Two Months In Spain During The Late Revolution.
September 9, 1868.
To-day, while they are yet celebrating the Nativity of the Blessed Virgin, we enter Spain, that mysterious world behind the Pyrenees, so different from all others, and of which we know so little! To-day is also the anniversary of my birthday into the Catholic Church, and now it is my birthday into Catholic Spain! "La tierra de Maria Santisima."
Leaving Perpignan (in the Pyrénées Orientales) by diligence, we pass through a most tropical looking country, amidst hedges of aloe, and oleander, and pomegranates, (reminding one of Texas in the character of the soil, the productions, and even the houses;) we soon begin the ascent of the mountains; and, before it is quite dark, we are across the Pyrenees. By the light of a beautiful sunset we have some grand mountain views, and encounter a group of Spanish gypsies, dark, ragged, and dirty, but highly picturesque. All along these mountains are cork-trees of prodigious size, with black, twisted trunks, from which the bark has been stripped—their fantastic shapes taking the form of nuns or monks—great ghosts in the dim light. Perthus, on the other side the mountains, is the last French town; high above which towers the fortress of Bellegarde, built by Louis XIV. in 1679. Just outside this town we pass a granite pyramid, on which is written "Gallia." A fellow-passenger tells us we are on Spanish soil. All cry, "Viva España!" and we look out upon a solemn-looking soldier, who stands by a cantonnier, above which floats the red and yellow flag of Spain. La Junguera is the first Spanish town; and here is a rival fort to the towering French one so lately seen. Here our luggage is visited, and we have our first experience of Spanish courtesy. The gentlemen passengers all come to ask, "Will the ladies have fruit?" "Will they have wine?" And one of our party, wishing to give alms to a blind beggar, and asking change for a franc, one of the gentlemen gives her the money in coppers, and refuses to take the franc; which, it seems, is the Spanish custom.
At Figueras we eat our first Spanish supper; no inconsiderable meal, if we may judge by this one. First came the inevitable soup, (puchero;) then, boiled beef; next in course, cabbage and turnips, eaten with oil and vinegar, and the yellow sweet-pepper which is the accompaniment to everything, or may be eaten alone, as salad. The third course was stewed beef; next, fried fish, (fish, in Spain, never comes before the third course;) and now, stewed mushrooms; but, as they are stewed in oil, (and that none of the sweetest,) we pass them by. After this, lobster; then cold chicken and partridge; and now the delicious fruits of the country, and the toasted almonds which are universal at every meal, and cheese. Coffee and chocolate terminate this repast, for which we pay three and a half francs, and after which one might reasonably be expected to travel all night.
Gerona appeared with the early dawn; a curious old town of 14,000 inhabitants, on the river Oña, and looking not unlike Rome with its yellow river, its tall houses, and balconies. Both this town and Figueras have made themselves memorable in wars and sieges. Indeed, what Spanish town has not its tale of heroism and brave defence during the French invasion of 1809-11? These towns were both starved into capitulation, after sieges which lasted seven or eight months, the women loading and serving the guns during the siege, and taking the places of their fallen husbands or lovers, like the "Maid of Saragossa." We were glad to leave the diligence for the railway which runs by the lovely Mediterranean coast, passing many pretty towns with ruins of old Moorish fortresses and castles on the hills beyond. In one of these towns, Avengo de Mar, the dock-yards are very famous, and a naval school was here established by Charles III.
Mataro, a place of 16,000 people, seemed very busy and thriving. This, too, has its tale of siege and slaughter. The French have left behind them in Spain a legacy of hate. Of the ruins of a monastery near one of these towns a pretty story is told. Two Catalonian students passing by this beautiful site, one exclaimed, "What a charming situation this would be for a convent! When I am pope, I will build one here." "Then," said the other, "I will be a monk, and live in it." Years after, when the latter had become a monk, he was sent for to Rome, and being presented to the pope, (Nicholas V.,) recognized in him his old friend and companion, when in the act of receiving his blessing. The pope embraced him; reminded the monk of his promise; built the convent, in which, we presume, the latter lived and died. The beautiful convent was utterly destroyed in the civil wars of 1835, when the monks were all driven from Spain.
