by the old Moorish minaret, the Giralda, which was built by the Sultan
Yacub Al-Mansur in 1184. It rests upon a triangular base composed of all
the statues of pagan deities and other idolatrous fragments of antiquity
that could be collected by the zealous iconoclasts who founded it. The
tower is fifty feet square, and the original height was two hundred
cubits; modern additions, however, have increased it somewhat, and it
now measures three hundred and fifty feet from the pavement to the head
of the statue. For eighty-seven feet the walls are of polished blocks
of stone; above this the material is brick, relieved by tracery and
arabesques of the most capricious designs, different on each side, yet
so artfully combined and blended that it requires close observation
to detect the variations. The interior is lighted by double windows,
divided by columns of white marble and alabaster. The Giralda is
ascended by a series of ramps, or inclined planes, so wide, and of such
easy slope, that two horsemen with lances poised could ride to the top
and back again without dismounting, a feat that was more than once
accomplished by the wild cavaliers of the Spanish court.
The Campanile of St. Mark's at Venice has similar ramps, the invention
being of Byzantine origin. It is curious that the walls increase in
thickness as the summit is approached, an anomaly which has never been
satisfactorily explained.
Late in the fourteenth century the upper portion of the Giralda was
injured by an earthquake, and remained half ruined until 1568, when the
present belfry was built. It is encircled by the biblical quotation,
"Fortissima turris nomen Domini," and supports a colossal bronze statue
of Faith, which acts as a weathercock, moving with the lightest breath
of air.
The Court of the Oranges, with the walls enclosing its northern and
eastern sides, compose the existing portions of the mosque, upon whose
site the cathedral was erected. It contains cool arcades, a grove, and a
battered marble fountain, which for three hundred years served the Moor
for his ablutions, and where now the sturdy water-carriers fill their
kegs, trudging away with their cheerful "_A'ua! a'ua! quien quiere a'ua?
templ'a y muy 'uena!_"[A] a cry that is most welcome upon a sultry
day....
[Footnote A: "Water! water! Who wants water? tepid and good!"]
A suite of rooms in the upper story of the old mosque contains the
precious collection of books and manuscripts bequeathed by Don Fernando
Columbus to the cathedral. Of rare interest is this library, the greater
number of whose musty volumes, bound in vellum, were once the property
of the most renowned of navigators. In a glass case are preserved the
original journals of Columbus, partly written in the dungeons of the
Inquisition, and the "Travels of Marco Polo," his _vade-mecum_ during
his voyages.
This book, which bears evident marks of study and hard usage, is said
to have been the first that suggested to him the probable existence of
another world. There is scarcely a page that is not enriched with notes
jotted down from time to time by this wonderful man, whose handwriting
is as legible as print, the ink he used being but little faded after a
lapse of four hundred years. I should have been glad to have examined
these memorials more closely, and tried to induce the custodian to
unlock the case; but the tempting bribe I offered failed, to my
surprise, to accomplish the desired end, as he sorrowfully informed
me that he was not intrusted with the key.
The Cathedral of Seville is worthy of its reputation as the grandest in
Spain, and one of the most elaborate ever constructed. Inside the walls
it measures three hundred and seventy-nine by two hundred and seventeen
feet, the central dome rising one hundred and seventy-three feet from
the floor. Begun in 1402, it is not yet finished, the delay affording a
convenient pretext for continually soliciting funds, which, by a pious
fiction, are presumed never to be adequate for the purpose.
The enormous pillars, disposed in groups, impart an air of great
solidity to the edifice, whose dimensions, like those of all similar
structures, are not at the first glance appreciated. To several of the
pillars are attached iron coffers as large as ordinary trunks, for the
reception of donations for holy uses. Little is dropped into them now
but copper; but, at the time when the treasures of a world were pouring
into Seville, they were too small for the piles of doubloons with which
returning adventurers hoped to purchase immunity for revolting crimes
against God and man.
Just inside the main entrance is the grave of Don Fernando Columbus,
the last of his illustrious race, who died in 1539. A simple marble slab
covers his remains; the Latin epitaph recites his own and his father's
deeds,--deeds that were so ill requited by the jealousy and ingratitude
of his sovereign.
