_Pandite, nunc, Helicona, Deæ_, might I say, in the true spirit of a
native of Seville, when entering upon a subject which is the chief
pride of this town. To tell the honest truth, we are _quizzed_ every
where for our conceit of these solemnities; and it is a standing joke
against the _Sevillians_, that on the arrival of the King in summer,
it was moved in the _Cabildo_, or town corporation, to repeat the
Passion-week for the amusement of his Majesty. It must be owned,
however, that our Cathedral service on that solemn Christian festival
yields not in impressiveness to any ceremonies of modern worship, to
dispel their superstitious fear, and wanting, on with which I am
acquainted, either by sight or description.
It is impossible to convey in words an adequate idea of architectural
grandeur. The dimensions of a temple do not go beyond a certain point
in augmenting the majesty of effect. A temple may be so gigantic as
to make the worshippers mere pigmies. An immense structure, though
it may be favourable to contemplation, must greatly diminish the
effect of such social rites as aim at the imagination through the
senses. I have been told by a native of this town, who visited Rome,
and on whose taste and judgment I greatly depend, that the service
of the Passion-week at Saint Peter’s, does not produce a stronger
effect on the mind than that of our Cathedral. If this impression
did not arise from the power of early habit, I should account for it
from the excessive magnitude of the first temple in Christendom. The
practice, also, of confining the most striking and solemn ceremonies
to the Sixtine Chapel seems to shew that the Romans find the Church
of Saint Peter unfavourable to the display of religious pomp. I shall
add, though fearful of venturing too far upon a subject with which
I am but slightly acquainted, that the ancients appear to have been
careful not to diminish the effect of their public worship by the too
large dimensions of the temples.
The size of our Cathedral seems to me happily adapted to the object
of the building. Three hundred and ninety-eight feet long by two
hundred and ninety-one broad--the breadth distributed into five
aisles, formed by one hundred and four arches, of which those of
the centre are one hundred and thirty-four feet high, and the rest
ninety-six--remove the limits of an undivided structure enough to
require that effort of the eye and pause of the mind before we
conceive it as a whole, which excites the idea of grandeur. This, I
believe, is the impression which a temple should produce. To aim at
more is to forget the solemn performances for which the structure is
intended. Let the house of prayer, when solitary, appear so ample as
not to exclude a single suppliant in a populous town; yet let the
throng be visible on a solemn feast. Let the loftiness of the aisles
soften the noise of a moving multitude into a gentle and continuous
rustling; but let me hear the voice of the singers and the peals of
the organ returned in deep echoes; not lost in the too distant vaults.
The simultaneous impression of architectural and ritual magnificence
produced at the Cathedral of Seville is, I conceive, difficult to be
rivalled. The pillars are not so massive as to obstruct the sight
at every turn; and were the influence of modern taste strong enough
to prevail over the canonical vanity which blocks up the middle of
every Cathedral with the clumsy and absurd inclosure of the choir, it
would be difficult to imagine a more striking view than that which
our Church presents on Holy Thursday.--In one respect, and that a
most important one, it has the advantage over Saint Peter’s at Rome.
The scene of filth and irreverence which, according to travellers,
sometimes disgusts the eye and revolts the mind at the Church of the
Vatican--those crowds of peasants and beggars, eating, drinking, and
sleeping, on Christmas eve, within the precincts of the temple; are
not to be seen at Seville. Our Church, though almost thronged day and
night on the principal festivals, is not profaned by any external
mark of indevotion. The strictest watch is kept by members of the
chapter appointed for that purpose, who, attended by their vergers,
go their rounds for the preservation of order. The exclusion of
every kind of seats from the Church, though rather inconvenient for
the people, prevents its being made a lounging-place; and, besides
allowing the beautiful marble pavement to appear unbroken, avoids
that dismal look of an empty theatre, which benches or pews give to
churches in the intervals of divine service.
Early on Palm-Sunday the melancholy sound of the _Passion-bell_
announces the beginning of the solemnities for which the fast of Lent
is intended to prepare the mind. This bell is one of the largest
which are made to revolve upon pivots. It is moved by means of two
long ropes, which, by swinging the bell into a circular motion, twine
gently at first, round the massive arms of a cross, of which the
bell forms the foot, and the head its counterpoise. Six men then
draw back the ropes till the enormous machine conceives a sufficient
impetus to coil them in an opposite direction; and thus alternately,
as long as ringing is required. To give this bell a tone appropriate
to the sombre character of the season, it has been cast with several
large holes disposed in a circle round the top--a contrivance which,
without diminishing the vibration of the metal, prevents the distinct
formation of any musical note, and converts the sound into a dismal
clangour.
The chapter, consisting of about eighty resident members, in their
choral robes of black silk with long trains and hoods, preceded by
the inferior ministers, by thirty clergymen, in surplices, whose deep
bass voices perform the plain or Ambrosian chaunt, and by the band
of wind-instruments and singers, who execute the more artificial
strains of modern or counterpoint music; move in a long procession
round the farthest aisles, each holding a branch of the oriental or
date palm, which, overtopping the heads of the assembled multitude,
nod gracefully, and bend into elegant curves at every step of the
bearers. For this purpose, a number of palm-trees are kept with their
branches tied up together, that, by the want of light, the more
tender shoots may preserve a delicate yellow tinge. The ceremony of
blessing these branches is solemnly performed by the officiating
priest, previously to the procession; after which they are sent by
the clergy to their friends, who tie them to the iron bars of the
balconies, to be, as they believe, a protection against lightning.
At the long church-service for this day, the organ is silent, the
voices being supported by hautboys and bassoons. All the altars are
covered with purple or grey curtains. The holy vestments, during
this week, are of the first-mentioned colour, except on Friday, when
it is changed for black. The four accounts of our Saviour’s passion
appointed as gospels for this day, Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday,
are dramatized in the following manner. Outside of the gilt-iron
railing, which incloses the presbytery, are two large pulpits of
the same materials, from one of which, at the daily high-mass, the
subdeacon chaunts the epistle, as the deacon does the gospel from
the other. A moveable platform with a desk, is placed between the
pulpits on the _Passion-days_; and three priests or deacons, in
_albes_ (the white vestment, over which the dalmatic is worn by the
latter, and the chasuble by the former) appear on these elevated
posts, at the time when the gospel should be said. These officiating
ministers are chosen among the singers in holy orders; one a bass,
another a tenor, and the third a counter-tenor. The tenor chaunts
the narrative, without changing from the key note, and makes a pause
whenever he comes to the words of the interlocutors mentioned by the
Evangelist. In those passages the words of our Saviour are sung by
the bass, in a solemn strain. The counter-tenor, in a more florid
style, personates the inferior characters, such as Peter, the Maid,
and Pontius Pilate. The cries of the priests and the multitude, are
imitated by the band of musicians within the choir.