The natural bent of the Spanish mind is religious. Taking the nation as a whole, with all its marvellous variations in race and character, no portion of it has ever been reproached for insincerity in its religious beliefs. It has been often held up to reproach for bigotry and superstition; but the people have in past ages been penetrated by a sincere reverence for what they have believed to be religion, and perhaps no other nation has been more thoroughly imbued with an unwavering faith in the dogmas taught by its religious instructors. English Roman Catholics—especially those who have seceded from the Anglican Church—are fond of declaring that Spain is "a splendid Catholic country," "the home of true Catholicism," and so forth. To a certain extent this has been true of it in the past, and "dignity, loyalty, and the love of God" are still the ideals of the people at large, although in Spain, as in some other Continental nations, the practice of religious duties is now, to a great extent, left to the women of the family and to the peasantry. Young Spain, and the progressive party in it, can no longer be said to be under the domination of the Church, even in outward appearance. It will be well if the swing of the pendulum does not carry them very far from it, and into open revolt.

The history of the Church in Spain and of its relations with Rome is a curious one. It can scarcely be said to have been much more amenable to the Papacy than that of the Church of England, though it has remained always within the pale of the Roman Catholic persuasion. In the old time the kings aspired to be the head of the Spanish Church, and were none too subservient to the Pope. The Inquisition and the Society of Jesus were distinctly Spanish, and not Roman, and were at times actually at variance with the Vatican. Probably from their long struggles with the barbarians, and later with the Moors, Spaniards have a habit of always speaking of themselves as Christians rather than Catholics, which strikes strangely on one's ears.

The evils which have been wrought in Spain by the terrible incubus of the Inquisition, and by the domination of the Jesuits and other orders, who obtained possession of the teaching of youth, have been little less than disastrous, because their power has been deliberately used for ages past to keep the lower classes in a state of absolute ignorance, slaves of the grossest superstition, and mere puppets in the hands of the priesthood. Even well within the memory of living people it was thought a pity that women should be allowed to learn even to read and write,—safer to have them quite ignorant,—while the peasantry and the inferior classes believed anything they were told, and could be excited to any pitch of fanaticism by the preaching of their religious teachers. The Inquisition was often used as a political machine, and was sometimes only clothed with the semblance of religion; but by whomsoever it was directed, and for whatsoever purpose, it was a vile and soul-destroying institution. It deliberately ground down and destroyed every spark of intelligence, of liberty, of attempt at progress; it dominated the whole nation like the shadow of the upas tree, manufactured hypocrites, and led to the debasing of a naturally fine people of good instincts to an ignorant and fanatical mob, who, in the name of religion, were entertained with gigantic autos-da-fÉ, as the Roman populace were with the terrible spectacles of their gladiatorial shows and the immolation of Christian victims in the arena.

It was the people themselves who rose against this hateful tyranny; it was their better instincts that put an end to the "Holy Office" and its enormous crimes. Shortly after the Revolution of 1868, when religious liberty had been established, and the people, for the first time in their long history of disaster, were breathing the air of freedom, certain improvements which were being made, in the shape of laying out new streets, pulling down old rookeries, and building better houses, led to a new road being cut through the raised ground outside the Santa Barbara Gate. The exact spot of the great Quemadero—the oven of the Inquisition—was not known, but it chanced that the workmen cut right through the very centre of it. A more ghastly sight, or an object-lesson of more potency, could scarcely be imagined. The Government of the day found it advisable to cover it up as quickly as possible; the excitement of the people was thought to be dangerous; and though those at the head of affairs were no friends to the priests or the Jesuits, there was no desire to reawaken the passions and let loose the vengeance which led the populace in 1834 to murder them wholesale.

