It has often seemed to me that every city belongs to one particular age. This being a fancy contrary to fact, I will put it this way—that in every city there is always some one period of human history more readily recoverable than any other. This may not be the period which has left its mark most conspicuously on the physiognomy of the place; more probably it will be determined by your own preconceptions, derived from study or chance reading. John Addington Symonds observed that an island near Venice, the name of which I have forgotten, immediately recalled to him not the great days of the Republic with which it had an historical connection, but the later and decadent days of bag-wig and hair powder. At Cadiz I could have wished to think of the Phœnicians, thus hardily adventuring into the wide ocean; or of Drake and his gentlemen adventurers, "bound wrist to bar, all for red iniquity"; but instead I fancied myself back in the 'thirties of last century, and thought of De Musset and his "Andalouse" and his lovely Spanish girls. Is it possible that Andalusia in those days of our grandfathers was the Andalusia of the Romanticists? At Cadiz, I beguiled myself into believing so—why, I cannot explain. Perhaps it was due to the unexpected appearance of a native—a distinctively Andalusian—costume in the streets. Nowhere else in Spain is the mantilla more conspicuous or more gorgeous. A French writer gives a selection of toilettes worn at a Corrida de toros, which, as I never assisted at one of these functions in Cadiz, I repeat: "All pink, coral necklace, white lace mantilla, big bunches of carnations in the hair and corsage; a blond head seen beneath a transparent mantilla, like a frail spider's web, red corsage and white gown; coral ear-rings, with bunches of roses; all black, with a white mantilla; all white, with a black mantilla; pale green gown with a blue bolero and white roses; shawl draped, brocaded, with a wealth of carnations in the hair; black dress and mantilla, violets in the hair; gold coloured shawl, embroidered with red roses, comb like a tiara set with bright-hued flowers," etc., etc. With confections such as these dazzling the eyes, it is no wonder that I began to see visions of gentlemen in black silk tights, dark green frock coats, and snowy white cravats, stammering Castilian with a Parisian accent.
It would be hard, too, to keep the mind fixed on remoter and more heroic ages, for Cadiz is singularly destitute of antiquities. The descendants of the Philistines could not be expected to respect ancient monuments! But what they spared our freebooter ancestors burned. The old Cathedral, built in the thirteenth century, was almost totally consumed by the flames. When I say that the new building dates from 1720, I fear that your interest in it will expire. But it is at least imposing; and the choir stalls are very fine. Then there is the Capuchin Convent, where Murillo met his death by falling from a scaffolding while painting the picture of the Espousals of St. Catherine. Another picture by the same master may be seen in this church—St. Francis receiving the Stigmata. The little Academia de Bellas Artes contains some admirable specimens of the work of Zurbaran, brought from the Charterhouse of Jerez.
These are the only sights in the tourists' agent's acceptation of the word, and it is likely enough that you will think three hours devoted to the city amply sufficient. Yet its situation at the end of a narrow spit like that at the entrance to the Suez Canal—in mid-sea as it were—its associations, and its brightness and cleanliness, make it for some the most charming of Spanish towns. Crenellated walls enclose it on all sides, the space between them and the water's edge being devoted to quays, promenades, and gardens. There are forts at the extremity of the peninsula—the Isla de Leon, as it is called. The streets are all very straight, very narrow, and very clean. Through the rejas across the doorways you obtain glimpses of trim little patios, bedecked with flowering plants. Occasionally you come out into a little square, prettily laid out with gardens, like the Plaza de Mina, where the loungers asleep on the seats irresistibly recall dear old busy London.
The charming Parque Genovés, bordering the sea, reminds us of the great merchant race of Italy who had their warehouses here. It is exquisite to walk by night along the sea wall, which at some points rises sheer upwards from the water, and to inhale the breezes blown straight across, one would like to think, from the West Indies. You will crave for that cool wind afterwards, in the parched interior of Andalusia.
From Cadiz you may go to Seville by steamer up the Guadalquivir, but it is far from being an interesting trip. The river is about as picturesque, and in the same way, as the Dutch Rhine. However, in these days of distorted æsthetics—when all that we thought beautiful we are now told is ugly, and vice versa—it is quite possible that some rapturous travellers will extol the mystical loveliness of the plains of the Guadalquivir, rating their charms far above the vulgar, blatant scenery of Switzerland and the Riviera, which is at the disadvantage of being at once realized by the mere ordinary person. En passant I cannot refrain from expressing my wonder why superior people of this sort go abroad. If Rhenish and Italian panoramas are suggestive to them only of oleographs and Christmas numbers, have we not our Abanas and Pharpars in England—the Essex marshes, the treeless downs of Sussex, the odoriferous banks of the Mersey, for instance?
But I digress—and I counsel you against doing so, but recommend you to proceed to Seville, if that be your destination, by rail direct. The journey occupies eight and a half hours, and is not among the most agreeable experiences of a lifetime. The railway runs right round the bay of Cadiz, touching several towns of importance. That any of them are worth a break of journey I doubt. Puerto Santa Maria is said to be much resorted to by toreros and their admirers. I have never heard what attracts them there, but indeed my interest in bull-killing was never more than languid. The country round the bay is marshy. It is traversed by the river Guadalete, beside which, it seems, Don Roderic was not slain, and the battle never took place. You must look for the scene of that epoch-making encounter farther towards the strait near the Rio Barbate.
Between Cadiz and Seville you stop at the buffet of Jerez to drink a glass of sherry in its native place. As most people know, all the good wine comes to England; but at Jerez I think, in all reason, the price of the wine might be a little lower and its quality a good deal higher. The city, of which I only caught a glimpse, looks like an inland Cadiz, very clean, white, sunny, and bright.
And so we creep onwards over dreary country—like the South African veld—to Lebrija, an old Moorish town with a great church on a height, apparently the only building of note in the place. Further on is Utrera, renowned for bulls and for possessing one of the thirty deniers for which Judas sold his Master. It should be an interesting town, with its Moorish castle and walls still extant. But the same individuality is not to be expected of the smaller Spanish as of the lesser Italian cities; for the history of the one country has been a record of steady centralization; of the other, obstinate decentralization. In Utrera, and Moron, and Lebrija—even in Cadiz and Granada—there were no independent princes or ambitious municipalities to foster and to reward native art. The genius and talent of Spain flocked to great centres like Seville, Toledo, Valladolid, and Zaragoza, and became ultimately concentrated in Madrid. We read the same story in our own country; and in fact it is impossible to resist the dangerous and obvious conclusion that centralization and unity are good things for nations but bad things for art.