Night on the Guadalquivir—Gospel Light—Bonanza—Strand of San
Lucar—Andalusian Scenery—History of a Chest—Cosas de los Ingleses—The Two
Gypsies—The Driver—The Red Nightcap—The Steam-Boat—Christian Language.
On the night of the 31st of July I departed from Seville upon my
expedition, going on board one of the steamers which ply on the
Guadalquivir between Seville and Cadiz.
It was my intention to stop at San Lucar, for the purpose of recovering
the chest of Testaments which had been placed in embargo there, until
such time as they could be removed from the kingdom of Spain. These
Testaments I intended for distribution amongst the Christians whom I
hoped to meet on the shores of Barbary. San Lucar is about fifteen
leagues distant from Seville, at the entrance of the bay of Cadiz, where
the yellow waters of the Guadalquivir unite with the brine. The steamer
shot from the little quay, or wharf, at about half-past nine, and then
arose a loud cry—it was the voices of those on board and on shore wishing
farewell to their friends. Amongst the tumult I thought I could
distinguish the accents of some friends of my own who had accompanied me
to the bank, and I instantly raised my own voice louder than all. The
night was very dark, so much so, indeed, that as we passed along we could
scarcely distinguish the trees which cover the eastern shore of the river
until it takes its first turn. A _calmazo_ had reigned during the day at
Seville, by which is meant exceedingly sultry weather, unenlivened by the
slightest breeze. The night likewise was calm and sultry. As I had
frequently made the voyage of the Guadalquivir, ascending and descending
this celebrated river, I felt nothing of that restlessness and curiosity
which people experience in a strange place, whether in light or darkness,
and being acquainted with none of the other passengers, who were talking
on the deck, I thought my best plan would be to retire to the cabin and
enjoy some rest, if possible. The cabin was solitary and tolerably cool,
all its windows on either side being open for the admission of air.
Flinging myself on one of the cushioned benches, I was soon asleep, in
which state I continued for about two hours, when I was aroused by the
furious biting of a thousand bugs, which compelled me to seek the deck,
where, wrapping myself in my cloak, I again fell asleep. It was near
daybreak when I awoke; we were then about two leagues from San Lucar. I
arose and looked towards the east, watching the gradual progress of dawn,
first the dull light, then the streak, then the tinge, then the bright
blush, till at last the golden disk of that orb which giveth day emerged
from the abyss of immensity, and in a moment the whole prospect was
covered with brightness and glory. The land smiled, the waters sparkled,
the birds sang, and men arose from their resting-places and rejoiced: for
it was day, and the sun was gone forth on the errand of its Creator, the
diffusion of light and gladness, and the dispelling of darkness and
sorrow.
“Behold the morning sun
Begins his glorious way;
His beams through all the nations run,
And life and light convey.
“But where the Gospel comes,
It spreads diviner light;
It calls dead sinners from their tombs,
And gives the blind their sight.”
We now stopped before Bonanza: this is, properly speaking, the port of
San Lucar, although it is half a league distant from the latter place.
It is called Bonanza on account of its good anchorage, and its being
secured from the boisterous winds of the ocean; its literal meaning is
“fair weather.” {273} It consists of several large white buildings,
principally government store-houses, and is inhabited by the coastguard,
dependents on the custom-house, and a few fishermen. A boat came off to
receive those passengers whose destination was San Lucar, and to bring on
board about half a dozen who were bound for Cadiz: I entered with the
rest. A young Spaniard of very diminutive stature addressed some
questions to me in French as to what I thought of the scenery and climate
of Andalusia. I replied that I admired both, which evidently gave him
great pleasure. The boatman now came demanding two _reals_ for conveying
me on shore. I had no small money, and offered him a dollar to change.
He said that it was impossible. I asked him what was to be done:
whereupon he replied, uncivilly, that he knew not, but could not lose
time, and expected to be paid instantly. The young Spaniard, observing
my embarrassment, took out two _reals_ and paid the fellow. I thanked
him heartily for this act of civility, for which I felt really grateful;
as there are few situations more unpleasant than to be in a crowd in want
of change, whilst you are importuned by people for payment. A loose
character once told me that it was far preferable to be without money at
all, as you then knew what course to take. I subsequently met the young
Spaniard at Cadiz, and repaid him, with thanks.
