The Steamer—Cape Finisterre—The Storm—Arrival at Cadiz—The New
Testament—Seville—Italica—The Amphitheatre—The Prisoners—The
Encounter—Baron Taylor—The Street and Desert.
At the commencement of November {208} I again found myself on the salt
water, on my way to Spain. I had returned to England shortly after the
events which have been narrated in the last chapter, for the purpose of
consulting with my friends, and for planning the opening of a biblical
campaign in Spain. It was now determined by us to print the New
Testament, with as little delay as possible, at Madrid; and I was to be
entrusted with the somewhat arduous task of its distribution. My stay in
England was very short, for time was precious, and I was eager to return
to the field of action.
I embarked in the Thames, on board the _M---_ steamer. We had a most
unpleasant passage to Falmouth. The ship was crowded with passengers;
most of them were poor consumptive individuals, and other invalids
fleeing from the cold blasts of England’s winter to the sunny shores of
Portugal and Madeira. In a more uncomfortable vessel, especially
steamship, it has never been my fate to make a voyage. The berths were
small and insupportably close, and of these wretched holes mine was
amongst the worst, the rest having been bespoken before I arrived on
board; so that, to avoid the suffocation which seemed to threaten me,
should I enter it, I lay upon the floor of one of the cabins throughout
the voyage. We remained at Falmouth twenty-four hours, taking in coal
and repairing the engine, which had sustained considerable damage.
On Monday, the 7th, we again started, and made for the Bay of Biscay.
The sea was high, and the wind strong and contrary; nevertheless, on the
morning of the fourth day, we were in sight of the rocky coast to the
north of Cape Finisterre. I must here observe, that this was the first
voyage that the captain who commanded the vessel had ever made on board
of her, and that he knew little or nothing of the coast towards which we
were bearing. He was a person picked up in a hurry, the former captain
having resigned his command on the ground that the ship was not
seaworthy, and that the engines were frequently unserviceable. I was not
acquainted with these circumstances at the time, or perhaps I should have
felt more alarmed than I did, when I saw the vessel approaching nearer
and nearer the shore, till at last we were only a few hundred yards
distant. As it was, however, I felt very much surprised; for having
passed it twice before, both times in steam-vessels, and having seen with
what care the captains endeavoured to maintain a wide offing, I could not
conceive the reason of our being now so near this dangerous region. The
wind was blowing hard towards the shore, if that can be called a shore
which consists of steep abrupt precipices, on which the surf was breaking
with the noise of thunder, tossing up clouds of spray and foam to the
height of a cathedral. We coasted slowly along, rounding several tall
forelands, some of them piled up by the hand of nature in the most
fantastic shapes. About nightfall Cape Finisterre was not far ahead—a
bluff, brown granite mountain, whose frowning head may be seen far away
by those who traverse the ocean. The stream which poured round its
breast was terrific, and though our engines plied with all their force,
we made little or no way.
By about eight o’clock at night the wind had increased to a hurricane,
the thunder rolled frightfully, and the only light which we had to guide
us on our way was the red forked lightning, which burst at times from the
bosom of the big black clouds which lowered over our heads. We were
exerting ourselves to the utmost to weather the cape, which we could
descry by the lightning on our lee, its brow being frequently brilliantly
lighted up by the flashes which quivered around it, when suddenly, with a
great crash, the engine broke, and the paddles, on which depended our
lives, ceased to play.
