Madrid not the sole Capital of Spain; Peculiarities of Seville; Moorish Customs; the Streets; the Population; Manner of Living in Andalusia; Society; Morals; the Archbishop; the Dean; the Convents; frequency of Murder in Andalusia, and its Causes; Serenading; Superstition in Seville, and Examples of it; extraordinary Facts; the Paseo; Andalusian Women; Oracion; Las Delicias; Orange-Groves; Details respecting the Orange Trade of Seville; the Cathedral; the Capuchin Convent, La Caridad, and Murillo’s Pictures; Private Collections; the Alcazar and its Gardens; the Tobacco Manufactory; Roman Remains; Seville as a Residence; Prices of Provisions; Descent of the Guadalquivir, and its Banks; Optic Deception; St. Lucar; Night Journey; Port St. Mary; the Bay of Cadiz, and the City.
Spain is the only country in Europe, that contains more than one capital. London is the capital, and the only capital of England; and Paris is the sole capital of France. Bourdeaux, indeed, or Marseilles, may be called capitals of the west and south of France; and Liverpool is sometimes called the metropolis of the west of England: but these are only small editions of the great capital. The general appearance of all the cities is the same; and in dress and manners, the inhabitants of the smaller cities differ in nothing from the inhabitants of the acknowledged metropolis of the kingdom. But in Spain, one city does not represent the whole nation. In dress, usages, morals, as well as in the general aspect of external things, all those provinces which remained during the longest period subject to the dominion of the Moors, possess essential and characteristic distinctions; and Madrid, although nominally the capital of all Spain, is, in fact, but the metropolis of the two Castiles. Seville is the capital of the south, and Valencia of the east of Spain.
The first stroll which a stranger takes through the streets of Seville, shews him a new order of things: he at once perceives the results of a hot climate, and the traces of Moorish dominion and Moorish customs. These are first remarked in the construction of the houses, which differ entirely from any thing that he has ever seen before. In place of the wide dark entry to a Castilian house, a passage, scrupulously clean, leads through the building to the interior square, or patio, which is separated from the passage by a handsome, ornamented, and often gilded, cast-iron door; through which, every one who passes along the street, may see into the patio. The patio is the luxury of a hot climate; it is open to the sky, but the sun scarcely reaches it; and there is always a contrivance, by which an awning may be drawn over it. The floor is of marble, or of painted Valencia tiles; sometimes a fountain plays in the centre; and a choice assortment of flowers, sweet-smelling and beautiful, is disposed around in ornamented vases: here the inmates escape from the noon-day heats; and here, in the evening, every family assembles to converse, see their friends, play the guitar, and sip lemonade.
There is something peculiarly attractive in a walk through Seville. The streets, though narrow, so scrupulously clean—the white-washed houses, every one with its range of balconies; those peeps into the patios,—so cool, so luxurious,—the golden oranges hanging over the garden walls, for every third or fourth house has its garden and orangery; and the glimpses of Moorish customs visible even in trifles. Among these, one of the most obvious, is the contempt of chairs: in many of the lower order of houses, and in the artizan’s workshop, it is usual to see the inmates squatted upon mats; and even in the most respectable houses, and in the best shops, most persons are seated upon low stools, not much elevated above the ground.
The general aspect of the population of Seville, differs greatly from that of Madrid. To begin with the upper ranks, there is something more eastern in the appearance of the ladies; they are more frequently seen veiled; their cheeks seem tinged with a hue of Moorish blood; and along with the fire of the Castilian eye, there is mingled a shading of oriental softness. Among the lower orders of women, we remark an extravagant and tasteless profusion of gaudy ornaments, immense earrings, and enormous bracelets, and numerous rings, which I have seen gracing the fingers of a common beggar: all this is a remnant of Moorish custom; and the dress of the Andalusian peasant, is even more grotesque and ornamented than that of the women: his jacket and waistcoat, are almost always trimmed with gold or silver, and a profusion of silk cord and buttons covers every article of his dress.
One striking difference between Madrid and Seville, consists in the number of ragged and wretched-looking people seen in the latter city. This is the almost invariable result of a hot climate, where labour is a disagreeable exertion, and where the temptations to labour are few. It is easy to live in Andalusia:—give a small loaf of bread to one of these ragged sons of idleness; he makes a hole in it, begs a little oil, which is not worth refusing, pours it into the hole, and dipping his slices of bread in it as he cuts round his loaf, he is set up for the day; and if he succeeds in getting a two-quarto piece, about one farthing, he can deliberate between the choice of a gaspacho, (the luxury of thousands), which only requires a little vinegar, oil, and onion,—or, of as many grapes as might furnish forth the desert of a Russian prince: he is therefore idle, because he has no incitement to be busy; and as for his rags and houselessness, these are scarcely felt to be evils in a country where the sun shines every day in the year.
The upper and middle ranks in Seville live more luxuriously, but not better than the inhabitants of Madrid. Things that are justly esteemed luxuries in Andalusia, would not be luxuries in Castile: the luxuries of the Sevillanos, are made luxuries by the climate—iced water, lemonade, oranges, pomegranates and prickly pears; a cool patio to retire to, a fountain and a bath; summer apartments nearest the ground, and winter apartments nearest the sun; these are all luxuries in the climate of Andalusia, and are even necessary to health and comfort. But even in his ordinary diet, the Andalusian has the advantage over the Castilian; it is true that he, like the inhabitant of the northern provinces, dines upon the eternal puchero; but then its ingredients are better in Andalusia than in Castile; the pigs are fed from the ilex nuts, and the vegetables of the south of Spain are perhaps the finest in the world.