"The sacred taper-lights are gone,
Gray moss hath clad the altar stone,
The holy image is o'erthrown,
The bell hath ceased to toll.
"The long-ribbed aisles are burnt and shrunk,
The holy shrine to ruin sunk,
Departed is the pious monk;
God's blessing on his soul!"
Barcelona, Province Of Catalonia.
Hotel De Las Cuatro Naciones.
September 10.
How charming looks this gay, busy city, with its shady streets, beautiful gardens and fountains, the sea before it, the mountains behind, fortifications on every side, seemingly impregnable. Our hotel is on the "Rambla," a wide boulevard, like those of Paris, upon which most of the fine buildings are situated, and which is the principal promenade. In the evening, we go to one of the theatres, and hear a French opera beautifully sung.
Friday, 11.
The books tell us that Barcelona was founded by Hamilcar, the Carthaginian, B.C. 237. Cesar Augustus raised it to a Roman colony. Ataulfo, the first king of the Goths, chose it for his court. In 713, it fell into the hands of the Moors, who were expelled by Charlemagne in 801. From this time, it belonged to the Duchy of Aquitaine, and was governed by counts, until Charles the Bold made it an independent kingdom, to reward Count Wilfred el Velloso, who had aided him against the Normans. Count Raymond Berenguer IV. united Catalonia with Arragon, by marrying the heiress of that kingdom, from which time it was the rival of Genoa and Venice. It has always been the centre of revolutionary movement, restlessly endeavoring to regain its independence. The Catalans are industrious, bold, and enterprising. Indeed, so much do they surpass the people of other parts of Spain in activity and enterprise, that they are called the Spanish Yankees, and Barcelona is termed the Manchester of Spain. Manufactories of cotton and silk; the most famous laces of Spain; a most flourishing trade, as well as fine schools and public libraries, are to be found here. They boast that the first experiment with steam for navigation purposes was made in Barcelona, the inventor having displayed his steamboat before Charles V. and Philip II., in 1543. Charles, being occupied in foreign conquests, took little notice of this, and, through fear of explosion, the discovery was abandoned, and the secret died with the inventor.
Barcelona has a very large French population. In the Calle Fernando, we see shops handsome as those of Paris. Already we find most tempting Spanish fans for a mere trifle; and at every turn the delicious chocolate is being made into cakes by machinery. There are many fine churches. The cathedral is a grand specimen of the Gothic Catalan of the thirteenth century—one of the most imposing churches we have seen in Europe. "Sober, elegant, harmonious, and simple," as some traveller describes it. The Moors converted the old cathedral of their Gothic predecessors into a mosque. James II., "el conquistador," one of the greatest of the Catalan heroes, commenced this in 1293. The cloisters are very interesting; have a pretty court, with orange-trees and flowers, and a curious old fountain of a knight on horseback; the water flowing from the knight's head, his toes, and from the tail and mouth of the horse. In the crypt is the body of St. Eulalia, the patron saint of Barcelona; removed from St. Maria del Mar, where it had been kept since the year 878. Before this shrine Francis I. heard mass, when a prisoner in Spain, after the battle of Pavia. In the choir, over each finely sculptured stall, is painted the shield of each of the knights of the Golden Fleece. Here was held a "chapter," or general assembly, presided over by Charles V., March 5th, 1519. Charles, then only king of Spain, occupied a throne on one side hung with damask and gold; opposite was the empty throne of Maximilian, first emperor of Germany, (his grandfather,) hung in black. Around the king were assembled Christian, King of Denmark; Sigismund, King of Poland; the Prince of Orange, the Dukes of Alba, Friaz, Cruz, and the flower of the nobility of Spain and Flanders.
There are some curious old monuments in the church, and a crucifix called "Cristo de Lepanto," which was carried on the prow of the flagship of Don John, of Austria, in the battle of Lepanto. The figure—of life size—is all inclined to one side; and the faithful of that day assure us that the sacred image turned itself aside, to avoid the Moslem bullets which were aimed at it. Certain, it was never struck.