I will not attempt to depict the scene of horror and confusion which
ensued; it may be imagined, but never described. The captain, to give
him his due, displayed the utmost coolness and intrepidity: he and the
whole crew made the greatest exertions to repair the engine, and when
they found their labour in vain, endeavoured, by hoisting the sails, and
by practising all possible manœuvres, to preserve the ship from impending
destruction. But all was of no avail; we were hard on a lee shore, to
which the howling tempest was impelling us. About this time I was
standing near the helm, and I asked the steersman if there was any hope
of saving the vessel, or our lives. He replied, “Sir, it is a bad
affair; no boat could live for a minute in this sea, and in less than an
hour the ship will have her broadside on Finisterre, where the strongest
man-of-war ever built must go to shivers instantly. None of us will see
the morning.” The captain likewise informed the other passengers in the
cabin to the same effect, telling them to prepare themselves; and having
done so, he ordered the door to be fastened, and none to be permitted to
come on deck. I however kept my station, though almost drowned with
water, immense waves continually breaking over our windward side and
flooding the ship. The water-casks broke from their lashings, and one of
them struck me down, and crushed the foot of the unfortunate man at the
helm, whose place was instantly taken by the captain. We were now close
to the rocks, when a horrid convulsion of the elements took place. The
lightning enveloped us as with a mantle; the thunders were louder than
the roar of a million cannon; the dregs of the ocean seemed to be cast
up, and in the midst of all this turmoil, the wind, without the slightest
intimation, _veered right about_, and pushed us from the horrible coast
faster than it had previously driven us towards it.
The oldest sailors on board acknowledged that they had never witnessed so
providential an escape. I said, from the bottom of my heart, “Our
Father—hallowed be Thy name.”
The next day we were near foundering, for the sea was exceedingly high,
and our vessel, which was not intended for sailing, laboured terribly,
and leaked much. The pumps were continually working. She likewise took
fire, but the flames were extinguished. In the evening the steam-engine
was partially repaired, and we reached Lisbon on the thirteenth, where in
a few days we completed our repairs.
I found my excellent friend W--- in good health. During my absence he
had been doing everything in his power to further the sale of the sacred
volume in Portuguese: his zeal and devotedness were quite admirable. The
distracted state of the country, however, during the last six months, had
sadly impeded his efforts. The minds of the people had been so engrossed
with politics, that they found scarcely any time to think of the welfare
of their souls. The political history of Portugal had of late afforded a
striking parallel to that of the neighbouring country. In both a
struggle for supremacy had arisen between the court and the democratic
party; in both the latter had triumphed, whilst two distinguished
individuals had fallen a sacrifice to the popular fury—Freire {212a} in
Portugal, and Quesada in Spain. The news which reached me at Lisbon from
the latter country was rather startling. The hordes of Gomez {212b} were
ravaging Andalusia, which I was about to visit on my way to Madrid;
Cordova had been sacked and abandoned, after a three days’ occupation by
the Carlists. I was told that if I persisted in my attempt to enter
Spain in the direction which I proposed, I should probably fall into
their hands at Seville. I had, however, no fears, and had full
confidence that the Lord would open the path before me to Madrid.
The vessel being repaired, we again embarked, and in two days arrived in
safety at Cadiz. I found great confusion reigning there; numerous bands
of the factious were reported to be hovering in the neighbourhood. An
attack was not deemed improbable, and the place had just been declared in
a state of siege. I took up my abode at the French hotel, in the Calle
de la Niveria, and was allotted a species of cockloft, or garret, to
sleep in, for the house was filled with guests, being a place of much
resort, on account of the excellent _table d’hôte_ which is kept there.
I dressed myself, and walked about the town. I entered several
coffee-houses: the din of tongues in all was deafening. In one no less
than six orators were haranguing at the same time on the state of the
country, and the probability of an intervention on the part of England
and France. As I was listening to one of them, he suddenly called upon
me for my opinion, as I was a foreigner, and seemingly just arrived. I
replied that I could not venture to guess what steps the two governments
would pursue under the present circumstances, but thought that it would
be as well if the Spaniards would exert themselves more, and call less on
Jupiter. As I did not wish to engage in any political conversation, I
instantly quitted the house, and sought those parts of the town where the
lower classes principally reside.
