The cry of the night-watchman, the sereno, is of all Galicia's old customs one of the strangest and most famous. The sereno is a romantic figure, with his Spanish cloak and gleaming pike—a weapon much resembling the halberd carried by our Yeomen of the Guard. While the English policeman in the dark early hours is gloomily patrolling his beat, his fellow in Galicia is pacing the quaint streets which differ little in appearance from their aspect centuries ago, and every hour he proclaims the time or in other ways gives proof that he is about and doing his duty. The ancient town of Pontevedra is celebrated for the watchman's call. Hourly throughout the night the sereno chants the time, and the sonorous notes of his "Ave María purísima," Gabriel's salutation to the Virgin, has a singular effect upon the stranger, awake and listening in bed. The accomplished sereno will not only cry the hour, but will also, for the benefit of listeners, add interesting items of news, as, for instance, that love-making is proceeding on a neighbouring balcony. The eerie chant lingers in one's memory, and may be likened to the solemn cry from a steamer's crow's-nest in mid-ocean of "Lights are burning bright and all's well." In Santiago and elsewhere the sereno still does duty in the night, but perhaps the day is near when he will be ousted by the commonplace policeman. In many of the towns the watchman whistles every hour instead of chanting. There are other cries in Galicia which will interest the visitor, and amongst them is the protracted musical announcements of the girls and women of Corunna who are selling fish. They walk along the pavement with wide, shallow baskets poised gracefully on their heads, uttering a cry which makes you marvel that human beings can maintain it without bringing on that collapse of the vocal cords which perhaps, in uncharitable moments, you desire to see accomplished.
In Galicia, as on the Continent generally, the policeman differs from his English prototype. There, in addition to being a keeper of the peace, he is a fighting man, liable to be called upon for military service. The famous Civil Guard of Spain, a force which bears the highest reputation, every member being a specially selected man of thoroughly good character, has its detachments in Galicia—the striking-looking fellows with their glazed three-cornered hats, rifles, swords, and revolvers. A couple of them are on duty at the exit of every railway station of importance, and on lonely country roads, marching on each side, you will come across a pair, carrying their rifles at the slope, prepared for action. The purpose of this system of patrol is to lessen the risk of both men being surprised at once.
The Civil Guards exercise a wide influence over the people, and to them is largely due the present peaceful state of the country. The total strength of the force is twenty-five thousand men, of whom five thousand are mounted. The cavalry are armed with sabres, carabines, and revolvers. Comparison has been made between them and the Royal Irish Constabulary, and it is a very proper one, although I think the Royal Irish is physically a finer body. The Civil Guards have great powers, and are entitled to take the law into their own hands in extremities, such as shooting down an escaping prisoner or a murderer caught in the act.
There is perfect security in travelling throughout Galicia, either alone or in parties, and even in the remotest districts the idea of personal danger, from man or beast, does not enter the visitor's mind. Probably there is not in North-West Spain any greater risk incurred than would be experienced by pedestrians from tramps on the highways of North-West England.
The ordinary Galician policeman is very much like a Spanish soldier in appearance, except in Corunna, where he wears a helmet. His sword is ready to his hand, and he often carries a revolver and a stick. He is permitted to smoke on duty; and perhaps not even the iron discipline of the Civil Guard would compel the members of the force to abandon the cigarette. A Galician policeman being at heart a caballero—which is "gentleman"—will spare no trouble to put a stranger on the right track, and will not only direct him to the place he wishes to reach, but will, in the friendliest manner, accompany him as far as his duties will permit, smoking contentedly and well pleased with life.
I saw only one policeman on stern duty in Galicia, and that was in Vigo, where he was conducting a belligerent lady to the police-station, guiding her by a gentlemanly pressure on the arm. She was loudly and volubly giving her version of what had happened; and a crowd of bare-headed or shawled friends added their voices to the confusion. They were all probably swearing to things which they could not possibly have seen. At Vigo also I noticed a constable, old enough to be near the superannuation stage, trying to preserve the peace between an aged peasant and an ill-conditioned juvenile who might have been his grandson. At intervals the old man paused to cuff and persuade the boy, and the policemen seemed to form one of the little crowd which accompanied and watched the performers. I followed them for a short distance; then, as there was no prospect of an arrest, I walked away.
The constable in every land attracts one's notice and commands respect. Much at times depends on him; also on chambermaids and waiters. Both these types of servant compel attention in Galicia, if only for their odd and interesting habits. A Galician chambermaid, who from her appearance might be anything from a respectable charwoman to the mother of a promising family, does not know the meaning of ceremony; at any rate she does not stand upon it, and will break into your bedroom with the morning coffee without warning, and derive intense amusement from any timidity or embarrassment due to her abrupt appearance. She is too primitive to be disturbed by trifles, even such as gazing upon her when she tucks up to sleep on a couch in the hall of an hotel at the foot of the main staircase—a post she occupies, apparently, to meet the necessities of belated or early-going travellers.
The Galician waiter is remote from the rest of his kind. In the two palatial establishments which the country possesses he figures, during the season, either in orthodox swallow-tails or a livery approximating to the garb of club attendants at home, but generally speaking he is not so smart. In the morning he presents a slovenly appearance, because breakfast, as Englishmen understand it, is either an unimportant or a non-existent meal, and the waiter is reserving his energies for the feast that counts, the lunch. The native is content to start the day on coffee and a roll without butter—for which omission he has reason for gratitude, because Galician butter is neither good nor plentiful—or on a small cup of chocolate and bread. If he favours coffee he takes it from a basin, with which a dessert-spoon is supplied, enabling him to deal with the liquid as he would absorb soup, or he drinks it, Christian fashion, by way of the vessel's rim. The chocolate is a concoction so thick that a spoon or bread will stand upright in it; yet the preparation is delicious in the estimation of those who like it, especially when taken with a frothy sugar, which is served in a glass of water—a creation which looks like frozen beaten white of egg, and is almost large enough to fill the tumbler. With this chocolate and bread the Spaniard bears the burden of the day's battle until the real breakfast is served; then indeed he makes up for any loss he may have suffered after rising.
The midday meal is heavy and bewildering, from the English point of view. Hors-d'œuvre will begin the feast—excellent olives, sardines, anchovies, appetising little salads and other oddments; then come heavier dishes, succeeded by soup and fish—all things reversed, as it seems, compared with English order and arrangements. There is a very palatable and wholesome dish called caldo gallego, a soup which is as peculiar to Galicia as is bouillabaisse to Marseilles. Incidentally I may say that I had bouillabaisse as good in a Galician hotel as in one of the best hotels of France's southern seaport where I tried it—a dish which would have moved even Thackeray, its great admirer, to expressions of applause.
"This Bouillabaisse a noble dish is—