_Seville, ---- 1801._
The calamity which has afflicted this town and swept away eighteen
thousand of its inhabitants,[24] will more than sufficiently
account for my long silence. But, during the interruption of my
correspondence, there is a former period for which I owe you a more
detailed explanation.
[24] The yellow fever in 1800.
My travels in Spain have hitherto been as limited as is used among
my countrymen. The expense, the danger, and the great inconvenience
attending a journey, prevent our travelling for pleasure or
curiosity. Most of our people spend their whole lives within their
province, and few among the females have ever lost sight of the town
that gave them birth. I have, however, brought home some of your
English restlessness; and, as my dear friend, the young clergyman,
whose account of himself is already in your hands, had to visit a
very peculiar spot of Andalusia, I joined him most willingly in his
excursion, during which I collected a few traits of our national
manners, with a view to add one more to my preceding sketches.
My friend’s destination was a town in the mountains or Sierra de
Ronda, called Olbera, or Olvera, for we make no difference in the
pronunciation of the _b_ and the _v_. A young man of that town
had been elected to a fellowship of this _Colegio Mayor_, and my
friend, who is a member of that body, was the appointed commissioner
for collecting the _pruebas_, or evidence, which, according to
the statutes, must be taken at the birth-place of the candidate,
concerning the purity of his blood and family connexions. The badness
of the roads, in that direction, induced us to make the whole
journey on horseback. We were provided with the coarse dress which
country gentlemen wear on similar occasions--a short loose jacket
and small-clothes of brown serge; thick leather gaiters; a cloak
tied up in a roll on the pommel of the saddle; and a stout spencer,
ornamented with a kind of patchwork lace, made of pieces of various
colours, which is a favourite riding-dress of our Andalusian beaux.
Each of us, as well as the servant, whose horse carried our light
luggage, was armed with a musket, hanging by a hook, on a ring,
which all travelling-saddles are furnished with for that purpose.
This manner of travelling is, upon the whole, the most pleasant
in Andalusia. Robbers seldom attack people on horseback, provided
they take care, as we did, never to pass any wooded ground without
separating to the distance of a musket-shot from each other.
My fellow-traveller took this opportunity to pay a visit to some
of his acquaintance at Osuna, a town of considerable wealth, with
a numerous _noblesse_, a collegiate church, and a university. At
the end of our first days’ journey we stopped at a pretty populous
village called El Arahal. The inn, though far from comfortable, in
the English sense of the word, was not one of the worst we were
doomed to endure in our tour, for travellers were not here obliged
to starve if they had not brought their own provisions; and we had a
room with a few broken chairs, a deal table and two flock beds, laid
upon planks raised from the brick-floor by iron tressels. A dish of
ham and eggs afforded us an agreeable and substantial dinner, and a
bottle of cheap, but by no means unpleasant wine, made us forget the
jog-trot of our day’s journey.
We had just felt the approach of that peculiar kind of _ennui_
which lurks in every corner of an inn, when the sound of a fife and
drum, with more of the sporting and mirthful than of the military
character, awakened our curiosity. But to ask a question, even at
the best Spanish _fonda_ (hotel), you must either exert your lungs,
calling the waiter, chambermaid, and landlord, in succession, to
multiply the chances of finding one disposed to hear you; or adopt
the more quiet method of searching them through the house, beginning
at the kitchen. Here, however, we had only to step out of our room
and we found ourselves within the cook’s dominions. The best country
inns, indeed, consist of a large hall contiguous to the street or
road, and paved like the former with round stones. At one end of this
hall there is a large hearth, raised about a foot from the ground. A
wood-fire is constantly burning upon it, and travellers of all ranks
and degrees, who do not prefer moping in their cold, unglazed rooms,
are glad to take a seat near it, where they enjoy, gratis, the wit
and humour of carriers, coachmen, and clowns, and a close view of the
hostess or her maid, dressing successively in the same frying pan,
now an omelet of eggs and onions, now a dish of dried fish with oil
and love-apples, or it may be the limbs of a tough fowl which but
a few moments before had been strutting about the house. The doors
of the bed-rooms, as well as that of the stable-yard, all open into
the hall. Leaving a sufficient space for carriages and horses to
cross from the front door to the stables, the Spanish carriers, or
_harrieros_, who travel in parties of twenty or thirty men and double
that number of mules, range themselves at night along the walls, each
upon his large packsaddle, with no other covering but a kind of
horse-cloth, called _manta_, which they use on the road to keep them
dry and warm in winter.
