The Solitary House—The Dehesa—Johannes Chrysostom—Manuel—Bookselling at
Seville—Dionysius and the Priests—Athens and Rome—Proselytism—Seizure of
Testaments—Departure from Seville.
I have already stated, that I had hired an empty house in Seville,
wherein I proposed to reside for some months. It stood in a solitary
situation, occupying one side of a small square. It was built quite in
the beautiful taste of Andalusia, with a court paved with small slabs of
white and blue marble. In the middle of this court was a fountain well
supplied with the crystal lymph, the murmur of which, as it fell from its
slender pillar into an octangular basin, might be heard in every
apartment. The house itself was large and spacious, consisting of two
stories, and containing room sufficient for at least ten times the number
of inmates which now occupied it. I generally kept during the day in the
lower apartments, on account of the refreshing coolness which pervaded
them. In one of these was an immense stone water-trough, ever
overflowing with water from the fountain, in which I immersed myself
every morning. Such were the premises to which, after having provided
myself with a few indispensable articles of furniture, I now retreated
with Antonio and my two horses.
I was fortunate in the possession of these quadrupeds, inasmuch as it
afforded me an opportunity of enjoying to a greater extent the beauties
of the surrounding country. I know of few things in this life more
delicious than a ride in the spring or summer season in the neighbourhood
of Seville. My favourite one was in the direction of Xerez, over the
wide Dehesa, as it is called, which extends from Seville to the gates of
the former town, a distance of nearly fifty miles, with scarcely a town
or village intervening. The ground is irregular and broken, and is for
the most part covered with that species of brushwood called carrasco,
amongst which winds a bridle-path, by no means well defined, chiefly
trodden by the arrieros, with their long train of mules and borricos. It
is here that the balmy air of beautiful Andalusia is to be inhaled in
full perfection. Aromatic herbs and flowers are growing in abundance,
diffusing their perfume around. Here dark and gloomy cares are dispelled
as if by magic from the bosom, as the eyes wander over the prospect,
lighted by unequalled sunshine, in which gaily-painted butterflies
wanton, and green and golden Salamanquesas lie extended, enjoying the
luxurious warmth, and occasionally startling the traveller, by springing
up and making off with portentous speed to the nearest coverts, whence
they stare upon him with their sharp and lustrous eyes. I repeat, that
it is impossible to continue melancholy in regions like these, and the
ancient Greeks and Romans were right in making them the site of their
Elysian fields. Most beautiful they are even in their present
desolation, for the hand of man has not cultivated them since the fatal
era of the expulsion of the Moors, which drained Andalusia of at least
two thirds of its population.
Every evening it was my custom to ride along the Dedesa, until the
topmost towers of Seville were no longer in sight. I then turned about,
and pressing my knees against the sides of Sidi Habismilk, my Arabian,
the fleet creature, to whom spur or lash had never been applied, would
set off in the direction of the town with the speed of a whirlwind,
seeming in his headlong course to devour the ground of the waste, until
he had left it behind, then dashing through the elm-covered road of the
Delicias, his thundering hoofs were soon heard beneath the vaulted
archway of the Puerta de Xerez, and in another moment he would stand
stone still before the door of my solitary house in the little silent
square of the Pila Seca.
It is eight o’clock at night, I am returned from the Dehesa, and am
standing on the sotea, or flat roof of my house, enjoying the cool
breeze. Johannes Chrysostom has just arrived from his labour. I have
not spoken to him, but I hear him below in the courtyard, detailing to
Antonio the progress he has made in the last two days. He speaks
barbarous Greek, plentifully interlarded with Spanish words; but I gather
from his discourse, that he has already sold twelve Testaments among his
fellow labourers. I hear copper coin falling on the pavement, and
Antonio, who is not of a very Christian temper, reproving him for not
having brought the proceeds of the sale in silver. He now asks for
fifteen more, as he says the demand is becoming great, and that he shall
have no difficulty in disposing of them in the course of the morrow,
whilst pursuing his occupations. Antonio goes to fetch them, and he now
stands alone by the marble fountain, singing a wild song, which I believe
to be a hymn of his beloved Greek church. Behold one of the helpers
which the Lord has sent me in my Gospel labours on the shores of the
Guadalquivir.