The state of society in Seville, affords farther evidence of the difference between Castile and Andalusia. The true Spanish tertulia is far less frequent in Seville than in Madrid; and substantial entertainments are more general. In morals, the distinction is still greater; for, in Seville, intrigue in married life, is not, as in Castile, concealed from the husband: the Andalusian cortejo enjoys, at the same time, the good graces of the wife, and the apparent or real good will of the husband. Among all classes in Seville, morality is at the lowest possible ebb. It is almost a derision to a married woman, to have no cortejo; and a jest against an unmarried woman, to have no amante; and the gallantries of the latter, are not unfrequently carried as far as the gallantries of the former. It is forbidden to all women to enter the cathedral of Seville after sunset; but I have frequently seen this order disregarded, under circumstances too, of the most suspicious kind. The worst possible example is set by the churchmen: it is a common saying in Seville, that the reason why one sees so few pretty women in the streets, is, that they are all in the houses of the clergy; and those who have had the best opportunity of judging of the truth of this saying, have assured me, that such is the fact; and that it is impossible to enter the houses of the dignified clergy, without finding evidence of it.
The head of the church in Seville, the archbishop, is equally careless of the interests of religion and morality. He never resides in Seville, but most generally in some convent in the country, by which he saves the expense of living at home; and the whole revenues of his see, are sent by him to Portugal, to aid in supporting the party and interests of Don Miguel. Three years ago, the archbishop failed: finding himself in difficulties, he wrote to the king, requesting to know what was to be done; to which his majesty is said to have replied,—“do as I do, pay nobody.” At all events, the archbishop acted upon this advice, by whomsoever given: he promised to pay his creditors by instalments, in ten years, but no one has ever yet received a dollar. I am myself acquainted with a merchant to whom he owes a considerable sum; but the merchant told me, he should expose himself to persecution of various kinds, were he to proceed to extremities. Every archbishop and bishop is almost forced to incur debt upon his appointment to a see: the first year’s revenue belongs to the king, and the new bishop is therefore obliged to borrow money of the merchants, that he may be able to support his dignity the first year. The revenue of the archbishop of Seville is about 35,000l.
A very different man from the archbishop, is the Dean of Seville: he is ninety-eight years old; and his house being directly opposite to my lodgings, I had daily opportunities of observing the respect and love which his virtues have secured for him, and the constant acts of his beneficence. He literally gives away all that he has; and were it not for the kindness of those friends who know his character, he might often be in want of the necessaries of life. On the 31st of December, his steward waits upon him with his accounts for the year made up, and pays whatever surplus may remain; and the whole of this, he immediately distributes to those who are in want: it has sometimes happened that on the first of January, his housekeeper has borrowed a dollar from a neighbour, to defray household expenses. The income of the Dean is about 2500l. sterling.
I could hear nothing of the immorality of the convents within the city, though there are several without the walls,—one especially, a female convent,—said to be connected with the contrabandisters; making their convents depots for smuggled goods, and of course receiving a liberal share of the profits. Only three among the eighty-one convents give any thing to the poor, and two of these live upon charity themselves,—the Capuchins and Franciscans; the other that feeds the poor, is the Carthusian convent. Formerly, many more of the convents distributed alms; and, I understand, that since the limitation of convent charity, there has been a sensible diminution in the number of those who seemed to stand in need of it; a result that may easily be credited. Those convents which belong to the orders who live on charity, want for no luxury which their rules permit them to enjoy. I have more than once followed the footsteps of the Franciscan with his sack, in his morning peregrination through the Seville markets: one gave a handful of lettuces; another, a bunch of carrots; a third, a couple of melons, or a few pomegranates; a fourth, a loaf of bread; and I remarked, that every contribution was carefully picked, that the convent might have the best.
If vice degrade the manners of the upper and middle classes in Seville, crime of a darker turpitude disfigures the character and conduct of the lower orders. Scarcely a night passes without the commission of a murder; but these crimes are not perpetrated in cold blood, from malevolent passions; still less, from love of gain; they generally spring from the slightest possible causes. The Andalusian is not so abstemious as the Castilian; and the wine he drinks, is stronger: he has also a greater propensity for gambling, the fruitful engenderer of strife; and the climate has doubtless its influence upon his passions. “Will you taste with me?” an Andalusian will say to some associate with whom he has had some slight difference,—offering him his glass. “No, gracias,” the other will reply. The former, already touched with wine, will half drain his glass, and present it again, saying, “Do you not wish to drink with me?”—and if the other still refuses the proffered civility, it is the work of a moment to drain the glass to the dregs—to say, “How! not taste with me?” and to thrust the knife an Andalusian always carries with him, into the abdomen of the comrade who refused to drink with him. It is thus, and in other ways equally simple, that quarrel and murder disfigure the nightly annals of every town in Andalusia, and of the other provinces of the south of Spain. There is an hospital in Seville dedicated to the sole purpose of receiving wounded persons. I had the curiosity to visit it, and ascertained that during the past fourteen days, twenty-one persons had been received into the hospital wounded from stabs: they would not inform me how many of these had died.
Walking late in the evening through the streets of Seville, (for I generally spent my evenings at a friend’s house, situated half a mile beyond the gate), I was frequently startled by the sound of broils,—some of which most probably ended in murder; and although often strongly tempted to approach the scene of contention, prudence always gained the victory over curiosity. Sounds and sights of a more agreeable, or more picturesque kind, sometimes awaited me. Once or twice, the sound of the guitar and an accompanying voice, rose suddenly from the shaded angle of a garden wall. Another time, the lover had been more adventurous, for the serenade rose from within the sanctuary of the garden. The night after, proceeding a little way along a narrow street, in which I heard the thrumming of a guitar, a cloaked caballero stepped from the shade of a wall which inclosed an orangery—the scene of the serenade—and crossed the street towards me. I thought it safest not to interrupt the affair, whatever it was; and returned to my lodgings by a more circuitous road: and once, in passing the garden of a female convent, I am strangely mistaken if I did not see two figures disappear from the top of the wall. It is certain, that while I was at Seville, there was a strange rumour respecting the arrest and private examination of two Frenchmen, said to have been detected in some forbidden exploit.