Into this truly common-hall were we brought by the sound of the drum,
and soon learned from one of the loungers who sauntered about it,
that a company of strolling-players were in a short time to begin
their performance. This was good news indeed for us, who, unwilling
to go early to bed with a certainty of not being allowed to sleep,
dreaded the close of approaching night. The performance, we were
told, was to take place in an open court, where a cow-house, open
in front, afforded a convenient situation both for the stage and
the dressing-room of the actors. Having each of us paid the amount
of a penny and a fraction, we took our seats under a bright starry
sky, muffled up in our cloaks, and perfectly unmindful of the danger
which might arise from the extreme airiness of the theatre. A
horrible screaming fiddle, a grumbling violoncello, and a deafening
French-horn, composed the band. The drop-curtain consisted of four
counterpanes sewed together; and the scenes, which were red gambroon
curtains, hanging loose from a frame, and flapping in the wind, let
us into the secrets of the dressing-room, where the actors, unable to
afford a different person for every character, multiplied themselves
by the assistance of the tailor.
The play was _El Diablo Predicador_--“The Devil turned
Preacher”--one of the numerous dramatic compositions published
anonymously during the latter part of the Austrian dynasty. The
character of this comedy is so singular, and so much of the public
mind may be learned from its popularity all over the country, that I
will give you an abstract of the plot.
The hero of the play, designated in the Dramatis Personæ by the
title of _primer galan_ (first gallant), is _Lucifer_, who, dressed
in a suit of black velvet and scarlet stockings--the appropriate
stage-dress of devils, of whatever rank and station--appears in
the first scene mounted upon a griffin, summoning his confidant
_Asmodeus_ out of a trap, to acquaint him with the danger to which
the newly-established order of Saint Francis exposed the whole
kingdom of darkness. Italy (according to the arch-demon) was overrun
with mendicant friars; and even Lucca, the scene of the play, where
they had met with a sturdy opposition, might, he feared, consent
to the building of a Franciscan convent, the foundations of which
were already laid. Lucifer, therefore, determines to assist the
Lucchese in dislodging the cowled enemies from that town; and he
sends Asmodeus to Spain upon a similar service. The chief engine he
puts in motion is _Ludovico_, a wealthy and hard-hearted man, who
had just married _Octavia_, a paragon of virtue and beauty, thus
cruelly sacrificed by her father’s ambition. _Feliciano_, a cousin
of Octavia, and the object of her early affection, availing himself
of the husband’s ignorance of their now-broken engagement, makes his
appearance at Lucca with the determination of seducing the bride
and taking revenge on Ludovico. The _Guardian_ of the new convent
of Saint Francis, being obliged by the rule of his order to support
the friars by daily alms collected from the people, and finding the
inhabitants of Lucca determined to starve them out of their city,
applies to Ludovico for help. That wicked man thrusts the Guardian
and his lay-brother _Antolín_--the _gracioso_ of the play--out of
the house, to be hooted and pelted by the mob. Nothing, therefore,
is left for the friars but to quit the town: and now, the poet
considering Horace’s rule for supernatural interference as perfectly
applicable to such a desperate state of things, the _Niño Dios_ (the
Child God),[25] and _Michael the archangel_, come down in a cloud
(you will readily conceive that the actors at our humble theatre
dispensed with the machinery), and the last, addressing himself to
Lucifer, gives him a peremptory order to assume the habit of Saint
Francis, and under that disguise to stop all the mischief he had
devised against Octavia; to obtain support from the people of Lucca
for the Franciscans; and not to depart till he had built two convents
instead of the one he was trying to nip in the bud.
[25] See Note F.
To give, as you say in England, the Devil his due, it must be
confessed, that Lucifer, though now and then exclaiming against the
severity of his punishment, executes his commission with exemplary
zeal. He presents himself to the Guardian, in the garb of the order,
and having Brother Antolín appointed as his attendant, soon changes
the hearts of the people, and obtains abundant supplies for the
convent. The under-plot proceeds in the mean time, involving Octavia
in the most imminent dangers. She snatches from Feliciano a letter,
in which she had formerly avowed her love to him, which, imperfectly
torn to pieces, falls into Ludovico’s hands, and induces him to plan
her death. To accomplish this purpose, he takes her into the country,
and stabs her in the depth of a forest, a few minutes before Monk
Lucifer, who fairly and honestly had intended to prevent the blow,
could arrive at the place with his lay-companion.
To be thus taken by surprise puzzles the ex-archangel not a little.