I lived in the greatest retirement during the whole time that I passed at
Seville, spending the greater part of each day in study, or in that
half-dreamy state of inactivity which is the natural effect of the
influence of a warm climate. There was little in the character of the
people around to induce me to enter much into society. The higher class
of the Andalusians are probably upon the whole the most vain and foolish
of human beings, with a taste for nothing but sensual amusements, foppery
in dress, and ribald discourse. Their insolence is only equalled by
their meanness, and their prodigality by their avarice. The lower
classes are a shade or two better than their superiors in station:
little, it is true, can be said for the tone of their morality; they are
overreaching, quarrelsome, and revengeful, but they are upon the whole
more courteous, and certainly not more ignorant.
The Andalusians are in general held in the lowest estimation by the rest
of the Spaniards, even those in opulent circumstances finding some
difficulty at Madrid in procuring admission into respectable society,
where, if they find their way, they are invariably the objects of
ridicule, from the absurd airs and grimaces in which they indulge,—their
tendency to boasting and exaggeration, their curious accent, and the
incorrect manner in which they speak and pronounce the Castilian
language.
In a word, the Andalusians, in all estimable traits of character, are as
far below the other Spaniards as the country which they inhabit is
superior in beauty and fertility to the other provinces of Spain.
Yet let it not for a moment be supposed that I have any intention of
asserting, that excellent and estimable individuals are not to be found
amongst the Andalusians; it was amongst _them_ that I myself discovered
one, whom I have no hesitation in asserting to be the most extraordinary
character that has ever come within my sphere of knowledge; but this was
no scion of a noble or knightly house, “no wearer of soft clothing,” no
sleek highly-perfumed personage, none of the romanticos who walk in
languishing attitudes about the streets of Seville, with long black hair
hanging upon their shoulders in luxuriant curls; but one of those whom
the proud and unfeeling style the dregs of the populace, a haggard,
houseless, penniless man, in rags and tatters: I allude to Manuel,
the—what shall I call him?—seller of lottery tickets, driver of death
carts, or poet laureate in Gypsy songs? I wonder whether thou art still
living, my friend Manuel; thou gentleman of Nature’s forming—honest,
pure-minded, humble, yet dignified being! Art thou still wandering
through the courts of beautiful Safacoro, or on the banks of the Len
Baro, thine eyes fixed in vacancy, and thy mind striving to recall some
half-forgotten couplet of Luis Lobo; or art thou gone to thy long rest,
out beyond the Xeres gate within the wall of the Campo Santo, to which in
times of pest and sickness thou wast wont to carry so many, Gypsy and
Gentile, in thy cart of the tinkling bell? Oft in the _reunions_ of the
lettered and learned in this land of universal literature, when weary of
the display of pedantry and egotism, have I recurred with yearning to our
Gypsy recitations at the old house in the Pila Seca. Oft, when sickened
by the high-wrought professions of those who bear the cross in gilded
chariots, have I thought on thee, thy calm faith, without pretence,—thy
patience in poverty, and fortitude in affliction; and as oft, when
thinking of my speedily approaching end, have I wished that I might meet
thee once again, and that thy hands might help to bear me to “the dead
man’s acre” yonder on the sunny plain, O Manuel!
My principal visitor was Dionysius, who seldom failed to make his
appearance every forenoon: the poor fellow came for sympathy and
conversation. It is difficult to imagine a situation more forlorn and
isolated than that of this man,—a Greek at Seville, with scarcely a
single acquaintance, and depending for subsistence on the miserable
pittance to be derived from selling a few books, for the most part hawked
about from door to door. “What could have first induced you to commence
bookselling in Seville?” said I to him, as he arrived one sultry day,
heated and fatigued, with a small bundle of books secured together by a
leather strap.
_Dionysius_.—For want of a better employment, Kyrie, I have adopted this
most unprofitable and despised one. Oft have I regretted not having been
bred up as a shoe-maker, or having learnt in my youth some other useful
handicraft, for gladly would I follow it now. Such, at least, would
procure me the respect of my fellow-creatures inasmuch as they needed me;
but now all avoid me and look upon me with contempt; for what have I to
offer in this place that any one cares about? Books in Seville! where no
one reads, or at least nothing but new romances, translated from the
French, and obscenity. Books! Would I were a Gypsy and could trim
donkeys, for then I were at least independent and were more respected
than I am at present.
