all directions, and great rocks, dilapidated villages, and mournful plains, dotted here and there by a solitary figure in uncouth garb, came in turn into the focus of the lamp. Now we swept round a sharp corner, and saw the eight white horses curving round after each other, apparently far off in the misty light, and the two coachmen, muffled up in their great shaggy coats, sitting side by side like a couple of brown bears erect on their hind quarters. We rattled and jumbled with a noise like that of near artillery over a gaunt wooden bridge, piled all over with stark black scaffolding, while the light of the lamp streamed in blood-red streaks on the dark flowing waters beneath. A group of unearthly-looking buildings on the opposite shore then came into view, hazy, indistinct, and undefined; and after passing under a high stone arch, we found ourselves in a long dark street. On each side were windows with black blinds, and the ghostly walls, reared high above us, seemed as if about to fall in ruins, and bury us in a mass of stones and rubbish. As we rattled on with a deafening noise, we turned the angle of a large edifice which looked like a mouldy fortress of other days. From the number of houses around us we must have been passing through some town or city; but no sign of life, human or animal, save ourselves, intruded upon the solitude; and night and loneliness reigned heavily over all. We at length passed with a succession of violent jerks over a crazy, neglected-looking drawbridge, and through some huge ramparts, and left the city behind us, with its deep black river flowing on in the silence. We hastened at a lively pace over brown open plains, encircled by jagged iron-like mountains, which, at first looming in the distant dawn, soon received us into their bosom. In a short space of time the jangle of bells diminished, while the whips exploded into a farewell fantasia. The drivers or coachmen climbed down from their perch, and in a moment more we descended, heated, dusty, wearied, and fretful at the miserable barn-like railway station of Amposta, where we found a table d'hôte which groaned beneath the weight of a dish of olives, a plate of dissected cock, some salad, and a bottle of wine, remarkably ordinaire, which a shilling bottle of port from a Whitechapel gin-palace would have put to the blush. There were also some jovial viands in the shape of filthy little globules called grapes, and a few sour flabby turnip-like vegetables entitled apples. Truly travellers often see strange things in this country, to be remembered, of course, among the cosas de España.
Here we got into a hot railway box, stuffed with cushions, apparently filled with oil, from the odour they emitted, and then jogged along at the rate of about six miles an hour. We were thankful to be well clear of that depressing place, Amposta, and sat quietly in the carriage, dreamily inhaling the morning air as we glided along. The stars were gradually disappearing from the vault of night, or paling in the advancing glory of the coming sun. A few golden bands flamed across the eastern heaven, heralding the sun's first kiss on the morning of a new day.
In a short time we were coasting along the Mediterranean waters. Now we crossed a fragile looking wooden bridge, and swept high over the waves which gently broke beneath. Then a lovely view of blue curving shores with rocks and light-houses, and of the smooth sea flecked by the white sails of numerous feluccas, broke upon the sight. Our road, however, turned suddenly away from the coast, and we proceeded inland through hot sandy plains, and occasional orchards of orange, citron, and pomegranate. Groups of white flat-roofed houses gleaming in the sun, with the palm trees waving over them, were seen pitched amongst green fields of long bamboo, Indian corn, rice, and tobacco. Sometimes we were near enough to rugged-looking mountains, to descry the dwarf oak and arbutus with which they were clothed in all directions.
Tarragona was the next town we reached. Close to it we saw great aloes, many of which were sprouting from the sand and rock-strewn beach, and from the prostrate masonry of the Cæsars. There are two towns, the higher and the lower, which are separated by a line of walls. The higher city sits majestic on a lofty rock of limestone, and from a height of eight hundred feet looks down upon the azure sea. The houses are mainly composed of the ruins of Roman palaces,—even the simple home of the artizan is adorned with marble friezes, or upheld by portions of Corinthian columns;—and on the white marble flags in the courts of the Imperial Baths, the swine were basking in the sun.
The climate of Tarragona is now, as it ever was, mild and genial, and the summer heat is tempered by the cool breeze of the sea. So salubrious was its air held to be, that the Roman Prætors always established here their winter quarters, and Tarragona became the capital of Roman Spain. It was originally colonised by the Carthaginians, and the flower of its youth were enlisted to swell the armies of the great enemy of Rome. Publius and Cneius Scipio, however, occupied the city, and compelled it to submit to the Roman sway. Tarragona, in the war between Cæsar and Pompey, declared for the latter, but upon his defeat at Pharsalia, humbly submitted to the conqueror, and Julius resided within its walls, calling the city "Julia Victrix." Augustus Cæsar passed one winter here, b.c. 26, and the ruins of the palace where he dwelt may still be seen supporting some ignoble bricks of modern Spain.
Tarragona stands amidst the fallen splendour of ancient Rome, while the stern mountains rising darkly around, though comparatively changeless themselves, look down upon the scene below, which, amid the wreck of an empire, speaks so eloquently of the uncertainty of human greatness.
We had just congratulated ourselves in having got rid of the Moorish-looking gentleman who had been constantly afraid of catching cold from an open window behind his wall of packages in the diligence, when we were favoured with the society of another native gentleman who had already caught cold, and, like all his countrymen, was terribly afraid of fresh air. As the sun increased in power our friend seemed to decrease in caloric, and proceeded at length to encase his legs in a sack, at the bottom of which was a hot bottle. When one of us approached the windows he requested that they might be kept well closed, in order "to preserve our atmosphere;" but unfortunately we could hit upon no expedient by which we might "preserve our atmosphere" without destroying his at the same time, and so the eternal quæstio vexata of fresh air had to be argued once more.