A few cabriolets were waiting near the wharf, in order to convey us to
San Lucar. I ascended one, and we proceeded slowly along the _playa_ or
strand. This place is famous in the ancient novels of Spain, of that
class called Picaresque, or those devoted to the adventures of notorious
scoundrels, the father of which, as also of others of the same kind, in
whatever language, is _Lazarillo de Tormes_. Cervantes himself has
immortalized this strand in the most amusing of his smaller tales, _La
Ilustre Fregona_. {274} In a word, the strand of San Lucar in ancient
times, if not in modern, was a rendezvous for ruffians,
_contrabandistas_, and vagabonds of every description, who nested there
in wooden sheds, which have now vanished. San Lucar itself was always
noted for the thievish propensities of its inhabitants—the worst in all
Andalusia. The roguish innkeeper in Don Quixote perfected his education
at San Lucar. All these recollections crowded into my mind as we
proceeded along the strand, which was beautifully gilded by the
Andalusian sun. We at last arrived nearly opposite to San Lucar, which
stands at some distance from the waterside. Here a lively spectacle
presented itself to us: the shore was covered with a multitude of females
either dressing or undressing themselves, while (I speak within bounds)
hundreds were in the water, sporting and playing: some were close by the
beach, stretched at their full length on the sand and pebbles, allowing
the little billows to dash over their heads and bosoms; whilst others
were swimming boldly out into the firth. There was a confused hubbub of
female cries, thin shrieks, and shrill laughter; couplets likewise were
being sung, on what subject it is easy to guess—for we were in sunny
Andalusia, and what can its black-eyed daughters think, speak, or sing of
but _amor_, _amor_, which now sounded from the land and the waters?
Further on along the beach we perceived likewise a crowd of men bathing;
we passed not by them, but turned to the left up an alley or avenue which
leads to San Lucar, and which may be a quarter of a mile long. The view
from hence was truly magnificent: before us lay the town, occupying the
side and top of a tolerably high hill, extending from east to west. It
appeared to be of considerable size; and I was subsequently informed that
it contained at least twenty thousand inhabitants. Several immense
edifices and walls towered up in a style of grandeur which can be but
feebly described by words; but the principal object was an ancient castle
towards the left. The houses were all white, and would have shone
brilliantly in the sun had it been higher; but at this early hour they
lay comparatively in shade. The _tout ensemble_ was very Moorish and
Oriental; and, indeed, in ancient times San Lucar was a celebrated
stronghold of the Moors, and, next to Almeria, the most frequented of the
commercial places in Spain. Everything, indeed, in these parts of
Andalusia is perfectly Oriental. Behold the heavens, as cloudless and as
brightly azure as those of Ind; the fiery sun which tans the fairest
cheek in a moment, and which fills the air with flickering flame; and oh!
remark the scenery and the vegetable productions. The alley up which we
were moving was planted on each side with that remarkable tree or plant,
for I know not which to call it, the giant aloe, which is called in
Spanish, _pita_, and in Moorish, _gurséan_. It rises here to a height
almost as magnificent as on the African shore. Need I say that the stem,
which springs up from the middle of the bush of green blades, which shoot
out from the root on all sides, is as high as a palm-tree; and need I say
that those blades, which are of an immense thickness at the root, are at
the tip sharper than the point of a spear, and would inflict a terrible
wound on any animal which might inadvertently rush against them?
One of the first houses at San Lucar was the _posada_ at which we
stopped. It confronted, with some others, the avenue up which we had
come. As it was still early, I betook myself to rest for a few hours, at
the end of which time I went out to visit Mr. Phillipi, the British
vice-consul, who was already acquainted with me by name, as I had been
recommended to him in a letter from a relation of his at Seville. Mr.
