SEVILLE.
Seville--The Cristina--The Torre del Oro--Italica--The
Cathedral--The Giralda--El Polbo Sevillano--The Caridad and Don
Juan de Marana.
There is a Spanish proverb, very frequently quoted, on Seville:
"Quien no ha visto a Sevilla
No ha visto a maravilla."
We confess, in all humility, that this proverb would strike us
as more correct if applied to Toledo or Granada rather than to
Seville, where we saw nothing particularly marvellous, unless it
was the Cathedral.
Seville is situated on the banks of the Guadalquiver, in a
large plain, whence it derives its name of Hispalis, which, in
Carthagenian, means a flat piece of ground, if we may believe Arias
Montano and Samuel Bockhart. It is a vast, straggling town, of very
recent date, gay, smiling, and animated, and must really appear a
charming place to Spaniards. It would be impossible to find a more
striking contrast to Cordova. The town of Cordova is dead; it is
an ossuary, a catacomb in the open air, on which Neglect is slowly
sprinkling its white dust; the few inhabitants whom you meet at
the corners of its narrow streets look like apparitions which have
mistaken the hour. Seville, on the contrary, is full of all the
petulance and busy hum of life; the sound of gaiety floats over
her at every instant of the day; she hardly allows herself time to
take her siesta. She cares little for yesterday, and still less for
to-morrow; she exists altogether for the present. Memory and Hope
are the consolation of those who are unhappy, and Sevilla is happy.
She enjoys herself, while her sister, Cordova, wrapt in silence and
solitude, appears to be dreaming mournfully of Abderama; of the
great captain and all his departed glories, brilliant meteors in
the nights of the Past, while all she now possesses are ashes.
To the great disappointment of travellers and antiquaries,
whitewash reigns supreme at Seville; the houses have a new coat
of it three or four times a year; this gives them a look of
cleanness and neatness, but effectually prevents any investigation
of the remains of the Arabic and Gothic sculptures which formerly
adorned the place. Nothing can be less varied than this network
of streets, where the eye sees but two tints--the indigo of the
sky and the chalky white of the walls on which the azure shadows
of the neighbouring buildings are thrown; for in warm countries
the shadows are blue instead of being grey, so that the objects
appear to be lighted up on one side by the moon, and on the other
by the sun; the absence, however, of all sombre tints produces a
general appearance of life and gaiety. Doorways closed with iron
gates allow you to look through and see the _patios_ ornamented
with columns, mosaic pavement, fountains, flower-pots, shrubs,
and pictures. As regards the external architecture, it offers no
particularly remarkable feature; the houses are rarely more than
two or three stories high, and you hardly meet with a dozen façades
that are interesting in an artistic point of view. The streets are
paved, like those of all Spanish towns, with small pebbles, but,
on each side, there is a kind of pavement consisting of tolerably
large flat stones on which the crowd walks in single file. If a
man and woman meet, the man always makes way for the woman with
that exquisite politeness which is natural to Spaniards, even of
the very lowest classes. The women of Seville quite deserve the
reputation for beauty which they enjoy; they are almost all alike,
as is always the case in pure races of a well-defined type; their
long eyes, opening to the temples, and fringed with long brown
lashes, produce an effect of black and white which is unknown in
France. When a woman or young girl passes you, she slowly drops
her eyelids, and then suddenly opens them again, shoots at you a
look so searching that you are perfectly unable to bear it, rolls
the pupil of her eye, and then again drops the lashes over them.
The Bayadere, Amany, when dancing the _Pas des Colombes_, was the
only person who could convey the slightest notion of the murderous
glances which the East has bequeathed to Spain; we have no terms
to express this play of the eyes; the word _ojear_ is wanting in
our vocabulary. These glances, which are so full of vivid, sudden
brilliancy, and which almost embarrass strangers, have, however, no
particular signification, and are cast upon the first object that
presents itself; a young Andalusian girl will look with the same
passionate expression at a cart passing along, a dog running after
its tail, or a group of children playing at bullfights. The eyes
of the people of the north are dull and meaningless in comparison;
the sun has never left its reflection in them. Their canine teeth
are very pointed, and, as well as all the rest, rival in brilliancy
those of a young Newfoundland dog, and impart to the smile of
the young women of Seville an Arabic savage expression, which is
extremely original. Their forehead is high, round, and polished;
their nose is sharp and slightly inclining to the aquiline.