The new acquisition was at first very taciturn. As the day, however, became perfectly broiling, and the hot bottle began to do its work, he seemed to show signs of thawing a little, and some of the ideas that had been ice-locked within his mind during the night began to dribble out before the warmth of day. He, however, knew as little of English as we of Spanish. For example, in explaining that we thought night-travelling a great bore, we were astonished to hear him say that—"Zee voyage in zee noctes was 'a great male pig.'" He had, of course, on some occasion looked out in the dictionary for "bore," and turning to "boar" by mistake, had found the explanation, "Boar—male pig," a piece of information which he had fondly cherished in his mind ever since, to display at the first opportunity, as a proof of his linguistical acquirements.
After a weary time, as we rattled along the iron way—the ferrocarril, as they call the railroad in Spain—the white town of Barcelona began to come into view, with its handsome outlying villas and its busy manufactories, all glowing in the bright sun, in the midst of fruitful olives and gigantic aloes. When we had reached the Station, the ever-wakeful aduanero was there to welcome us in his own peculiar way. A smile, a joke, the offer of a cigarette, and the title of Señor to the dirty functionary, produced the usual satisfactory effects, and we were dismissed with a polite salute before even the Inspector arrived. Without the loss of a moment's time, we were seated on the knifeboard of an omnibus, which immediately began to wend its way through the pretty boulevards of the city, and amidst the gay houses flaunting with bright blinds and awnings, which look down on a beautiful double line of plane trees forming a grateful avenue in the midst.
The Fonda de las Cuatro Naciones is a charming hotel in every respect, perhaps the best in Spain. Several of our countrymen had taken up their quarters here before us, and, according to custom, had made themselves remarkable by what we may call, if not the usual, at least the travelling peculiarities of the Briton en voyage. In the streets of Barcelona we again came across the Britisher prowling about as usual, looking very shy and miserable, the expression of his countenance seeming to say that he would be very grateful to any one who would tell him what to do with himself. Why is it that so many Englishmen creep about foreign towns as if they were ashamed of themselves—as if they were anxious to avoid the human eye, or had committed some awful crime?
CHAPTER XVII.
BARCELONA.—HISTORICAL REMINISCENCES.—CASTLE OF MONJUICH.—THE CATHEDRAL.—THE GRAND OPERA.—THE PLAZA DE TOROS.—THE LITTLE ROPE-WALKER.—MONTSERRAT.
BARCELONA, once the rival of Venice, and now the chief sea-port of Spain, seems to be a bright, clean, and prosperous city. Its aspect, so far at least as regards its principal thoroughfares, is that of a feeble imitation of Paris. Its streets in general are as bad specimens of paving as are to be found in the Peninsula. The only truly national thing about the place is the odours, which we must regard as essential properties of a Spanish town. The long-suffering traveller's nose must resign itself with the best grace possible to the incessant inhalation of that variety of oleaginous and ammoniac smells which to Spaniards, we suppose, must be among the necessities of existence. There are few Moorish remains, as the Moors held Barcelona only for the comparatively short space of eighty-eight years, being expelled in 801 by Charlemagne, who added the city to his duchy of Aquitaine. The wise and the curious have determined amongst themselves that Barcelona was founded by Hamilcar the Carthaginian, who was also called Barca (Anglice, thunderbolt). However, it is quite certain that Augustus Cæsar raised it to considerable importance, making it a colonia under the appellation of Julia Augusta, Pia, Faventia, and the rest. During the Middle Ages, Barcelona was the centre of learning and the resort of troubadours. Columbus was there received by the Catholic king to whom he had given a world. In 1543, steam was first applied to ships of 200 tons at Barcelona by Blasco de Garay; but from certain political complications and rivalries the experiment, though successful, was discouraged. Of course we had the constant pleasure of meeting, "whene'er we took our walks abroad," our old friends the sunburnt cigarette-smoking beggars, who with Maffeo Orsini cried, "Il cigaretto per esser felice!" Black with sun-burn, dirt, and age, having apparently nothing on earth to do, and plenty of time to do it, with lots of people to help them, they lounged about the portals of those wonderful churches one meets with so often in Italy and Spain—church, barn, and fortress lumped together, as if the building had not yet made up its mind what order of architecture it wanted to belong to—to what purpose, temporal or sacred, it was to be devoted.
"Donde el mar?" cried we, on descending from the knifeboard.
"Par ici, M'sieu, coom vid me, va bene—all right;" and away we go with the commissionnaire, having provided ourselves with towels, to the boats, and in a quarter of an hour were lying on our backs on the dark blue wave, as on a sofa, looking up at the great brown isolated hill of Monjuich, with its fortress crest rising eight hundred feet sheer out of the sea, turning our eyes to the forest of masts in the distant harbour, regarding with interest the white sparkling town, its domes, towers, and wharves roaring with busy life, backed in the distance by clusters of purple mountains, or curiously watching the sea-gulls, as with their white pinions they wavered slowly in the soft warm blue air above us. This was luxury. The French say the English do not understand luxe. Ignorance is a voluntary misfortune, and it is a pity that our censors don't see to it.