Phillipi was at home in his counting-house, and received me with much
kindness and civility. I told him the motive of my visit to San Lucar,
and requested his assistance towards obtaining the books from the
custom-house, in order to transport them out of the country, as I was
very well acquainted with the difficulties which every one has to
encounter in Spain who has any business to transact with the government
authorities. He assured me that he should be most happy to assist me;
and, accordingly, despatched with me to the custom-house his head clerk,
a person well known and much respected at San Lucar.
It may be as well here at once to give the history of these books, which
might otherwise tend to embarrass the narrative. They consisted of a
chest of Testaments in Spanish, and a small box of Saint Luke’s Gospel in
the _Gitano_ language of the Spanish gypsies. I obtained them from the
custom-house at San Lucar, with a pass for that of Cadiz. At Cadiz I was
occupied two days, and also a person whom I employed, in going through
all the formalities, and in procuring the necessary papers. The expense
was great, as money was demanded at every step I had to take, though I
was simply complying, in this instance, with the orders of the Spanish
government in removing prohibited books from Spain. The farce did not
end until my arrival at Gibraltar, where I paid the Spanish consul a
dollar for certifying on the back of the pass, which I had to return to
Cadiz, that the books were arrived at the former place. It is true that
he never saw the books, nor inquired about them; but he received the
money, for which he alone seemed to be anxious.
Whilst at the custom-house of San Lucar I was asked one or two questions
respecting the books contained in the chests: this afforded me some
opportunity of speaking of the New Testament and the Bible Society. What
I said excited attention; and presently all the officers and dependents
of the house, great and small, were gathered around me, from the governor
to the porter. As it was necessary to open the boxes to inspect their
contents, we all proceeded to the courtyard, where, holding a Testament
in my hand, I recommenced my discourse. I scarcely know what I said; for
I was much agitated, and hurried away by my feelings, when I bethought me
of the manner in which the Word of God was persecuted in this unhappy
kingdom. My words evidently made impression, and to my astonishment
every person present pressed me for a copy. I sold several within the
walls of the custom-house. The object, however, of most attention was
the gypsy Gospel, which was minutely examined amidst smiles and
exclamations of surprise; an individual every now and then crying,
“_Cosas de los Ingleses_.” A bystander asked me whether I could speak
the _Gitano_ language. I replied that I could not only speak it, but
write it, and instantly made a speech of about five minutes in the gypsy
tongue, which I had no sooner concluded than all clapped their hands and
simultaneously shouted, “_Cosas de Inglaterra_,” “_Cosas de los
Ingleses_.” I disposed of several copies of the gypsy Gospel likewise,
and having now settled the business which had brought me to the
custom-house, I saluted my new friends and departed with my books.
I now revisited Mr. Phillipi, who, upon learning that it was my intention
to proceed to Cadiz next morning by the steamer, which would touch at
Bonanza at four o’clock, despatched the chests and my little luggage to
the latter place, where he likewise advised me to sleep, in order that I
might be in readiness to embark at that early hour. He then introduced
me to his family, his wife an English woman, and his daughter an amiable
and beautiful girl of about eighteen years of age, whom I had previously
seen at Seville; three or four other ladies from Seville were likewise
there on a visit, and for the purpose of sea-bathing. After a few words
in English between the lady of the house and myself, we all commenced
chatting in Spanish, which seemed to be the only language understood or
cared for by the rest of the company; indeed, who would be so
unreasonable as to expect Spanish females to speak any language but their
own, which, flexible and harmonious as it is (far more so, I think, than
any other), seems at times quite inadequate to express the wild sallies
of their luxuriant imagination. Two hours fled rapidly away in
discourse, interrupted occasionally by music and song, when I bade
farewell to this delightful society, and strolled out to view the town.