I entered into discourse with several individuals, but found them very
ignorant; none could read or write, and their ideas respecting religion
were anything but satisfactory—most professing a perfect indifference. I
afterwards went into a bookseller’s shop, and made inquiries respecting
the demand for literature, which he informed me was small. I produced a
London edition of the New Testament, in Spanish, and asked the bookseller
whether he thought a book of that description would sell in Cadiz. He
said that both the type and paper were exceedingly beautiful, but that it
was a work not sought after and very little known. I did not pursue my
inquiries in other shops, for I reflected that I was not likely to
receive a very favourable opinion from booksellers respecting a
publication in which they had no interest. I had, moreover, but two or
three copies of the New Testament with me, and could not have supplied
them, had they even given me an order.
Early on the 24th I embarked for Seville, in the small Spanish steamer
the _Betis_. {214} The morning was wet, and the aspect of nature was
enveloped in a dense mist, which prevented my observing surrounding
objects. After proceeding about six leagues, we reached the
north-eastern extremity of the Bay of Cadiz, and passed by San Lucar, an
ancient town near to the spot where the Guadalquivir disembogues itself.
The mist suddenly disappeared, and the sun of Spain burst forth in full
brilliancy, enlivening all round, and particularly myself, who had till
then been lying on the deck in a dull melancholy stupor. We entered the
mouth of “The Great River,” for that is the English translation of _Wady
al Kebir_, as the Moors designated the ancient Betis. We came to anchor
for a few minutes at a little village called Bonanza, at the extremity of
the first reach of the river, where we received several passengers, and
again proceeded. There is not much in the appearance of the Guadalquivir
to interest the traveller: the banks are low and destitute of trees, the
adjacent country is flat, and only in the distance is seen a range of
tall blue sierras. The water is turbid and muddy, and in colour closely
resembling the contents of a duck-pool; the average width of the stream
is from 150 to 200 yards. But it is impossible to move along this river
without remembering that it has borne the Roman, the Vandal, and the
Arab, and has been the witness of deeds which have resounded through the
world, and been the themes of immortal songs. I repeated Latin verses
and fragments of old Spanish ballads till we reached Seville, at about
nine o’clock of a lovely moonlight night.
Seville contains ninety thousand inhabitants, and is situated on the
eastern bank of the Guadalquivir, about eighteen leagues from its mouth;
it is surrounded with high Moorish walls, in a good state of
preservation, and built of such durable materials that it is probable
they will for many centuries still bid defiance to the encroachments of
time. The most remarkable edifices are the cathedral and _alcazar_, or
palace of the Moorish kings. The tower of the former, called La Giralda,
{215} belongs to the period of the Moors, and formed part of the grand
mosque of Seville: it is computed to be one hundred ells in height, and
is ascended not by stairs or ladders, but by a vaulted pathway, in the
manner of an inclined plane. This path is by no means steep, so that a
cavalier might ride up to the top, a feat which Ferdinand the Seventh is
said to have accomplished. The view from the summit is very extensive,
and on a fine clear day the mountain ridge called the Sierra de Ronda may
be discovered, though upwards of twenty leagues distant. The cathedral
itself is a noble Gothic structure, {216a} reputed the finest of the kind
in Spain. In the chapels allotted to the various saints are some of the
most magnificent paintings which Spanish art has produced; indeed, the
cathedral of Seville is at the present time far more rich in splendid
paintings than at any former period, possessing many very recently
removed from some of the suppressed convents, particularly from the
Capuchin and San Francisco.
No one should visit Seville without paying particular attention to the
_alcazar_, that splendid specimen of Moorish architecture. It contains
many magnificent halls, particularly that of the ambassadors, so called,
which is in every respect more magnificent than the one of the same name
within the Alhambra of Granada. This palace was a favourite residence of
Peter the Cruel, {216b} who carefully repaired it without altering its
Moorish character and appearance. It probably remains in much the same
state as at the time of his death.