The red-capped, lazy, brown, one-eyed old boatman was much astonished at the fact that any human beings could be so mad as to enjoy a dip in the sea in such a glorious climate. When he had so far overcome his surprise as to be able to row us back to shore, we flew on the wings of hunger to a breakfast of fresh sardines, cutlets, quails, figs, and amontillado, the interval between each dish being occupied by smoking a cigarillo, à la manière Espagnole.
By the way, in order to illustrate the carelessness, timidity, obstinacy, malice, or whatever flaw it may be in the Barcelonese boatman's character, I may observe that, having placed great confidence in the fact of my having a boat ready to follow me in my swimming excursion, I quietly swam in this delightful blue, warm, and buoyant water about a mile out to sea, never dreaming but that the boatman would follow. Upon turning round, however, with a view of re-entering the boat, I descried it, to my amazement, about a quarter of a mile astern, and in it two human beings, apparently engaged in fierce dispute, gesticulating violently and waving about their arms. These were the boatman and my friend, who had just emerged himself from his bath. The latter naturally wished the boat to follow me, in case of any sudden current carrying me away to seaward, but the boatman distinctly objected to that proceeding, remarking, "Me no go, Engleeshman out dare too mosh wash!" meaning, "This friend of yours out there has swam out too far for me to care about following him, so now he will have to come back by himself, for I shall go no farther." However, the oars were soon in the stalwart hands of my friend, and in a few minutes the boat was alongside of the Englishman who had "too mosh washed" himself.
Thus refreshed, we could now enjoy a stroll in the town. The day was beautiful, the sun shining brilliantly. And so onwards through the shady boulevards and the cool narrow streets, in which we mingled with a half-bred sort of French provincial capital population. The fine mule, with its gaudy trappings, is not frequent here; and all such Spanish sights as picturesque, dirty men in old velvet hats, sashes, coloured blankets, and sandals, are, alas! as rare as ortolans in Tottenham-court Road. In the course of our walk we came to the town gates, and emerging from them, found ourselves on a white road, glaring beneath the rays of an African sun, the heat insupportable, and the dust insufferable. Picking our way among stones and aloes, we began the ascent of Monjuich, the name of which is derived from Mons Jovis—a temple dedicated to Jupiter having been built upon the summit of this mountain by the Romans.
From the fortress cresting the mountain is seen the entire town of Barcelona lying below, with the harbour and its crowd of shipping gay with the flags of every nation. On the southern side is spread out a wide tract of pestilential marshes, seething in the sun, and yet occupied by a number of human habitations. Fever, it need scarcely be said, rages throughout these regions the greatest part of the year. Only those who are compelled by the hardest necessity live and work in such an unhealthy locality. It is painful to think that in a scene so attractive, where nature clothes herself in some of her most beautiful forms, sickness and death should strike down so many victims. To the west, the sunny slopes of the distant mountains are seen gradually lessening in the far haze, until they appear to be lost in the sea. The castle of Monjuich is a most important stronghold, and in case of revolution, invaluable to those in possession of it, its guns commanding the entire town.
Barcelona is the second largest town in Spain, and the most prosperous and flourishing in a mercantile point of view. Its marts, quays, and ware-houses are strongly built, and the general aspect of this Manchester of Spanish Lancashire is busy, thriving, and cheerful. Connected with the Atlantic ports by railways, and with the world by the sea, upon which it is so charmingly situated, Barcelona, with its industrious, bold, intelligent, and good-natured population, should allow no rival to supersede it in the arts of commerce. The climate of its winter is bright, mild, and even. Snow is seldom seen, and the average number of days in which rain falls is but sixty-nine out of the 365. The heat of summer is no doubt great, but it is tempered by the Mediterranean breezes. In the country around the city, the plains are covered with orange and pomegranate groves, and the hill sides are variegated with the pretty country seats, or torres, which so enraptured Washington Irving.
It must be confessed, however, that it is rather disappointing to find so little of the real Spanish element in so large a town of Spain. Valladolid and Barcelona are alike, inasmuch as they both possess arcades; but where one is intensely Spanish, the other is terribly Lowtherian, and recalls Burlingtonian memories. The system of begging seems, too, to be carried on here in a very refined manner. In one of the most frequented plazas in the city, we were, on one occasion, suddenly accosted by an elderly lady covered with a quantity of black lace, and otherwise dressed with great care and propriety. Upon taking off our hats to inquire what service we could have the happiness of rendering her—thinking, perhaps, that she might be ill and wished us to call a fiacre, or still better, that she was going to ask us to dinner—she simply demanded a few reals "for the love of God and Saint James."
During the recent revolution a few urchins, either from mischief or from the design of their dupers, shouted one day upon the public promenade, when at its fullest, the words Viva Prim! Instantly the over-zealous gendarmes on duty pointed their carbines in the direction from whence issued the cry, and a flight of bullets was sent among the terrified groups of people in the streets. Several perfectly innocent persons, including two ladies and an infant, were mortally wounded. The knowledge of this melancholy fact, which had occurred only recently, did not make it more pleasant to us during the hours which we spent daily in the society of a Spanish gentleman who had taken a fancy to us. Being a violent democrat and of a most impulsive disposition, he was in the constant habit of talking in a dangerously free manner, in a painfully loud and distinct tone of voice, about the above-named general, bringing out the word "Prim" so sharply and distinctly that we really expected, every time he uttered it, to experience the sensation of being riddled with balls and slugs from any point of the compass. As we repeatedly urged upon our "dear friend," we did not in the least care who was who, or what was what. It was a matter of no concern to us that in Spain the wrong men were in the wrong places—the square men in the round holes, and the round men in the square holes—nor would it cause us the slightest uneasiness if they remained there till Doomsday. All this we took the greatest pains to impress upon our acquaintance, especially after hearing the before-mentioned anecdote; but still, at disagreeably short intervals, the word PRIM, ever and anon, rang out with startling distinctness, causing us as much uneasiness as we should have felt if we had every moment expected the explosion of a shell at our sides.