Unfortunately, their chin sometimes terminates by a too sudden
curve of the divine oval of the upper part of their face. Their
shoulders and arms are somewhat thin; this is the only imperfection
which the most fastidious artist could find in the women of
Seville. The delicacy of their articulation, and the smallness of
their hands and feet, are all that can be desired. Without any sort
of poetical exaggeration, there are women in Seville whose feet an
infant might hold in its hand. The Andalusian beauties are very
proud of this, and wear shoes to correspond. There is no very great
difference between these shoes and the slippers worn by the Chinese
women.
"Con primor se calza el pié
Digno de regio tapiz."
is a compliment as common in their songs as the tint of the rose or
the lily is in ours.
The said shoes, which are generally of satin, hardly cover their
toes, and appear to have no heels, the latter being covered with
a small piece of ribbon, of the same colour as the stocking. A
little French girl, seven or eight years old, could not put on the
shoe of an Andalusian of twenty. Accordingly, there is no end to
their jokes about the feet and shoes of the ladies of the north. "A
boat with six rowers, to row about in the Guadalquiver, was made
out of the ball shoe of a German lady." "The wooden stirrups of
the _picadores_ might do for shoes for an English beauty,"--and a
thousand other _andulazades_ of the same kind. I defended, as well
as I could, the feet of our fair Parisians, but I only met with
incredulous listeners. Unfortunately, the women of Seville have
only remained Spanish as far as the head and feet, the mantilla and
the shoe, are concerned; the coloured gowns _à la Française_ are
beginning to obtain the superiority over the national robe. The
men are dressed like plates of fashions. There are some, however,
who wear small white dimity jackets, trousers to correspond, a
red sash, and Andalusian hat; but this is rare, and, besides, the
costume is not very picturesque.
The favourite walks are the _Alameda del Duque_, where the audience
stroll during the time between the acts at the theatre, which is
close at hand: and also, more especially, the Cristina. It is a
most charming thing to see, between seven and eight o'clock in the
evening, all the beauties of Seville, in little groups of three or
four, parading up and down here, and showing themselves off to the
best advantage, accompanied by their lovers, present or future.
They have something peculiarly nimble, active, and brisk about
them, and prance along, rather than walk. The celerity with which
the fan is opened and shut in their hands, the searching power of
their glance, the assurance of their bearing, and the undulating
suppleness of their figure, give them a physiognomy which is
especially their own. There may be women in England, France, and
Italy, of a more perfect and regular style of beauty, but there are
assuredly none who are prettier or more piquant. They possess in
a high degree the quality called by Spaniards _la sal_, and which
is some thing that it is difficult to explain to Frenchmen. It is
a mixture of nonchalance, vivacity, bold repartees, and infantine
manners; a grace, a pungency, a _ragoût_, as painters express
it, which may be found without beauty, and which is frequently
preferred to it. Thus, a person says to a woman in Spain, "How
salt, _salada_, you are!" and there is no other compliment like
that one.
The Cristina is a superb promenade, on the banks of the
Guadalquiver, with a _saloon_ paved with large stone flags, and
surrounded by an immense white marble sofa with an iron back. It
is shaded by Eastern plane-trees, and has a labyrinth, a Chinese
pavilion, and plantations of all kinds of northern trees, such as
ashes, cypresses, poplars, and willows, of which the Andalusians
are as proud as the Parisians would be of aloe-trees and palms.
At the approaches to the Cristina, pieces of rope, dipped in
brimstone, and rolled round posts, are always kept burning in order
that the smokers may light their cigars, and not be bored by boys
with coals, pursuing them with the cry of _Fuego_; an annoyance
which renders the Prado of Madrid insupportable.
But delightful as this promenade was, I preferred the banks of the
river itself, where the prospect was always animated and constantly
changing. In the middle of the stream, where the water was deepest,
were anchored merchant schooners and brigs, their tapering masts
and airy rigging standing out in clear black lines from the light
background of the sky. In all directions, smaller craft were seen
crossing and recrossing each other. Sometimes a boat would bear
down the stream a number of young men and women, playing the guitar
and singing _coplas_, whose rhymes were dispersed by the wanton
wind, while the promenaders applauded from the banks. The view was
beautifully terminated, on this side, by the _Torre del Oro_, a
kind of octagon tower with three receding stories, and Moorish
battlements: it laves its base in the waves of the Guadalquiver,
near the landing-place, and shoots up into the blue air from
the midst of a forest of masts and cordage. This tower, which
the learned pretend to have been constructed by the Romans, was
formerly connected with the Alcazar by means of walls, which have
been pulled down to make room for the Cristina, and, in the time
of the Moors, supported one end of the iron chain which defended
the passage of the river, while the other end was fastened to
stone piers on the opposite side. It is said to derive its name of
_Torre del Oro_ from the fact of the gold which was brought in the
galleons from America having been kept there.