I happened to be returning from a ride with a companion when, quite accidentally, we came upon this excavation, and even passed down the new road before we realised where we were. The Quemadero had evidently been in the shape of an immense basin. There in the banks at each side were the stratified layers of human ashes; between each auto-da-fÉ it was evident that the remains had been covered with a thick layer of earth; finally, at the top of all these smaller bands of black, horrible ashes, came one huge deposit, which marked the awful scene of the last gigantic auto. This ghastly bonfire was sixty feet square, and seven feet high, as history records, when one hundred and five victims were slowly tortured to a frightful death in the name of Christ, while the King, Charles II., and his Court and the howling rabble of Madrid looked on with savage enjoyment. Nothing can ever obliterate the impression of that scene, nor make one forget the deadly clinging of those ghastly black ashes, which the wind scattered about, and which it was impossible to escape or to get rid of. The fell work of the "religious" authors of the holocaust had been well done—nothing was left but ashes; and the next day, by order of the Government, sand or soil had been thrown over all that could bear witness to this horrible episode in the history of the Church in Spain, while the people who inhabit the houses built over the spot probably know nothing of the records of human agony and brutal bigotry that still lie beneath their homes.

We hear of these things and read of them in history, but one needs to have seen that awful memorial to realise what share the Inquisition has had in transforming a naturally heroic and kindly people into the inert masses which nothing, or almost nothing, would move so long as they had pan y toros (bread and bulls). Thanks to the horrors of the Inquisition and the Autos-da-fÉ, the whole people have acquired a character which assuredly they do not deserve. The blind bigotry and cynical cruelty of Philip II. and his lunatic successors have been identified with the races over which, unfortunately for Spain, they ruled for so many years. When one remembers that this is the view taken of the Inquisition, and of the domination of the Church in effacing all kinds of culture, by the liberal and educated Spaniard of to-day, and that there is, even now, an extreme party which would fain see the "Holy Office" re-established, with all its old powers, it is easy to understand at what a critical point the clerical question has arrived in Spain; nor need one wonder at the feeling which in all parts of the kingdom has been aroused by the recrudescence of the religious orders, more especially of the determined struggle of the Jesuits to retain and even to reassert their power.

The Madonna, who is always spoken of as "La VÍrgen," never as "Santa MarÍa," is the great object of love and of reverence in Spain, while the words Dios and Jesus are used as common exclamations in a way that impresses English people rather unfavourably. It is a shock to hear all classes using the Por Dios! which with us is a mark of the purest blackguardism, and the use as common names of that of Our Lord and of Salvador, or Saviour, always strikes a disagreeable note. There is in Madrid a "Calle Jesus," and the sacred name, used as a common expletive, is heard on all sides. One of the most charming of Yradier's Andalusian songs, addressed by a contrabandista to his novia, runs thus:

And no one is offended; in fact, no irreverence is probably meant.

But the innumerable "VÍrgenes" which abound throughout the country, and all seem different, have the heartfelt devotion of all classes. To one or other of them the bull-fighter goes for protection and aid before he enters the arena; the mother whose child lies sick vows her magnificent hair to the Virgin of the Atocha, or of the Pillar, or some of the many others scattered about the country, if only she will grant what she asks; and you may see these marvellous locks, tied with coloured ribbons, hanging amongst the motley assemblage of votive offerings by the side of her altar, when the prayer has been answered. It is difficult for us, with the best intentions, not to let prejudice colour our judgment, and to understand what we are told—that these are really all the same "Mother of God"; for, if so, one would imagine that she would hear the devout prayers of her worshippers, to whichever of the wooden images—most of them said to have been carved by St. Luke, and black by age, if not by nature—they are addressed. But no, the Virgen del CÁrmen is only efficacious in certain circumstances; and in the time of Isabel II. she used to be taken down from her altar and placed in the Queen's bedroom whenever an addition to the Royal Family was imminent. Those in the other parts of Spain have each their specialty, and pilgrimages are necessary to their shrines before the prayers addressed to them can be listened to by the original.