While in the church, we see a funeral mass, which is peculiar in some of its ceremonies, and very solemn in the dim religious cathedral light, where every kneeling figure, with its black mantilla, seems to be a mourner. After the credo, little tapers are distributed, and, at a certain part of the mass, are lighted. The priest comes to the foot of the altar. Each person, bearing a lighted taper, goes forward in procession, the men on one side, the women on the other. Each one kisses the cross upon the stole of the priest, as if in submission to the will of God. The candles are extinguished, and deposited in a plate.
Walking on the Rambla this evening, we hear a drum, and, following the crowd, witness the performance of a Spanish mountebank, whose sayings must have been very witty, to judge by the plaudits of the crowd. He had a learned dog, which so far surpassed all the dogs we had ever seen that I am persuaded he was cleverer than his master.
Saturday, September 12.
A rainy day. But we take a long walk through the crooked, narrow streets; going into the Calle de la Plateria (the street of the jewellers) to see the curious long filagree earrings worn by the peasants. We are as much objects of curiosity to these people, as they are to us, (bonnets and parasols being rarely seen in Spain.) An old man, touched my blue veil, yesterday, asking, "Queste paese?" and when I told him we were "Americanos," he rejoined, "Me speak England; me like Americanos." Even the poorest people here are courteous and respectful; and their language seems to have borrowed so much that is flowery and poetic from their Arab progenitors, that it would seem exaggerated and insincere, were it not accompanied by a grave and earnest manner as well as gesticulation. We ask a beggar the way to a certain street. He accompanies us all the way, declines any remuneration, and at parting says, "Go, and may God go with you!" A policeman, seeing us endeavor to enter the Plaza Real, to look at the monument to the king, opens the gate, though the public are not admitted. We thank him for making an exception in our favor; and upon going out, he bids us "Adios," adding,' "May your beauty never be less." At the table d'hote, every Spaniard bows as we enter, and all rise when we leave the table. In the centre of the table is a pyramid of cigars and matches most fantastically arranged; and it is the custom for gentlemen to smoke at every meal! We visit St. Maria del Mar, a church considered by many to be superior to the cathedral, architecturally. It was built in 1329, on the site of a former church, erected to contain the body of St. Eulalia. The arched roof is of immense height; the main altar of black and yellow marble. The church is hung with many pictures by Spanish artists, and has the usual amount of stucco and gilding for which Spanish churches have been remarkable since the days of Columbus, when gold was so plentiful with them.
Sunday, 13th.
We hear mass in the little Gothic church of St. Monica, hard by, and go afterward to the cathedral, which is even more impressive upon a second view. Several baptisms are going on, and the very babies are dressed in mantillas—the white mantillas worn by the lower classes, which are very pretty. White silk, trimmed with white lace, or of the lace alone; the silk, which is a long strip, is pinned to the hair on top of the head, and the lace falls over the face, or is folded back. Young ladies wear them of black lace, in the street or for visits; silk, for the churches; and these with the never-failing accompaniment of the fan, belong to all alike; rich and poor, old and young. The fan serves as parasol, and strange to say, that, with this alone to shelter them from the sun, these women should be so beautifully fair; and in Valencia they are famed for their white complexions! Surely the sun in Spain is kinder than in America, for freckles and sun-burn are never seen.
The men wear a red or purple cap, which they call "gorro;" a sort of bag which hangs down behind, or at the side, or is more generally folded flat across the forehead; a red or purple sash, (faja;) a short jacket; sandals (espardinya) of hemp or straw, tied with strings. We drive through the streets, and find most of the shops closed, (Sunday;) and see through the open doors that every house, even the very poorest, looks nice and clean.
In the evening, we drive upon the Prado del Gracia, which terminates in the little town of Gracia, where are pretty villas, and stop at a convent for the evening service. It is of this very convent that they tell how, in the Moorish invasion of Al Mansour, when his soldiers were recruiting for the harems of the Balearic Islands, (Minorca and Majorca,) the poor nuns, thinking to avoid so horrible a fate, heroically cut off their noses to disfigure themselves; but it did not avail to save them; for history records that they were carried off, in spite of their noses, or, rather, in spite of the want of them.