[Illustration: THE TORRE DEL ORO.]
We used to go and walk here every evening, looking at the sun as it
set behind the Triana suburbs, which are on the other side of the
stream. A most noble-looking palm raised in the air its leafy disk,
as if to salute the sinking luminary. I was always exceedingly
fond of palms, and I can never see one without feeling transported
into a patriarchal and poetical world, in the midst of the fairy
scenes of the East, and the magnificent pictures of the Bible.
As if to bring us back to a feeling of reality, one evening, as
we were returning to the _Calle de la Sierpe_, where our host,
Don Cæsar Bustamente, whose wife had the most beautiful eyes and
the longest hair in the world, resided, we were accosted by some
fellows very well dressed, with eye-glasses and watch-chains, who
asked us to come and rest ourselves and take some refreshment at
the house of some persons _muy finas_, _muy decentes_, who had
deputed them to invite us. These worthy individuals seemed, at
first, very much struck at our refusing, and, imagining that we had
not understood them, entered more explicitly into details; but,
seeing that they were merely losing their time, they contented
themselves with offering us cigarettes and Murillos,--for, you
must know, Murillo is the pride and also the curse of Seville. You
hear nothing but this one name. The smallest tradesman, the most
insignificant abbé, possesses, at least, three hundred specimens
of Murillo in his best days. What is that daub there? It is a
Murillo, vapoury style. And that one. A Murillo, warm style. And
the third, yonder? A Murillo, cold style. Like Raphael, Murillo has
three styles; a fact which allows of all kinds of pictures being
attributed to him, and gives a most delicious scope to amateurs
desirous of forming collections. At the corner of every street,
you run against the angle of a picture-frame: it is a Murillo
worth thirty francs which some Englishman always buys for thirty
thousand. "Look, _Señor Caballero_, what drawing! what colouring!
It is the very _perla_, the _perlita_ of pictures!" How many
pearls, not worth the frames and the ornaments, were shown to
me! How many originals that were not even copies! This does not,
however, prevent Murillo from being one of the first painters in
Spain, and in the whole world. But we have wandered rather far from
the banks of the Guadalquiver; let us return to them.
A bridge of boats unites the two banks, and connects the suburbs
with the town. You cross it in order to visit, near Santi-Pouce,
the remains of Italica, the birthplace of the poet Silius Italicus,
and the emperors Trajan, Adrian, and Theodosius: there is a ruined
circus, whose form is still tolerably distinct. The cellars
where the wild beasts were confined, the dressing-rooms of the
gladiators, as well as the lobbies and rows of benches, can be made
out with the greatest facility. The whole is built of cement, with
flint-stones embedded in it. The stone coating has probably been
torn away to serve in more modern edifices, for Italica has long
been the quarry of Seville. A few chambers have been cleared out,
and afford a shelter during the great heat of the day to herds of
blue pigs, who run grunting between the visitors' legs, and are
now the only inhabitants of the old Roman city. The most perfect
and most interesting vestige of all this splendour that has for
ever disappeared, is a large mosaic, which has been surrounded
by walls, and represents Muses and Nereids. When it is revived
with water, its colours are still very brilliant, although the
most valuable stones have been torn out from motives of cupidity.
Among the rubbish, some fragments of very tolerable statues have
likewise been found, and there is no doubt that skilfully directed
excavations would lead to important discoveries. Italica is
situated about a league and a half from Seville, and the excursion
there and back may be easily made with a calessin in an afternoon,
unless you are a furious antiquary, and wish to examine, one by
one, all the old stones suspected of an inscription.
The _Puerta de Triana_, also, has pretensions to Roman origin, and
derives its name from the emperor Trajan. Its appearance is very
stately; it is of the Doric order, with coupled columns, and is
ornamented with the royal arms and surmounted by pyramids. It has
its own alcade, and serves as a prison for gentlemen.
The _Puertas del Carbon_ and _del Aceite_ are worthy of a visit. On
the _Puerta de Jeres_ is the following inscription:
Hercules me edifico,
Julio Cesar me coesco,
De Muros y torres altas
El rey santo me gano
Con Garci Perez de Vargas.