The three caravels which achieved the discovery of the Bahamas are
sculptured there, with the unique device, a globe belted with the famous
motto,--
"A Castilla y a Leon
Nuevo mundo dio Colon."...
Seville possesses many ancient mansions, whose patios, perfumed with the
blossoms of choice exotics and vines twining about their marble columns,
and echoing to the songs of birds and the music of plashing fountains,
afford pictures little to be expected from the severely plain exterior.
In general one must be content with a passing glimpse of these luxurious
dwellings, for the haughty grandee resents all intrusion, and guards his
home with Oriental jealousy. There are, however, two palaces, the
hereditary seats of the Dukes of Montpensier and Alba, splendid
representatives of their class, where vagabond curiosity may enter and
range at will, provided it is well watched. The first is called San
Telmo, and is on the Guadalquivir, where the son of Louis Philippe lives
in regal state. His halls are full of elegant furniture, costly
paintings, and bronzes, embracing elegant masterpieces produced in the
palmy days of France and Spain; and his grounds are very extensive,
containing, in addition to the rare plants which grow with tropical
luxuriance, acres of valuable orange-trees.
The palace of the Duke of Alba is semi-Moorish, and, being in an
unfashionable neighborhood, is seldom occupied by its owner. It is
approached by a fine gate-way, over which the arms of the house of
Alba, emblazoned in colored tiles, are encircled by flags taken in many
hard-fought battles, the insignia of the Golden Fleece, and the
significant motto, "Tu in ea ego pro ea." The crest, an angel holding in
one hand the globe and cross and in the other a flaming sword, is
typical of the position which the bulwark of the monarchy, the oppressor
of the Netherlands, and the doughty champion of the Faith, maintained to
the last in the affections of the suspicious and bigoted Philip,--
"Wie Gottes Cherub vor dem Paradies,
Steht Herzog Alba vor dem Thron."
The ordinary houses of Seville are Oriental in plan, and well-fitted to
resist the scorching heat of the climate. The heavy gates admit to the
_zaguan_, a short hall having at the farther end an iron grating opening
upon the patio, or court. The zaguan is the place where the young ladies
receive calls. It would be a flagrant breach of etiquette for the lover
to be admitted to the parlor, so he takes his place on one side of
the grating, his dulcinea posting herself on the other. No chairs are
permitted in this airy drawing-room, for, if they were furnished, the
cavalier might never go away. As it is, it is not unusual to see couples
standing together at midnight, sometimes with the rain blowing in
upon them,--as the zaguan affords but slight protection from the
weather,--and apparently oblivious of all the world save themselves.
These protracted interviews are only allowed after betrothal, and the
sighing gallant, at first the embodiment of devotion and sentiment,
is usually transformed into the most imperious of husbands before the
expiration of the honeymoon, for he never allows himself to forget the
amusing proverb of his countrymen, "He who becomes a lieutenant upon
his wedding-day will never be promoted."
Every court, even those belonging to the dwellings of the most modest
pretensions, has one or more fountains, and a flower-bed in the centre.
Overhead, covering the entire area, an awning--which is frequently
sprinkled with water--is stretched during the summer months to temper
the burning atmosphere, as the heat is so intense that an omelet can be
cooked in a few minutes if exposed to the rays of the mid-day sun. In
the old-fashioned Spanish houses the kitchen is always situated near the
front door, giving one the full benefit of the garlic and saffron odors
as soon as he enters, but preventing their diffusion through the parlors
and sleeping-apartments. The latter are constructed with lofty ceilings,
have no more windows than are absolutely necessary, and are often paved
with white marble, and finished with brilliant _azulejos_, or Moorish
tiles. They are delightfully cool in summer, but damp and cheerless at
all other seasons....
The great fair, held here in April, is famous, and the people who visit
it exhibit the best types of the Andalusian peasantry to be found in
the province. A perfect city of booths is raised in the suburb of San
Bernardo, each section, or ward, being assigned to a separate class of
merchants, as in the bazaars of the East. One quarter is set apart for
the nobility, many of whom have their private tents, which, as well as
those of the numerous civil and military organizations, are fitted up in
the most sumptuous manner.