The cathedral, of course, had to be done; and it is wonderful how instinctively the tourist hunts out his natural mental food unaided. In Italy, after breakfast, at any new place, it is always "Now for the Duomo!" And so in Spain, in spite of the intricate windings of streets and general labyrinthine state of the towns, sure as the trained hunter upon his quarry, does the tourist seek out and find his chasse café—the cathedral. Well, perhaps, there is nothing on earth more sublime, majestic, and imposing than one of those masterpieces of Christian architecture, a Spanish cathedral, no temple more fit and worthy for the worship of the Eternal.
The Cathedral of Barcelona, like many others in Spain, is built upon the site of a Moorish mosque, and is magnificent in design, though the impression which it produces is perhaps rather sombre. Darkened chapels, dimly lit with twinkling lights, throw out a subdued blaze of splendour from their gorgeous retablos and glinting brazen railings. Above, the glorious Gothic arches meet in all their florid beauty, like the trees in some heavenly avenue. Long rows of stalls and seats—miracles of wood-carving, surmounted with spiry pinnacles of the darkest oak, whose wondrous tracery seems like a canopy of heavy lace spread upon them—surround the choir. Bare marbles gem the walls, the air is stained with rich and solemn colouring from the gorgeous windows, and the fragrant smoke of incense rolls in slow grey clouds around the ancient columns.
The Royal Opera-house of Barcelona is one of the largest in the world, and when it is filled has a most enchanting aspect. As the Barcelonese are particularly partial to amusements, and, in fact, to all kinds of gaiety, they have acquired such taste in self-decoration and personal adornment, that a very fine general effect is produced when the great salle is packed to overflowing with the beau monde. At this opera-house one sees a perfect galaxy of dark, and, we may say, blazing beauty; for amidst the rich silks, the gorgeous satins, and the gay ribbons of all colours, brilliant with sparkling jewels, there shines out from every female face the yet brighter jewelry of large Spanish eyes flashing the quick emotions of the human soul as the music falls, stirring like a breeze, upon its chords. The number of uniforms, too, glowing from all parts of the great theatre, render the scene very gorgeous; and the manner in which the glittering multitude occasionally rises excitedly en masse to applaud and wave their kerchiefs, as they spontaneously feel the sudden effect of some passage of unusual power, is perfectly electric.
The performance, however, compared with that witnessed at Madrid, and still more with that of the London or Paris Operas, was, when we were at Barcelona, tame and mediocre. The whole company seemed more or less in a general state of chronic melancholy and chromatic scales. Roderigo chiefly relied upon his legs and one high note, and was continually poising himself on one of his feet like a zephyr beginning his training. Why, we wonder, are all Othellos on the lyric stage in a general state of perspiration? And when a gentleman in an opera wants to curse his daughter, why does he invariably dress himself in black velvet and imitation point lace, while the lady herself must appear with her back hair down? It certainly is very curious, though quite Spanish, to observe, in about four minutes after the descent of the curtain at the end of each act, the entire opera-house filled with the smoke of tobacco, and one experiences a novel sensation when, walking on the grand staircase, he stops to light his cigarillo at one of the gilded lamps. It is of little use for English ladies to complain of tobacco in Spain, and it is questionable taste in them to be indignant, as we have seen many, on finding themselves involved in clouds of smoke. Besides which, all mankind have to bear their burdens in one way or another, and the fragrant scent of the Havannah leaf is surely a trial light enough to endure amongst the greater trials of life. Men have to tolerate women in their vapours, why should women not make the same allowance for men during theirs? Each nation, like each individual, has its idiosyncrasy, and the great maxim, "What can't be cured must be endured," ought never to be forgotten by travellers, especially those who are strangers to the customs of the country in which they are temporarily sojourning.
