SEVILLE, ITS CATHEDRAL AND BULL-FIGHTS.
NOT until reaching Seville does one feel what a luxury it is to
live,—just to breathe,—to inhale the delicious air and rejoice in
_being_. Other climates had been cold, or damp, or chilly; some hot,
debilitating; but this was just right, and when a man comes to the place
where the weather just suits him, it is time to sit down and enjoy it.
It was a privilege to be any thing that could breathe in this delightful
clime. It is the latter part of February. If one of my lungs was out of
order, or both of them, I would stay here till they were well, or until
the weather became too hot for comfort, and that will be but a few weeks
hence.
The city is clean, well-built, and in the evening the inhabitants throng
some of the streets so as to make it difficult to walk. The courts
around which the houses are built are beautifully adorned with flowers
and shrubs, and trees; in warmer weather awnings are spread over them,
and here the family enjoy themselves with the piano and guitar, the song
and the dance. Here, too, the table is spread, and all Seville, it is
said, takes tea out of doors.
[Illustration: “LA GERALDA,” SEVILLE.]
It was a dreadful day for Seville, and indeed for Spain, when the Moors
were driven out of the country; they had conquered it, and ruled eight
hundred years. Four hundred thousand Moors, Jews and Arabs, left this
city of Seville in a few days after it was surrendered to St. Ferdinand.
Wealth, learning, taste, art, and the charm of Eastern life went out
with them, and Spain has been lower in the scale of morals and manners
ever since. This is no compliment to Mahometanism. To compare the
present condition of Spain with any thing that has gone before it, and
say that the former days were better than these, is saying very little
for the better times. In this old city of Seville we found the Alcazar
or palace, being the first specimen of Moorish magnificence we had seen.
It consists of a group of palaces, on the banks of the Guadalquiver, and
exhibits the same style of architecture and mural decorations that are
so much admired and celebrated in the Alhambra. Indeed, the pavements
and columns and arches and apartments have been preserved or restored
with so much greater care than the Alhambra itself, that the latter
appears to be a feeble example of Moorish taste and skill, compared with
these glorious rooms in Seville. Fancy must people these chambers with
men and women, of flesh and blood; clothe them in Oriental and gorgeous
raiment, surround them with every luxury that gold and labor and power
can give; hang these passages with curtains whose richness has not been
excelled by any thing that modern art has produced. When the sleepy
janitor opens the outer gate and leads you through these deserted and
empty halls, in which your footfalls make the only sound, into
apartments that for centuries have been silent as the grave, yet on
every hand is beauty of coloring and carving and curiously wrought
adorning that you must pause to admire; even in the midst of admiration
one cannot but mourn that the barbaric splendor of Moorish glory has
departed, and the degenerate race of effete Spanish civilization has
taken its place. A thousand wives of a proud Moor once made these walls
jocund with their mirth, and the adjoining gardens and the beautiful
Guadalquiver were gay with their revels and song, and the moral tone of
the palace was as high, and the happiness of the people just as great as
when a dissolute queen and a profligate court, and an ignorant,
depraved, and impoverished people, constituted the government and
inhabitants of a nominally Christian kingdom.
Instead of a mosque, is the cathedral of Seville. It is the noblest
example of the Gothic ecclesiastical architecture in the world. St.
Peter’s at Rome produces no such effect on the soul when first you enter
it. The Cologne cathedral is nearer it in power. I have no superstitious
feeling that compels me to be awed by a place. But I cannot enter this
temple without worshipping! Instantly, as you stand within its walls,
its giant solemn columns rising around, scarcely visible in the twilight
at the noon of a brilliant southern day, its vastness, its amazing
height, the roof like a firmament, and resting on arches, dividing it
into sixty-eight compartments, one feels that this surely ought to be
none other than the house of God. High mass was celebrated during one of
my many visits to the cathedral. When the tinkling of the bell gave the
signal for the “elevation of the host,” the faithful, wherever they
chanced to be in the vast area, fell on their knees and silently adored
the idol which superstition had just held aloft for the worship of an
ignorant multitude. A woman entered one of the chapels and knelt before
an image of the Virgin and poured out her soul in prayer. As if
unconscious that spectators were all around her, she wept and told her
beads.
[Illustration: SHE WEPT AND TOLD HER BEADS.]