Still he observes, that since Octavia’s soul had neither gone to
heaven, purgatory, nor hell, a miracle was on the point of being
performed. Nor was he deceived in this shrewd conjecture; for the
_Virgin Mary_ descends in a cloud, and touching the body of Octavia,
restores her to life. Feliciano arriving at this moment, attributes
the miracle to the two friars; and the report of this wonder exposes
Antolín to a ludicrous mobbing in the town, where his frock is torn
to pieces to keep the shreds as relics. Lucifer now endeavours to
prove to the resuscitated wife, that, according to the canon law,
her marriage has been dissolved by death; but she, distrusting the
casuistry of that learned personage, immediately returns to her
husband. Her unwilling protector is therefore compelled to prevent a
second death, which the desperate Ludovico intends to inflict upon
his too faithful wife. After this second rescue of the beautiful
Octavia, Lucifer makes a most edifying address, urging Ludovico to
redeem his sins, by giving alms to the Franciscans. His eloquence,
however, making no impression upon the miser, Saint Michael gives
the word from behind the scenes, and the obdurate man is swallowed
up by the earth. Michael now makes his appearance; and, upon a very
sensible remonstrance of Lucifer, as to the hardship of his present
case, he allows the latter to strip off the cowl, and carry on
hostilities against the Franciscans by the usual arts he employs
against the other religious orders, _i. e._ assaulting the monks’
virtue by any means except their stomachs. Food the Franciscans must
never want, according to the heavenly promise made to their founder.
This curious play is performed, at least once a year, on every
Spanish theatre; when the Franciscan friars, instead of enforcing
the standing rule, which forbids the exhibition of the monkish dress
upon the stage, regularly lend the requisite suits to the actors: so
favourable is the impression it leaves in favour of that mendicant
order.
Our truly Thespian entertainment was just concluded, when we heard
the church-bell toll what in Spain is called _Las Animas_--the Souls.
A man, bearing a large lantern with a painted glass, representing
two naked persons enveloped in flames, entered the court, addressing
every one of the company in these words:--_The Holy Souls, Brother!
Remember the Holy Souls._ Few refused the petitioner a copper coin,
worth about the eighth part of a penny. This custom is universal in
Spain. A man, whose chief employment is to be agent for the souls in
purgatory, in the evening--the only time when the invisible sufferers
are begged for about the towns--and for some saint or _Madonna_,
during the day, parades the streets after sunset, with the lantern
I have described, and never fails to visit the inns, where the
travellers, who generally entrust their safety from robbers to the
_holy souls_, are always ready to make some pecuniary acknowledgement
for past favours, or to engage their protection in future dangers.
The tenderness of all sorts of _believing_ Spaniards for the souls
in purgatory, and the reliance they place on their intercession with
God, would almost be affecting, did it not originate in the most
superstitious credulity.
The doctrine of purgatory is very easily, nay, consistently embraced
by such as believe in the expiatory nature of pain and suffering.
The best feelings of our hearts are, besides, most ready to assist
the imagination in devising means to keep up an intercourse with
that invisible world, which either possesses already, or must
soon possess, whatever has engaged our affections in this. Grief
for a departed friend loses half its bitterness with a Catholic
who can firmly believe that not a day shall pass without repeated
and effectual proofs of attachment, on his part, till he join the
conscious object of his love in bliss. While other articles of the
Catholic faith are too refined and abstract for children, their
tender and benevolent minds eagerly seize on the idea of purgatory
fire. A parent or a brother, still kind to them in another world,
yet suffering excruciating pains that may be relieved, shortened,
and perhaps put an end to by some privation or prayer, are notions
perfectly adapted to their capacity and feelings. Every year brings
round the day devoted by the church to the relief of the departed
souls. The holy vestments used at the three masses, which, by a
special grant, every priest is allowed to perform that morning,
are black. Large candles of yellow wax are placed over the graves
within the churches; and even the church-yards, those humble places
of repose appointed among us for criminals and paupers, are not
neglected on that day of revived sorrows. Lights are provided for
them at the expense of the society established in every town of
Spain for the relief of the friendless spirits, who, for want of
assistance, may be lingering in the purifying flames; and many of the
members, with a priest at their head, visit these cemeteries for nine
successive evenings.