The Plaza de los Toros, or Bull Ring, situated in the quartier called Barceloneta, where the poorer and labouring classes, together with a community of ship-chandlers, reside, has no pretensions in appearance to anything else than what it is, namely, a great wooden slaughter-house. When we arrived in the city the bull fights were over for the season, and the ring was used as a circus and gymnasium for acrobats and athletes. We witnessed within it, however, a spectacle, bloodless indeed, but still with the scent and thirst of blood—and human blood, too—about it, which we may hope can scarcely be witnessed in any other civilised land, whose fiercer passions are not kept in a chronic state of ferment by festive shows of wanton cruelty, and whose tender youth are not deadened from the dawn of their sensibilities to all love of mercy and sympathy for suffering. A female child of seven years was brought into the great arena, which was covered with human beings, their faces all turned upwards. She was engaged to walk the entire length of a rope inclined from the floor on one side of the building up to the roof on the other, about a hundred feet in height. Upon taking her place on the rope, just before commencing her perilous journey, the poor child, suddenly seized with a panic, burst into tears, and evidently shaking with fear, implored to be excused. At this sight, the helpless child trembling in sight of her death, it might be, what emotions filled the breast of the great crowd? Sorrow for young innocence in deadly peril for the idle amusement of the spectators? An imperative desire to rush forward and rescue that tender child from wanton destruction? Did any mother's heart, fluttering with loving thoughts of her own infant, yearn for the rescue of this poor little being, tricked out in sparkling tinsel and pink gauze, trembling alone in mid air on a single rope? No! they all thought only of the value of their miserable pence, and loud rough voices were heard in all directions execrating the child. "Push her on—make her go," they cried, and shook their fists at the poor little creature, whose tears now rained down her cheeks as she looked from side to side, imploringly for one friendly glance. But there was none. With a sudden impulse, however—apparently of pride—she shook her head defiantly, gulped down a sob, and grasping the balancing pole, started on her high and narrow path. She arrived, thank God, at her destination safe and sound, not only, however, without a note of approval or applause, but amidst hisses and jeers. This certainly was a painful page in the study of a nation's characteristics, without one redeeming trait to soften the painful effect it produced, it is to be hoped, on many minds.
Near Barcelona is Montserrat, the Mons Serratus of the Romans. Upon a wild and rugged mountain, hewn and carved into a weird distorted mass by the mysterious forces of nature, is pitched a monastery. The view from the summit is, of course, magnificent, and the innumerable grottoes with which the great serrated mountain is honeycombed, are as usual very dark, damp, fatiguing, and unwholesome. Though no doubt they are curious and wonderful, one is apt, after having done a certain amount of grottoes and stalactite caverns in various parts of the world, to say, when the words "How marvellous!" are dinned into the ear, "We wish to goodness it was impossible!" as Dr. Johnson observed when he was listening to some celebrated performer on the fiddle. The blunt lexicographer, who was no respecter of persons, was, however, possibly right, for, when flatterers meet, Satan goes to dinner—there is no need for him to stay, in fact; those whom he leaves behind him will do all the work for him.
The railway from Barcelona to Gerona passes through a succession of lovely landscapes. The traveller is carried past lofty chains of hills clothed up to their summits in the deep green of the waving pine. The iron road then passes through sweet valleys, the gentle floors of which, smiling in the sunshine, are covered with the richest verdure. Occasionally the eminences which crown these valleys are crested with the broken masonry of other days; as we journey onwards—castles, forts, old ramparts, crumbling walls, rear up in all directions like skeletons of the past. When the scene begins to show signs of human habitation, we pass white villas and farm-houses, terraced round and hung with balconies, over which grow luxuriant creepers. Solitary mansions are sometimes seen gleaming out from the dark verdure of the woods, or sitting on the velvet surface of ample plains. Then the railway carries us past the channels of dried-up rivers, and over stony plains, which appear to stretch away until, in the distant horizon, they meet the soft blue line of the Mediterranean. There we enjoyed from a considerable distance our last few glimpses of those fairy waters, with many a white lateen sail resting upon them, like the weary wings of some exhausted sea-bird.
CHAPTER XVIII.
ANCIENT BRIDGE OF GERONA.—THE POPULATION.—A FIESTA.—SEARCH FOR AN HOTEL.—THE FONDA DE LA ESTRELLA.—LAST SIEGE OF GERONA.—THE CATHEDRAL.—A FEW CONCLUDING WORDS ON SPAIN.
WHEN at last the train stopped in the outskirts of Gerona, we mounted on the top of an omnibus and were whirled off through a boulevard of plane trees, in which were groups of very plain folk, who—it being a fiesta day—were dancing and whooping in large circles in a frenzied manner that to us calm onlookers was very remarkable. The sight, however, was brilliant and animating. Scarlet caps, red sashes, velvet breeches, and jackets covered with flashing metal buttons, together with the brilliant petticoats and embroidered bodices of the females, produced a scene that was altogether of the most lively description.
Upon emerging from the avenue of plane trees, the town of Gerona burst suddenly upon us. A wonderful old town it is! Talk about the picturesque! Where are all the artists who frequent Wales, Margate, Scarbro', and the over-done East, who give us perennial views of the same, usque ad nauseam, until people need never have moved out of London to know them as well as the inhabitants of those places themselves? Why don't they travel hither, and put before the jaded British public this intensely interesting and most extraordinary place? Here they may find novelty and variety to please the most exacting taste. The city as a whole is very old and quaint. Rickety houses appear sometimes to be piled up indiscriminately upon heaps of gaunt battlements and crumbling ramparts. The brown decaying walls tell many a story of the violence and lawlessness of other times. The people of the present day live in houses which are built of the remains of old forts, and are constructed of anything that came to hand at the moment. Rocks, stones, wood, dirt-heaps, mud, old bricks, old ruins, rubbish, all have been raked together, and piled up confusedly into habitations; and a most unique, heterogeneous, and dangerous mass they seem. Houses and other buildings bend and bow to one another in all directions in a very stiff and awkward manner, as if the whole place had been suddenly paralysed in the midst of some general act of politeness. One edifice props up another, as the lame support the lame. There is one church, indeed, constructed out of some old convent walls of great solidity, that supports four feeble houses which lean bodily upon it, and without it would inevitably fall down like so many card-houses. It requires some judgment to walk about with security in the interior of many of these charming dwellings, the strange old rooms necessitating great steadiness of gait and correct judgment of eye, for the floors are not always so level as one might desire. There are heights and hollows which it is advisable to avoid as much as possible if one would escape painful bruises.