Next to Toledo and Murcia, among the larger cities of Spain, superstition and bigotry have the firmest footing in Seville; and from my longer residence in Seville than in Toledo, I had more personal proofs of this, as well as better opportunities of receiving authentic information upon these matters. I will throw some facts together, as they occur to me.
I was surprised, the first visit I made to the cathedral, to observe suspended in the chapels of the different saints, legs, arms, eyes, and other parts of the body, in wax or silver: by the side of one altar I saw a pair of crutches hanging; and by the side of another, the entire body of a child in wood. These are offerings made by devout persons, to the saint whose intercession they believe to have been the means of restoring them to health; and, in token of gratitude, they offer at the altar of the saint, a representation of that part of the body which had been the subject of disease. Vows of various kinds of penance, or of offerings, are made by devout persons when afflicted. Sometimes in walking the streets, you are startled by the apparition of a nun; but this is only some female who, when dangerously ill, has made a vow to wear a certain habit during one, two, or three years. This, it may easily be believed, is the most genuine proof of devotion and gratitude that a Spanish woman can give; for it is no light sacrifice to throw aside her laces and silks, and shroud her graceful figure in the coarse and inelegant garb of a sister of St. Francis. The most celebrated beauty of Cadiz lately testified her devotion in this way,—she vowed to wear the Augustin habit for two years, and the penance had not concluded when I visited Cadiz. Nor is it at all uncommon to see in the streets of Seville, little boys dressed in the full habit of a Franciscan friar,—this also originates in superstitious vows: when children are affected with a dangerous malady, parents make this vow in their behalf; and the order of friars so honoured, is always one of the most austere. But women sometimes resort to modes of inflicting penance upon themselves, more agreeable to them than concealing their charms. One day, when strolling through the cathedral, I saw a respectable woman, not thirty years of age, making the tour of the aisles upon her knees. I watched her progress, and saw her complete the circuit of the cathedral. This might possibly have been enjoined by the confessor; though it is more than probable that it was the result of a secret vow, because money to purchase masses would have been a more likely exaction on his part.
It is impossible to turn the eye in any direction, without finding proofs of the superstition of the inhabitants of Seville; every second or third window is decorated with a palm-branch, which is looked upon as a security against disease coming to that house, the branches having, of course, been duly consecrated. The very names of the streets, but above all the names of the inns, savour strongly of religious bigotry. You read Posada de la Concepcion, Posada de la Natividad, Posada de la Virgen, Posada de todos los Santos. In the respect too that is paid to religious processions, there is a remarkable difference between Madrid and Seville. In Madrid, people only take off their hats when the host is carried by; in Seville, every one falls upon his knees; and if this happen to be at night, no sooner is the little bell heard, than every one hastens to throw open the window and place lights upon the balcony, and to drop upon their knees behind them,—so that the carrying of the host always produces a partial illumination. But more marked honours than even these, are paid to the host, in Seville.
If a person driving in his carriage, should be so unfortunate as to meet this procession, he must leave his carriage, and give it up to the host and the attendant priest; or, if a carriage should drive past the door of a house into which the host has already entered, the carriage must wait at the door, to carry back to the church, or the convent, the consecrated wafer. But I can cite a yet stronger example of superstition than these. One of the convents, the Dominican I think, lay in my way from my lodgings to the Alameda; and I noticed several times the same new carriage standing at the convent door; and upon inquiring the meaning of this, I received the following explanation. When a devout person has a new carriage built, it is sent to wait at the door of one of the churches, or convents, until some dying person may happen to send to that church, or convent, for the last offices of religion: and until the carriage has been blessed by carrying the host, the owner would feel himself unblessed in entering it. But even more gross instances of superstition than these occasionally occur in Seville. Only a very few months before I visited Seville, a Capuchin friar died, one who had the reputation of being even more than usually holy; and so great a commotion was excited, by the hundreds, or rather thousands, who besieged the convent doors to obtain parts of his garments, that the aid of the military was required to preserve order. Not six months before this, it was given out, that a certain virgin, who had up to that time honoured the Carthusian convent by making her abode in it, was found one morning upon the summit of St. John’s Hill; she was brought back to the convent: but next morning she was again discovered to be missing, and was again found on St. John’s Hill: a third time she was made prisoner by the Carthusians, and a third time she returned to her favourite spot on St. John’s Hill. The fathers, no longer able to resist the evidence of the virgin’s will, erected a chapel for her on St. John’s Hill, where she now attracts the footsteps of the devout. It is scarcely credible that an imposition like this should be practised in the middle of the nineteenth century,—and yet the hoax succeeded,—and thousands in Seville believe, that the Carthusian friars were concerned in the affair no farther than in yielding to the wishes of the virgin, in erecting a chapel for her.
I shall add two other facts that occurred at Seville within the last three years. A sacrilegious thief contrived to enter the Capuchin convent during the night, or more probably secreted himself in it during the day, and stole a diamond ring of great value, from the finger of “the Holy Shepherdess,” an image much venerated in that convent, and very richly clothed. The thief, however, was detected, and the ring found upon his person. He was examined before the civil magistrate, and in presence of the superior of the convent, and of many persons whom the rumour of the thing had collected together; and he gave this history of the affair: while praying with great earnestness at the feet of the Holy Shepherdess, he raised his eyes and saw her stretch forth her hand; and while impressed with awe and devotion, she took the ring from her finger and presented it to him. It would have been most unwise had the superior of the convent refused to credit the miracle; he affected to believe it,—told the thief to keep, and ever to venerate the ring,—but advised him never in future to accept presents from this, or any other virgin.