Seville is surrounded by a continuous line of embattlemented walls,
flanked at intervals by large towers, many of which are at present
in ruins, and also by ditches, almost entirely choked up. These
walls, which would not afford the least protection against modern
artillery, produce, with their denticulated Arabic embrasures, a
very picturesque effect. They are said to have been begun, like all
other walls and camps that ever existed, by Julius Cæsar.
In an open square, near the _Puerta de Triana_, I beheld rather a
singular sight, consisting of a family of gipsies encamped in the
open air, and composing a group that would have sent Callop into
ecstasies. Three stakes, in the form of a triangle, made a kind of
rustic hook, which supported over a large fire, scattered by the
wind into tongues of flame and spirals of smoke, a saucepan full of
strange and suspicious ingredients, like those which Goya knows so
well how to cast into the caldrons of the witches of Barahona. By
this apology for a fireplace was seated a bronzed, copper-coloured
gitana, with a curved profile, naked to her waist,--a fact which
proved her to be completely devoid of anything like coquetry:
her long, black hair fell, like a quantity of brushwood, down
her thin, yellow back, and over her bistre forehead. Through
the dishevelled locks sparkled a pair of those large oriental
eyes, of mother-of-pearl and jet, which are so mysterious and
contemplative that they elevate into poetry the most degraded and
brutal physiognomy. Around her sprawled two or three screeching
children, as black as mulattoes, with large bellies and shrunk
limbs, which made them look more like quadrumans than bipeds. I
do not think that little Hottentots could be more hideous or more
dirty. This state of nakedness is nothing uncommon, and shocks
nobody. You often meet beggars, whose only covering consists of a
piece of old counterpane, or a fragment of very equivocal drawers;
I have seen, wandering about the public squares of Granada and
Malaga, young rascals of twelve or fourteen years of age, with less
clothing on them than Adam had when he left Paradise. The Triana
suburbs are particularly frequented by individuals in this costume,
for they contain a great number of gitanos, whose opinions with
regard to a free and easy style of dress are very advanced; the
women pass their time frying different articles of food in the open
air, and the men employ themselves in smuggling, clipping mules,
horse-jobbing, and the like, when they are doing nothing worse.
The Cristina, the Alameda del Duque, Italica, and the Moorish
Alcazar, are, no doubt, all very curious; but the true marvel of
Seville is its Cathedral, which is a surprising edifice, even when
compared to the Cathedrals of Burgos and Toledo, and the Mosque
at Cordova. The chapter who ordered it to be erected, summed up
their plans in this one phrase: "Let us raise a monument which
shall cause Posterity to think we must have been mad." This was,
at any rate, a good, broad, sensible way of settling matters, and
the consequence was, that the artists, having full scope for the
exertion of their talents, worked wonders, while the canons, in
order to accelerate the completion of the edifice, gave up all
their incomes, only reserving what was barely sufficient to enable
them to live. O thrice-sainted canons! may you slumber softly under
the shade of your sepulchral flags near your beloved Cathedral!
The most extravagant and most monstrously prodigious Hindoo pagodas
are not to be mentioned in the same century as the Cathedral of
Seville. It is a mountain scooped out, a valley turned topsy-turvy;
Notre Dame at Paris might walk about erect in the middle nave,
which is of a frightful height; pillars, as large round as towers,
and which appear so slender that they make you shudder, rise out of
the ground or descend from the vaulted roof, like the stalactites
in a giant's grotto. The four lateral naves, although less high,
would each cover a church, steeple included. The _retablo_, or
high altar, with its stairs, its architectural superpositions,
and its rows of statues rising in stories one above the other, is
in itself an immense edifice, and almost touches the roof. The
Paschal taper is as tall as the mast of a ship, and weighs two
thousand and fifty pounds. The bronze candlestick which contains it
is a kind of column like that in the Place Vendôme; it is copied
from the candlestick of the Temple at Jerusalem, as represented
in the bas-reliefs on the Arch of Titus, and everything else is
proportionally grand. Twenty thousand pounds of wax and as many
pounds of oil are burnt in the cathedral annually, while the wine
used in the service of the Sacrament amounts to the frightful
quantity of eighteen thousand, seven hundred and fifty French
litres. It is true that five hundred masses are said every day at
the eighty altars! The catafalque used during the Holy Week, and
which is called the _monument_, is nearly a hundred feet high!
