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.