_Myself_.—Of what kind of books does your stock in trade consist?
_Dionysius_.—Of those not likely to suit the Seville market, Kyrie; books
of sterling and intrinsic value; many of them in ancient Greek, which I
picked up upon the dissolution of the convents, when the contents of the
libraries were hurled into the courtyards, and there sold by the arrobe.
I thought at first that I was about to make a fortune, and in fact my
books would be so in any other place; but here I have offered an Elzevir
for half a dollar in vain. I should starve were it not for the strangers
who occasionally purchase of me.
_Myself_.—Seville is a large cathedral city, abounding with priests and
canons; surely one of these occasionally visit you to make purchases of
classic works, and books connected with ecclesiastical literature.
_Dionysius_.—If you think so, Kyrie, you know little respecting the
ecclesiastics of Seville. I am acquainted with many of them, and can
assure you that a tribe of beings can scarcely be found with a more
confirmed aversion to intellectual pursuits of every kind. Their reading
is confined to newspapers, which they take up in the hope of seeing that
their friend Don Carlos is at length reinstated at Madrid; but they
prefer their chocolate and biscuits, and nap before dinner, to the wisdom
of Plato and the eloquence of Tully. They occasionally visit me, but it
is only to pass away a heavy hour in chattering nonsense. Once on a
time, three of them came, in the hope of making me a convert to their
Latin superstition. “Signior Donatio,” said they, (for so they called
me,) “how is it that an unprejudiced person like yourself, a man really
with some pretension to knowledge, can still cling to this absurd
religion of yours? Surely, after having resided so many years in a
civilised country like this of Spain, it is high time to abandon your
half-pagan form of worship, and to enter the bosom of the church; now
pray be advised, and you shall be none the worse for it.” “Thank you,
gentlemen,” I replied, “for the interest you take in my welfare; I am
always open to conviction; let us proceed to discuss the subject. What
are the points of my religion which do not meet your approbation? You
are of course well acquainted with all our dogmas and ceremonies.” “We
know nothing about your religion, Signior Donatio, save that it is a very
absurd one, and therefore it is incumbent upon you, as an unprejudiced
and well-informed man, to renounce it.” “But, gentlemen, if you know
nothing of my religion, why call it absurd? Surely it is not the part of
unprejudiced people to disparage that of which they are ignorant.” “But,
Signior Donatio, it is not the Catholic Apostolic Roman religion, is it?”
“It may be, gentlemen, for what you appear to know of it; for your
information, however, I will tell you that it is not; it is the Greek
Apostolic religion. I do not call it catholic, for it is absurd to call
that catholic which is not universally acknowledged.” “But, Signior
Donatio, does not the matter speak for itself? What can a set of
ignorant Greek barbarians know about religion? If they set aside the
authority of Rome, whence should they derive any rational ideas of
religion? whence should they get the gospel?” “The Gospel, gentlemen?
Allow me to show you a book, here it is, what is your opinion of it?”
“Signior Donatio, what does this mean? What characters of the devil are
these, are they Moorish? Who is able to understand them?” “I suppose
your worships, being Roman priests, know something of Latin; if you
inspect the title-page to the bottom, you will find, in the language of
your own church, the Gospel of our Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ,’ in the
original Greek, of which your vulgate is merely a translation, and not a
very correct one. With respect to the barbarism of Greece, it appears
that you are not aware that Athens was a city, and a famed one, centuries
before the first mud cabin of Rome was thatched, and the Gypsy vagabonds
who first peopled it, had escaped from the hands of justice.” “Signior
Donatio, you are an ignorant heretic, and insolent withal, _what nonsense
is this_! . . . ” But I will not weary your ears, Kyrie, with all the
absurdities which the poor Latin _Papas_ poured into mine; the burden of
their song being invariably, _what nonsense is this_! which was certainly
applicable enough to what they themselves were saying. Seeing, however,
that I was more than their match in religious controversy, they fell foul
of my country. “Spain is a better country than Greece,” said one. “You
never tasted bread before you came to Spain,” cried another. “And little
enough since,” thought I. “You never before saw such a city as Seville,”
said the third. But then ensued the best part of the comedy: my visitors
chanced to be natives of three different places; one was of Seville,
another of Utrera, and the third of Miguel Turra, a miserable village in
La Mancha. At the mention of Seville, the other two instantly began to
sing the praises of their respective places of birth; this brought on
comparisons, and a violent dispute was the consequence. Much abuse
passed between them, whilst I stood by, shrugged my shoulders, and said
_tipotas_. {429} At last, as they were leaving the house, I said, “Who
would have thought, gentlemen, that the polemics of the Greek and Latin
churches were so closely connected with the comparative merits of
Seville, Utrera, and Miguel Turra?”