The various saints in their way are wooed with candles burnt before their images, or little altars set up to them at home; but they are sometimes treated with scant courtesy if they do not answer the expectations of their worshippers. On one occasion in Madrid, I remember, San Isidro, who is the patron of the labouring classes, had the bad taste, as his votaries considered, to send rain on his own fiesta—a thing unknown before. Lest he should err in this way again, the mob went to his church, at that time the principal one in Madrid, smashed the windows, and did all the damage they could compass before the Civil Guards came to the rescue. A servant-girl I knew, had for a long time been praying to San Antonio to send her a novio (sweetheart), expending money in tapers, and otherwise trying to propitiate the saint. At last, finding him deaf to all entreaties, she took the little wooden image she had bought, tied a string round his neck, and hung him in the well, saying: "You shall stop there till you send me what I want." Some little time after, she actually found a novio, and hastened gratefully to take San Antonio out of his damp quarters, set him up on his altar again, and burn tapers for his edification. I had thought this an example of special ignorance and superstition; but the other day, in reading some of the papers of the Spanish Folklore Library, I found there is a widespread belief that if San Antonio, and probably some other saints, do not answer the prayers of their votaries who burn candles before them, it is a good thing to hang them in a well till they come to their senses! It is difficult for any unbiassed person to understand that this is not fetish worship, as it would certainly seem to be, but we are told that it is something quite different.

The religious fiestas, as I have said, may be classed among the amusements of the people. During the warm season they invariably end with a bull-fight. In winter there are no bulls. Whether it be the RomerÍa of Santiago de Compostelo, the Santa Semana in Toledo or Seville, Noche-Buena and the Day of the Nativity in Madrid or Barcelona, gaiety and enjoyment seem to be the order of the day. Even Lent is not so bad, for just before it comes the Carnival and the grotesque "Burial of the Sardine" by the gente bajo, and of the three great masked balls, one is given in mid-Lent, to prevent the Lenten ordeal being too trying, and Holy Thursday is always a fiesta and day of enjoyment. On this day, in Madrid, takes place the washing of the feet of the poor in the Royal Palace—a function that savours a good deal of the ridiculous, but which was never omitted by the piadosa Isabel II., and was revived by her son. For forty-eight hours the bells of all the churches remain silent, no vehicles are allowed in the streets, which are gravelled along the routes Royalty will take to visit on foot seven of the churches, where the Holy Sepulchres are displayed; and in the afternoon all Madrid resorts to the Plaza del Sol and the Carrera San Geronimo, to show off their gayest costumes in a regular gala promenade. Finally, on Saturday morning—why forty-eight hours only is allowed for the supposed entombment does not quite appear—the bells clang forth, noise and gaiety pervade the whole city, and the day ends with a cock-fight and the reopening of the theatres, and the first grand bull-fight of the season is held on Easter Sunday. Verily, the Church is mindful of the weakness of its vassals, and shows as much indulgence as is thought needful to keep the people amused and careless of all else. I remember, when I first noticed this wearing of the most gaudy colours on Maundy Thursday, a day one would naturally expect to be one of special mourning, I was told it was allowed by the Church because on that day Pilate put the purple robe on Our Lord!

The processions and functions of Holy Week and other fiestas have been so often and so fully described that there is no need to refer to them; but there are several curious survivals and religious customs in out-of-the-way places which seem to have escaped notice. I have not been able to find in any book on Spain a description of the strange dance which takes place in the cathedral of Seville on, I think, three days in the year, of which two are certainly the day of the Virgin and that of Corpus Christi. The origin of the dance seems to be lost, nor is its special connection with Seville known. All that one can hear of it is that one of the archbishops of Toledo objected to the dance as being irreverent and unusual, and ordered it to be stopped. The indignant people referred the matter to the Pope, but even the date of this appeal seems to be dubious, if not unknown. His Holiness replied that he could not judge of the matter unless he himself saw the dance. Accordingly, the boys who figure in this strange performance were taken to Rome, and they solemnly danced before the Pope. His verdict was that there was nothing irreverent about the dance, but he thought, as it was known only to Seville, it would be better eventually to discontinue it; but so long as the dress worn on the occasions when it is practised, lasted, the dance might continue. The dresses have lasted to the present day, and will always continue to last, say the Sevillanos, for as one part wears out it is renewed, but never a whole garment made. The dress is peculiar: it consists of short trousers to the knees, and a jacket which hangs from one shoulder, stockings and shoes with large buckles or bows, and a soft hat, somewhat of the shape of a Tam-o'-shanter, with one feather—that of an eagle, I think. The dress is red and white for the day of Corpus, and blue and white for the day of the Virgin, covered with the richest gold embroidery, for which Spain has always been famous. The boys, holding castanets in each hand, advance, dancing with much grace and dignity, until they reach the front of the High Altar; there they remain, striking their castanets and performing slow and very graceful evolutions for some time, gradually retiring again as they came in, dancing, down the nave. The boys are regularly instructed in the dance by the priests, and the number is kept up, so that neither dancers nor garments ever fail. The Pope's order is obeyed, while the Sevillanos retain their strange religious function. The fact of the performance taking place in the evening perhaps accounts for its being so little known, but it would seem also as if the authorities of the cathedral do not care to have attention drawn to it. The dance is called los seises, and even the origin of the name is unknown.