Thus, even benevolence, under the guidance of superstition,
degenerates into absurdity. It does not, however, stop here; but,
rushing headlong into the ludicrous, forces a smile upon the face
of sympathy, and painfully compels our mirth where our tears were
ready to flow. The religious ingenuity of the Catholics has gone
so far as to publish the scheme of a lottery for the benefit of
such souls as might otherwise escape their notice. It consists of a
large sheet of paper fixed in a frame, with an open box beneath it.
Under different heads, numbered from one to ninety, the inventor of
this pious game has distributed the most interesting cases which
can occur in the _debtors’ side_ of the infernal Newgate, allotting
to each a prayer, penance or offering. In the box are deposited
ninety pieces of card, distinguished by numbers corresponding to the
ninety classes. According as the pious gambler draws the tickets, he
performs the meritorious works enjoined in the scheme--generally a
short prayer or slight penance--transferring their spiritual value to
the fortunate souls to whom each card belongs. Often in my childhood,
have I amused myself at this good-natured game. But the Inquisition
is growing fastidious; and though the _lottery of purgatory_ is as
fairly grounded on the doctrines of Rome, as the papal bulls for the
release of suffering souls, which are sold for sixpence, with a blank
for inserting the name of the person in whose behalf it is purchased;
the inquisitors, it seems, will not allow the liberation of the
departed to become a matter of chance, and the _lottery scheme_ has
lately been prohibited. Fortunately, we still have various means
of assisting our friends in _Hades_; for, besides masses, Bulls,
prayers, and penances, the Pope has established eight or ten days
in the year, on which every Spaniard (for the grant is confined to
Spain) by kneeling at five different altars, and there praying for
the _extirpation of heresy_, is entitled to send a species of _habeas
animam_ writ to any of his friends in purgatory. The name of the
person whose liberation is intended should, for fear of mistakes,
be mentioned in the prayers. But, lest the order of release should
find him already free, or perhaps within those gates to which no Pope
has ever ventured to apply his keys, we are taught to endorse the
spiritual bill with other names, addressing it finally to the _most
worthy and disconsolate_.
These privileged days are announced to the public by a printed
notice, placed over the bason of holy water, which stands near every
church-door; and, as no one enters without wetting his forehead with
the blessed fluid, there is no fear that the happy season should pass
unheeded by the pious. The words written on the tablet are plain and
peremptory: _Hoy se saca Anima_; literally, “This is a soul-drawing
day.” We must, however, proceed on our uninterrupted journey.
Osuna, where we arrived on the second day after leaving Seville,
is built on the declivity of one of the detached hills which stand
as out-posts to the Sierra de Ronda, having in front a large
ill-cultivated plain, from whence the principal church, and the
college, to which the university of that town is attached, are
seen to great advantage. The great square of the town is nearly
surrounded by an arcade or piazza, with balconies above it, and is
altogether not unlike a large theatre. Such squares are to be found
in every large town of Spain, and seem to have been intended for the
exhibition of tournaments and a kind of bull-fights, less fierce
and bloody than those of the amphitheatre, which bear the name of
_regocijos_ (rejoicings.)
The line of distinction between the _noblesse_ and the unprivileged
class being here drawn with the greatest precision, there cannot
be a more disagreeable place for such as are, by education, above
the lower ranks, yet have the misfortune of a plebeian birth. An
honest respectable labourer without ambition, yet with a conscious
dignity of mind not uncommon among the Spanish peasantry, may, in
this respect, well be an object of envy to many of his betters.
Gentlemen treat them with a less haughty and distant air than is used
in England towards inferiors and dependents. A _rabadán_ (chief
shepherd), or an _aperador_ (steward), is always indulged with a
seat when speaking on business with his master, and men of the first
distinction will have a kind word for every peasant, when riding
about the country. Yet they will exclude from their club and billiard
table a well-educated man, because, forsooth, he has no legal title
to a Don before his name.
This town, though one of the third order, supports three convents
of friars and two of nuns. A gentleman of this place who, being
a clergyman, enjoys a high reputation as a spiritual director,
introduced us to some of the ladies at the nunneries. By this means
I became acquainted with two very remarkable characters--a worker of
miracles, and a nun in despair (_monja desesperada_). The first was
an elderly woman, whose countenance and manners betrayed no symptoms
of mental weakness, and whom, from all I was able to learn, it would
be difficult to class either with the deceiving or deceived. The
firm persuasion of her companions that she is sometimes the object,
sometimes the instrument of supernatural operations, inspires them
with a respect bordering upon awe. It would be tedious to relate the
alleged instances of her prying into futurity, and searching the
recesses of the heart. Reports like these are indeed easily raised
and propagated: but I shall briefly relate one, which shows how
stories of this kind may get abroad through the most respectable
channels, and form a chain of evidence which ingenuity cannot
trace up to involuntary error, and candour would not attribute to
deliberate falsehood.