Barceloneta is a suburb where live the fishermen, and where we find docks crowded with shipping. From this we have a fine view of the Fort Montuich, built upon a high rock. There is also a citadel near the sea, and a beautiful promenade upon the walls, (Muralea del Mar.) And amongst the public buildings is a university, said to be the finest in Spain; many hospitals and charitable institutions, and a theatre (the Lycée) which they claim to be larger than San Carlo, in Naples, the Scala, in Milan, or even the new-opera house in Paris. Barcelona is the birthplace of Balmes, the author of that great work, Protestantism and Catholicity compared in their Influence upon Civilization.
Valencia Del Cid, Sept. 14.
Yesterday, at six in the morning, we leave Barcelona for "the City of the Cid," arriving at ten o'clock at night; a long, fatiguing, but interesting day. The railway runs by the blue Mediterranean, with stern, bleak mountains close on the other side; or through vineyards, and fig and olive groves, with which are mingled peaches, apples, and quinces, showing that all varieties of fruits meet together in this favored clime. In passing Martorell, the third or fourth station from Barcelona, we have a fine view of Montserrat; a picturesque, jagged mountain 1000 feet high, where is a monastery, one of the most celebrated pilgrimages in Spain. On the opposite side is a famous old Roman bridge (over the Llobregat river) called "del Diablo," built in 531 B.C., by Hannibal, in honor of Hamilcar. At one end is a triumphal arch. Here the views are particularly fine.
Villafranca comes next, the earliest Carthaginian colony in Catalonia, founded by Hamilcar. Next we see Terragona, an ancient city, on a steep and craggy eminence, founded by the Scipios. It was long the seat of the Roman government in Spain; now famous for its fine wines.
Here the costume of the peasants begins to look more eastern. The full, short linen pantaloons, (on each leg a petticoat;) a red handkerchief, worn as a turban; sometimes leather leggings, but more frequently legs red from the wine-press, where they have been treading out the grape-juice. The peasants are simple and friendly, and, seeing few strangers, look upon them as guests, and seem never disposed to speculate upon our ignorance of the prices of things. One of our party offered to pay for a tempting bunch of grapes which we saw in a man's basket, who pressed to look at us in one of the stations. With difficulty he was prevailed upon to take a real, (five cents.) He then offered more, which we in turn declined. Waiting till the train moved off, he sprang forward, and dropped into my lap a bunch which must have weighed several pounds, and I looked back to see him smiling most triumphantly. At another station (a poor place in the mountains) a modest, clean-looking woman came forward with glasses of water. No one paid anything for drinking it. But when she came to our carriage, one of the party gave her two reals, (ten cents in silver.) The poor thing shook her head sadly, saying, "No tengo cambia." (But I have no change.) When she was made to comprehend that she was to keep it all, her face glowed with delighted surprise; and as we moved off, we saw her showing the money to all around her. No doubt she took my friend for the queen herself!
At Tortosa, on the Ebro, we begin to see the palm-trees. And here we enter the province of Valencia, the brightest jewel in the crown of Spain. The Moors placed here their paradise, and under their rule it became the garden of Spain. From them the Cid rescued it in 1094, and here he governed like a king, and died here in 1099. It was then annexed to Castile and Arragon. It is a fortified town, about three miles from the sea; and with its narrow streets, tall houses, balconies, with curtains and blinds hanging outside into the street, looks perennially southern and Spanish. We come up from the station in a "tartana," a vehicle peculiar to Valencia, a sort of omnibus on two wheels, made to hold six persons; without springs, and with one horse. The driver sits on the shaft, with his legs dangling down, or supported by a strap. This vehicle jolts horribly, but is very cheap and convenient.
Tuesday, September 13.
