1883–1885
AT this period I was engaged in the preparation of “The Spanish
Reformers,” and to give vividness to the work, with regard to local
scenery and circumstances, I resolved in March 1883 to visit the
Peninsula, where I might gather what was possible for the accomplishment
of my purpose.
My daughter was my companion, and had been studying Spanish to render me
assistance. We travelled through France on our way to the north-east of
Spain.
We halted at Lyons: in the neighbourhood of it persecution occurred in
the second century; but unlike what obtained in Spain three hundred years
ago, it was not the persecution of one class of Christians by another,
but the persecution of the Church by a heathen world. We find embedded
in the Ecclesiastical History by Eusebius a document giving an account of
sufferings by believers at that time who were in the neighbourhood of
Lyons. Vienne, with its glass houses and metal foundries, coalpits and
smoke, is now passed by travellers, without any interest; but in the
second century it took precedence of Lyons, and had a flourishing Church,
a member of which—Blandina, a maiden slave—suffered death as the penalty
of her faith. {315}
We tarried a night at Lyons, drove round the city, saw the cathedral and
other buildings, and ascended a hill on which stands the church of Notre
Dame de Fourvières, covered and crowded with ex-votive offerings, in
return for miraculous cures by the Virgin. From the elevation views are
caught of extensive scenery. Thence we proceeded to Arles, rich in Roman
remains, including a magnificent amphitheatre. The cathedral of St.
Trophimus said to have been one of St. Paul’s disciples, is an
interesting specimen of twelfth or thirteenth century architecture.
Thence we proceeded to Narbonne, a quaint old town, of importance in
Roman times, with ramparts still of some interest, and quaint streets,
through which we had an evening’s ramble. The cathedral of St. Just is
an unfinished edifice of the thirteenth century, with some good tracery
in the windows. The city is distant from the sea only about eight miles.
Thence we proceeded to Perpignan, and, entering Spain, reached our
destination at Figueras, where we were kindly welcomed by our friends,
{316} who are engaged in evangelistic work amongst Roman Catholic
Spaniards.
Figueras is a considerable town, which greatly interested us. It was the
day before Good Friday that we arrived, and we were much amused by a
number of boys with wooden mallets vehemently beating the pavement, which
was explained to us as a custom indicative of hatred to the Jews for
having crucified our Lord; what the Jews had to do with Figueras I could
not make out. In the evening there was a procession through the streets
of a truly magnificent description. It consisted of the gentry in the
town, attired in antique Spanish costumes, and presented an imposing
spectacle. Ladies personated the Virgin Mary and other Scripture
characters, and numerous candles carried by attendants made a splendid
illumination. On the following day, Good Friday, we had a drive into the
country, where we saw and heard of what went on in the way of missionary
work conducted by our zealous friends. In the evening we visited a
neighbouring church which was illuminated, and crowded with people
engaged in religious service. After this, we saw in the streets a long
procession, including penitents, who were fettered with chains.
From Figueras we travelled to Barcelona, a city rich in commercial
enterprise and wealth, the streets crowded with people and enlivened by
carriages of grandees and wealthy merchants, as well as by vehicles
employed in humble traffic. The cathedral is a noble edifice, in which
we attended Divine worship on Easter Sunday. A priest with difficulty
made his way through a densely-crowded congregation to the altar steps,
where he knelt and prayed, and then mounted a temporary pulpit. As soon
as he opened his lips, all eyes were turned towards him. His voice was
marvellous and his attitudes were graceful; sometimes he was persuasive,
then indignant, always earnest; women wept, tears ran down men’s cheeks.
The sermon was on our Lord’s resurrection. He insisted on our duty to
remember Christ—“the Way, the Truth, and the Life”; and he showed the
effect of this on the hearts and lives of believers. He dwelt on the
duty of repentance, and urged people to come to Christ. In a touching
manner he referred to his own experience, and exhorted the congregation
to believe, pray, and obey the Gospel; saying over and over again,
“_Haber fè_, _fè_, _fè_”—“Have faith, faith, faith.”
