Glories of Spain

by Charles W. Wood

Francisco appeared in his Sunday's best long before the omnibus. At least half a dozen times he came up to our rooms to remind us that it would only rush round at the last moment and would not wait. Going off for a month's holiday could not have excited him more. With an agony of apprehension he saw us walk to the end of the road and look down upon the blue sea that stretched around in all its beauty and repose. Already there were white-winged feluccas gliding upon its surface, their lateen sails spread out, enjoying the cool of the morning.

The cliff was almost perpendicular. To our left a sentry paced to and fro, to overlook the Presidio, a large convict establishment below us on a level with the sea. If any convict had attempted to escape—a very improbable event—he would quickly have been marked by the lynx-eyed sentry, who was relieved every two hours.

Side by side with the Presidio were the remains of the old Roman amphitheatre, dating back to the days of the city walls, the house of Pontius Pilate, and all the vestiges of the past. Close to us rose the old Roman Tower, from which very possibly Augustus had looked many a time upon the undulating hills and far-stretching sea, feeling himself monarch of all he surveyed.

But long years before, the Phœnicians—that enterprising people of Tyre and Sidon, of whom so little is known, yet who seem to have possessed the earth—had made a maritime station of Tarragona. What it actually was in those days can never be told; no archives contain their record; but in beauty and favour of situation the centuries have brought no change.

The scene on which we looked that morning linked us to the past. Four miles to the east, under the shadow of the hills, and within sight of the quiet bays, reposed the Roman tomb of the Scipios, who, in conjunction with Augustus, had so much to do with the making of Tarragona. It is a square monument thirty feet high, built of stone, guarded by two sculptured figures, with an inscription blotted out long ages ago. A lovely spot for the long sleep that comes to all. The hills are pine-clad, the bays sheltered; the blue sea sleeps in the sunshine; no sound disturbs but the plashing of the water that does not rise and fall as other seas that have their tides. Fishermen live in the neighbourhood, and you may see them setting their nets or fishing from the shore for sardines; with this exception the little place shows no sign of life and is rarely trodden by the foot of strangers.

We felt its influence as we waited for the omnibus. There, at least, to our right was something neither Augustus nor the Scipios had ever seen—the small harbour with its friendly arms outstretched, embracing all the shipping that comes to Tarragona. The east pier was partly built with the stones of the old Roman amphitheatre, a certain desecration that took place about the year 1500. A crowd of fishing vessels is almost always at rest in the harbour, and larger vessels trading in wine and oil.

We were not allowed to look upon all this unmolested. Francisco constantly came to and fro to remind us that time was passing. At last we turned at the sound of rumbling wheels; the omnibus came up. Our host had neatly packed a luncheon-basket, and away rolled the machine through the prosy streets. We had turned our back upon all the wonders of Tarragona.

It required no slight courage to abandon our beloved cathedral for one whole day. True, before breakfast we had gone up and looked upon the magic outlines: that marvellous mixture of Romanesque and Gothic that here blend together in strange harmony. Early as it was we had found the sacristan, and he, in full measure of delight, had taken us through the quiet aisles and arches, twice beautiful and impressive in their solitude, and thrown wide the door of the matchless cloisters. They were lovelier than ever in the repose that accompanies the early morning light. But neither light nor darkness, morning nor evening, could abate the enthusiasm of the sacristan.

All this was left behind as we rattled down the steep streets. The station was on a level with the sea, and in front of it stretched the harbour with all its shipping. The train was in waiting, and to Francisco's evident pride and enjoyment we were soon whirling away in a first-class compartment. He had never travelled in anything beyond a second.

The freshness of early morning was still upon everything, and our interesting journey lay through scenery rich and varied. Before reaching Reus, the train crossed the river, then came to an anchor. We found the station crowded with country people going to a neighbouring fair. The town rose in modern outlines, above which towered the hexagonal steeple of San Pedro. It was evidently a bustling, prosperous town with manufacturing signs about it. Everything seemed in direct opposition to Tarragona. The one ancient and stately, with its historic and cathedral atmosphere in strong evidence; the other given over to manual work. The one quiet and conservative, the other quarrelsome and republican. It was from Reus that our carters with a grievance had come the day we visited the aqueduct: and back to Reus they had all gone to continue their warfare.