As the interiors are open to view, the scenes, especially at night,
when thousands of colored lamps and gas-jets make everything as light
as day, are extremely charming and novel. Dancing, love-making, and
flirting are going on on all sides, and down the broad avenues, upon
gayly-caparisoned horses, ride troops of majos and majas, the dandies
and coquettes of Andalusia, radiant in their beautiful national costume.
The click of the castanet mingles with the music of the bands and the
chants of the itinerant singers, who, standing in groups, compose
impromptu ballads, like the ancient troubadours; the brazen-lunged
showman recounts the wonderful feats of his dwarfs and educated ape,
while above all sounds rises the uproar from the canvas theatre, whose
tottering seats are packed to their utmost capacity with an appreciative
audience that, never tiring of the oft-repeated and not over-decent
comedies, regard this day as the brightest of their monotonous
existence. It is a veritable pandemonium.
The picturesque gypsies are present in crowds, some wandering from booth
to booth telling the _buena ventura_ to the credulous, others selling
specifics for the evil eye, a superstition whose influence is not
limited to the ignorant, and against which holy water, generally so
potent, is universally conceded to be of no avail.
These brown-skinned maidens, with their heads wreathed with flowers,
occupy one entire avenue, where they range themselves in lines, and
solicit all passers-by to taste their _bunuelos_, a kind of insipid
doughnuts boiled in olive oil. The presence of Moors and Jews from
Tangier and other cities of Morocco, who come for trade, offering
so-called Oriental curiosities, mostly manufactured in Paris and
Birmingham, adds not a little to the attractiveness of the great
fair of Andalusia....
The natives of Seville, even in Roman times, were noted for their
frivolity, their indisposition to labor, and their love of pleasure,
qualities which they have transmitted in an exaggerated degree to
their descendants.
Venus was then, as now, their favorite goddess; her image was borne
during her festivals upon the shoulders of women of patrician rank, and
certain rites of the Phoenician Astarte, her prototype, survive in the
ceremonies of modern holidays.
Some strange performances are to be witnessed on St. John's eve,
identical with the summer solstice, when numbers of both sexes assemble
in the parks and along the promenades, to dance around the fires of
Cybele, and leap over them when the clock strikes twelve; and at
daybreak run in crowds to gather the mysterious vervain, associated
with the religious observances of so many nations of antiquity. The
coquettish graces and fascinations of the Sevillian ladies,--
"Skilled in the ogle of a roguish eye,
Yet ever well inclined to heal the wound,"--
the lively, semi-Oriental dances, the groups of grotesque maskers and
musicians, the jaunty smugglers and bull-fighters, and the general air
of gayety and enjoyment that pervades all classes, make it well worth
while to lose a few hours' sleep on the merry eve of St. John.
Seville, the "Queen of Andalusia," the depository of the glories and
crimes of a dozen distinct races, and nearly as many conflicting
religions, is slowly emerging from the darkness with which priestly
domination and Inquisitorial tyranny have enveloped her for centuries.
Her age of discovery and victory, of sentimental gallantry, of chivalric
devotion, is past,--the age "when dreams of conquest, and tales of
golden lands beyond the ocean, were wafted on every breeze;" the age
when Isabella, clad in shining armor, set forth at the head of her
knights to besiege Granada; the age when Alonso de Ojeda fastened the
scarf of the queen upon the dizzy pinnacle of the Giralda, and Ponce de
Leon threw himself, sword in hand, into the lion's den, in search of his
lady's glove; the age when Cortes and Pizarro, penniless adventurers,
sailed upon expeditions destined to immortal fame; the age when
Sebastian de Elcano, the lieutenant of Magellan, was received with royal
honors after his circumnavigation of the earth.
Of the glorious deeds whose renown once filled the world the fruits were
recklessly wasted, the memory alone survives. And now the proud old
city, waking from the lethargy in which she has so long slumbered,
conscious of her great natural advantages, seems determined to again
reap their benefit and, if possible, recover her lost prestige. Her
commerce is yearly increasing, fleets of shipping are anchored in the
muddy Guadalquivir, and an infusion of foreign blood seems to have
imparted new life to the deserted streets, where the treasures of
America and Asia were once paraded, and bands of victorious soldiers of
fortune landed from the galleons that, freighted with the wealth of
Ormus and of Ind, were unloading their precious cargoes at the docks of
the chief emporium of Spain.