The gigantic organs resemble the basaltic colonnades of Fingal's
Cave, and yet the tempests and thunder which escape from their
pipes, which are as large in the bore as battering cannon, are
like melodious murmurs, or the chirping of birds and seraphim
under these colossal ogives. There are eighty-three stained glass
windows, copied from the cartoons of Michael Angelo, Raphael,
Dürer, Peregrino, Tibaldi, and Lucas Cambiaso; the oldest and most
beautiful are those executed by Arnold de Flandre, a celebrated
painter on glass. The most modern ones, which date from 1819,
prove how greatly art has degenerated since the glorious sixteenth
century, that climacteric epoch of the world, when the human plant
brought forth its most beautiful flowers and its most savoury
fruit. The choir, which is Gothic, is decorated with turrets,
spires, niche-work, figures, and foliage, forming one immense and
delicately minute piece of workmanship that actually confounds
the mind, and cannot now-a-days be understood. You are actually
struck dumb in the presence of such stupendous efforts of art, and
you interrogate yourself with anxiety, as to whether vitality is
withdrawing itself more and more, every century, from the world.
This prodigy of talent, patience, and genius, has, at least,
preserved the name of its author, on whom we are able to bestow
our tribute of admiration. On one of the panels to the left of the
altar the following inscription is traced: "_Este coro fizo Nufro
Sanchez entallador que Dios haya año de 1475._" (Nufro Sanchez,
sculptor, whom may God protect, made this choir in 1475.)
Any attempt to describe, one after the other, all the riches
of the cathedral, would be an absurd piece of folly; it would
require a whole year to see it thoroughly, and even that would
not be sufficient; whole volumes would not so much as contain
the catalogue of the various remarkable objects. The sculptures
in stone, in wood, and in silver, by Juan de Arfe, Joan Mellan,
Montañes, and Roldan; the paintings by Murillo, Zurbaran, Pierre
Campana, Roëlas, Don Luiz de Villegas, the two Herreras, Juan
Valdes and Goya, completely fill the chapels, sacristies, and
chapter-house. You are crushed by all kinds of magnificence, worn
out and intoxicated with _chefs d'œuvre_, and do not know which
way to turn; the desire to see everything, and the impossibility
of doing so, cause you to experience a sort of feverish giddiness;
you wish not to forget a single thing, and you feel every moment,
that some name is escaping you, some lineament is becoming confused
in your brain, some particular is usurping the place of another.
You make the most desperate appeals to your memory, and lay strict
injunctions on your eyes not to let slip a single glance; the least
rest, even the time necessary for eating and sleeping, appears
a robbery you are committing on yourself, for you are hurried
on by imperious necessity; you will shortly be obliged to leave
the place; the fire is already blazing under the boiler of the
steam-boat; the water boils and hisses, and the chimney emits its
volumes of white smoke. Tomorrow you will quit all these marvels,
which, in all probability, you are not destined ever to behold
again!
Being unable to mention everything, I will confine myself to
mentioning the _Saint Anthony of Padua_, by Murillo, which
ornaments the chapel of the baptistry. Never was the magic of
painting carried to a greater length. The saint is kneeling in a
state of ecstasy in the middle of his cell, all the poor details of
which are rendered with that vigorous reality which characterises
the Spanish school. Through the half-open door is seen one of those
long, white, arched cloisters, so favourable to reverie. The upper
portion of the picture, which is inundated with white, transparent,
vapoury light, is occupied by groups of angels, of the most truly
ideal beauty. Attracted by the force of his prayers, the infant
Jesus is descending from cloud to cloud, to place himself between
the arms of the saint, whose head is surrounded by rays of glory,
and who is leaning back in a fit of celestial delight. I think that
this divine picture is superior to that of _Saint Elizabeth of
Hungary_ in the Academy of Madrid, superior to _Moses_, superior
to all the _Virgins_ and _Children_ by the same master, however
beautiful and pure they may be. Whoever has not seen the _Saint
Anthony of Padua_, does not know the finest production of the
Sevillian painter; he is like those who fancy they know Rubens,
and have never beheld the Antwerp _Magdalene_.