In Holy Week and at Christmas are performed passion plays at some of the theatres, strangely realistic, and sometimes rousing the audience to wild indignation, especially against Judas Iscariot, who is hissed and hooted, and is often the recipient of missiles from the spectators, while interspersed with this genuine feeling one hears shouts of laughter when anything occurs to provoke it. On one occasion one of the Roman soldiers (always unpopular in the religious processions) appeared on the stage, dragging, by a cord round the neck, a miserable-looking man carrying a huge cross, so heavy that it caused him continually to fall. As the soldier kicked him up again, and continued to drag him along by the neck, the audience became ungovernable in their rage. "DÉjale! DÉjale! Bruto! Bruto!" they yelled; and, finally threatening to storm the stage and immolate the offending soldier, the play had to be stopped and the curtain rung down.

In villages too poor to possess pasos—the beautifully modelled life-size figures which form the tableaux in the rich churches and processions—human actors take their place. In Castellon de la Plana, where there is a yearly procession in honour of Santa MarÍa Magdalena, somewhat curious scenes take place. The Magdalen, in the days of her sin, is acted by a girl chosen for her beauty, but not for her character. She is gorgeously attired, and is allowed to retain her dress and ornaments after the performance. She is installed in state in a cart decorated with palms and flowers, and is surrounded by all the men of the village on foot, for it is part of the performance that they are allowed to say what they please to her. She acts the part to perfection apparently, and enjoys it, to boot. In another car comes the penitent Magdalen, dressed in pure white, and decorated with flowers. This part may be taken only by a young girl of unblemished character. It is thought the greatest honour that can be paid to her, and you are told by the people that she is always married within the year. This procession winds its way up the mountain to a small shrine of Santa MarÍa Magdalena, where it is said that her church once stood; but finding the climb up the hill was inconvenient to the lame and the aged, she very considerately, one night, moved the whole edifice down intact to Castellon de la Plana, where it now stands.

Going by rail once, many years ago, to Toledo, to see the processions on Good Friday, the train was accidentally delayed for some time a little distance from one of the stations, and there, in a small garden by the roadside, was being enacted the scene of the Crucifixion by human actors. A full-size cross was erected, and on it, apparently, hung a man crowned with thorns, and with head bowed upon his breast. In reality he was kneeling on two ledges placed for the purpose at a convenient distance from the cross-bars. It was cold, and the actor was covered by an old brown tattered cloak, such as the peasants wear now, and which we see in Velasquez's pictures. His feet stuck out behind the cross, but his arms were tied in a position which must soon have become painful. Around lay a cock tied by his legs, a ladder, a sponge tied on a stick, a sword, a lantern, and all the usual emblems of the Passion. The holy women and the Roman soldiers with their spears were just coming out of the cottage near by to take up their positions in this strange and pathetic tableau. The face of that peasant in the tattered brown cloak, not less than the spectacle of the people kneeling around in evident sorrow and worship, haunted me for many a day.