He Is Our National Poet, And We
Are Very Proud Of Him."
We stopped upwards of an hour with the Advocate, whose
conversation, if it did not convince me that he was
The cleverest
man in Spain, was, upon the whole, highly interesting, and who
certainly possessed an extensive store of general information,
though he was by no means the profound philologist which the notary
had represented him to be.
When I was about to depart from Pontevedra in the afternoon of the
next day, the Senor Garcia stood by the side of my horse, and
having embraced me, thrust a small pamphlet into my hand: "This
book," said he, "contains a description of Pontevedra. Wherever
you go, speak well of Pontevedra." I nodded. "Stay," said he, "my
dear friend, I have heard of your society, and will do my best to
further its views. I am quite disinterested, but if at any future
time you should have an opportunity of speaking in print of Senor
Garcia, the notary public of Pontevedra, - you understand me, - I
wish you would do so."
"I will," said I.
It was a pleasant afternoon's ride from Pontevedra to Vigo, the
distance being only four leagues. As we approached the latter
town, the country became exceedingly mountainous, though scarcely
anything could exceed the beauty of the surrounding scenery. The
sides of the hills were for the most part clothed with luxuriant
forests, even to the very summits, though occasionally a flinty and
naked peak would present itself, rising to the clouds. As the
evening came on, the route along which we advanced became very
gloomy, the hills and forests enwrapping it in deep shade. It
appeared, however, to be well frequented: numerous cars were
creaking along it, and both horsemen and pedestrians were
continually passing us. The villages were frequent. Vines,
supported on parras, were growing, if possible, in still greater
abundance than in the neighbourhood of Pontevedra. Life and
activity seemed to pervade everything. The hum of insects, the
cheerful bark of dogs, the rude songs of Galicia, were blended
together in pleasant symphony. So delicious was my ride, that I
almost regretted when we entered the gate of Vigo.
The town occupies the lower part of a lofty hill, which, as it
ascends, becomes extremely steep and precipitous, and the top of
which is crowned with a strong fort or castle. It is a small
compact place, surrounded with low walls, the streets are narrow,
steep, and winding, and in the middle of the town is a small
square.
There is rather an extensive faubourg extending along the shore of
the bay. We found an excellent posada, kept by a man and woman
from the Basque provinces, who were both civil and intelligent.
The town seemed to be crowded, and resounded with noise and
merriment. The people were making a wretched attempt at an
illumination, in consequence of some victory lately gained, or
pretended to have been gained, over the forces of the Pretender.
Military uniforms were glancing about in every direction.
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