The community of the _Descalzas_ (unshod nuns) had more than once
been thrown into great consternation on seeing their prioress--for to
that office had her sanctity raised the subject of my story--reduced,
for many days together, to absolute abstinence from food and drink.
Though prostrate, and with hardly any power of motion, she was in
full possession of her speech and faculties. Dr. Carnero, a physician
well known in these parts for skill and personal respectability,
attended the patient, for though it was firmly believed by the nuns
that human art could not reach the disease, it is but justice to say,
that no attempts were visible to give it a supernatural character
among strangers. The doctor, who seems to have at first considered
the case as a nervous affection, wished to try the effect of a
decided effort of the patient under the influence of his presence and
authority; for among nuns the physician is next in influence to the
professor. Having therefore sent for a glass of water, and desiring
the attendants to bolster up the prioress into a sitting posture, he
put it into her hand, with a peremptory injunction to do her utmost
to drink. The unresisting nun put the water to her lips, and stopped.
The physician was urging her to proceed, when to his great amazement
he found the contents of the glass reduced to one lump of ice.--We
had the account of this wonder from the clergyman who introduced us
to the nun. Of his veracity I can entertain no doubt: while he, on
the other hand, was equally confident of Dr. Carnero’s.
Our visit to the other convent made me acquainted with one of the
most pitiable objects ever produced by superstition--a reluctant nun.
Of the actual existence of such miserable beings one seldom hears
in Spain. A sense of decorum, and the utter hopelessness of relief,
keep the bitter regrets of many an imprisoned female a profound
secret to all but their confessor. In the present case, however, the
vehemence of the sufferer’s feelings had laid open to the world the
state of her harassed mind. She was a good-looking woman, of little
more than thirty: but the contrast between the monastic weeds, and
an indescribable air of wantonness which, in spite of all caution,
marked her every glance and motion, raised a mixed feeling of disgust
and pity, that made us uncomfortable during the whole visit. We had,
nevertheless, to stay till the customary refreshments of preserves,
cakes, and chocolate were served from within the double grate that
divided us from the inhabitants of the convent. This is done by means
of a semicircular wooden frame which fills up an opening in the wall:
the frame turns upon its centre, presenting alternately its concave
and its convex side. The refreshments being placed within the hollow
part; a slight impulse of the hand places them within reach of the
visitors. This machine takes the name of _torno_, from its rotatory
motion. But I must leave the convents for a future letter.
After a few days not unpleasantly spent at Osuna, we proceeded to
Olbera. The roads through all the branches of the Sierra de Ronda,
though often wild and romantic, are generally execrable. A mistake
of our servant had carried us within two miles of a village called
Pruna, when we were overtaken by a tremendous storm of hail and
thunder. Rain succeeded in torrents, and forced us to give up all
idea of reaching our destination that evening. We, consequently, made
for the village, anxious to dry our clothes, which were perfectly wet
through; but so wretched was the inn, that it had not a room where
we could retire to undress. In this awkward situation, my friend as
a clergyman, thought of applying to the vicar, who, upon learning
his name, very civilly received us in his house. The dress of this
worthy priest, a handsome man of about forty, shewed that he was at
least as fond of his gun and pointer, as of his missal. He had a
little of the swaggering manner of Andalusia, but it was softened by
a frankness and a gentleman-like air, which we little expected in
a retired Spanish vicar. The fact is, that the livings being poor,
none but the sons of tradesmen or peasants have, till very lately,
entered the church, without well-grounded hopes of obtaining at once
a place among the dignified clergy. But I should rather say that the
real _vicars_ are exempted from the care of a parish, and, under the
name of _beneficiados_, receive the tithes, and spend them how and
where they please. The nomination of curates belongs to the bishops;
some of whom, much to the credit of the Spanish prelacy, have of late
contrived to raise their income, and thereby induced a few young men,
who, not long ago would have disdained the office, to take a parish
under their care. The superiority, however, which was visible in
our host, arose from his being what is known by the name of _cura y
beneficiado_, or having a church, of which, as is sometimes the case,
the incumbency is inseparable from the curacy. He was far above his
neighbours in wealth and consequence; and being fond of field sports
and freedom, he preferred the wild spot where he had been born, to a
more splendid station in a Spanish cathedral.