Gerona is in reality one of the quaintest and most ruinous cities of Spain. When its population are not dancing war-dances in the streets, it is very desolate and silent. It is entirely without trade or manufactures; and, barring its beautiful tiful Catalonian cathedral, it is without any worthy monuments whatever, and has nothing to attract the attention of the least exacting of tourists. It is supposed to have been founded by the tribe of Bracati Celts, as far back as the year 930 before the Christian era; and from the earliest times up to the French attack in 1809, it has again and again been battered, knocked about, and almost depopulated by repeated sieges, while its inhabitants, when any were left, have been decimated by famine and disease. Like a phœnix, however, the old city has risen again from its ashes. As it stands now, it is constructed entirely of ruins. The home of squalor, and priests, and decay, it is appropriately built upon the vestiges of the past. The little river Oña winds its serpentine course through rows of crazy houses, covered all over with wooden balconies filled with flower-pots, and gay with coloured rags. The houses seem toppling and pitching towards each other over the dirty stream, which is spanned by a picturesque old three-arch bridge, also in a most ruinous condition.
Where the citadel crumbled before the French cannon of 1809, there is now a high heap of rubbish bish, on the top of which are perched groups of eccentric-looking houses, built of the shattered bricks and débris hastily raked together, and piled anyhow into something resembling human habitations, with a noble disregard of all design, and apparently even of the laws of gravity. The town is all up hill and down hill, full of holes, ditches, and dykes. The arcades are mouldering; the courts dark and malodorous; and where there are flights of stone stairs, they are old and broken. There are churches and convents, but they are old and out of repair; there are forts, but they are battered; and battlements, but they are crumbling. A young fresh-looking child in such a place would appear an anachronism; but there are plenty of the most repulsive-looking beggars. A total absence of all sanitary arrangements causes the atmosphere of the town to be actually felt as well as smelt. A greasy mist seems to envelop it. Yet poor as Gerona is, what heroism has from time to time been displayed by the gallant inhabitants!
As we have said, we arrived on a fiesta day—a Sunday, and found all the young men in the town—for such there are in it—collected in the squares and courts, and walking round and round in rings, or pacing hand in hand to a measured cadence of song, something like that of howling dervishes, and looking very solemn, silly, and hot. This indeed seemed a most limited idea of amusement.
Heaven defend us from the hotels! Our diligence stopped at one. We got down to inspect it, and, on advancing, were immediately swallowed up by a dark archway leading to unknown depths beyond, and vomiting in our faces one of those volleys of terrible smells which are indigenous. Retreating in dismay, we took, as a matter of conscience, one glance up at the front of the house, and one look into it. We could imagine what the whole would be—a series of winding passages leading to whitewashed, uncomfortable rooms, with windows without glass, but grated and barred. Lean-eyed fowls, mostly moulting, would probably be roosting on the hat-pegs in bedrooms, while the floors would present a liberal collection of magnificent specimens of the pale-pink cockroach. Presiding over all this, no doubt there would be a greasy creature in the shape of a landlord, looking at us as if he had the Evil Eye, and wanted to give us a taste of its power. Seeing this would never do, we made one bound into the interior of the diligence, and hid ourselves, with quaking hearts, amongst some warm old ladies, with their bundles and umbrellas. At the next hotel we found a Spanish gentleman, our companion in the train from Barcelona, who had been so civil as to offer us a gold cigarette case as a present, which, unfortunately, we were told etiquette compelled us to refuse. What a waste of time that sort of thing is!—as absurd as two men going out to fight a duel, and snapping off copper caps at each other. However, there he was, leaning over the balcony of the Fonda de la Estrella. Étoile—Star!—The Star and Garter? No, most distinctly not The Star and Garter.
Our friend, as we have said, was leaning over the balcony, gratefully inhaling the dismal smells which arose from the street below. As he had taken rooms for us, we went in, determined to remain, though we could see presages of what our fate was to be. Our friend had laid himself down, and covered himself with a rug, to go through the farce of taking a little rest, but after he had, by a strong effort of imagination, supposed he had refreshed himself by his siesta, we looked upon his countenance as he arose, with the rug still upon him, and saw that it resembled a magnified pepper castor more than a human visage. All the mosquitoes, fleas, and flies in Gerona must have concentrated their forces upon his face, and held thereon perfect orgies for a couple of hours. The hotel altogether was a very miserable establishment, not more inviting than the preceding one.
After we had retired to rest, the floor creaked in a very uneasy manner throughout the live-long night. The walls of our sleeping apartments were painted black, and every article of furniture was preserved from the disastrous effects of damp by the time-honoured dust of ages. Moisture was continually dropping from the ceiling on to the floor below, with a sound as regular as that of a slow pendulum. In an apartment where sleep is generally uncertain, the counting of these drops, and their arrangement into minutes, quarters, and hours, might prove a very pleasing pastime. We dined, on the evening of our arrival, most luxuriously on stewed beef made of Plaza de Toros horse, and suffered severely from cholera and cramp, in consequence, for three days after.
