Part 12

One passes through Pontevedra, a picturesque granite town, with arcaded streets and ancient houses bearing armorial shields, on the journey to Vigo. Here, as everywhere on the Galician coast line, the parish priest goes down to the shore one day in every year and blesses the sea; here also the oysters are excellent and abundant, and here the watchman’s night chant is heard in the streets. The call of the _sereno_, or watchman, who dates from the building of the ancient walls of Pontevedra, and the chapel of Alonso II. of Santiago, seems to catch the imagination of the traveller, and hurl him back into the mediæval ages, when life was a state that men fought to retain, and religion was a power for which they laid it down. The _sereno_, with his theatrical cloak wrapped about him, his axe-headed staff, his lantern, his majestic stalking walk, and his thrilling chant, “_Ave Maria Purissima. Son las diez y sereno_,” seemed to me impressive, unreal, almost fantastic. At ten o’clock he passed me in the deserted square, at eleven he was offering up his quavering invocation beneath my window. Galicia has little in common with the towns of the South--it retires to rest early in order to be up betimes.

At Vigo a small fragment of the ancient sea walls yet remain, but the ruins that Lord Cobham made of the town in 1719 have been obliterated, and in place of the fortified port, which Drake visited in 1585 and 1589, we have a thriving, modernised town. Vigo is an important place of call for Mediterranean steamers, it is one of the chief centres of the cattle trade export to London, and the port of the mineral provinces of Pontevedra and Orense.

The town of Orense, the capital of its province, is reached by the magnificent old bridge that spans the river Miño. Though now deprived of three of its arches, which were removed to give the road more width, and also of the ancient castle which defended the entrance, it continues to attract the attention of the traveller on account of its elegant and bold construction, its ample proportions and majestic appearance. Tradition says it is Roman, but many learned writers find nothing to confirm this assertion. It is quite likely that a bridge existed there previously; but the present one, it would appear, was built by order of Bishop Lorenzo during the first half of the thirteenth century, and has since undergone many alterations, including those to the largest arch, which is more than forty-three metres in width, and the reconstruction of which was completed about the middle of the fifteenth century. In the Roman days Orense was celebrated for its warm baths. These three springs, which are still in existence, flow copiously from fountains one above another, but the waters have lost their medicinal virtues--it is

only a supposition that they ever possessed any--and are now used for domestic purposes. The present cathedral, which is an obvious imitation of the cathedral at Santiago, was raised in 1220. The cathedral, the warm springs, and the bridge over the Miño, comprise the three marvels of the city.

Equally ancient, but in many ways more interesting, is the capital town of Lugo. It boasts a cathedral which shares with San Isidoro of León the immemorial right to have the consecrated Host always exposed; Roman walls in an excellent state of preservation that entirely surround the city, and an establishment of baths. The bath-house contains 200 beds; and the springs, which contain nitre and antimony, are good for cutaneous diseases and rheumatism. The river Miño, which is the glory not only of Lugo but of Galicia, rises in the mountains, some nineteen miles from the city.

As the centre of a beautiful and variegated country, which affords good sport for the angler, and scenery of enchanting loveliness to attract the artist, Oriedo, the capital of the Astionas, has its charms; but the seaport of Gijon, with its tobacco manufactory, its railway workshops, its iron foundry, and glass and pottery works, is a much more thriving and important town. Gijon, like Santander, is a flourishing port; and both have gained immensely in importance of late years. While the latter, with its handsome modern houses, makes a more splendid show, its drainage and sanitary arrangements leave much to be desired, and the harbour at low water is sometimes most offensive. Both towns are of Roman origin, but Gijon is the most pleasantly situated on a projecting headland beneath the shelter of the hill of _Santa Catalina_, and the harbour is the safest on the North Coast. It exports apples and nuts in enormous quantities, coal, and iron, and jet; while its shores are much frequented by bathers during the summer months.