The women of Seville are celebrated for their beauty. In the Central
Park of New York, Hyde Park of London, or the Bois de Boulogne of Paris,
you notice that many of the most splendid equipages carry very plain
women, and one often admires the compensation system that gives the
signs of wealth to some and saves the good looks for others. But you may
stand by the fashionable drive of Seville and the first hundred
carriages that pass shall have four handsome women in each of them. As
“you would scarce expect one of my age” to be a connoisseur in this
matter, I will give in the words of my guide the types of Spanish
beauty: “Deep blue-black eyes, _adormilados_ sometimes, and at others
full of flashes, each a _puñalada_; a small forehead; raven hair, long
and silky, which they might almost turn at night into a balmy soft
pillow, and a long flowing mantilla by day; a peculiar _meneo_, _sal_,
and indescribable charm, naturalness, and grace in every movement,
together with liveliness and repartee,—form the principal features of
their appearance and character.”
The dance and the song, the bull-fight more than any thing else in the
season of it, make this city the home of the gayest, wildest, most
dissolute men and women in the south of Europe. Corinth, in the days of
Venus-worship, was not more wholly given up to the lust of the flesh and
the pride of life than Seville to-day. Yet it was once the emporium of
the New World. From its port set sail the fleet that carried Columbus to
a land beyond the sea and brought back the wealth of the Western Ind. It
has been the residence of kings; and successive dynasties, faiths, and
customs have in turn made Seville their capital and terrestrial
paradise. It is girt on every side by fertile plains, the orange and
lemon trees hang loaded all the year with their golden fruit, and the
silver river, whose name is poetry and whose banks are haunted with the
memories of Eastern delights, washes the feet of this beautiful city.
If there was ever an original to Byron’s Don Juan, and there was perhaps
an original to him as to Cooper’s Spy or Irving’s Schoolmaster, then the
tradition may be true that points to a low white-washed house, close to
San Leandro, and belonging to the nuns of that convent, where that
graceless scamp once lived. And the “Barber of Seville,” of course, had
his shop somewhere in town, and it has been conveniently located in the
same neighborhood, so that when you visit the St. Thomas Square you can
see them both. They are nothing to see, unless you are at that age when
the poetry of Byron has charms they lose as you get older and wiser.
The house of Murillo, the painter of Spain, and not far from being the
painter of the world, is an object of attraction, and Seville has it,
and also some of the greatest pictures of this master. The Queen of
Spain would send the Pope a present worthy of a sovereign to give to
another, and she sent two of Murillo’s paintings. The Pope had them
copied in mosaic, and sent the copies to the Queen of Spain. It is
surpassingly wonderful that stone can be set so skilfully as to make a
picture with all the softness of shade and color that belongs to the
finest work in oil. We will look up some Murillos on our way, but just
now we are near the site of the Old Moorish Castle, which is not more
distinguished for the tales of Oriental life and love and war than it is
for being the place in which the Inquisition was first established. What
tales of horror its stones might tell if they were permitted to cry out!
Nowhere on this planet has the notion of converting men to believe a
lie, by roasting them if they will not believe, been carried to a higher
finish than in Spain. In each of its chief cities a spot is still
cherished with affectionate regard by the faithful, where in the good
old times of their fathers the _auto-da-fé_ was celebrated with pompous
processions, when priests and soldiers and hosts of men and women
marched to the public square with a company of those who had been
condemned to the stake! The _Quemadaro_, or burning place of Seville, is
outside of the city, and the plain is called the Field of St. Sebastian.
Aceldama would be a more appropriate name.
On the banks of the Guadalquiver, near the Moorish Alcazar, stands a
famous pile called the Tower of Gold, as well so called from its ancient
color as the uses to which it has been put. Its summit gives an outlook
far upon the plain across the river, and in times of old it has been a
fortress of huge strength, to resist the enemy when threatening the
palace itself. It was built by the Moors as a treasure-house. When the
Spaniards got possession of it, Don Pedro made it a prison for his
friends, men and women, who fell under his disfavor. And then came a
time when it was wanted for the purpose of holding heaps of gold, for
when Columbus had gone from Seville to a new world, and the stream of
gold began to flow back to Spain, this Seville, which had sent out the
great discoverer, received the returning treasures, and this tower
became the reservoir to contain it. Eight millions of ducats and more
have been stored here at one time, _private_ and public funds, and the
monarchs of Spain often put their arms deep into the bins of gold, and
helped themselves.