I met with signs of Protestant work going on in Barcelona, and a
gentleman residing there at the time, told me of what the British and
Foreign Bible Society was doing in Spain. He gave it, as his opinion,
that it exceeded other instrumentalities in the efficiency of its
service. I find it stated by a Spanish author, that Barcelona abounds in
mendicancy, and I have, as I write, a woodcut before me representing a
pitiable crowd of beggars at one of the cathedral doors. {318}
Next to Barcelona, we visited Tarragona, travelling there by rail.
Tarragona is situated on an eminence commanding a fine view of the
Mediterranean, and I was much interested in the architecture of the
cathedral, a building of the eleventh century, fully described by Street
in his work on “The Gothic Architecture of Spain.”
Whilst tarrying at Tarragona, I made an excursion to Poblet, rarely
visited by English, though frequented by French and German travellers.
This place is distinguished by monastic remains of extraordinary
magnificence. You wander amongst courts, cloisters, and dormitories,
through stately halls, which once boasted of a magnificent library rich
in MSS.; through a palace appropriated for the use of royal and noble
visitants; and through a stately church with a nave of seven bays. The
architectural grandeur of the whole is amazing; I was surprised to learn
that it is so rarely seen by our countrymen. Kings and nobles were
brought there for interment, and in that respect it vies with our
Westminster Abbey. At Poblet shattered tombs may still be seen; and few,
if any, but Spaniards of purest blood, were permitted to sleep within the
monastic walls. A marble slab may be seen covering the remains of an
Englishman, described in the Spanish guide book as “Felipe de, Marquése
de Malbursi y de Cacharloch,” etc. Wharton was the English name of this
well-known personage, who was made Knight of the Garter by James II. He
had become a Roman Catholic, but his father was a distinguished English
Nonconformist.
Our next destination was Valencia, to which city we travelled by rail,
enchanted as we approached it, by beautiful scenery which one does not
find abundant in Spain. Augustus Hare breaks out rather rapturously
respecting his approach: “Day broke in time to show us the first vision
of tall palms, with their feathery foliage, rising black against one of
Tennyson’s ‘daffodil skies,’ which above, still deep blue, was filled
with stars.” The groves and gardens appeared to me very beautiful; and
the soil is so fertile, that lucerne is sown fifteen times in the course
of a year. Valencia has battlemented walls; and its arched gate, the
Puerta de Sarranos, reminds one of old English barbicans. It is an
Oriental kind of place, and has charmingly arched entrances for
light—_agimes_,—_i.e._, openings by which the sun enters. The city is
full of memories, connected with the Cid, which I have not space to
introduce; but I may mention that precursors of the Reformation entered
the city in 1350,—under the name of Beghards, who figure rather
prominently in the religious history of that period.
The Cathedral of Valencia is a noble edifice, and has one magnificent
entrance of richly decorated Gothic. There is, in the Colegio del
Patriarca, a ceremony every week on Friday, which attracts a number of
people. It consists in letting down an altar piece by concealed
machinery; and then, by withdrawing a curtain, there is disclosed a large
picture of our Saviour on the Cross. Those who assemble to witness this
ceremony, are required to appear in mourning. I explored the city from
end to end, and found it by no means so uninteresting as some represent
it.
We started in the evening for Cordova, a long distance; but as it was
accomplished in darkness, I noticed nothing by the way, except stoppages
at stations and a change of trains. We crossed the Sierra Morena, which,
in some places, at least, must be very magnificent, if one may judge from
an engraving of tall rocks facing each other, leaving scarcely room for
muleteers to pass between. The approach to Cordova is inviting, and the
Moorish city is beheld amidst a fertile region, across which runs the
Guadalquivir.
We had been invited to take up our abode with an exemplary Scotch
missionary in the city. The sojourn was in a quiet street at a
comfortable dwelling, with an open space in the middle of the residence,
planted with shrubs. Upon this we looked down from windows in our
apartments. One room on the ground floor is sufficiently large to
receive a congregation of about fifty people. We were there on a Sunday
and attended worship in the evening.