The other extraordinary fact I have to relate is this. Among the many processions of Holy week, there is one, of the Virgin Mary and St. John Baptist, which issues from the church of St. Juan, and makes the tour of the city, passing by the cathedral. The procession left the church, and it began to rain; the friars and their charge took refuge in the Franciscan convent,—and the rain subsiding, the procession proceeded. However, just as it reached the Plaza of the cathedral, a tremendous storm burst overhead, and torrents of rain threatening to descend, the procession sought shelter in the cathedral. Here it remained for some time; but the rain increased, and it began to grow dusk. The Virgin and John Baptist were in their best clothes, which the rain would have entirely spoiled; and besides, it would have shewn a want of respect to take them back to the church without the pomp usually attendant upon so important a procession. In this dilemma, it was resolved that the Virgin and John Baptist should remain in the cathedral all night; but now an unthought-of difficulty arose. Could the Virgin and John Baptist be left in the cathedral all night by themselves with any propriety? The canons were sent for, and the difficulty was stated. One said, “No es decente se quedase St. Juan con ella.” “It is not decent to leave St. John and her together.” Another, a more jocular canon, quoted the well-known Spanish proverb, “El fuego junto Á la estopa llega el diablo, y sopla.” “When fire is put to the hemp, the devil comes and blows it.” The result was, that a message was actually dispatched to the captain-general to request a guard; and a captain’s guard, with torches, did accordingly keep watch upon the Virgin and John till morning. These facts I learned from the lips of a lady who had taken refuge in the cathedral, and who herself heard the consultation. I could perceive no symptom of any diminution in the superstitions of Seville, or in the influence possessed by the friars; and the highest public civil authorities lend all the aids of their influence and example to support the delusions. While I was at Seville, it was in contemplation to revive a procession which had not been seen for forty years; this was the burial of Christ; and large funds were required for the exhibition. The Intendente of Seville,—the civil governor,—took up the affair, and sent his son round among the inhabitants to solicit subscriptions; I need scarcely say, that nobody refused. So much for the superstitions of Seville.
The first Sunday after my arrival in Seville, I walked, after dinner, to the Paseo, always an admirable place, in Spain, for making observations upon the population. There is more than one Paseo in Seville; but the most recently formed is the pleasantest and the most frequented: it is a broad paved walk, lying parallel with the river, elevated about ten feet above the surrounding country, and set round with two rows of stone benches. It is the work of the present Intendente, who is also laying out a garden around the Paseo. I found the walk crowded from end to end; and all the benches occupied by friars, whiffing their cigars, and enjoying the cool breeze off the river. The universal dress of the ladies was black, with white silk stockings, and the mantilla; and a few wore veils. At Madrid, when I used to speak without any enthusiasm of Spanish beauty, I was told to reserve my opinion till I had seen the ladies of Seville and Cadiz; but, on the Paseo of Seville, I saw no good reason to alter the opinion I had already formed. If splendid eyes and graceful forms are of themselves sufficient for female beauty, then are the ladies of Seville beautiful. The step and air of the Andalusian, are even more striking than the grace of the Castilian; but the gait of an Andalusian woman, we should scarcely consider decorous in England: this opinion was well expressed by a French lady at Barcellona, to whom I remarked, that the Spanish women walked tres bien. “Trop bien,” she replied.
I took care to be on the Paseo before sunset, that I might witness that impressive ceremony, called oracion,—now banished from Madrid and the northern parts of Spain, and found only in the provinces last occupied by the Moors. Nothing can be more imposing than this old usage: at the same instant that every church and convent bell in the city, peals forth the signal for prayer,—motion and conversation are suspended; the whole multitude stands still; every head is uncovered; the laugh and the jest are silent; and a monotonous hum of prayer rises from the crowd: but this expression of devotion lasts but a moment—the next, it is past; heads are covered; every one turns to his neighbour, and says, “Buenas noches;” and the multitude moves on. During the heats of summer, the Paseo is crowded till midnight; at that season, it is impossible to stir out till after eight o’clock; and it is not unusual to rise at four in the morning, and ride or walk for an hour or two, and then return to bed.
A more delightful walk than the Paseo, is the Delicias: this is situated about a mile down the river, and is, in fact, a grove of flowering trees and aromatic plants. There is here a complete underwood of geraniums, bordering the walks, trailing upon the trees, and spreading over every unoccupied spot. Rows of acacia line the avenues, and form, with majestic weeping willows, a delicious shade; the mingled fragrance of the acacia blossoms, the geraniums, and the adjacent orange and lemon groves, realizes those dreams of far distant and almost fabled lands, that have been the visions of our youthful fancy.
All the left bank of the Guadalquivir is a succession of orange groves,—beautiful to the sight, and filling the air with their refreshing and indescribably delicious perfume. When the wind blows from the east, nothing can be more charming than an evening stroll down the river side: the broad Guadalquivir gliding by the fertile and richly-wooded banks that lie opposite, rising gradually to the hill of St. John, and diversified by country houses, and convents, and convent gardens; the delightful fragrance wafted from the orange groves on the left, and the sight of the yellow and golden fruit clustering among the broad and bright green leaves of its lovely tree; and, above all, the charm of a balmy air, and the indescribable beauty of Andalusian skies.
I was intimately acquainted with the principal orange proprietor and merchant of Seville, and found his orange groves a delightful resort in hot weather; for, even independently of the shade, there is something cooling in the smell of oranges and lemons. From this gentleman I obtained some information respecting the orange trade of Seville, which I shall make no apology for transferring to these pages.