To-day we first see the museum, in which are many pictures of Spanish artists, both ancient and modern—two of Spagnoletto, and several of Ribalta and Juanes—two Valencian artists of whom they are very proud. The last is especially famed for his beautiful pictures of our Lord. We saw here the ancient altar used by James the Conqueror, "Don Jaime," as he is called—the great hero of Catalonia, son of Pedro I. He was one of the first sovereigns who established standing armies in Europe. Amongst other wise institutions, the municipal body of Barcelona was his work. He died in Valencia, 1276, on his way to the monastery of Poblet to become a monk, confiding his goodly sword, "La Tizona," to his son Don Pedro, in whose favor he had abdicated that year.
In this museum are many remains of the ancient Saguntum, (now called Murviedro,) which is but a few miles from Valencia, and a model of its old Roman theatre. In the court of the building are some palm-trees three hundred years old.
We next visit an ancient church of the Jesuits to see one of Murillo's "Immaculate Conceptions," which is very beautiful. Then the "Audiencia," an ancient building of the sixteenth century, where are the courts of justice and other courts. Here is some wonderful old carving, and curious portraits of Inquisitors; civil, on one side, ecclesiastical on the other. We were glad to see that the former greatly outnumbered the latter. After this, we go to one of the finest hospitals in the world; with marble floors, and pillars supporting a lofty ceiling; the great windows opening into gardens of orange, and myrtle, and jessamine; all clean, fresh, and cool; with an altar so placed in the centre, under a lofty dome, that every patient could see and hear the divine office. The whole building was alike well arranged; the kitchen large and convenient, and the dispensary grand. Certainly, in all our experience—and we have visited hospitals everywhere—we have seen nothing so inviting, so really elegant, as this. Here we meet the two loveliest women we have seen in Spain; both sisters of charity; one having charge of the dispensary, and the other of the foundling institution connected with the hospital. Such white complexions; lovely color; such eyes, and eyelashes, and teeth! Specimens of the beauty of Valencia. And such charming groups of children as we saw amongst these unhappy disowned ones! Unconscious of their fate, they played merrily in the cool court, till, seeing strangers, many ran to hide their beautiful eyes behind the sister's apron. The school-room would have done honor to the most "enlightened nation," which might here take a lesson from "benighted Spain." Great placards hold the "A B C." Slates hang in order by the little benches against the wall; pictures of beasts and birds, for natural history; maps, for geography; drawings, for mathematics; balls strung on wires, for counting; large books filled with colored engravings of Bible history, from the birth of Adam to the end of the Apocalypse. And such neatness and order! There is one department for the little ones whose mothers leave them each morning, when they go out to work, returning for them at night. Their tiny baskets hung in a row. Some, who were quite babies, were being greatly petted, because it was their first day away from the mother.
While in the school-room, one of the party began examining a large map of Spain with reference to our projected route. The sister seeing this, lowered the map by a cord, and calling a little fellow of five years, he pointed out the oceans by which Spain is surrounded, named the rivers and mountains, the provinces of Spain, and the principal towns; never once making a blunder, though he often paused to recollect himself.
We drive to see the queen's garden, where is every tropical tree and flower. This, with other gardens, borders upon the Alameda, a broad, shady promenade extending three miles to the sea. There is another promenade called the "Glorieta," where the band plays every morning from nine to eleven. We see, also, the Plaza de Toros, (the arena for the bull-fights,) one of the finest in Spain, capable of holding twenty thousand people; built so exactly like a Roman amphitheatre that we feel as if we looked upon the Colosseum in the days of its glory. It is evident that these people inherit the love of this their national pastime from their Roman ancestors. Happily, the fashion is dying out. In Valencia, the bull-fights occur but once or twice a year. They are now making preparations for a three days' "funcion," to begin on the 24th. We saw the poor horses doomed to death. Forty a day is the average number. The men are rarely killed, but often badly hurt.
Wednesday, September 16.