In May, 1809, the French, with 35,000 men under Verier and Augereau, besieged Gerona, and it was not till after seven months and five days' fierce and incessant struggle that the indomitable inhabitants, unable to hold out longer against famine and pestilence, were compelled to yield. Forty French batteries were in position, but the gallant Geronese, with guns of inferior caliber and metal, but mad with hatred to the foreigner—their religious enthusiasm at the same time being fanned to the most desperate pitch by the priesthood—fought with the despairing energy of fanatics. Women served and loaded the cannon, and lay dead everywhere by the side of their husbands and brothers.
The first sentiment experienced by the Geronese as they saw from their walls the advancing host of the French was not that of terror, but a burning desire for revenge, an unconquerable feeling of hatred towards the spoilers of their hearths and homes, which made them welcome the coming combat as they would a religious fiesta or popular ceremony. The women laboured unweariedly at the fortifications with pick and spade, joining with the men in the most arduous duties; tearing their delicate hands as they piled the great rough stones and tugged at the clumsy cannon, and cheerfully bending their frail forms beneath the weight of heavy burdens, they encouraged with look, gesture, and smile the men of Gerona, the soldiers of a day. All those who could carry a weapon seized it, and praying the priest to bless it, kissed it as a precious gift of heaven. Young and old, strong and frail, rushed with enthusiastic shouts to man the walls, determined to do or die. Not a creature was there but thirsted for the combat, the heart of all beating with one glorious pulse. Rich and poor knew no distinction: all were equal in their love of God and country.
Nor did the actual terrors of the fight diminish the spirit of valour with which they had commenced it. The dead, as they fell, were blessed by the watchful priest, and envied by the survivors as martyrs. As the siege progressed, another and more fearful foe appeared in their very midst, against which the mightiest could not prevail. The dead fought against the living; for the accumulated corpses of the slain, few of whom they were able to bury, brought a pestilence upon the town. Still the heroic defenders fought on unflinching, and fell down rotting at their guns. Then arose a cry for bread, for pale-eyed famine hovered over the city. All the domestic animals—the faithful friends and slaves of man—had been pitilessly slaughtered and their flesh eagerly devoured. Even the rats of the river had served as nutriment to the garrison, and the dead themselves at length supplied Gerona with a ghastly but imperative food. Still amidst blood and slaughter, amongst the wildest horrors of plague, famine, and war, Gerona held out against the foe, until, after seven months and five days of iron determination and indomitable courage, it fell exhausted, crushed, and prostrate into the hands of the enemy. Fifteen thousand men had perished on the side of the French, and nine thousand on that of the Spaniards. Thus ended the last siege of Gerona; and as long as true patriotism and unflinching courage excite our warmest sympathy, the names of Saragossa and Gerona should be watch-words to all true lovers of their country.
We went to the theatre at Gerona, which we found to be a large, painted apartment, reeking with the odour of tobacco. The drama of the evening was rather complicated in structure, and must have been harrowing in incident, judging by the effect it had on the spectators. The plot was so absurdly incredible as scarcely to deserve mention. The hero was discovered by his father to have married his step-mother. The unfortunate gentleman, whose wife had married his son, perambulated the stage in apparent distraction, every now and then stopping at the wing to have his tears renewed by a wet sponge. The dialogue must have been magnificent, to judge by the number of ahs! and ohs! to which the audience gave vent. As far as the actors were concerned, it was perfectly unnecessary, as the prompter did it all for them, in a very audible manner. Indeed, at times, so distinct, clear, and forcible was his reading of the play, that the leading tragedian was not only perfectly inaudible, but became utterly speechless, contenting himself with "sawing the air," and doing a little dumb-show, ever and anon taking a few measured paces. The prompter himself, at any passage requiring extra force, jumped up in his little shed in front of the footlights and waved his arms aloft like railway signals, and then as suddenly disappeared.
When every one in the tragedy was disposed of by death, the curtain fell, and we walked back to our hotel with an energetic little Spaniard, who kindly accosted us, telling us he was very impressionable, and at the sight of an Englishman could never restrain himself from tendering to him his respect for the British generally, and for Sir Gladstone in particular. He certainly was one of the most voluble individuals we ever had the misfortune to come across. He told us all he knew upon every subject, and a great deal besides about which he knew nothing; ending by informing us that he had a great admiration for everything noble and grand, an assurance which he finished by swindling us in the easiest manner possible out of the sum of five shillings—English money.
Before the traveller takes leave of charming old Gerona—and, in spite of its many discomforts, to leave it one is loth—let him wander once more through its quaint old rickety streets by twilight, and note the dark serrated broken sky-lines of its houses. Wandering on, he will come suddenly upon the beautiful ancient cathedral church, with its imposing lines. It is a truly magnificent edifice, and one cannot look up to its lofty arches, so sombre in their aspect, without being impressed by the gloomy majesty of this old Gothic temple. Through its splendid brazen gates the eye catches the gleam of twinkling tapers casting their rays upon groups of gaudy priests, while all around them, amid the white curling cloudlets of ascending incense, falls the halo of soft light, in which they appear as in a vision. Dark shrouded figures, scattered over the marble floor, apparently motionless in prayer, were kneeling before the altars or amongst the ancient tombs. An organ of great power was pealing forth one of those magnificent pieces of music which the Romish Church has dedicated to the service of religion; and, at a distant altar, a splendidly robed priest was reciting some of the services of the Church. Who, whatever his creed, could remain unmoved in such a fane?