The oranges chiefly used in England, are from Portugal, Malta, the Barbary coast, and Seville; but by far the greatest number are from Seville; the export from which, equals that of all these other places. About forty vessels are yearly freighted with oranges from Seville; each cargo consists of four hundred chests, and each chest contains eight hundred oranges, so that the average number exported from Seville, is twelve million, eight hundred thousand oranges; of this quantity, about one tenth part are bitter. The price paid by the London merchant to the Seville exporter, is one hundred and twenty reals a chest, which is fourpence halfpenny per dozen, or one farthing and a half a piece; so that if the freight and other expenses be added, one can scarcely expect a good orange much under a penny. The cargo of each vessel is generally consigned to about ten persons; so that the trade is a secure one, and to the grower, sufficiently profitable. The best oranges are allowed to remain long on the tree; the tree blossoms in March, and the choicest fruit still hangs on the tree when the blossom of another crop begins to appear. The Spaniards do not esteem them as thoroughly ripe till then; but, in this state, they are of course unable to bear exportation. The chief part of the export takes place in November and December, and a small number is shipped in January: if the fruit shipped so late as this, happens to be detained long on the voyage, the greater part of it arrives in England in a state unfit for use; but if the voyage be short, this is the finest fruit that comes to the English market.
As my lodgings were in the immediate neighbourhood of both the cathedral and the alcazar—under the roof indeed of the latter—it may be supposed that it was not long before I visited both of these stupendous and magnificent structures. The cathedral of Seville is inferior in riches, but equal in size to that of Toledo; and, in the wealth of pictures, it far surpasses every other cathedral in Spain. One of the most esteemed of these, is the great picture of St. Anthony of Padua, which I have already slightly mentioned, in the chapter dedicated to Murillo. This picture, however, although a splendid performance, is not in Murillo’s happiest style. In its colouring, it is far inferior, as a work of art, to the pictures in the Capuchin convent, and in the Hospital de la Caridad; but in the conception of the figure of St. Anthony, and in the celestial expression of his countenance, all the peculiar graces of Murillo are displayed. A picture that pleased me better than this, but which has a less honourable niche, is “An Angel leading a Child;” benign and glorious is the countenance of the angel, as he seems to point out to the little innocent the way to heaven; and the child naturally draws back, alarmed by the blaze of celestial light that shines upon the path. This exquisite composition is only a sketch, and being placed in rather an obscure corner, it is seen to greater advantage; for, with a more favourable light, it would appear defective as a work of art. The cathedral contains several other pictures of merit, both by Murillo and by other artists, particularly Morales, and Louis de Vargas, and CampaÑa, whose famous Descent from the Cross I have mentioned in my memoir of Murillo. The riches of the cathedral surprised me less, after having seen Toledo; but I believe they are second only to Toledo and the Escurial. As for relics, they profess to have as valuable a store of them as their neighbours. The organ—the principal organ—is the most perfect in the world: it contains five thousand three hundred pipes, and one hundred and ten stops, being considerably more than are possessed by the organ of Haarlem; nothing can exceed the majesty of the music awakened by this organ. I rarely missed morning service while I remained in Seville; and if, as was sometimes the case, this heavenly music filled the aisles after day-light had deserted them, the effect was almost too overpowering for human senses.
The tower of the cathedral, is one of the boasts of Seville: it is of Moorish architecture—the work of a Moor, and is three hundred and fifty feet high. There are no steps; the summit is gained by an easy ascent, winding around an inclined plain so gradually, that the queen was driven up in a small carriage. The view from the top is superb. An almost boundless plain stretches around Seville, its centre and queen; and the Guadalquivir traverses its whole length. I counted no fewer than one hundred and twenty spires and towers, belonging to the city and the neighbouring villages and convents. The ecclesiastics of the cathedral do not enjoy a sinecure. I passed through the body of the church many times every day,—for this saved me a circuit,—and I never recollect to have seen it once without some religious ceremony going forward. There are said to be upwards of five hundred masses performed daily at the different altars; and the number of persons directly employed in, and supported by, the cathedral, exceeds six hundred.
The only convent in Seville that attracted me within its walls was the Capuchin convent, famous as the depository of many of the most remarkable works of Murillo. I have already spoken of some of these pictures; but there is still something more to be gleaned. There are here twenty-five pictures of Murillo, any one of which would suffice to render a man immortal. Among these, the most remarkable are, “the Archbishop of Valencia giving alms to a kneeling Beggar;” “the Virgin, the Child, and St. Felix,” which I have already spoken of as beautifully illustrating Murillo’s power of handling the gentler emotions. “The Assumption,” “St. Bienventura and Bernardo,” “St. John, the Virgin and Child,” “St. Antonio,” and “the Annunciation.” The paintings in the hospital de la Caridad I have also mentioned as the efforts of Murillo’s ripest genius. Several of these, particularly “the Prodigal Son,” and “the Deliverance of St. Peter from Prison,” are no longer to be found there; but “John of God,” “Moses striking the Rock,” and “the Miracle of the Loaves and Fishes,” have escaped the chances of war, and the dangers of covetousness.
In Seville there are several private collections of pictures,—one of these, the gallery of Mr. Williams, rich in the works of Murillo. Among these pictures I cannot help naming a few of the most remarkable. There is that delightful portrait of Murillo, by himself, which I have mentioned elsewhere; there is a Christ on the Cross, painted upon what was formerly the lid of a relic box, but now let into a frame,—a gem of great beauty and value. There is a passage in the life of St. Augustin, who, when washing the feet of some pilgrims, discovers that one of them is our Saviour; the expression of mingled love and fear, which the painter has thrown into the countenance of the Saint, when, having made the discovery, he raises his eyes towards Christ,—is most happily conceived and executed. But the true gem of this collection is a “Christ crowned with Thorns,” one of the happiest efforts of Murillo’s ripest genius. Besides these there are four sketches of “the Prodigal Son receiving his Inheritance,—setting out upon his journey,—devouring his living, and feeding swine;” certain passages in the life of St. Thomas, a Virgin and Child, another Christ, a Madonna,—all of Murillo; and several good pictures by Velasquez, Morales, and EspaÑoletto.