On the right side of the river is a large suburb, called Triana,
communicating with Seville by means of a bridge of boats; {216c} for
there is no permanent bridge across the Guadalquivir, owing to the
violent inundations to which it is subject. This suburb is inhabited by
the dregs of the populace, and abounds with _Gitanos_ or gypsies. About
a league and a half to the north-west stands the village of Santi Ponce:
at the foot and on the side of some elevated ground higher up are to be
seen vestiges of ruined walls and edifices, which once formed part of
Italica, the birthplace of Silius Italicus and Trajan, from which latter
personage Triana derives its name.
One fine morning I walked thither, and, having ascended the hill, I
directed my course northward. I soon reached what had once been bagnios;
and a little farther on, in a kind of valley, between two gentle
declivities, the amphitheatre. This latter object is by far the most
considerable relic of ancient Italica; it is oval in its form, with two
gateways fronting the east and west.
On all sides are to be seen the time-worn broken granite benches, from
whence myriads of human beings once gazed down on the area below, where
the gladiator shouted, and the lion and the leopard yelled: all around,
beneath these flights of benches, are vaulted excavations from whence the
combatants, part human, part bestial, darted forth by their several
doors. I spent many hours in this singular place, forcing my way through
the wild fennel and brushwood into the caverns, now the haunts of adders
and other reptiles, whose hissings I heard. Having sated my curiosity, I
left the ruins, and, returning by another way, reached a place where lay
the carcass of a horse half devoured; upon it, with lustrous eyes, stood
an enormous vulture, who, as I approached, slowly soared aloft till he
alighted on the eastern gate of the amphitheatre, from whence he uttered
a hoarse cry, as if in anger that I had disturbed him from his feast of
carrion.
Gomez had not hitherto paid a visit to Seville: when I arrived he was
said to be in the neighbourhood of Ronda. The city was under watch and
ward: several gates had been blocked up with masonry, trenches dug, and
redoubts erected; but I am convinced that the place would not have held
out six hours against a resolute attack. Gomez had proved himself to be
a most extraordinary man; and with his small army of Aragonese and
Basques had, within the last four months, made the tour of Spain. He had
very frequently been hemmed in by forces three times the number of his
own, in places whence escape appeared impossible; but he had always
baffled his enemies, whom he seemed to laugh at. The most absurd
accounts of victories gained over him were continually issuing from the
press at Seville; amongst others, it was stated that his army had been
utterly defeated, himself killed, and that twelve hundred prisoners were
on their way to Seville. I saw these prisoners: instead of twelve
hundred desperadoes, {218} they consisted of about twenty poor, lame,
ragged wretches, many of them boys from fourteen to sixteen years of age.
They were evidently camp-followers, who, unable to keep up with the army,
had been picked up straggling in the plains and amongst the hills.
It subsequently appeared that no battle had occurred, and that the death
of Gomez was a fiction. The grand defect of Gomez consisted in not
knowing how to take advantage of circumstances: after defeating Lopez, he
might have marched to Madrid and proclaimed Don Carlos there; and after
sacking Cordova he might have captured Seville.
There were several booksellers’ shops at Seville, in two of which I found
copies of the New Testament in Spanish, which had been obtained from
Gibraltar about two years before, since which time six copies had been
sold in one shop and four in the other. The person who generally
accompanied me in my walks about the town and the neighbourhood, was an
elderly Genoese, who officiated as a kind of _valet de place_ in the
Posada del Turco, where I had taken up my residence. On learning from me
that it was my intention to bring out an edition of the New Testament at
Madrid, he observed that copies of the work might be extensively
circulated in Andalusia. “I have been accustomed to bookselling,” he
continued, “and at one time possessed a small shop of my own in this
place. Once having occasion to go to Gibraltar, I procured several
copies of the Scriptures: some, it is true, were seized by the officers
of the customs; but the rest I sold at a high price, and with
considerable profit to myself.”