STREET SCENES IN GENOA.
AUGUSTA MARRYAT.
["Genova la Superba," the great seaport city of mediaeval Italy,
and retaining still much of the beauty and grandeur of its days
of greatness, is amply worthy of attention in these modern
times. We give here, therefore, a picturesque account of what
Genoa retains for the eye of the traveller after its centuries
of decline.]
The town of Genoa is bustling and full of movement, and one that grows
upon the visitor, since each day discloses new beauties of situation,
and he is struck with increased admiration for the splendor of the
palaces. The streets are narrow, and the tops of the tall houses nearly
meet, so that the sun is jealously kept from even a glimpse of the
passers-by, who without other protection than a white muslin covering
for the head, or a fan by way of parasol, can walk in safety from its
scorching rays. These streets are too narrow to admit of a carriage,
but mules with jingling bells upon their headstalls, and laden with
birch brooms, or live kids in panniers on their backs, hustle along with
the greatest _sang-froid_, regardless whose toes they may crush in their
progress. There is a market held in an open space near the Carignano
bridge, where ladies with their heads dressed (and undergoing dressing)
in the latest Parisian fashion superintend the sale of peas and
potatoes. A brisk trade apparently is done in fowls, as there are
baskets and baskets of them on all sides. They are kept in their hampers
by means of netting placed over a framework of osier, and pass an idle
hour, squabble with and peck at one another, and make as much noise as
if they were at a show of prize poultry instead of in momentary
anticipation of death and the spit.
In the Vico del Duca a lot of girls sit in a row, each having a little
_chauffrette_, with a gridiron on it, before her, busily employed frying
snails; and if ever martyrdom made canonization deserved the Genoese
snail is entitled to that distinction. The poor things are first trimmed
with a knife, then crammed into a small bird-cage to prevent their
crawling away, and finally set to bubble and frizzle and splutter, as
they are roasted alive.
[Illustration: THE GROTTO OF THE SIBYL, TIVOLI]
The Cathedral of Genoa very much resembles that of Florence, being
built of alternate blocks of black and white marble, and the facade is
remarkable for the beauty of its design. Inside some few monuments have
survived the fury of the revolution that destroyed so many relics of the
republic, but they are much mutilated. Here also is kept the celebrated
emerald vase called the Sano-calino, found at Caesarea, and chosen by the
Genoese, in 1101, in preference to any other spoil. It was broken on
its return from Paris, and has since been mounted in gold. It is said
to have been presented to Solomon by the Queen of Sheba (the same
queen, the cicerone added, who caused St. John the Baptist's head to be
cut off), and was used by our Saviour at the Last Supper. The vase is
composed of green bottle glass, and the only extraordinary thing about
it is that any people could have labored under such a delusion during
seven centuries.
Every one who has ever visited Genoa is familiar with the Via degli
Orefici,--its quaint small shops, its stalls, and its marvels of
elegance in filigree-work, and its wealth of bonbons and cakes. The
beautiful mild face of the Madonna in the picture belonging to the
Goldsmiths' Company still gazes placidly down from her shrine on the
traffic below.
The artist who painted this picture was called Pellegrino Piola, and was
a pupil of Castello, who, it is said, caused him to be assassinated from
motives of jealousy. A prize had been offered by the Goldsmiths' Company
for the best painting of a Holy Family, and Pellegrino, who was only
twenty-two years of age at the time, was the one to gain it.
Every shop in the Via degli Orefici that is not filled with jewelry
is full of sweets; and chemists, grocers, and basket-makers are all
confectioners, or sweet-stuff sellers, as well. The little girls in
their white dresses and veils, who have just made their first communion,
carry baskets of bonbons in their hands, and one, too poor in station,
perhaps, to possess so extensive a present, wears a necklace of nuts
round her throat, with a cake by way of locket. The owner of the big
Bologna sausage, decorated with a pink camellia, has just placed a small
white-napkin-covered table in the door-way of his shop, so that he may
eat his dinner in a position to see and be seen by his friends in the
street. The Genoese salesman does not allow his domestic arrangements
to interfere with his business; and a young lady who was cooking the
mid-day meal at a little charcoal stove has just removed a saucepan
from the fire to tell the price of a counterpane.