The principal, or rather the most frequented, room in the vicars
house was, as usual, the kitchen or great hall at the entrance.
A well-looking woman, about five and thirty, with a very pretty
daughter of fifteen, and a peasant-girl to do the drudgery of the
house, formed the canonical establishment of this happy son of St.
Peter. To scrutinize the relation in which these ladies stood to the
priest, the laws of hospitality would forbid; while to consider them
as mere servants, we shrewdly guessed, would have hurt the feelings
of the vicar. Having therefore, with becoming gallantry, wound
ourselves into their good graces, we found no difficulty, when supper
was served up, in making them take their accustomed places, which,
under some pretence, they now seemed prepared to decline.
Our hearty meal ended, the _alcalde_, the _escribano_ (attorney), and
three or four of the more substantial farmers, dropped in to their
nightly _tertulia_. As the vicar saw no professional squeamishness
in my reverend companion, he had no hesitation to acquaint us with
the established custom of the house, which was to play at _faro_
till bed-time; and we joined the party. A green glazed earthen jar,
holding a quart of brandy, flavoured with anise, was placed at the
foot of the vicar, and a glass before each of the company. The
inhabitants of the Sierra de Ronda are fond of spirits, and many
exceptions to the general abstemiousness of the Spaniards are found
among them. But we did not observe any excess in our party. Probably
the influence of the clergyman, and the presence of strangers kept
all within the strictest rules of decorum. Next morning, after taking
a cup of chocolate, and cordially thanking our kind host, we took
horse for Olbera.
Some miles from that village, we passed one of the extensive woods
of ilex, which are found in many parts of Spain. In summer, the
beauty of these forests is very great. Wild flowers of all kinds,
myrtles, honeysuckles, cystus, &c. grow in the greatest profusion,
and ornament a scene doubly delicious from the cool shade which
succeeds to the glare of open and desolate plains, under a burning
sun. Did not the monumental crosses, erected on every spot where a
traveller has fallen by the hands of robbers, bring gloomy ideas to
the mind, and keep the eye watching every turn, and scouring every
thicket, without allowing it to repose on the beauties that court
it on all sides; Spain would afford many a pleasant and romantic
tour. Wild boars, and deer, and a few wolves, are found in these
forests. Birds of all kinds, hawks, kites, vultures, storks, cranes,
and bustards, are exceedingly numerous in most parts of the country.
Game, especially rabbits, is so abundant in these mountains, that
many people live by shooting; and though the number of dogs and
ferrets probably exceeds that of houses in every village, I heard
many complaints of annual depredations on the crops.
We had traversed some miles of dreary rocky ground, without a tree,
and hardly any verdure to soften its aspect, when from a deep valley,
formed by two barren mountains, we discovered Olbera, on the top of
a third, higher than the rest, and more rugged and steep than any we
had hitherto passed Both the approach and view of the town were so
perfectly in character with what we knew of the inhabitants, that the
idea of spending a week on that spot became gloomy and uncomfortable
at that moment.
The rustic and almost savage manners of the _noblesse_ of Olbera
are unparalleled in Andalusia. Both gentlemen and peasants claim
a wild independence, a liberty of misrule for their town, the
existence of which betrays the real weakness which never fails
to attend despotism. An Andalusian proverb desires you to “Kill
your man and fly to Olbera”--_Mata al hombre y vete a Olbera_. A
remarkable instance of the impunity with which murder is committed
in that town occurred two years before our visit. The _alguacil
mayor_, a law-officer of the first rank, was shot dead by an unknown
hand, when retiring to his house from an evening _tertulia_. He had
offended the chief of a party--for they have here their Capulets and
Montagues, though I could never discover a Juliet--who was known to
have formerly dispatched another man in a similar way; and no doubt
existed in the town, that Lobillo had either killed the alguacil, or
paid the assassin. The expectation, however, of his acquittal was as
general as the belief of his guilt. To the usual dilatoriness of the
judicial forms of the country, to the corruption of the scriveners
or notaries who, in taking down, most artfully alter the written
evidence upon which the judges ground their decision, was added the
terror of Lobillo’s name and party, whose vengeance was dreaded by
the witnesses. We now found him at the height of his power; and
he was one of the persons examined in evidence of the noble birth
and family honours of the candidate in whose behalf my friend had
received the commission of his college. Lobillo is a man between
fifty and sixty, with a countenance on which every evil passion is
marked in indelible characters. He was, in earlier life, renowned
for his forwardness in the savage rioting which to this day forms
the chief amusement of the youth of this town. The fact is, that the
constant use of spirits keeps many of them in a state of habitual
intoxication. One cannot cross the threshold of a house at Olbera
without being presented with a glass of brandy, which it would be an
affront to refuse. The exploits performed at their drinking-bouts
constitute the traditional chronicle of the town, and are recounted
with great glee by young and old. The idea of mirth is associated by
the _fashionables_ of Olbera with a rudeness that often degenerates
into downright barbarity. The sports of the field are generally
terminated by a supper at one of the _cortijos_, or farm-houses of
the gentry, where the _gracioso_ or _wit_ of the company, is expected
to promote some practical joke when mischief is rife among the
guests. The word _culebra_, for instance, is the signal for putting
out the lights, and laying about with the first thing that comes to
hand, as if trying to kill the _snake_, which is the pretended cause
of the alarm. The stomachs of the party are, on other occasions,
tried with a raw hare or kid, of which no one dares refuse to eat his
share: and it is by no means uncommon to propose the alternative of
losing a tooth, or paying a fine.
