The noblemen’s houses often showed a severely simple facade to the
square or street, and hid their inner glories with what could have been
fancied a haughty reserve if it had not been for the frankness with
which they opened their _patios_ to the gaze of the stranger, who, when
he did not halt his carriage before them, could enjoy their hospitality
from a sidewalk sometimes eighteen inches wide. The passing tram-car
might grind him against the tall grilles which were the only barriers
to the _patios,_ but otherwise there would be nothing to spoil his
enjoyment of those marble floors and tiled walls and fountains potted
round with flowering plants. In summer he could have seen the family
life there; and people who are of such oriental seclusion otherwise
will sometimes even suffer the admiring traveler to come as well as
look within. But one who would not press their hospitality so far could
reward his forbearance by finding some of the _patios_ too new-looking,
with rather a glare from their tiles and marbles, their painted iron
pillars, and their glass roofs which the rain comes through in the
winter. The ladies sit and sew there, or talk, if they prefer, and
receive their friends, and turn night into day in the fashion of
climates where they are so easily convertible. The _patio_ is the place
of that peculiarly Spanish rite, the _tertulia,_ and the family nightly
meets its next of kin and then its nearer and farther friends there with
that Latin regularity which may also be monotony. One _patio_ is often
much like another, though none was perhaps of so much public interest
as the _patio_ of the lady who loved a bull-fighter and has made her
_patio_ a sort of shrine to him. The famous _espada_ perished in his
heroic calling, no worse if no better than those who saw him die, and
now his bust is in plain view, with a fit inscription recognizing his
worth and prowess, and with the heads of some of the bulls he slew.
Under that clement sky the elements do not waste the works of man as
elsewhere, and many of the houses of Seville are said to be such as the
Moors built there. We did not know them from the Christian houses; but
there are no longer any mosques, while in our wanderings we had the
pretty constant succession of the convents which, when they are still in
the keeping of their sisterhoods and brotherhoods, remain monuments of
the medieval piety of Spain; or, when they are suppressed and turned to
secular uses, attest the recurrence of her modern moods of revolution
and reform. It is to one of these that Seville owes the stately Alameda
de Hercules, a promenade covering the length and breadth of aforetime
convent gardens, which you reach from the Street of the Serpents by the
Street of the Love of God, and are then startled by the pagan presence
of two mighty columns lifting aloft the figures of Caesar and of the
titular demigod. Statues and pillars are alike antique, and give you a
moment of the Eternal City the more intense because the promenade is of
an unkempt and broken surface, like the Cow-field which the Roman Forum
used to be. Baedeker calls it shady, and I dare say it is shady, but
I do not remember the trees--only those glorious columns climbing the
summer sky of the Andalusian autumn, and proclaiming the imperishable
memory of the republic that conquered and the empire that ruled the
world, and have never loosed their hold upon it. We were rather newly
from the grass-grown ruin of a Roman town in Wales, and in this other
Iberian land we were always meeting the witnesses of the grandeur which
no change short of some universal sea change can wholly sweep from the
earth. Before it Goth and Arab shrink, with all their works, into the
local and provisional; Rome remains for all time imperial and universal.
[Illustration: 24 ANCIENT ROMAN COLUMNS LIFTING ALOFT THE FIGURES OF HERCULES AND CAESAR]
To descend from this high-horsed reflection, as I must, I have to record
that there did not seem to be so many small boys in Seville as in the
Castillian capitals we had visited; in the very home of the bull-feast
we did not see one mimic _corrida_ given by the _torreros_ of the
future. Not even in the suburb of Triana, where the small boys again
consolingly superabounded, was the great national game played among
the wheels and hoofs of the dusty streets to which we crossed the
Guadalquivir that afternoon. To be sure, we were so taken with other
things that a boyish bull-feast might have rioted unnoticed under our
horses’ very feet, especially on the long bridge which gives you the far
upward and downward stretch of the river, so simple and quiet and empty
above, so busy and noisy and thronged with shipping below. I suppose
there are lovelier rivers than that--we ourselves are known to brag
of our Pharpar and Abana--but I cannot think of anything more nobly
beautiful than the Guadalquivir resting at peace in her bed, where she
has had so many bad dreams of Carthaginian and Roman and Gothic and Arab
and Norman invasion. Now her waters redden, for the time at least, only
from the scarlet hulls of the tramp steamers lying in long succession
beside the shore where the gardens of the Delicias were waiting to
welcome us that afternoon to our first sight of the pride and fashion of
Seville. I never got enough of the brave color of those tramp steamers;
and in thinking of them as English, Norse, French, and Dutch, fetching
or carrying their cargoes over those war-worn, storied waters, I had
some finer thrills than in dwelling on the Tower of Gold which rose
from the midst of them. It was built in the last century of the Moorish
dominion to mark the last point to which the gardens of the Moorish
palace of the Alcazar could stretch, but they were long ago obliterated
behind it; and though it was so recent, no doubt it would have had its
pathos if I could ever have felt pity for the downfall of the Moslem
power in Spain. As it was, I found the tramp steamers more moving, and
it was these that my eye preferably sought whenever I crossed the Triana
bridge.