There is also a collection of pictures in the house of Mr. Bravo. Among a great many indifferent pictures in this collection, there is an excellent “Magdalen,” that most difficult of all subjects,—in which the painter must represent human passions, and yet passions no longer triumphant,—heaven before, and yet earth still in sight. There is a curious picture here, of St. Anthony preaching to the Fishes. The Saint, it seems, had preached to the people, who would not listen to him, and to convince them of his divine appointment, he went to the sea-shore and addressed the fishes, who are seen with their heads above water gasping for breath, and gaping for wisdom.
As the alcazar of Seville is far inferior as a Moorish remain, to the alhambra of Granada, I will not dwell upon its description; the building itself would indeed be difficult to describe. There are seventy-eight rooms, all communicating with each other,—most of the walls of carved wood-work, or of composition. The only really curious and splendid room, is the ambassador’s hall. The garden is more curious and more interesting than the palace; and from its shade, its fountains, and the delightful fragrance of its trees, shrubs, and flowers, I found it at all times a delightful morning retreat. The hedges are of small-leafed myrtle; geraniums, and that delicious plant, yerba Louisa, cover the walls, and hang among the bushes; and through the whole there is a thick shade of orange and lemon-trees,—the various tinted fruit, from the pale straw to the deep golden, beautifully mingling with the fresh and unfading green: every where around are seen fountains throwing out the clearest water; and by very simple machinery, a thousand minute pipes dispersed over the walks and beds, shower a thousand crystal streams upon the paths, and wake new fragrance from the drooping flowers. The garden is surrounded by a high wall, near the top of which there is a walk under an arcade, supported by innumerable pillars. From this walk there is a most enchanting prospect,—on one side the fine fertile plain, with its innumerable gardens and orangeries,—on another, the towers of the cathedral, and the numerous and more distant spires of the city; the old Roman aqueduct, with its four hundred arches,—the river seen gliding by the openings left between the orange groves,—the magnificent convent of the Carmelites on the opposite bank, with its deep surrounding shades and stately palm-trees; and below, encircled by the Moorish wall, the pleasure grounds of Moorish kings, with all their rich variety of beautiful and mellow fruit,—their mingled fragrance of myrtle, and geranium, and orange, and their cool and sparkling fountains.
I did not leave Seville without visiting the snuff manufactory—the most celebrated in Spain. The building in which the manufacture is carried on, is more like a fortified palace, than a house destined for the preparation of tobacco. It has four regular fronts; two of them six hundred feet long—the other two, four hundred and eighty feet. This manufactory is sadly on the decline; in other times, the complement of men and women used to exceed three thousand, and upwards of three hundred mules and horses were employed; forty years ago, that number was reduced to one thousand seven hundred workmen, and a hundred mules. When I visited it, no more than four hundred men were employed, and eleven mules; and in place of two hundred grind-stones, which formerly were constantly at work, four only were in requisition. This falling off is to be attributed partly to the extensive contraband trade carried on through the free ports of Gibraltar and Cadiz; and partly to the high price which government puts upon the manufactured article. The stock on hand at present exceeds two millions of arobas (fifty millions of pounds); forty years ago, the stock on hand amounted to five millions of pounds; of the snuff at present on hand, there are eight thousand canisters fifty years old. It is not likely, according to the present policy of the government, that this stock will diminish; the price was only lately raised from thirty-two to forty-eight reals, and the demand has constantly diminished. I have been speaking of what is called Seville snuff; there is another department, for the manufacture of rappee, which is now more in vogue, and does not accumulate in the same ratio as the other. Government derives a profit upon the manufacture and sale, of seventy per cent. before paying the expenses of the establishment. The workmen employed are paid six, seven, and eight reals per day, according to their ability—those who twist cigars, work by the piece. It happened to be the hour of dismissal when I visited the establishment, and I noticed that each workman was taken into a little inclosed place, and underwent a rigorous search; they were even obliged to take off their shoes. Most of the workmen looked unhealthy. I learned that during the heats of summer, as many as twelve are sometimes carried to the hospital in a day; and that they almost invariably die of disease in the lungs at an early age.
Although the remains of the Moorish kingdom are most conspicuous in Seville, the empire of the Romans has also left many interesting traces behind: the most interesting of these, are the ruins of the city of Italica, which in past times, gave birth to Trajan, Adrian, and Theodosius. Little now remains except the traces of the amphitheatre; and the general features of a Roman amphitheatre are too well known to require description. There is little doubt that by digging, many interesting remains of this city might be discovered; stones, shewing Latin inscriptions, are occasionally laid bare; and it is evident that many traces of a city so large as to have been a bishop’s see even in later times, must be concealed. It cannot have all crumbled away.