The Mosque of Cordova, now a cathedral, is one of the most wonderful
buildings in the world. The surrounding walls are from thirty to
sixty-feet high. The courtyard measures 430 feet by 210. Once there
were nineteen entrance gates, now there is but one. Formerly there were
inside the mosque 1200 monolithic columns, now there are only 850. What
is the _coro_, or choir, of the cathedral, was erected in the sixteenth
century, after the Mohammedan mosque had become a Catholic church. We
had pleasant walks and drives in the neighbourhood.
The next celebrated place in our route was the far-famed Granada, of
which expectations were highly raised, without any disappointment. We
wandered about the Alhambra for several days. The Hall of the Lions, the
Hall of the Ambassadors, and the Hall of the Abencerrages,—with their
arches and columns, courts and colonnades, fountains and flowers,—kept us
spel-bound day by day. We read Washington Irving on the fascinating
spots which he describes so vividly. We could but bow to his relentless
fidelity, where he assures us that, after examining Arabic authorities
and letters, written by Boabdil’s contemporaries, he was convinced, that
the whole collection is fictitious with a few grains of truth at the
bottom.
The fame of the Alhambra swallows up all which is wonderful in Granada,
but, the city retains much besides worthy of a traveller’s attention.
The prospect you have of the place, the plain, and the surrounding hills,
is magnificent; and the cathedral, commenced in 1529, after the defeat
and banishment of the Moors, is a building of architectural interest. It
contains the Capella Real, with the tomb of Ferdinand and Isabella; also
of Philip the Handsome, and his wife Juana, “Crazy Jane,” as she was
called, mother of the famous Charles V. The granddaughter tells us: “She
committed her soul to God and gave thanks to Him, that, at length, He
delivered her from all her sorrows.” In connection with the cathedral,
we meet with Fernando de Talavera, better known by Spaniards than by
Englishmen. Though he remained a Roman Catholic, he deviated from the
common opinions and usages of his age. The Carthusians have a monastery
outside the city, and on visiting it, I found pictures of English
priests, reported to have been martyrs at the period of the Reformation.
No doubt their sufferings are exaggerated on the monastic walls, but it
is a fact, beyond reasonable doubt, that there were Roman Catholics put
to death by English Protestants.
We started one morning from Granada for Seville, and, on crossing the
Vega by the railway, we saw a good barley crop in the month of April. At
Bobadillo, we got on the Seville line, and found the country improve as
we came near to the city on the banks of the Guadalquivir. There,
instead of antique and uncomfortable _fondas_, travellers meet with
spacious and well-furnished hotels. We tarried several days in the city.
The cathedral, of course, was the first object of interest; and, as soon
as possible, we repaired to it, and received an overpowering impression,
as we looked above, beneath, around. Above there is the magnificent
roof, spanning the breadth of the temple; beneath there lies a large slab
covering the remains, not, as sometimes supposed, of Columbus, who
discovered America, but of Fernando, his son. In Holy Week an immense
Greek cross, carved in wood, is raised over the spot, and lighted up so
as to produce an indescribable effect. The _coro_, or choir, is as
grand, though in another way, as the nave which leads up to it. In an
upper part of the edifice there are preserved MSS. and other memorials of
unrivalled Spanish discoveries, and they were freely shown to us. We
went to the Museum, and feasted on Murillo’s pictures. We were also
taken by a friend to see another work of the same artist, since
presented, I am told, to the Pope.
Seville was headquarters of the Protestant cause. The Reformation did
not penetrate much below the hidalgo class. It left the masses almost
untouched. In Seville stood the Inquisition prison, till it was removed
to a palace in the Calle san Mario. “Here,” says Mr. Wiffen in 1842,
“while gazing on the edifice with feelings of awe, I recalled to
remembrance those martyrs for the truth, and, at the same time, I
listened with painful interest to the narration made to me by a Spanish
gentleman, of an attack on those very premises at a recent period by an
infuriated populace, who suffered but few of the friars confined there
for political offences, to escape with life. The building having taken
fire some perished in the flames, while others fell by the hands of the
assassins.” The tables were turned just then, priests were in prison for
political crimes, as heretics had been incarcerated in the sixteenth
century.