It is currently believed, and I have no reason to doubt the accuracy of the statement, that if a visitor in any town in England stops the first native he meets and inquires as to the objects of interest that the place possesses, he will be referred immediately to the principal hostelry of the town. If you wander in London, and ask your way about, you will be directed right across the city by references to public-houses, which are the only landmarks that the Cockney ever dreams of studying. In Spain, cathedrals are as ubiquitous as inns are in England. You may be sure of finding comfortable accommodation for man and beast in most English towns, and in the Peninsula you can be quite as confident of “bringing up” against a cathedral--if nothing else. In León, the capital of the province of the same name, and in Salamanca, the second city in the province, we find the same state of things existing--the cathedral first and the rest nowhere. Yet these two cities boast of a noble history of ancient splendour and old-time greatness, and with this--and their cathedrals--they appear to be content. León, in the time of Augustus, was the headquarters of the legion that defended the plains from the Asturian marauders; and when the Romans withdrew, it continued as an independent city to withstand the continued attacks of the Goths until 586. The city yielded to the Moor, was rescued by Ordoño I., and retaken by the Arabs with every accompaniment of inhuman atrocity. Its defences were rebuilt by Alonso V. nearly 400 years later, its houses were repeopled, and it continued to be the capital of the Kings of León until the court was removed to Seville by Don Pedro. Its present miserable condition is a lamentable appendix to such a history. Its streets are mean, its shops are miserable, and its inns are worse. Nothing is left to it but its cathedral.

This temple is truly an architectural wonder, combining the delicacy of the purest Gothic style with a solidity which has stood for centuries; the manner in which the problem of

stability was solved is wonderful, the immense weights seeming to have no solid bases. The finest and most beautiful chiselled work is visible everywhere, and careful study is necessary in order to understand how the weight and strain of the arches were made to rest on their elegant buttresses. The origin of this magnificent temple is not quite clear, but many archæologists believe that it was founded in the time of King Ordoño II. It is of irregular form, but the cathedral or nave, transept, and presbytery are in the form of a perfect Latin cross.

The windows are of colossal dimensions, and the ratablos and sculptures are notable. Among its many famous works the cloister must not be forgotten. It is an example of the transition style from ogive to renaissance, with large galleries, interesting groups of sculpture, and a beautiful door leading into the temple.

Among all the choral stalls treasured in Spanish churches those in the cathedral at León stand out prominently. Unfortunately, the names of the master who designed them, and of the artists who assisted him to carry that marvel of ogive art into effect, are not known; but it must have been executed during the last thirty years of the fifteenth century, for it is known that in 1468 the necessary bulls were obtained from his holiness through Archbishop Antonio de Veneris in order to arrange means for meeting the cost of the stalls, and in 1481 the work was still proceeding.

Salamanca has a great name, a florid Gothic cathedral, and a square of handsome proportions and pleasant prospects. In other respects, it is quite without attractions. The streets are badly paved and dull, the climate is shrewd, and fuel, I was told, is scarce and expensive. Even the cathedral, though grand, is bare; and when one has visited the cathedral and lingered awhile in the pleasant garden of the _Plaza Mayor_--one of the largest and handsomest squares in Spain--and tested the accommodation of “_La Comercio_,” one can find little else to entrance one in the disappointing old city which was once a world-famed seat of learning. In the fifteenth century, when its university gave precedence to Oxford alone, it boasted of 10,000 students. In the following century its scholars had declined to one half that number, and to-day only some few hundred students are on its books. The sun of Salamanca commenced to set at a period of the world’s history that to all the rest of Europe was one of awakening and advancement. Decline and decay are writ large on the face of the city. From a distance its noble situation and fine buildings, built of beautiful creamy stone, gives the place an imposing and picturesque appearance. But though the shell of Salamanca remains, its spirit has departed. The ravages of the Romans, the Goths, the Moors, the Spaniards, and the ruin which the neighbourly French inflicted less than a hundred years ago, have left their cruel marks upon its historic walls. Salamanca is but a broken hulk spent by the storms that, from time to time, have devastated her. Her narrow, tortuous, ill-paved streets, which skirt its multitude of grandiose buildings, her squalor and poverty, her inferior art work, but even more the uncorrupted art of the grand old cathedral, all remind us of what Salamanca was, and turn our eyes backwards from what it is.