If a stranger wished to select a Spanish city as a residence, Seville would certainly be entitled to his preference. The climate, though not altogether faultless, is perhaps as near perfection as can be obtained. It is said, that there is not a day throughout the year that the sun does not shine upon Seville. Winter is scarcely felt; and if the heats of summer are oppressive, the streets, the houses, and the economy of life, are all adapted to the climate; and the demands of heat become, in fact, sources of luxury. The country around Seville is all that one could desire; and its delicious vines, and if possible, still more delicious fruits, ought not to be omitted in enumerating the advantages of Seville. As for another class of agremens,—excellent music is always within one’s reach at Seville; for music is universally, and successfully cultivated; and some period of the year, there is generally a good Italian opera. Spanish society, too, is not unattainable in Seville; and there are several agreeable English and French families who exercise the hospitalities of their country. Let me not omit to name, among these, the house of Mr. Wetherell, whose unbounded charities have long endeared him to the inhabitants of Seville,—and whose many attentions I gratefully and eagerly acknowledge; and I must not omit to add, that Seville is within a day’s journey of Cadiz, the gayest and most hospitable city of Spain; and that by the aid of a friend at Cadiz, English newspapers and English publications received by the steam-boat, may be smuggled up the river to Seville.
Before leaving Seville, I ascertained that the following are the prices of different articles of consumption.
Beef and mutton, twelve quartos the lb. of sixteen oz., or 3¾d. Pork, fifteen quartos; Veal, fourteen quartos; but the meat in Seville is indifferent, with the exception of pork.
Fowls, 2s. 4d. a pair. A turkey, from 3s. to 5s. or 6s., according to size.
Milk, 6d. a pint. Eggs, 10d. a dozen.
Fruit and vegetables excellent, and remarkably cheap.
The best bread, eight quartos per lb. The bread of Seville is generally reputed to be the most excellent in Spain. I did not find it so; it is not leavened; it is too close in the grain, and tastes more like very white biscuit, than bread.
An arroba of small sherry costs fifty reals; the arroba runs to about twenty-one bottles; so that the wine is nearly 6d. per bottle; but this is far superior to the wine which is drank by the inhabitants generally.
Game of most descriptions is plentiful and reasonable. A pair of partridges costs 1s. 6d.; a hare, about 1s. 4d.
The wages of a female servant are about 5l.; a good cook has three times as much.
Clothing in Seville is reasonable. English calicos, and English printed muslins, may be bought as cheap as in England.
Labour, in Seville, is generally paid by the piece; but some kind of artisans are hired by the day. A stone-mason receives 3s. 6d.; a bricklayer, 2s. 6d.; and a white-washer, no less than a dollar. This is one of the most profitable trades in Seville; for almost every respectable house is white-washed three times in the year. The consumption of meat in Seville in the year 1819, was one million, nine hundred and ninety-one thousand, three hundred and sixty lbs. A hundred years before, the consumption was nearly two millions of lbs. less. Seville has also increased in population. Forty years ago, it contained eighty thousand, two hundred and sixty persons. By the latest census, the population somewhat exceeded ninety thousand, exclusive of the religious orders, whose numbers amount to four thousand and forty,—two thousand eight hundred friars, and twelve hundred and forty nuns,—but this includes the convents beyond the walls.
A steam-boat leaves Seville every second day, for St. Lucar and Cadiz, alternately. It is a great convenience to the inhabitants of Seville, to be carried direct to Cadiz; because the journey over land from St. Lucar, is both tedious and dangerous; but as I was desirous of seeing the country, I preferred the steam-boat to St. Lucar. Between the city gate and the river side, I was obliged to pay three sets of custom-house officers, that I might escape the delay and inconvenience of having my baggage searched; and when I remonstrated the third time against the extortion, the officer candidly told me, it was all they had to depend upon. The boat started at nine; and so precise are its arrangements, that although it had not parted six yards from the shore, the master refused to take in four passengers who were running down the bank. Half a league from Seville, we passed an extensive line of Moorish walls and fortifications, crowning a height about a mile from the river; these now serve as the garden wall of the Franciscan convent, which is erected behind. The weather was, as usual, delightful, and the views from deck, were in the highest degree pleasing. The right bank of the river is covered with olive grounds, which slope upward to the adjoining elevations, covered with gardens and convents and villages. The left bank presents a constant succession of extensive orange groves; and on both sides, there is a carpet of the finest verdure. St. John’s Hill, about two leagues from Seville, is another fine object; this is the highest ground near Seville, and is a famous resort of parties of pleasure: the handsome and extensive convent of Hieronomites, and many little chapels and hermitages,—among others, the chapel of the Virgin, who insisted upon dwelling here,—crown the elevation; and a subject village straggles down the hill, and nestles at its foot. The passengers were numerous; and among them, was a fair sprinkling of friars of the Franciscan and Capuchin orders. These persons never forget that they have the reputation of poverty to support; and a contribution is accordingly always attempted, to pay their fares; and it generally succeeds. Before reaching St. Lucar, the master of the boat asked me if I wished to pay any thing for the friars; but my interrogatory in return, whether he charged them less than other passengers, prevented a repetition of the question. One passenger, however, subscribed liberally; this was a young officer, who, from the employment of king’s page, had been promoted to a commission in the army, and was on his way to join his regiment at Cadiz. Whether Ferdinand had presented his page with a purse at parting may be doubted; but the young officer produced a purse marvellously well loaded, and presented a small gold piece of the value of two dollars, to the captain of the vessel, towards the expenses of the friars. Something, I think, may be gathered from this, as to the education of those who are brought up at court. The behaviour of this king’s page afforded me much entertainment: he occupied four chairs; sitting upon one, his legs upon another, and the two others occupied by his arms. He had two soldiers to wait upon him, and their services were in constant requisition: one presented him with a cigar, another fetched a light; one he employed in polishing the hilt of his sword, the other held his watch open, while he looked into it. Sometimes he sent for his dressing-box, which was opened and held for him, while he examined its contents; and then he sent for a case of pistols, or a small portmanteau; and, in fact, made himself be served as he had served the king, his master.