Old Venetian political policy was carried out against Protestantism, and
the Inquisition office, with opened ears, listened for whisperings of
heresy. Horrors went on in secret places. I cannot relate them, but
they may be found in what is written by Limborch and Llorente. A few
miles from Seville is the monastery of San Isidore—the cradle of the
Spanish Reformation—and I visited the building with deep interest. The
chapel remains in tolerable repair, and is used as a parish church. The
chapter-house, sacristy and cloisters are preserved. Ancient pictures
hang on the walls, and old embroidered vestments are shown to visitors.
Bibles and Protestant books were of old secretly brought within the
walls, and monks began to read them.
I have described Seville Cathedral and its treasures at some length in my
volume on “Spanish Reformers, their Memories and Dwelling Places.” I
cannot repeat here what has been said there. But let me say, the city is
full of interest to travellers, hotels are comfortable, shops are well
stocked with curiosities, manufactories are hives of industry, and
pictures by great masters are found in churches and private houses. I
was enchanted with some of the Murillos, and would advise every traveller
to visit the Sala de Murillo in Seville.
I should have been glad to have prolonged my stay, and to have revisited
spots full of historic interest. But I had much before me to see and
study in the interior and north of Spain; therefore, though unwillingly,
we took the train one night for Madrid, making that a starting point for
other explorations.
I may mention that during our stay at Madrid we were entertained in a
curious straggling house, occupied by Dr. Fliedner, a minister, who acted
as chaplain to the German Embassy. The house, it is said, was occupied
by the famous Escovedo, secretary to the still more famous Don Juan of
Austria; and one night as he was returning home six ruffians waylaid him,
between eight and nine o’clock, and inflicted on him wounds, of which he
died in half an hour. Peres, a great villain who hated Don Juan, is said
to have obtained the sanction of Philip II. for this abominable deed,
prompted by the discovery of an amour between Escovedo and the Princess
of Eboli. It is a horrible story of crime and vice, common in the secret
annals of Spain.
In Madrid I had the privilege of using the public library, and found
there a large collection of English and French, as well as Spanish,
literature. I am sorry to say, that on the shelves, many volumes in our
language appeared, written by “advanced thinkers,” tending to the
diffusion of anti-Christian principles. And, in the windows of
booksellers I noticed works for sale of the same description. The Bible
Society I found at work within limits marked by law, and I attended one
evening a Spanish congregation gathered by Protestant agency, and had the
privilege of addressing those present, through the medium of an
interpreter. I met with specimens of Spanish superstition which were
very degrading. In one case I saw papers, with a figure of the Virgin’s
shoe printed upon them, sold to ignorant people as a sacred charm.
The Plaza at Madrid is a magnificent square, encompassed by a line of
handsome buildings with a garden, fountains, and an equestrian statue of
Philip III. in the middle. Here some of the _autos_ were held in the
seventeenth century, and in 1869 excavations were made, where
incontestable proofs of burnings appeared in bones, charred wood, chain
links, nails and rivets discovered in the soil. Dr. Manning, in his
“Spanish Pictures,” wrote soon after the discovery: “I visited the spot,
and much as I had heard of the horrors of the Quemadore, I was not
prepared for the sight I beheld; layer above layer, like the strata of a
geological model, were these silent, but most eloquent witnesses of the
murderous cruelty of Rome.”
I may here add that I saw other mementoes of the Spanish Inquisition in
underground vaults connected with a house occupied by the Rev. Mr.
Jameson, a Presbyterian clergyman at work in Madrid. I found recesses
walled up, which it was said had been cells in the days of persecution.
Of course, I visited the immense picture-gallery in Madrid; but the size
and number of rooms with multitudes of paintings on the walls, were so
bewildering, as to make only a confused impression on my mind. Spanish
art has not the charm for me which it has for many. Velasquez and
Murillo, of course, are pre-eminent. The latter stands first of all in
my estimation. No one, who has seen only the dirty beggar boys at
Dulwich, can have any conception of Murillo’s merits. It is in Seville,
however, that he must be studied, if any one would see him at his best.