Every style of architecture is to found in the Cathedral of
Seville. The severe gothic, the style of the renaissance, that
which the Spaniards term _plateresco_, or jewellery-work, and
which is distinguished by a profusion of incredible ornaments and
arabesques, the rococo, the Greek and Roman styles, are all there
without a single exception, for each age has built its chapel or
_retablo_, after its own peculiar taste, and even now the edifice
is not completely finished. Many of the statues which fill the
niches of the portals, and represent patriarchs, apostles, saints,
and archangels, are made of baked earth only, and placed there
temporarily. On the same side as the courtyard _de los Naranjeros_,
on the top of the unfinished portal, rises the iron crane, as
a symbol that the edifice is not yet terminated, and that the
works will be resumed at some future period. This kind of gallows
is also to be seen on the summit of the church at Beauvais, but
when will the day come, when the weight of a stone slowly drawn
up through the air by the workmen returned to their work, shall
cause its pulley, that has for ages been rusting away, once more
to creak beneath its load? Never, perhaps; for the ascensional
movement of Catholicism has stopped, and the sap which caused
this efflorescence of cathedrals to shoot up from the ground, no
longer rises from the trunk into the branches. Faith, which doubts
nothing, wrote the first strophes of all these great poems of
stone and granite; Reason, which doubts everything, has not dared
to finish them. The architects of the Middle Ages were a race of
religious Titans, as it were, who heaped Pelion on Ossa, not to
dethrone the Deity they adored, but to admire more closely the mild
countenance of the Virgin-Mother smiling on the Infant Jesus. In
our days, when everything is sacrificed to some gross and stupid
idea or other of comfort, people no longer understand these sublime
yearnings of the soul towards the Infinite, which were rendered
by steeples, spires, bell-turrets, and ogives, stretching their
arms of stone heavenwards, and joining them, above the heads of
the kneeling crowd, like gigantic hands clasped in an attitude of
supplication. Political economists shrug their shoulders with pity
at all these treasures lying idle without returning anything. Even
the people are beginning to calculate how much the gold of the pyx
is worth: they who once scarcely dared to raise their eyes on the
white sun of the host, whisper to themselves that pieces of glass
would do quite as well to decorate the monstrance as the diamonds
and precious stones; the church is, at present, hardly frequented
by any one save travellers, beggars, and horrible old hags,
atrocious dueñas clad in black, with owl-like looks, death's-head
smiles, and spider hands, who never move without a rattling, as
if of rusty bones, medals and chaplets, and, under pretence of
soliciting arms, murmur atrocious propositions concerning raven
tresses, rosy complexions, burning glances and ever-budding smiles.
Spain itself is no longer Catholic!
The Giralda, which serves as a campanila to the cathedral, and
rises above all the spires of the town, is an old Moorish tower,
erected by an Arabian architect, named Geber or Guever, who
invented algebra, which was called after him. The appearance of
the tower is charming and very original; the rose-coloured bricks
and the white stone of which it is built, give it an air of gaiety
and youth, which forms a strange contrast with the date of its
erection, which extends as far back as the year 1000, a very
respectable age, at which a tower may well be allowed to have a
wrinkle or two, and be excused for not being remarkable for a
fresh complexion. The Giralda, in its present state, is not less
than three hundred and fifty feet high, while each side is fifty
feet broad. Up to a certain height the walls are perfectly even;
there are then rows of Moorish windows with balconies, trefoils,
and small white marble columns, surrounded by large lozenge-shaped
brick panels. The tower formerly ended in a roof of variously
coloured varnished tiles, on which was an iron bar, ornamented with
four gilt metal balls of a prodigious size. This roof was removed
in 1568, by the architect, Francisco Ruiz, who raised the daughter
of the Moor Guever, one hundred feet higher in the pure light of
heaven, so that his bronze statue might overlook the sierras, and
speak with the angels who passed. The feat of building a belfry on
a tower was in perfect keeping with the intentions of the members
composing that admirable chapter, of whom we have spoken, and
who wished posterity to imagine they were mad. The additions of
Francisco Ruiz consist of three stories; the first of these is
pierced with windows, in whose embrasures are hung the bells; the
second, surrounded by an open balustrade, bears on the cornice of
each of its sides these words--"_Turris fortissima nomen Domini_;"
and the third is a kind of cupola or lantern, on which turns a
gigantic gilt bronze figure of Faith, holding a palm in one hand
and a standard in the other, and serving as a weathercock, thereby
justifying the name of Giralda given to the tower. This statue is
by Bartholomew Morel. It can be seen at a very great distance; and
when it glitters through the azure atmosphere, really looks like a
seraph lounging in the air.