I had returned from a walk in the country, on a glorious sunshiny morning
of the Andalusian winter, and was directing my steps towards my lodging:
as I was passing by the portal of a large gloomy house near the gate of
Xeres, two individuals, dressed in _zamarras_, emerged from the archway,
and were about to cross my path, when one, looking in my face, suddenly
started back, exclaiming in the purest and most melodious French:—“What
do I see? If my eyes do not deceive me—it is himself. Yes, the very
same as I saw him first at Bayonne; then long subsequently beneath the
brick wall at Novogorod; then beside the Bosphorus; and last at—at— Oh,
my respectable and cherished friend, where was it that I had last the
felicity of seeing your well-remembered and most remarkable physiognomy?”
_Myself_.—It was in the south of Ireland, if I mistake not. Was it not
there that I introduced you to the sorcerer who tamed the savage horses
by a single whisper into their ear? But tell me what brings you to Spain
and Andalusia, the last place where I should have expected to find you?
_Baron Taylor_.—And wherefore, my most respectable B---? Is not Spain
the land of the arts; and is not Andalusia of all Spain that portion
which has produced the noblest monuments of artistic excellence and
inspiration? Surely you know enough of me to be aware that the arts are
my passion; that I am incapable of imagining a more exalted enjoyment
than to gaze in adoration on a noble picture. Oh, come with me! for you,
too, have a soul capable of appreciating what is lovely and exalted; a
soul delicate and sensitive. Come with me, and I will show you a
Murillo, such as . . . But first allow me to introduce you to your
compatriot. My dear Monsieur W---, turning to his companion (an English
gentleman, from whom and from his family I subsequently experienced
unbounded kindness and hospitality on various occasions, and at different
periods at Seville), allow me to introduce to you my most cherished and
respectable friend, one who is better acquainted with gypsy ways than the
_Chef des Bohémiens à Triana_, {220} one who is an expert whisperer and
horse-sorcerer; and who, to his honour I say it, can wield hammer and
tongs, and handle a horseshoe with the best of the smiths amongst the
Alpujarras of Granada.
In the course of my travels I have formed various friendships and
acquaintances, but no one has more interested me than Baron Taylor, {221}
and there is no one for whom I entertain a greater esteem and regard. To
personal and mental accomplishments of the highest order he unites a
kindness of heart rarely to be met with, and which is continually
inducing him to seek for opportunities of doing good to his
fellow-creatures, and of contributing to their happiness; perhaps no
person in existence has seen more of the world and life in its various
phases than himself. His manners are naturally to the highest degree
courtly, yet he nevertheless possesses a disposition so pliable that he
finds no difficulty in accommodating himself to all kinds of company, in
consequence of which he is a universal favourite. There is a mystery
about him, which, wherever he goes, serves not a little to increase the
sensation naturally created by his appearance and manner. Who he is, no
one pretends to assert with downright positiveness: it is whispered,
however, that he is a scion of royalty; and who can gaze for a moment
upon that most graceful figure, that most intelligent but singularly
moulded countenance, and those large and expressive eyes, without feeling
as equally convinced that he is of no common lineage, as that he is no
common man? Though possessed of talents and eloquence which would
speedily have enabled him to attain to an illustrious position in the
state, he has hitherto, and perhaps wisely, contented himself with
comparative obscurity, chiefly devoting himself to the study of the arts
and of literature, of both of which he is a most bounteous patron.
He has, notwithstanding, been employed by the illustrious house to which
he is said to be related in more than one delicate and important mission,
both in the East and the West, in which his efforts have uniformly been
crowned with complete success. He was now collecting masterpieces of the
Spanish school of painting, which were destined to adorn the saloons of
the Tuileries.
He has visited most portions of the earth; and it is remarkable enough
that we are continually encountering each other in strange places and
under singular circumstances. Whenever he descries me, whether in the
street or the desert, the brilliant hall or amongst Bedouin _haimas_, at
Novogorod or Stambul, he flings up his arms and exclaims, “_O ciel_! I
have again the felicity of seeing my cherished and most respectable
B---.”