The decline and fall of Spain would be the fitting theme for another
Gibbon, and the lesson it teaches might be studied with advantage in the
new world, whose discovery had so much to do with enriching, and then
destroying the kingdom. It is very hard to speculate or philosophize on
the causes that led to the prostration of a great power like this, when
the element of _religion_ is excluded from the study. Without the
demoralizing influences of a political religion, there were causes
enough to work the ruin of Spain, and foremost among these was the
influx of wealth, that made every man greedy of a chance to get rich, at
the expense of the State. It is useful to recur to it now, and in our
own country, because the same causes are working mightily in the same
direction, and producing the same deplorable effects. It was always so,
but increased opportunities increase temptation and multiply the
consequences. Men now seek and obtain office not for honor and the power
of usefulness, but to get rich. Government in the hands of such men is
an instrument of robbery, an engine of corruption, and it has in itself
disease and death. The influx of gold from California has corrupted the
American people in the same way, if not to the same degree that the
Mexican gold and silver demoralized Spain.
Antanazio proposed to drive out of town, along the banks of the river,
to the ruins of an ancient city. A charming ride of an hour, in a
delicious winter day, without the winter, brings us to the ruins of an
amphitheatre built by Scipio Africanus, A. U. C. 546. Here, away in this
end of the then known world, three men were born, each one of whom
became a Roman emperor! The glory of nations was once over all the
palaces, temples, and theatres that distinguish this spot. But now the
ruins themselves are ruined. We can mark, or rather we can believe when
we are pointed to, the places where the nobles sat to see the games of
blood in the arena of the amphitheatre, the dungeons of the wild beasts
are laid open, and the chambers where gladiators stripped for the fight,
that gladdened the hearts of men and women two thousand years ago. Yet
they were quite as rational and refined, quite as Christianable and
decent, as the bull-fights of to-day.
“Have you been to see a bull-fight?” was one of the first questions put
to me by a delicate little lady-friend whom I met.
“No; have you?” I answered and asked in the same breath.
Her husband was sitting by; a splendid soldier-like looking man, six
feet high, and well proportioned, who could take the bull by the horns
when he pleased, and would do it were there any occasion. He did not
wait for his pretty wife to answer my inquiry, but laughingly replied:
“Yes, _she_ has, and I went with her, but could not stand it; the sight
made me sick, and I had to leave in disgust; but she staid it out, and
saw—how many killed was it, dear?”
“Six bulls and five horses,” she said with a smile of supreme delight.
“Killed!” I cried.
[Illustration: THE BULL FIGHT.]
“Yes, killed,” they both answered, and he went on to say,
“butchered;—horrid!”
“Tell me all about it, please; I would like to _hear_, at least.”
“Well,” said the amiable husband, “if you are going to talk _bull_, I
will go into the reading-room and have a smoke.” He went out, and she
went on:—
“These _men_” she said; “but I ought to say, _you_ men, are so
squeamish; you faint at the sight of a little blood; what would you do
in a fight, a real battle with bullets and brains flying all about you
and men bleeding to death by hundreds, if you can’t bear to see a bull
cut down or a horse ripped up. Why, I saw a horse run all about the
bull-ring with his entrails trailing on the ground, and a bull with his
hamstrings cut, and making splendid fight on his knees. You must go and
see it; now there’s my husband, poor fellow, he ought not to go to such
places, it doesn’t agree with him!”
“Well, I would rather have you describe a fight,” said I, “than to go
and see it. I have no particular taste for blood, but any thing would be
agreeable that you would undertake to describe.”
“Thank you. You have seen the ring; every city in Spain has its
bull-ring: a circular theatre, open to the sky, with seats rising from
the arena in the centre. The seats on the east and southerly quarters
are covered to protect the grandees, while the multitude sitting in the
sun hold fans before their faces or take it as it comes. This ring will
seat some fifteen to twenty thousand people, and a gayer, grander sight
it is rare to see, than these bright-colored, dressy people; the women
are the most beautiful in the world; they are far handsomer than
American women, you _know_ they are, don’t you?”
“Perhaps so, present company excepted, and one or two others: but pray
go on,—I am more anxious to hear of bulls than women.”