The relations of the young man whose pedigree was to be examined by
my friend, made it a point to entertain us, by rotation, every night
with a dance. At these parties there was no music but a guitar,
and some male and female voices. Two or four couples stood up for
_seguidillas_, a national dance, not unlike the _fandango_, which
was, not long since, modified into the _bolero_, by a dancing-master
of that name, a native of the province of Murcia, from which it was
originally called _Seguidillas Murcianas_. The dancers, rattling
their castanets, move at the sound of a single voice, which sings
couplets of four verses, with a burthen of three, accompanied by
musical chords that, combining the six strings of the guitar into
harmony, are incessantly struck with the nails of the right hand.
The singers relieve each other, every one using different words
to the same tune. The subject of these popular compositions, of
which a copious, though not very elegant collection is preserved in
the memory of the lower classes, is love; and they are generally
appropriate to the sex of the singers.
The illumination of the room consisted of a _candíl_--a rude lamp of
cast-iron, hung up by a hook on an upright piece of wood fixed on
a three-footed stool, the whole of plain deal. Some of the ladies
wore their _mantillas_ crossed upon the chin so as to conceal their
features. A woman in this garb is called _tapada_; and the practice
of that disguise, which was very common under the Austrian dynasty,
is still preserved by a few females in some of our country-towns.
I have seen them at Osuna and El Arahal, covered from head to foot
with a black woollen veil falling on both sides of the face, and
crossed so closely before it that nothing could be perceived but the
gleaming of the right eye placed just behind the aperture. Our old
dramatic writers found in the _tapadas_ an inexhaustible resource for
their plots. As the laws of honour protected a veiled lady from the
intrusions of curiosity, jealousy was thus perpetually mocked by the
very objects that were the main source of its alarms.
My introduction, at the first evening-party, to one of the ladies
of Olbera, will give you an idea of the etiquette of that town. A
young gentleman, the acknowledged _gracioso_ of the upper ranks,
a character which in those parts must unite that of _first bully_
to support it; had from the day of our arrival taken us under his
patronage, and engaged to do for us the honours of the place. His
only faults were, drinking like a fish, and being as quarrelsome as a
bull-dog; _au reste_, he was a kind-hearted soul, and would serve a
friend the whole length of the broad-sword, which, according to the
good old fashion, he constantly carried under the left arm, concealed
by the large foldings of his cloak. At the dances, he was master of
the ceremonies, and, as such, he introduced us to the company. We
had not yet seated ourselves, when Don Juan de la Rosa--such was
our patron’s name--surprised me with the question, which of the
present ladies I preferred to sit by. Thinking it was a jest, I
made a suitable answer; but I soon found he was serious. As it was
not for me to innovate, or break through the laudable customs of
Olbera, no other cause remained for hesitation but the difficulty of
the choice. Difficult it was indeed; not, however from the balanced
influence of contending beauty, but the formidable host of either
coy or grinning faces, which nearly filled one side of the room. To
take my post by one of the rustic nymphs, and thus engage to keep up
a regular flirtation for the evening, was more, I confess, than my
courage allowed me. Reversing, therefore, the maxim which attributes
increased horrors to things unknown, I begged to be introduced to a
_tapada_ who sat in a corner, provided a young man of the town, who
was at that moment speaking with her, had not a paramount claim to
the place. The word was scarcely spoken, when my friend, Don Juan,
advanced with a bold step, and, addressing his townsman with the
liberty of an established _gracioso_, declared it was not fit for a
_clown_ to take that place, instead of the _stranger_. The young man,
who happened to be a near relation of the lady, gave up his chair
very good-humouredly, and I was glad to find that the airiness and
superior elegance of shape, which led me to the choice, had directed
me to a gentlewoman. My veiled talking partner was highly amused--I
will not say flattered--with what she chose to call my blunder, and,
pretending to be old and ugly, brought into full play all my Spanish
gallantry. The evening was passed less heavily than I dreaded; and
during our stay at Olbera we gave a decided preference to the lady
of whom I had, thus strangely, declared myself the _cortejo pro
tempore_. She was a native of Malaga, whom her husband, an officer
on half-pay, had induced to reside in his native town, which she
most cordially detested. Perhaps you wish to know the reason of her
disguise at the dance. Moved by a similar curiosity, I ventured to
make the inquiry, when I learned that, for want of time to dress, she
had availed herself of the custom of the country, which makes the
_mantilla_ a species of _dishabille_ fit for an evening party.