One must approach Zaragoza with one’s mind full of memories of heroes, queens, poets, and bandits that have been associated with this once mighty city, and one’s heart filled with sympathy and respect for the old, proud Aragon that flourished, and was illustrious in history while the Englanders still decorated themselves with blue paint, and were domiciled in caves. For Zaragoza is not altogether a gay or an exhilarating city. Many of the streets have a gloomy aspect, and the old houses are high, dark, and repellant. But the city is not only important as the seat of a university, an Audiencia, an archbishop, the captain-general of Aragón, and other officials; it is also the junction of four railways, and its commercial progress has been steadily increasing of recent years. For Zaragoza is in reality two cities--the old part with ancient fortified houses, converted now into stables and wood stores, and the new part traversed by broad, well-paved, and excellently-lighted streets, and lined with modern buildings. Until the railway connected the city with Madrid and Barcelona, Zaragoza was as dead as Salamanca, and as dilapidated as León. But it has always held the advantage of those places in having two cathedrals to their one. The principal cathedral, that of _La Seo_, is a venerable Gothic pile occupying the site of a Moorish mosque, and its high arches have echoed many councils, and looked down on the solemn coronations of the kings of Aragon. More modern is the Cathedral _El Pilar_, so called from the identical pillar on which the Virgin descended from heaven. It was commenced on St. James’s Day, 1686, the work being designed and carried out by the famous Don Francisco Herrera, the architect. In the year 1753 King Ferdinand VI. instructed Ventura Rodriguex, the architect, to design and build a new church, as luxurious as possible, in which to instal the image without taking it out of its temple. This was done by erecting a small Corinthian temple under the magnificent cupola, which was ornamented with the richest marble and jasper that could be procured. On one of the altars of this temple, which is crowned with a magnificent silver canopy, reposes the venerated effigy, the jewels on which are of incalculable value.

The Stone Monastery at Nuevalos, on the right bank of the river from which it takes its name, is one of the places most worthy of a visit in the province of Zaragoza, not only on account of the building itself, which is of great historical interest, having been built in 1195, but for the delicious picturesqueness of the place. Surrounded by rocks, winding amidst thick woods and dashing into deep abysses, this river runs its erratic course, imparting life to a landscape which is, according to the noted poet, Don Ramon Campoamor, “an improved dream of Virgil.” Among its many picturesque waterfalls, the one called “La Caprichosa” is perhaps the most beautiful.

The dress of the Aragonese peasantry is peculiar and picturesque. The men, as a rule, wear no hats, but have instead a coloured handkerchief wound round the head, leaving the top bare. Their knee-breeches are slashed down the sides and tied by strings below the knee. The waistcoats are worn open. Round the waist they wind a wide sash, in the folds of which pipes, tobacco, money, and provisions are carried as safely as in a pocket. Their feet are shod with sandals, and they universally carry a blanket, which is thrown in a graceful manner over their shoulders.

Bull-fighting.

A bull-fight is underlined for an early visit in the note-book of every visitor to Spain. He goes prepared to be disgusted, and he comes away to denounce it as a revolting and demoralising exhibition. He even plumes himself upon his moral and human superiority over the Spaniard, because the spectacle proves too strong for his untutored stomach. The inference is as gratuitous as it is illogical. In point of fact, the effect of the spectacle upon the spectator is not so much a matter of sensibility as custom. The Spaniard grows up to the sport as our Elizabethan ancestors grew to bull-baiting--even as the present generation of Englishman grows to pugilism. To the Spaniard, the cruelty of the craft of tauromachy does not appeal; the spectacle inflames his blood, and stirs not a chord of compassion in his nature. Yet he can be intensely sympathetic, gentle, and tender-hearted; but these softer qualities of character are not touched by the sight of animal suffering. In the first place, the bull is his enemy by heredited tendency. He cannot forbear to hurl insulting epithets at him when he chances to pass him on a journey. He witnesses his end with the thrill of satisfaction which a soldier feels in the death of a treacherous and implacable foe. The Englishman cannot share, or even realise this sentiment--it would be strange if he could. His leading feeling is curiosity, and a nervous apprehensive tension which only magnifies the horror and repulsion of the sport. With the Spaniard it is entirely different. Long habit has familiarised him with the bloody details, and his experienced eyes follow each trick and turn of the contest with the enthusiasm of an athlete watching an athletic display. Every detail of skill and dexterity and nerve exhibited by the fighters, and every clever move made by the bull is greeted with critical applause. Cruelty there must be, but courage in a high degree is a factor in the contest--danger gives to the contest a dignity which is absent from pheasant shooting, and which formed no excuse for the vogue to which bear-baiting and cock-fighting once attained in this country.