We are now at the end of our ramble, but before we return to the delights of home, we may as well add a few words of plain fact concerning the once all-powerful and still illustrious Spain.
The chief characteristics of Spain appear to be oil, dirt, priests, and bull-fights; for, without these, Church and State possibly might not cohere. Spain is a congeries of contradictions. It is very cold, and very hot; very beautiful, very ugly; very fruitful, very barren. The mental character of its population is simply a counterpart of the physical nature of the country, and is doubtless almost entirely influenced by climatic peculiarities. The Spaniard is distinguished by much natural sharpness of thought and acute intelligence. A serene and gentle spirit is often found amongst them, and they are generally extremely courteous to strangers who tread their soil and are within their gates.
The Spaniard possesses a very ardent imagination, and his passions are often very excitable—sometimes even uncontrollable. The continuous insurrections which distress the land give evidence of the constant state of fermentation in which the spirits of the population are steeped. A certain amount, however, of physical languor, engendered by the heat of their climate, and descending to them from old Saracenic blood, is blended with great mental activity and an impassioned nature. In their ordinary actions they are often gentle in the extreme, but when their passions are awakened they not unfrequently become ferocious. Calm, yet fiery; indolent, yet energetic; revengeful, yet affable; enthusiastic, yet morose; avaricious, yet generous; but, above all, superstitious and narrow—such seems to be the Spanish character.
Yet how lamentable it is to notice a country so richly endowed, whether in human talent or in natural blessings, and once the most powerful kingdom of earth, now so fallen and degraded, descending to the lowest shifts and chicanery; so utterly without influence or respect; so backward in civilization and morality, political and social, amongst the nations of Europe! In fact, Spain is—or very recently was—a dead country, whose monuments and morals are alike in ruins. Native industry is unappreciated, and foreign talent taxed to extortion. The Spaniard can rarely be roused to exertion, beyond those periodical attempts to subvert vert a bad government by the exile or slaughter of hundreds of honest and innocent people. In matters of importance he too often follows that mistaken policy which always hugs delay, and cries, "Mañana," to-morrow, always to-morrow. To-morrow comes, but Spain, the Spain of Charles V.—like the Rome and Greece of old—is no more; and, in the present slough of reckless indolence, bigotry, jealousy, isolation, internal dissensions, and utter lack of all homogeneous force, we fear, notwithstanding the more hopeful circumstances of the present, can never return. There are great minds and honest hearts within the country still, but an unkind fate has ordained that they should remain powerless, that place-hunters, parasites, and favourites may reign supreme, beneath the ægis of a despotic government, which is directed, barring that of modern Rome, by the most uncompromising of all the Catholic priesthood. As the enemies of civilization, honesty, and common sense, Rome and Spain may go arm-in-arm, the scorn of all nations, the distrust even of themselves, and a disgrace to the nineteenth century. Jesuits, monks, police, and spies, are the order of the day; while the press is gagged or servile, and all liberty of thought strangled like a dangerous snake.
Spain is a splendid territory, rich in Nature's wealth, but poor indeed in those attributes which alone truly elevate a nation—viz., a general firmness of character, desire of progress, love of liberty, purity of administration, and power of action. In Spain there exists no art, no science, but what is borrowed with bad grace from other countries. Literature, which once struggled for life, is now utterly prostrate. Its death dates back to the Inquisition, to that religious community who exercised all their holy zeal to kill the body and suffocate the mind. If there is absolute truth in Socrates' conception, that all human aspiration and effort should be generally directed towards the acquisition of knowledge, then surely are the Spaniards of to-day most aimless in their existence. In fact, the influence of the bigoted Middle Ages, when, with relentless severity, heresy was suspected in everything said, written, or done, was sufficient to destroy the taste for literature, had Spain even possessed a literary community. Philosophy or science can make no progress where reason fears to dwell.
Certainly, Cardinal Ximenes, one of Spain's most enlightened men, struck with shame at the continued ignorance and mental darkness in which the priesthood were sunk, had the courage lent him by his station and loftier mind to found the University of Alcala de Henares at the commencement of the sixteenth century. He revised the cramped version of the Scriptures, substituting for it a rendering more adapted for intellectual acceptance by compiling at his own expense the famous Complutensian Polyglot, although crushing, at the instance of the Holy Office, all attempts to translate the Bible into the Spanish tongue. He also made a yet greater step in the advance of intellectual liberty by inculcating the law which excludes Papal bulls not sanctioned by the monarch. In spite, however, of this considerable improvement in the education of the ecclesiastical mind, notwithstanding this attempt at cleaning a portion of the Augean stables of darkness and superstition, the long chronic hatred entertained, by the Executive, of all liberty of thought, and their love of power, had become too engrained a habit to allow of much more being done in one lifetime than to temper it with the seeds of a possible improvement, and merely to insert the wedge of tolerance. All that could be tortured by the cunning of partial priests into the merest suspicion of heresy, in speech or in writing, was still punished with incarceration, confiscation, torments, and death, even by the sanction of this Cardinal patron of letters himself. Under these circumstances, literature of any other sort than that of romance, mysticism, or biographies of saints, now found but dangerous ground to take root; for wherever the author was, there were the priestly supervisors gathered together. Surely the birth of culture and enlightenment appears but in the funeral train of superstition.
BRADBURY, EVANS, AND CO., PRINTERS, WHITEFRIARS.