The lemonade seller has pitched his tent in the sunniest corner of the
Piazza delle Fontane Amorose, and calls aloud to thirsty thousands
as they pass, "Fres-ca, fres-ca." His emporium is very like a small
four-post bedstead, and its chintz curtains are wreathed with lemons
on boughs. And lemons bob up and down in cool-looking tin tanks filled
with water, but the lemonade itself seems guiltless of such an article,
except for a minute portion of the peel of one which floats in it.
When tired of the gold and silver filigree-work, and the coral
ornaments, let the wanderer turn into the Street of Palaces. Here
his eyes will not be distracted by stalls of fluttering shawls and
handkerchiefs, or his progress impeded by stoves for the roasting of
chestnuts or baking of apples, but even in this aristocratic quarter of
the town mules will obstinately dispute the right of road with him, and
some agility is required to keep clear of them and of the carriages.
There are no pavements in Genoa, excepting in the new streets, and the
heads of the horses belonging to the grand carriages are so bedecked
with long horse-hair tassels and fur trimmings, and their tails tied up
with such smart satin ribbons, that they cannot be expected to think of
anything besides their personal appearance, much less the pedestrian's
feet.
The Serra Palace is famous for its "golden" room, the panels of which
are of lapis lazuli. The Brignole is famous for its pictures, especially
some wonderfully beautiful Vandykes. This gallery is now joined to that
once belonging to the Durazzo Palace, but which by death became the
property of the former, and the two are united in the Palazzo Rosso, or
Brignole. The Cafe della Concordia is opposite, and is entered by a
flower-shop, up a marble staircase, and through a court with a fountain
and statue and weeping-willows that make a pleasant shade, and where
you can sit amidst orange-trees and myrtles and eat your breakfast or
dinner, if you prefer it to going inside. The Concordia is the prettiest
little place imaginable, and the scent of the flowers and the splashing
of the water are very refreshing coming in from the hot dusty street.
There is also the Cafe Mathurin in the Piazza San Carlo Felice, good and
reasonable in price, but more bustling and far less romantic than the
weeping-willowy Concordia. The Royal Palace is handsomely furnished, and
contains some valuable pictures amidst a great deal of rubbish. The
rooms are fairly proportioned, and the furniture, though somewhat faded,
is in good taste....
The once powerful family of Doria are possessed of numerous palaces and
villas in and about Genoa. The Palazzo Doria, just outside the Porta di
San Tomaso, however, is the one in which the great Andrea Doria lived.
It was given to him in 1522, when he rebuilt and improved it. It is now
very much out of repair, and the only portions of it shown to strangers
are the rooms formerly inhabited by him. There is not much furniture of
any kind in the old Admiral's bedroom; but the blue and white plates he
was in the habit of using at dinner are ranged in rows, at the back of
a large fireplace, on a thing somewhat resembling a kitchen dresser. A
large gilt arm-chair, once the property of Charles V., is in the drawing
room. It is a heavy-looking article, with a red velvet seat. It was
this monarch who granted Doria the title of "Il Principe." Life-sized
frescoes of him and of his sons appear in a gallery leading to a
terraced garden outside, and in these the portrait of Andrea is that
of a very brown old gentleman, with white hair and beard, and but small
allowance of clothes on. The sons, who are also in "semi-heroic"
costume, imitate Adam before the fall, except that each wears a helmet
and leans on a shield.
These frescoes are the work of Pierino del Vaga, who, having been
obliged to seek refuge at Genoa from the calamities of Rome in 1527, was
patronized by the great Doria, and intrusted to decorate his palace.
Genoa has been the birthplace of many painters, and art was in its most
flourishing condition in this city in the fifteenth century, during
which time Giovanni Cambiaso lived. At this epoch, so many persons of
noble family were painters, that the Genoese, by a special decree,
raised painting from a trade to a profession, declaring that it was a
liberal art, and might be practised without derogating from nobility.
The reason of the sudden decline of the Genoese school is attributed to
the plague in 1657, when many of its chief painters fell victims to the
disease. Lazzaro Calvi, who lived one hundred and five years, was born
in 1502, and therefore died just fifty years prior to the epidemic, so
that his country may congratulate itself that he was not cut off
prematurely in the flower of his youth by that scourge.