I found no Murillo in Madrid which charmed me like those it was my
privilege to enjoy in the Capital of the South. There is a good chapter
on Velasquez and Murillo in Sir E. Head’s “Handbook of Painting—Spanish
School.”
“Velasquez and Murillo are preferred, and preferred with reason, to all
the others, as the most original and characteristic of their school.
These two great painters are remarkable for having lived in the same
time, in the same school, painted for the same people and of the same
age, and yet to have formed two styles so different and opposite that the
most unlearned can scarcely mistake them, Murillo being all softness,
while Velasquez is all sparkle and vivacity.” {329}
A curious story is told of a picture by Velasquez—the portrait of Adrian
Pulido Pareja. Philip IV. coming, as usual, to see the artist at work,
started when he saw this portrait, and addressing himself to it,
exclaimed: “What, art thou still here? Did I not send thee off? How is
it thou art not gone?” But seeing the figure did not salute him, the
King discovered his mistake, and, turning to Velasquez, said: “I assure
you I was deceived.”
We visited the Escorial some distance from Madrid. Philip II. is buried
there. Its situation is wild and desolate—a vast expanse of undulations,
scarcely to be called mountainous, except in the distance, where
snow-streaked sierras send cutting blasts over the slate roofs and
against the grey stone walls. The building itself looks like a
manufactory, at best like spacious barracks; one may think it something
between a prison and a convent, or rather a combination of the two; at
any rate its cold, stern, repulsive exterior is a fair type of the
builder’s character and influence. The only objects of much interest,
and they are in truth most melancholy, one finds in the monkish
apartments, the monastic chapel, and the costly sepulchre of the founder
and his family. A long and narrow room is shown with brick floor and
leathern chairs, where he dined. Next to it is another, only separated
by folding doors, from which, when open, the despot borrowed the light by
which he wrote his despatches. In this room is a plain oak table, with
three brass ink bottles on one side, and a velvet writing-case in the
middle; these, with the leather-bottomed chair on which he sat, are
carefully preserved. From this room you pass into a third, low and dark,
a mere cell, whence through an opening in the wall, the altar of the
monastery chapel may be seen; there he spent his last hours, after being,
like his prototype Herod, smitten by an angel of the Lord, and eaten up
of worms; no death could be more horrible. That chapel is an enormous
marble building, most costly, most dreary, and into one corner of the
_coro_ he would sometimes steal, to perform his devotions with the
Jeronymite brotherhood. The sepulchre under the high altar is reached by
a slippery marble staircase; and round the sides of the vault are placed
sarcophagi, one above another; Charles V. occupies the topmost position,
Philip being placed under his father. The dismalness of the spot is
unrelieved by any emblem or suggestion of Christian hope: not even such a
ray falls over it as that which lighted up the mind of the heathen
Cicero, when he spoke of meeting in the future life an assembly of noble
souls.
Toledo is about forty miles from Madrid, and is easily reached by rail.
Scenery on the way is uninteresting till you get near the city, when,
crossing the bridge over the Tagus, you are reminded of the rocky seat on
which sits Durham Cathedral. Winding through narrow streets of the city
and past Moorish-looking entrances into courts, called _patios_, I
thought Toledo was a sort of album, with ornamented leaves on one side,
and romantic legends on the other. At the foot of St. Martin’s bridge
lies a cave, where Roderic, the last of the Goths, saw the lady whose
seduction caused the Moorish invasion; which invasion robbed the monarch
of his crown. The cathedral is grand indeed. The cloisters are full of
rich tracery, elegant pilasters crowned with statuettes, and open windows
adorned by elaborate tracery. The interior is worthy of its surroundings
and its approach; and I was deeply interested in the Mozarabic chapel.
There is preserved a thin folio, bearing the name of the chapel, and
containing a Latin service, used there every day. With it is connected
an absurd tradition, the story and meaning of which are disputed by
archæologists. With the cathedral you have connected the name of
Bartolomo Carranza, called the Black Friar, whose long story is entwined
round the Council of Trent, and with Philip of Spain, who married the
English Queen Mary. He attended Charles V. on his deathbed, and was
accused of heresy; and yet the Pope raised for him a monument in
commemoration of his virtues. It is said Carranza believed in the
doctrine of Justification by Faith; and his history from beginning to end
appears to me a hopeless puzzle. {333}
In Toledo is the “Square Market,” as it is called; and here occurred
bullfights and burnings,—one of the latter in 1560, when Philip II. was
present.
