"Who Are You?" Said I To A Woman Who Flung Herself At
My Feet, And Who Bore In Her Countenance Evident Marks Of Former
Gentility.
"A widow, sir," she replied, in very good French; "a
widow of a brave officer, once admiral of this port." The misery
and degradation of modern Spain are nowhere so strikingly
manifested as at Ferrol.
Yet even here there is still much to admire. Notwithstanding its
present state of desolation, it contains some good streets, and
abounds with handsome houses. The alameda is planted with nearly a
thousand elms, of which almost all are magnificent trees, and the
poor Ferrolese, with the genuine spirit of localism so prevalent in
Spain, boast that their town contains a better public walk than
Madrid, of whose prado, when they compare the two, they speak in
terms of unmitigated contempt. At one end of this alameda stands
the church, the only one in Ferrol. To this church I repaired the
day after my arrival, which was Sunday. I found it quite
insufficient to contain the number of worshippers who, chiefly from
the country, not only crowded the interior, but, bare-headed, were
upon their knees before the door to a considerable distance down
the walk.
Parallel with the alameda extends the wall of the naval arsenal and
dock. I spent several hours in walking about these places, to
visit which it is necessary to procure a written permission from
the captain-general of Ferrol. They filled me with astonishment.
I have seen the royal dockyards of Russia and England, but for
grandeur of design and costliness of execution, they cannot for a
moment compare with these wonderful monuments of the bygone naval
pomp of Spain.
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