It was now past noon, and the heat was exceedingly fierce: I saw scarcely
a living being in the streets, the stones of which burnt my feet through
the soles of my boots. I passed through the square of the Constitution,
which presents nothing particular to the eye of the stranger, and
ascended the hill to obtain a nearer view of the castle. It is a strong
heavy edifice of stone, with round towers, and, though deserted, appears
to be still in a tolerable state of preservation. I became tired of
gazing, and was retracing my steps, when I was accosted by two gypsies,
who by some means had heard of my arrival. We exchanged some words in
_Gitano_, but they appeared to be very ignorant of the dialect, and
utterly unable to maintain a conversation in it. They were clamorous for
a _gabicote_, or book in the gypsy tongue. I refused it them, saying
that they could turn it to no profitable account; but finding that they
could read, I promised them each a Testament in Spanish. This offer,
however, they refused with disdain, saying that they cared for nothing
written in the language of the _Busné_ or Gentiles. They then persisted
in their demand, to which I at last yielded, being unable to resist their
importunity; whereupon they accompanied me to the inn, and received what
they so ardently desired.
In the evening I was visited by Mr. Phillipi, who informed me that he had
ordered a cabriolet to call for me at the inn at eleven at night, for the
purpose of conveying me to Bonanza, and that a person there, who kept a
small wine-house, and to whom the chests and other things had been
forwarded, would receive me for the night, though it was probable that I
should have to sleep on the floor. We then walked to the beach, where
there were a great number of bathers, all men. Amongst them were some
good swimmers; two, in particular, were out at a great distance in the
firth of the Guadalquivir, I should say at least a mile; their heads
could just be descried with the telescope. I was told that they were
friars. I wondered at what period of their lives they had acquired their
dexterity at natation. I hoped it was not at a time when, according to
their vows, they should have lived for prayer, fasting, and mortification
alone. Swimming is a noble exercise, but it certainly does not tend to
mortify either the flesh or the spirit. As it was becoming dusk, we
returned to the town, when my friend bade me a kind farewell. I then
retired to my apartment, and passed some hours in meditation.
It was night, ten o’clock;—eleven o’clock, and the cabriolet was at the
door. I got in, and we proceeded down the avenue and along the shore,
which was quite deserted. The waves sounded mournfully; everything
seemed to have changed since the morning. I even thought that the
horse’s feet sounded differently as it trotted slowly over the moist firm
sand. The driver, however, was by no means mournful, nor inclined to be
silent long: he soon commenced asking me an infinity of questions as to
whence I came and whither I was bound. Having given him what answers I
thought most proper, I, in return, asked him whether he was not afraid to
drive along that beach, which had always borne so bad a character, at so
unseasonable an hour. Whereupon he looked around him, and seeing no
person, he raised a shout of derision, and said that a fellow with his
whiskers feared not all the thieves that ever walked the _playa_, and
that no dozen men in San Lucar dare to waylay any traveller whom they
knew to be beneath his protection. He was a good specimen of the
Andalusian braggart. We soon saw a light or two shining dimly before us;
they proceeded from a few barks and small vessels stranded on the sand
close below Bonanza: amongst them I distinguished two or three dusky
figures. We were now at our journey’s end, and stopped before the door
of the place where I was to lodge for the night. The driver,
dismounting, knocked loud and long, until the door was opened by an
exceedingly stout man of about sixty years of age; he held a dim light in
his hand, and was dressed in a red nightcap and dirty striped shirt. He
admitted us, without a word, into a very large long room with a clay
floor. A species of counter stood on one side near the door; behind it
stood a barrel or two, and against the wall, on shelves, many bottles of
various sizes. The smell of liquors and wine was very powerful. I
settled with the driver and gave him a gratuity, whereupon he asked me
for something to drink to my safe journey. I told him he could call for
whatever he pleased: whereupon he demanded a glass of _aguardiente_,
which the master of the house, who had stationed himself behind the
counter, handed him without saying a word. The fellow drank it off at
once, but made a great many wry faces after having swallowed it, and,
coughing, said that he made no doubt it was good liquor, as it burnt his
throat terribly. He then embraced me, went out, mounted his cabriolet,
and drove off.
The old man with the red nightcap now moved slowly to the door, which he
bolted and otherwise secured; he then drew forward two benches, which he
placed together, and pointed to them as if to intimate to me that there
was my bed: he then blew out the candle and retired deeper into the
apartment, where I heard him lay himself down sighing and snorting.