“A blast of trumpets sounds the hour for the spectacle to begin, and the
eager shout of the multitude shows their impatience to see the fun. A
great show precedes, the magistrates riding in with a troop to give
something like dignity to the occasion, and when they have swept around
the circle and retired, the spectators sit in breathless silence. Two
mounted men, called _picadors_, ride in, each with a long spear at rest,
and take their position, some fifty feet in front of the gateway through
which the beasts are to enter. All things being ready, and the
breathless throng thirsting for the fray, the huge door unfolds, and a
fierce bull dashes into the arena. The multitude greet him with a shout
of ecstasy. He makes straight upon the picadors, if he is a bull of
spirit. There’s a great difference in the animals; some of them go
scouring all around the ring, head down and tail up, pursued by the
picador; but a real bull of Navarre—they are the fiercest and
pluckiest—pitches right ahead for the first enemy he sees. The horseman
levels his lance to meet the tremendous monster as he comes; sometimes
catches him on the shoulder, and the blood spouts from the wound. But he
does not stop for trifles. It takes more than a scratch to stop a good
bull; he rushes on and sometimes buries the iron deeper in his flesh, or
tosses it off, and catching the horse on his horns, hoists him and his
rider into the air, and as they come down in a heap, he drives on to
meet other antagonists lying in wait, and ready to do him mischief. The
very last time I was there, it was this sight that made my husband sick;
the horse scrambled up, and actually went trotting around the ring, when
there was more of him outside than in, he was so terribly ripped open by
that one lunge of those splendid horns. I was in hopes that the bull
would beat the whole of them; now he met the men on foot, with red
cloaks on their arms, which they shake to attract the excited
gentleman’s attention. He sees them and bears down gallantly upon them
like a Monitor or a Miantonomoh, and the wily _chulos_, or cloakers,
leap dexterously to one side, and sometimes they jump over the barriers
among the spectators, where they have been followed by the raging bull
himself. This is not often, however. He has still another set of
fighters to drive out of the ring. These are the _banderilleros_, who
throw fiery darts into the bull’s neck; these darts are provided with a
powder squib which explodes when it strikes in the flesh, and puts his
majesty into a horrid rage: by this time, the bull, hunted by all these
foes, charging upon one and speared by another, is becoming exhausted,
or the spectators are wearied with the sameness of the fight, and want a
new victim. The _matador_, or chief butcher, then enters the field in a
full court dress, with a scarlet robe in one hand and a sharp stiletto
in the other. He brandishes the red skirt to draw the bull on, and as he
comes he aims a stab at his neck, and, if he is a master at his work,
takes him in the right spot, and the huge fellow falls dead at his
victor’s feet. Once I saw the matador miss his aim, the bull wheeled
suddenly, one horn took him in the side, and he went over the head of
the bull and came down a mangled corpse. Then a shout went up as if to
shake the skies. I felt badly myself, but these Spanish people seemed to
relish it amazingly, and I suppose they get used to it. But the bull
generally gets the worst of it. When he has had the finishing stroke, a
team of mules is driven in, the dead beast is hitched on by a hook and
chain and drawn out rapidly, and the ring is clear for another fight.
All this has not taken half an hour, and a similar scene is repeated
until four, five, or six bulls, and often as many horses, are killed.
“When a good hit is made the spectators rise _en masse_ and shout their
applause. This is the triumph of the gladiators in the sand. A little
riband on the bull’s mane is a prize which the combatant seeks to
capture, and this he presents to his lady-love as the evidence of his
bravery and skill. The ladies are evidently quite as enthusiastic in
their love of the national sport as the men, and they show it by
clapping their little hands or fans and crying _bravo_, as eagerly as
any.”
“And do _you_ really find pleasure in this bloody spectacle?” I inquired
somewhat anxiously, for I had been quite interested in her graphic
description, and could readily see that she had spoken with feeling.
“Well, I must say that I do like the excitement of it. I never could see
any sport in looking on when two or three or four horses were thrashed
to make them run faster; yet many women think it the height of enjoyment
to see a horse-race. The noblest men of England delight to stand in a
ring around two men who beat each others’ faces into a jelly, and they
call it the ‘manly art’! The ladies of New York go to theatres and
operas with their necks and more exposed to the gaze of men, and the
ladies look at the licentious dancing of _ballet_ girls who have been
tortured into the art of showing themselves disgustingly to every
virtuous taste. And I have come to the conclusion that in all parts of
the world people have their own ideas about amusement, and there is no
great difference in the _moral_ of it. For my part I like a good fair
stand-up bull-fight more than any of them.”
My fair enthusiast rested; I thanked her for the information she had
given, and added:
“I agree with you entirely, my dear madam, as to the _moral_ of the
sports you speak of; only I think the New York amusements are the most
corrupt and corrupting. And when I write on ‘Bull-Fights in Seville,’ I
shall do my best to put it in your words.”
“If you do,” said she, “send me a copy of your book; I want my husband
to read it. He can’t bear bullfights.”
[Illustration: Drawing of Matador]