Below St. John’s Hill, the banks of the Guadalquivir become flat, and are covered with immense herds of horses. The country is here entirely pasture land, but the grass is coarse, and the soil apparently wet and poor. Scarcely any houses are to be seen, excepting where an orange grove, breaking the monotony of the view, fringes the river; and the house of the proprietor is generally embowered in his orangery. At every orange grove, there is a wheel and buckets to raise water from the river, and carry it to the trees. The horses and cattle had generally selected these shady spots, to shelter themselves from the sun; and standing, or lying in the river, they gave a character of picturesqueness to the landscape, which it would not otherwise have possessed. About six leagues below Seville, the banks again rise; and villages, and churches, and convents are scattered upon the heights which rise about a mile from the river; but soon after this, every elevation disappears, and the Guadalquivir flows through a boundless level, covered with scanty herbage, scattered with numerous herds of horses and cattle, and dotted here and there with long mud houses, meant as a shelter to the animals, from the noonday heats. I observed here for the first time in my life, that delusion of which I had often heard—leading the traveller of the desert to expect a lake, where there is only burning sand. The whole interior of the plain appeared like an immense sea; I distinctly saw the shadows of trees and houses seemingly in the water; but this was entirely a delusion;—the interior of the plain is sand, partially covered with very coarse grass. This plain stretches more than two leagues upon either side of the river, and it was with no small satisfaction, that I saw before me, though still far distant, the spires and buildings of St. Lucar. Owing to the state of the tide, however, we could not proceed so far as St. Lucar, but stopped at Bonanza, which is a league short of it. It was now nearly eight o’clock, and quite dark, excepting the star-light, and it became a question whether, and how to proceed. It had been announced that next morning at seven o’clock, an escort would leave St. Lucar for Port St. Mary; for, in this neighbourhood, an escort is considered necessary; and my object, therefore, was to reach St. Lucar: but I had heard such bad reports of this part of the road, and the men who offered to conduct me to St. Lucar had so much the appearance of rogues, that I hesitated to put myself under their guidance, especially as the other passengers seemed to consider it the safer plan to remain at Bonanza. Two merchants of Cadiz, however, who wished to transact business at St. Lucar that night, proposed to me to join them, after they had applied in vain to most of the other passengers,—the king’s page among the rest,—who, with his two soldiers, declined running any risk. I agreed to accompany them, and we hired two caleches and set out,—mine in front, that, as the merchants said, they might be able to keep an eye upon me and my driver. There is no road from Bonanza to St. Lucar; there is only a track among wild sand-hills, along the side of the river,—here at least a mile broad,—and there is not a single habitation the whole way. The driver walked at the head of the horse, leading it sometimes through deep sand,—oftener knee-deep in water; and the wild desolate country, seen beneath the star-light,—the uncertain and dangerous road,—and the low rush of the wide river, altogether contributed to give a character of great impressiveness to the scene. Coming suddenly upon a deep creek, I was startled by the bright glare of torches illuminating the barren shore, and falling upon a circle of strange-looking men, some seated, some standing upon the sand, close to the water; they were hauling a boat upon the beach, and the guide told me they were contrabandisters,—a very suspicious crew to meet at such an hour, and in such a place. “Buenas Noches SeÑores,” passed between us,—“Vayan ustedes con Dios,”—“Go with God,” and we passed on; and soon after we descried the lights of St. Lucar, where we arrived about half-past nine. A good supper,—rum and hot-water, and a fresh lemon, were soon placed upon the table, and sound sleep succeeded.
Next morning at seven, I was seated in my caleche, anxious to reach Cadiz. It was a curious scene that presented itself,—upwards of twenty caleches were assembled, some from St. Lucar, some from Xeres, but the greater number, with the steam-boat passengers who had arrived the same morning, from Bonanza,—and all united for common security, and to take advantage of the escort. We set off soon after seven, the caleches following each other in a line, and five men armed with guns and sabres on horseback, galloping to and fro; but generally two in front, two in the rear, and one reconnoitring; and in this order we wound among the wild hills that lie between St. Lucar and Port St. Mary. At a small venta half way, all the travellers were obliged to stop, that the caleches might not be too far separated from each other; and again resuming close order, we continued our journey. It appears extraordinary that an armed escort should be considered necessary on a short journey like this,—every day taken by travellers from Seville and Cadiz; and yet it seems improbable that the Steam-boat Company should put itself to the expense of maintaining and paying five mounted and armed men, unless they considered an escort absolutely necessary. The country between St. Lucar and Port St. Mary is wild, and for the most part uncultivated; some part of it is, however, under tillage; and in one field I noticed no fewer than twenty-four ploughs at work, each with a pair of oxen. The uncultivated land is covered with furze and aromatic plants; and the aloe and prickly pear grow spontaneously in great luxuriance and abundance. We arrived at Port St. Mary about mid-day, and immediately encountered the scene of confusion invariably found wherever there is a much frequented ferry. Scores of caleche-men, who wished us to go round by land to Cadiz, vociferated their offers in our ears, swearing by all the saints, that it was impossible to cross the bar; boatmen, in as great numbers, swore, by their own peculiar saints, that there was no necessity to go by land, and that they could carry us safely over the bar: and tempted by the hope of dining in Cadiz, which I saw across the bay, not a league distant, I entrusted myself to the boatmen. The passage, till we crossed the bar, was tedious; but when this difficulty was overcome, we bounded merrily over the waves. The city is extremely imposing from the bay; it appears to stand upon an island, which it entirely covers with an irregular line of white buildings and ramparts; but upon looking more narrowly, a long, and almost invisible line is seen to connect it with the main land. The wind blew fresh; and the bay was animated by innumerable boats, scudding in every direction, looking, with their great white sails, like enormous sea fowl cleaving the waves. We dropped under the quay about two o’clock, and I immediately made my way to the Posada Inglesa,—an hotel equalled by none that I had seen since leaving England.