We returned from Toledo to Madrid and leaving the capital, a week or so
afterwards, travelled to Valladolid. The chief, indeed the only,
architectural monument in Valladolid is found in the combined edifices of
San Pablo’s Church, and San Gregorio’s College. The facade of the former
is an elaborate example of Gothic flamboyant; but the gateway of the
latter with its heraldic ornaments, coats of arms, statues in niches, and
numerous figures, has a bewildering effect. Columbus and Cervantes both
resided in this city; the former died in the Calle de Colon, the latter
wrote the first part of “Don Quixote” in the Calle de Rastro.
Ford, in his voluminous “Guide to Spain,” at the beginning of a notice
respecting Valladolid, says: “In the first street, above the bridge, is
the site of the old Inquisition, the Court of Chancery, and the prison”;
adding the remark: “The great Chancery or Court of Appeal for the north
of Spain was moved to the present building by Ferdinand and Isabella.
The inscribed motto, ‘_Jura fidem ac pænam reddit sua munera
cunctus_’—seems rather strong, to all who know what Spanish _justitia_
is, let alone Chancery in general.”
Incipient stages of reformation come before us in this city. One sees in
imagination “The Calle del Doctor Cazalla,” of Jewish extraction, a man
of renown for his Protestant work, born in 1510; he had been Court
preacher and champion of orthodoxy, until he came under the influence of
German reformers. But he seems by no means to have been a Martin Luther,
for, when he was accused of dogmatising in a Valladolid conventicle, he
solemnly denied the fact, and said he had not _indoctrinated_ other
people with his own views. His end was not heroic. After being
dislocated on the rack, he recanted with a hope of life, but he found no
escape. The night before his execution, when acquainted with the final
sentence, the poor man said, “I must prepare to die in the grace of God,
for it is impossible for me to add to what I have said, without
falsehood.” We learn that, after all, he did not break with Rome, but
received absolution; and then, instead of being burnt, he was strangled.
His house was pulled down, the spot strewn with salt, and a column placed
where the building had stood. An inscription upon it stated: “Lutheran
heretics assembled here in conventicle against the Catholic faith and the
Roman Church.” A namesake, Francesco de Vibero Cazalla, more valiant for
the truth, remained constant to the last. Another martyr behaved
heroically, only lamenting that his wife abjured, and he saw her dressed
as a penitent. But we are told the husband’s look never departed from
her eyes. In my “Spanish Reformers” I have given a detailed account of
several sufferers for the truth at Valladolid.
Of the cathedral, Street, in his work on “Spanish Architecture,” says:
“Nothing could ever cure the hideous unsightliness of the exterior”; and
he adds: “The side elevation remains as Herrera, the architect, designed
it, and is really valuable as _a warning_.” The author describes Sta.
Maria l’Antigua, close to the cathedral, as the most attractive church in
Valladolid. He says of the city: “It was too rich and prosperous, during
an age of much work, and little taste, to have left mediæval architecture
of any real value; yet as a modern city it is, in parts, gay and
attractive; being, after Madrid, the most important city of the north of
Spain.” From what I saw of the place, I can endorse this opinion.
We reached Burgos, after a short journey, and found the town much less
interesting and agreeable than Valladolid, but the cathedral is
incomparably superior. The picture of its facade, doors, windows, and
towers, is vividly imprinted on my memory.
We were now approaching the border of France, and I had memories revived
of a first dip into Spain, years before. Though the land be still the
same and the skies the same, different feelings arise from departure out
of a country, compared with one’s entrance into it. We reached a new and
very comfortable hotel at San Sebastian, and there I revived
recollections of curiosity and interest, felt years before, when I first
crossed the border and became acquainted with the costumes, the manners
and customs of Spanish life.