_Myself_.—Is the spirit of proselytism very prevalent here? Of what
description of people do their converts generally consist?
_Dionysius_.—I will tell you, Kyrie: the generality of their converts
consist of German or English Protestant adventurers, who come here to
settle, and in course of time take to themselves wives from among the
Spanish, prior to which it is necessary to become members of the Latin
church. A few are vagabond Jews, from Gibraltar or Tangier, who have
fled for their crimes into Spain, and who renounce their faith to escape
from starvation. These gentry, however, it is necessary to pay, on which
account the priests procure for them padrinos or godfathers; these
generally consist of rich devotees over whom the priests have influence,
and who esteem it a glory and a meritorious act to assist in bringing
back lost souls to the church. The neophyte allows himself to be
convinced on the promise of a peseta a day, which is generally paid by
the godfathers for the first year, but seldom for a longer period. About
forty years ago, however, they made a somewhat notable convert. A civil
war arose in Morocco, caused by the separate pretensions of two brothers
to the throne. One of these being worsted, fled over to Spain, imploring
the protection of Charles the Fourth. He soon became an object of
particular attention to the priests, who were not slow in converting him,
and induced Charles to settle upon him a pension of a dollar per day. He
died some few years since in Seville, a despised vagabond. He left
behind him a son, who is at present a notary, and outwardly very devout,
but a greater hypocrite and picaroon does not exist. I would you could
see his face, Kyrie, it is that of Judas Iscariot. I think you would say
so, for you are a physiognomist. He lives next door to me, and
notwithstanding his pretensions to religion, is permitted to remain in a
state of great poverty.
And now nothing farther for the present about Dionysius.
About the middle of July our work was concluded at Seville, and for the
very efficient reason, that I had no more Testaments to sell; somewhat
more than two hundred having been circulated since my arrival.
About ten days before the time of which I am speaking, I was visited by
various alguazils, accompanied by a kind of headborough, who made a small
seizure of Testaments and Gypsy Gospels, which happened to be lying
about. This visit was far from being disagreeable to me, as I considered
it to be a very satisfactory proof of the effect of our exertions in
Seville. I cannot help here relating an anecdote—A day or two
subsequent, having occasion to call at the house of the headborough
respecting my passport, I found him lying on his bed, for it was the hour
of siesta, reading intently one of the Testaments which he had taken
away, all of which, if he had obeyed his orders, would have been
deposited in the office of the civil governor. So intently, indeed, was
he engaged in reading, that he did not at first observe my entrance; when
he did, however, he sprang up in great confusion, and locked the book up
in his cabinet, whereupon I smiled, and told him to be under no alarm, as
I was glad to see him so usefully employed. Recovering himself, he said
that he had read the book nearly through, and that he had found no harm
in it, but, on the contrary, everything to praise. Adding, he believed
that the clergy must be possessed with devils (_endemoniados_) to
persecute it in the manner they did.
It was Sunday when the seizure was made, and I happened to be reading the
Liturgy. One of the alguazils, when going away, made an observation
respecting the very different manner in which the Protestants and
Catholics keep the Sabbath; the former being in their own houses reading
good books, and the latter abroad in the bull-ring, seeing the wild bulls
tear out the gory bowels of the poor horses. The bull amphitheatre at
Seville is the finest in all Spain, and is invariably on a Sunday (the
only day on which it is open) filled with applauding multitudes.
I now made preparations for leaving Seville for a few months, my
destination being the coast of Barbary. Antonio, who did not wish to
leave Spain, in which were his wife and children, returned to Madrid,
rejoicing in a handsome gratuity with which I presented him. As it was
my intention to return to Seville, I left my house and horses in charge
of a friend in whom I could confide, and departed. The reasons which
induced me to visit Barbary will be seen in the following chapters.