There was now no further light than what proceeded from a small earthen
pan on the floor, filled with water and oil, on which floated a small
piece of card with a lighted wick in the middle, which simple species of
lamp is called _mariposa_. {282} I now laid my carpet-bag on the bench
as a pillow, and flung myself down. I should have been asleep instantly,
but he of the red nightcap now commenced snoring awfully, which brought
to my mind that I had not yet commended myself to my Friend and Redeemer:
I therefore prayed, and then sank to repose.
I was awakened more than once during the night by cats, and I believe
rats, leaping upon my body. At the last of these interruptions I arose,
and, approaching the _mariposa_, looked at my watch; it was half-past
three o’clock. I opened the door and looked out; whereupon some
fishermen entered, clamouring for their morning draught: the old man was
soon on his feet serving them. One of the men said to me, that if I was
going by the steamer, I had better order my things to the wharf without
delay, as he had heard the vessel coming down the river. I despatched my
luggage, and then demanded of the red nightcap what I owed him. He
replied, “_Un real_.” These were the only two words which I heard
proceed from his mouth: he was certainly addicted to silence, and perhaps
to philosophy, neither of which are much practised in Andalusia. I now
hurried to the wharf. The steamer was not yet arrived, but I heard its
thunder up the river every moment becoming more distinct: there were mist
and darkness upon the face of the waters, and I felt awe as I listened to
the approach of the invisible monster booming through the stillness of
the night. It came at last in sight, plashed its way forward, stopped,
and I was soon on board. It was the _Peninsula_, the best boat on the
Guadalquivir.
What a wonderful production of art is a steamboat! and yet why should we
call it wonderful, if we consider its history? More than five hundred
years have elapsed since the idea of making one first originated; but it
was not until the close of the last century that the first, worthy of the
name, made its appearance on a Scottish river.
During this long period of time, acute minds and skilful hands were
occasionally busied in attempting to remove those imperfections in the
machinery which alone prevented a vessel being made capable of propelling
itself against wind and tide. All these attempts were successively
abandoned in despair, yet scarcely one was made which was perfectly
fruitless; each inventor leaving behind him some monument of his labour,
of which those who succeeded him took advantage, until at last a
fortunate thought or two, and a few more perfect arrangements, were all
that were wanting. The time arrived, and now, at length, the very
Atlantic is crossed by haughty steamers. Much has been said of the
utility of steam in spreading abroad civilization, and I think justly.
When the first steam-vessels were seen on the Guadalquivir, about ten
years ago, the Sevillians ran to the banks of the river, crying “sorcery,
sorcery,” which idea was not a little favoured by the speculation being
an English one, and the boats, which were English built, being provided
with English engineers, as, indeed, they still are; no Spaniard having
been found capable of understanding the machinery. They soon, however,
became accustomed to them, and the boats are in general crowded with
passengers. Fanatic and vain as the Sevillians still are, and bigoted as
they remain to their own customs, they know that good, in one instance at
least, can proceed from a foreign land, and that land a land of heretics;
inveterate prejudice has been shaken, and we will hope that this is the
dawn of their civilization.
Whilst passing over the bay of Cadiz, I was reclining on one of the
benches on the deck, when the captain walked by in company with another
man; they stopped a short distance from me, and I heard the captain ask
the other, in a low voice, how many languages he spoke; he replied, “Only
one.” “That one,” said the captain, “is of course the Christian;” by
which name the Spaniards style their own language, in contradistinction
to all others. “That fellow,” continued the captain, “who is lying on
the deck, can speak Christian too, when it serves his purpose, but he
speaks others, which are by no means Christian: he can talk English, and
I myself have heard him chatter in _Gitano_ with the gypsies of Triana;
he is now going amongst the Moors, and when he arrives in their country
you will hear him, should you be there, converse as fluently in their
gibberish as in _Cristiano_, nay, better, for he is no Christian himself.
He has been several times on board my vessel already, but I do not like
him, as I consider that he carries something about with him which is not
good.”
This worthy person, on my coming aboard the boat, had shaken me by the
hand and expressed his joy at seeing me again.