This morning we go to the markets to see the wonderful display of fruits for which Valencia is so famous. Never were such grapes and peaches, melons and figs, oranges and lemons, apples and pears, the last as fine as could be seen in all New England; the nuts and vegetables equally good. Potatoes, and tomatoes, and peppers, of mammoth size, and even the Indian corn and rice as good as those of America. But even the Spanish gravity is here upset at sight of our round hats, short veils, and parasols. The women hold their their sides with laughter, and we are driven to resolve upon wearing mantillas and fans, which fashion we soon after, in self-defence, adopt. We go to the shops to buy fans, which are a specialty of Valencia, as are also the beautiful striped blankets, (mantas,) which are as indispensable to a Valencian as the fan is to the Valencienne; and is at once his cloak, his bag, his bed, his coverlet, and his towel. They say of a Valencian, that he has two uses for a watermelon—to eat his dinner, and make his toilette. After eating the melon, he washes his face with the rind, and wipes upon his manta. They wear it slung gracefully over the left shoulder, or over both shoulders, the ends falling behind; and over the head-handkerchief is often worn the pointed hat of Philip II.'s time, with wide, turned-up brim.
To-day we visit the cathedral and San Juanes. Like most of the great churches of Spain, the cathedral occupies the site of a Roman temple. This, made into a church by the Goths, was changed to a mosque by the Arabs, and now (since 1240) it is again a Christian church. Some of the doors, and many of the ornaments, are Moorish. The gratings—of brass—are very handsome; as are the altars and screen, of marble and alabaster. This last is most abundant in Spain. A palace opposite to our hotel (that of the Marquis de los Aguas) is beautifully adorned on the outside with statues, and vases, and flowers of alabaster in relievo.
All these Spanish churches are much ornamented with stucco and gilding, according to the taste of the time in which they were built. The cathedral has some good pictures in the sacristy; and within the sanctuary hang the spurs of Don Jaime upon his shield. His body is in one of the chapels.
In an old chapter-house we were shown some great chains taken from the Moors, and a series of portraits of all the archbishops of Valencia; and so much is it the habit to gesticulate in this country, that even these dignitaries, instead of being painted in ecclesiastical attitudes, have their fingers in every imaginable position. One must know their expressive language to read what each of these worthies may be saying.
After some shopping, we go to call upon the present archbishop, a graceful and dignified person, who received us most kindly, and presented us each a chapelette and scapular. He has a grand old palace, very plainly furnished; a pretty chapel; and, in a fine old hall, with groined roof, were portraits of his predecessors from the sixth century to the present day.
We have a visit from the English consul, to whom we brought letters. He is very kind and friendly, and full of offers of service. The Spanish sun seems to have warmed the English heart, which seldom gives out so much, save in its own foggy island. He sends us some fine wine, which, with some iced orgeat, secures us a merry evening.
Thursday, 17.
This morning we hear mass in the Church of the Patriarch, into which no woman may enter without being veiled. Then we visit the house in which St. Vincent Ferrer, the patron of Valencia, was born, and where is a fountain greatly esteemed for its miraculous powers.
While at breakfast, a young man enters, whom we take for a Spaniard, but who proves to be an American, and from Maine! He has lived in Cuba, however, and it turns out that his father is a friend of the Spanish ladies with whom we are travelling. He gives a pleasant account of his travels in the north of Spain; tells of the wonders of Burgos; of the railway between that and Miranda, which shows such extraordinary engineering skill; and of the fine scenery through which he has passed. Yesterday, on the mountains, he saw three sunsets; or rather, saw the sun set three times, in descending from range to range.
It is delightful to meet an American who, instead of complaining of the discomforts of travelling in Spain, as most of our people do, sees only what is pleasant. For ourselves, we have been most fortunate; good hotels, most obliging people, and, so far from being extortionate, (as we were told to expect,) we find Spanish hotels cheaper than those of any other part of Europe. To-day we eat the "pollo con arroz," one of the national dishes, (rice with chicken and saffron,) and find it very good.
Hans Andersen, in his little book on Spain, says:
"Connected with Valencia, are several of the old Spanish romances about the Cid—he who in all his battles, and on occasions when he was misjudged, remained true to his God, his people, and himself; he who, in his own time, took rank with the monarchs of Spain, and down to our own time is the pride of the country which he was mainly instrumental in rescuing from the infidels. As a conqueror he entered Valencia, and here lived with his noble and heroic wife, Zimena, and his daughters, Doña Sol and Doña Elvira; and here he died in 1099. Here stood around his bed of death all who were dear to him. Even his very warhorse, Babieca, was ordered to be called thither. In song, it is said that the horse stood like a lamb, and gazed with his large eyes upon his master, who could no more speak than the poor horse himself. … Through the streets of Valencia passed at night the extraordinary cavalcade to San Peder de Cordoña, which the departed chief had desired should be his burial-place. The victorious colors of the Cid were carried in front. Four hundred knights protected them. Then came the corpse. Upright upon his war-horse sat the dead; arrayed in his armor with his shield and his helmet, his long white beard flowing down to his breast.