It may be thought that I am trying to champion an institution which is regarded with aversion by all classes of English people, but such is not my intention. My object is to look at it from the Spanish point of view, and endeavour to see if there is not some plausible explanation of its popularity as a national amusement. But when all is said and done, there still exist two objections to the sport which cannot be explained away. The first is the almost inexplicable indifference which a Spanish audience shows for the torture that is inflicted upon the horses that take part in the _corrida_: the other is the attendance of the gentler sex. It must, however, be noted that a large proportion--certainly the majority of Spanish ladies--are opposed to the sport, and with the rest it is the manly courage and address of the performers that fascinates them. But the fact remains that women are seen in large numbers in the amphitheatre, as 300 years ago good Queen Bess was not ashamed to be a spectator at many an exhibition of bear-baiting. English sentiments in matters of sport have undergone a great change since the Elizabethan era, but Spain is notoriously the most conservative country in Europe.

However, enough has been said of the theoretical side of bull-fighting; let us accompany the seething populace to the _Plaza de Toros_, and witness the sport for ourselves. The streets of Madrid are crowded with people who are all moving in the same direction. April to October is the regular bull-fighting season, but the Spaniard finds the lightest excuse a sufficient one for indulgence in his favourite pastime during the “close” season. And so, although it is February when I am in Madrid, I am not to forego an experience of a promising _corrida_.

Although I have seen bull-fights in some of the best rings in Spain, including those of San Sebastian, Valencia, Barcelona, and Madrid, it is more particularly of my experiences at the latter place that I shall write.

During the fashionable months, a _boletin de Sombra_, or “ticket for the shade,” is a luxury to be prized; but in February, in Madrid, we need all the warmth and glare that the sun can give us. The present Bull Ring, which was built at a cost of £80,000, and opened in 1874, seats 15,000 persons. It stands on a gentle elevation in a broad stretch of bare yellow land, where it raises its brick-coloured walls--the only land-mark in the barren, treeless, desolate expanse between the city and the solemn distant mountains. Around the various entrances countless human beings cluster like bees, and the Plaza is alive with men and horses, mules with tinkling bells, soldiers, police, picadors, and fruit-sellers. What strikes one most curiously about this concourse of human beings, both outside the bull-ring and within the huge amphitheatre, which rises tier above tier from the brown sand till it is almost lost in the vast expanse of blue above, is its single-mindedness, its patience, and the entire absence of horseplay. To a Spaniard this is not curious, but to the English spectator some familiar characteristic of a crowd appears to be absent.

Punctuality is not a strong trait in the Spanish character, but punctuality will be observed to-day. At the hour and the minute appointed, the President enters his _palco_, the signal is given, and the proceedings commence. The procession, headed by two _caballeros_, habited in black velvet, moves slowly across the ring to the front of the President’s seat. The two _espadas_ in yellow and violet, and gold and green costumes respectively, follow the _caballeros_. After them come half-a-dozen stoutly-protected _picadores_, then eight _banderilleros_, gay with a profusion of silk sashes, short breeches, and variously-coloured hose, and the rear is brought up by a _posse_ of attendants, leading the mules, all bedecked in plumes and rich trappings, which are to drag off the carcases from the arena. The entrance of the glittering cavalcade is announced by a trumpet sound, and the President tosses the key of the _toril_ into the ring.

To the “new chum,” all this preliminary detail, commonplace and “circusy” as it is, is sufficient to strain the nerves, and expectancy changes to apprehension. The creak emitted by the opening of the heavy door of the _toril_ intensifies the feeling. The clutch of curiosity with which the entire concourse awaits the entrance of the first bull is contagious. Instinctively one strains forward and catches one’s breath. Toro does not keep us long in suspense. There is a momentary lull, and then the bull dashes from his dark cell into the glint of the Spring sunshine. The novelty of the environment staggers him for a moment. He hesitates in the centre of the ring, and looks wildly around him. The arena is empty, with the exception of three picadores, who sit rigidly in a row on their sorry hacks, waiting for the bull to recognise their presence.

Our first victim is a doughty warrior. He is as ignorant as the blindfold knackers--that would be dear at a pound a leg--of the fate in store for him. He may make a brave fight, kill horses, upset men, and leap the barriers with a heroic rush, but in twenty minutes his corpse will be coupled up to the mules, and fresh sand will be strewn on the red trail that will mark his last passage across the arena. The inevitableness of the outcome of the encounter, so far as the principal actor is concerned, is the least pleasing feature of the sport. The fox and the stag are

given a gambling chance, the grouse is not without hope, and the gladiator of the cock-pit may live to fight another day, but the bull is a doomed animal. Happily he is not capable of calculating the uselessness of his efforts. The horses stand but little better chance, and the _picadores_, despite their iron and leather greaves and spears, are paid to take risks.