You ascend the Giralda by a series of inclined ramps, so easy
and gentle, that two men on horseback could very well ride up to
the summit, whence you enjoy an admirable view. At your feet
lies Seville, brilliantly white, with its spires and towers,
endeavouring, but in vain, to reach the rose-coloured brick girdle
of the Giralda. Beyond these stretches the plain, through which the
Guadalquiver flows, like a piece of watered silk, and scattered
around are Santi-Pouce, Algaba, and other villages. Quite in the
background is the Sierra Morena, with its outlines sharply marked,
in spite of the distance, so great is the transparency of the air
in this admirable country. On the opposite side, the Sierras de
Gibram, Zaara, and Morou, raise their bristling forms, tinged with
the richest hues of lapis lazuli and amethyst, and completing this
magnificent panorama, which is inundated with light, sunshine, and
dazzling splendour.
A great number of fragments of columns, shaped into posts, and
connected with each other by chains, except where spaces are left
for persons to pass, surround the cathedral. Some of these columns
are antique, and come either from the ruins of Italica, or from the
remains of the ancient mosque, whose former site is now occupied
by the cathedral, and of which the only remaining vestiges are
the Giralda, a few old walls, and one or two arches, one of which
serves as the entrance to the courtyard _de los Nanjeros_. The
_Lonja_ (Exchange) is a large and perfectly regular edifice, built
by the heavy and wearisome Herrera, that architect of _ennui_, to
whom we owe the Escurial, which is decidedly the most melancholy
building in the world; the Lonja, also, like the cathedral, is
surrounded by the same description of posts. It is completely
isolated, and presents four similar façades; it stands between the
cathedral and the Alcazar. In it are preserved the archives of
America, and the correspondence of Christopher Columbus, Pizarro,
and Fernand Cortez; but all these treasures are guarded by such
savage dragons, that we were obliged to content ourselves with
looking at the outside of the pasteboard boxes and portfolios,
which are stowed away in mahogany compartments, like the goods in a
draper's shop. It would be a most easy thing to place five or six
of the most precious autographs in glass-cases, and thus satisfy
the very legitimate curiosity of travellers.
[Illustration: HALL OF DON PEDRO, THE ALCAZAR, SEVILLE.]
The Alcazar, or ancient palace of the Moorish kings, is very fine
and quite worthy of its reputation, but it does not surprise
any one who has seen the Alhambra at Granada. You meet the same
small white marble columns, the painted and gilt capitals, the
heart-shaped arcades, the panels with mottoes from the Koran
entwined with arabesques, the doors of larch and cedar wood, the
stalactite cupolas, and the fountains ornamented with carving,
which may vary in appearance, but of whose endless details and
minute delicacy no description can convey an idea. The Hall of
Ambassadors, the magnificent doors of which have been preserved in
all their integrity, is perhaps more beautiful and rich than that
at Granada; unfortunately, the authorities have hit upon the idea
of hanging between the slender columns which support the roof, a
series of portraits of the kings of Spain from the most ancient
times of the monarchy down to the present day. Nothing could be
more ridiculous. The old kings, with their breastplates and iron
crowns, manage to make a respectable appearance, but the more
modern ones, with their powdered hair and uniforms produce a most
grotesque effect. I shall never forget a certain queen with a pair
of spectacles on her nose and a small dog upon her knees; she must
feel very much out of her element. The baths, named after Maria
Pedrilla, the mistress of the king, Don Pedro, who resided in the
Alcazar, are still in the same state as in the time of the Arabs.
The vaulted roof of the bath-room has not undergone the slightest
alteration. Charles V. has left far too many marks of his presence
in the Alcazar of Seville, as he did in the Alhambra of Granada.
This mania of building one palace in another is as frequent as it
is deplorable; we must for ever regret the number of historical
monuments it has destroyed, to substitute insignificant edifices
in their stead. The Alcazar contains gardens laid out in the old
French style, with yew-trees tortured into the strangest shapes
imaginable.
Since we have come with the purpose of visiting all the public
buildings, let us enter, for a few moments, the manufactory of
tobacco, which is only two paces distant. This vast building is
very well adapted to the business carried on in it, and contains a
great number of machines for scraping, chopping, and grinding the
tobacco; these machines make a noise like that of a multitude of
windmills, and are set in motion by two or three hundred mules.