In the intervals of the dance we were sometimes treated with dramatic
scenes, of which the dialogue is composed on the spot by the actors.
This amusement is not uncommon in country-towns. It is known by the
name of _juegos_--a word literally answering to _plays_. The actors
are in the habit of performing together, and consequently do not
find it difficult to go through their parts without much hesitation.
Men in women’s clothes act the female characters. The truth is, that
far from being surprised at the backwardness of the ladies to join
actively in the amusement, the wit and humour of the _juegos_ is
such, that one only wonders how any modest woman can be present at
the performance.
One night the dance was interrupted by the hoarse voice of our worthy
friend Don Juan, who happened to be in the kitchen on a visit to
a favourite jar of brandy. The ladies, though possessed of strong
nerves, shewed evident symptoms of alarm; and we all hurried out of
the room, anxious to ascertain the cause of the threatening tones
we had heard. Upon our coming to the hall, we found the doughty
hero standing at a window with a cocked gun in his hands, sending
forth a volley of oaths, and protesting he would shoot the first
man who approached his door. The assault, however, which he had
thus gallantly repulsed, being now over, he soon became cool enough
to inform us of the circumstances. Two or three individuals of
the adverse party, who were taking their nightly rounds under the
windows of their mistresses, hearing the revel at Rosa’s house, were
tempted to interrupt it by just setting fire to the door of the
entrance-hall. The house might, in a short time, have been in flames,
but for the unquenchable thirst of the owner, which so seasonably
drew him from the back to the front of the building.
We were once retiring home at break of day, when Don Juan, who never
quitted us, insisted upon our being introduced at that moment to one
of two brothers of the name of Ribera, who had, the evening before,
arrived from his farm. Remonstrance was in vain: Don Juan crossed
the street, and “the wicket opening with a latch,” in primitive
simplicity, we beheld one of the most renowned _braggadocios_
of Olbera lying in bed, with a gun by his side. Ribera, so
unceremoniously disturbed, could not help greeting the visitors in
rather rough language; but he was soon appeased, on perceiving that
we were strangers. He sat up in his bed, and handed to me a tumbler
of brandy, just filled from the ever-present green jar, that stood
within his reach upon a deal table. The life I was leading had given
me a severe cough, and the muzzle of Ribera’s gun close to my head
would scarcely have alarmed me more than the brim-full rummer with
which I was threatened. A terrible fit of coughing, however, came to
my assistance; and Don Juan interposing in my favour, I was allowed
to lay down the glass.
The facetiousness of the two Riberas is greatly admired in their
town. These loving brothers had, on a certain occasion, gone to bed
at their _cortijo_ (farm), forgetting to put out the _candíl_, or
lamp, hung up at the opposite end of the hall. The first who had
retired urged that it was incumbent on him who sat up latest, to have
left every thing in proper order; but the offender was too lazy to
quit his bed, and a long contest ensued. After much, and probably
not very temperate disputing, a bright thought seemed to have crossed
the younger brother. And so it was indeed; for stopping short in
the argument, he grasped the gun, which, as usual, stood by his
bed-side, took a sure aim, and put an end both to the dispute and its
subject, by shooting down the _candíl_. The humour of this _potent
conclusion_ was universally applauded at Olbera. I have been assured
that the same extinguisher is still, occasionally, resorted to by
the brothers; and a gun heard in the night, infallibly reminds the
inhabitants, of the Riberas’ lamp.[26]
[26] See Note G.