It is here that they manufacture _el palbo Sevilla_, which is an
impalpable, pungent powder, of a yellowish gold colour, with which
the marquises of the time of the Regent were so fond of sprinkling
their laced shirt-frills; its strength and volatility are so great
that you begin sneezing the moment you put your foot into the rooms
where it is prepared. It is sold by the pound and half-pound, in
tin canisters. We were also shown into the workshops, where the
tobacco-leaves are rolled up into cigars. Five or six hundred women
are employed in this branch of the trade. Immediately we entered
this room, we were stunned by a perfect tempest of noise; they were
talking, singing, and disputing, in the same breath. I never in my
life heard such a disturbance. Most of them were young, and several
very pretty. The extreme carelessness of their dress allowed us to
contemplate their charms at our ease. Some of them had got the
end of a cigar boldly stuck in the corner of their mouth, with all
the coolness of an officer of hussars, while some--O Muse, come to
my assistance!--were chewing away like old sailors, for they are
allowed to take as much tobacco as they can consume on the spot.
They earn from four to six reals a day. The _Cigarera_ of Seville
is a type, as just like the _Manala_ of Madrid. She is worth
seeing, on Sundays or the days of the bull-fights, with her short
basquina decorated with enormous flounces, her sleeves ornamented
with jet buttons, and the _puro_, which she passes, from time to
time, to her admirer, after having first inhaled its smoke herself.
Let us finish this inspection of the public buildings, by a visit
to the celebrated Hospital de la Caridad, founded by the famous
Don Juan de Marana, who is by no means a fabulous being, as the
reader might suppose. An hospital founded by Don Juan!--Ay!--it
may appear strange, but it is true. The following circumstance
was the cause of its being erected. One night, as Don Juan was
returning from some orgy or other, he met a funeral procession
going to the Church of Sant-Isidore, with black penitents masked,
yellow wax tapers, and, in a word, with something more lugubrious
and sinister about it than an ordinary burial. "Who is dead? Is it
a husband killed in duel by his wife's lover? or an honest father,
who lived too long before his wealth came to his heir?" asked Don
Juan, excited by the wine he had drunk. "The deceased," replied
one of those who were bearing the coffin, "is no other than Don
Juan de Marana, whose funeral service we are now going to perform.
Come, and pray for him with us." Don Juan having approached,
saw by the light of the torches (for in Spain the face of the
deceased is always left exposed to view) that the corpse resembled
himself, and, in fact, was himself. He followed his own bier to the
church, and recited the usual prayers with the mysterious monks:
the next morning he was found lying insensible on the stones of
the choir. The circumstance produced such an impression on him,
that he renounced his roystering life, assumed the monkish cowl,
and founded the hospital in question, where he died almost in
the odour of sanctity. The Caridad contains some very beautiful
Murillos--namely, _Moses Striking the Rock_, _The Multiplication of
the Loaves_, two immense compositions of the richest disposition,
and _San Juan de Dios_ carrying a dead body, and supported by an
angel, a masterpiece of colouring and chiar'-oscuro. Here, too,
is the picture, by Juan Valdes, known under the name of _Los Dos
Cadaveres_, a strange and terrible painting, compared to which the
blackest conceptions of Young may be looked upon as exceedingly
jovial facetiæ.
The Circus was shut, to our great regret, for according to the
_aficionados_ the bull-fights at Seville are the most brilliant
in all Spain. The circus here is remarkable from the fact of its
forming a semicircle, at least as far as the audience portion
of it is concerned, for the arena is round. It is said that a
violent storm threw down all one side, which has not since been
rebuilt. This arrangement enables you to obtain a marvellous view
of the cathedral, and forms one of the finest sights imaginable;
especially when the benches are filled with a brilliant crowd,
resplendent with the brightest colours. Ferdinand VII. founded
at Seville a School of Tauromachia, where the pupils were first
exercised on pasteboard bulls, then on _novillos_, whose horns were
tipped with balls, and lastly, on bulls in good earnest, until they
were worthy of appearing in public. I am not aware whether the
Revolution has respected this royal and despotic institution. Our
hopes having been deceived, we had nothing left but to depart. Our
places were already taken by the Cadiz steamer, and we embarked
in the midst of the tears, the sobs, and the lamentations of the
sweethearts or wives of some soldiers, who were changing their
garrison, and going in the same vessel as ourselves. I do not
know whether all this grief was sincere, but never did antique
despair, or the desolation of the Jewish women in the days of their
captivity, reach such a pitch.