"Gil Diaz and Bishop Jeronymo escorted the body on either side; then followed Doña Zimena with three hundred noblemen. The gate of Valencia toward Castile was opened, and the procession passed silently and slowly out into the open fields, where the Moorish army was encamped. A dark Moorish woman shot at them a poisoned arrow, but she and a hundred of her sisters paid the forfeit of their lives for that deed. Thirty-six Moorish princes were in the camp; but terror seized upon them when they beheld the dead hero on his white charger.
'And to their vessels they took flight,
And many sprang into the waves.
Two thousand, certainly, that night
Amid the billows found their graves.'
"And the Cid Campeador thus won, after he was dead, good tents, gold and silver; and the poorest in Valencia became rich. So says the old 'Song of the Cid in Valencia.'
Cordova — Province Of Andalusia — Fonda Suiza — Hotel Suisse.
September 18.
After a long night journey, (by rail,) we reach a hotel rivalling the cleanness and comfort of the genuine Swiss hotel, and find ourselves in the ancient capital of the Moorish empire, and in that lovely, bright Andalusia, so famed throughout the world.
From the time we leave Valencia until we reach Jativa, (about fifty miles,) we pass over the "Huerta" (the "garden") of Valencia, one continuous plain of verdure; pastures which are cut from twelve to seventeen times a year. Golden oranges, and other fruits hang above these green fields; and dates, and figs, and peaches, and pears, and quinces, pomegranates, plums, apples, melons, and grapes, and olives, with Indian corn, rice, and every vegetable in equal perfection. Well might the Moors term this plain (with Andalusia) "the Paradise of the East." For centuries after their expulsion, their poets still sang verses expressive of their grief for its loss, and it is said they still mention it in their evening prayers, and supplicate Heaven to restore it to them.
And this fertility is all their work. Every stream has been turned from its channel into numberless little canals, which water this luxurious soil; and these are arranged with such skill and care that crop after crop has its share of irrigation, and in its just proportion. From Jativa the country becomes more mountainous. We pass the ruins of an old chateau on a high hill, (Montesa,) seat of an ancient order of chivalry which existed after the suppression of the Templars. We next pass Almanzar, Chinchilla, Albacete, where they sell the famous "Toledo blades," now hardly so famous. Here we are in La Mancha, and when we stop in Alcazar at midnight, we are near the village of Troboso, which Cervantes makes the dwelling of Don Quixote's Dulcinea. Alcazar is claimed as the birth-place of Cervantes.
Here we leave our road for the grand route between Madrid and Cordova; and here we are crowded into carriages with other ladies, a fate from which we have hitherto been defended; each conductor treating us as if we had been especially committed to his care, and sparing us all annoyance. Fortunately, at Manzanares two of these ladies leave us, and we make acquaintance with the third, who is very kind and polite; offers us a share of her luncheon, and gives us much information of people and things in Spain. She is a Portuguese, and tells us how much larger and finer are the olive-trees in her country than in Spain; she remembers one tree which eight men could not clasp. From her we hear much of the queen as from an unprejudiced source, and learn, what we gathered afterward from many credible sources, that this poor queen is a good woman, a very pious woman, full of talents and accomplishments, generous to a fault, with strong feelings and affections, which induce her to reward to excess those whom she loves or who have served her; and this has given rise to the injurious reports which have found their way to every foreign newspaper, but which no good people in Spain believe.
From Andujar the country is very uninteresting, more of a grazing country, where we see immense herds of cattle, sheep, horses, and goats, with picturesque shepherds minding them. The men wear short trousers, opened several inches at the ankle, showing the untanned leathern buskin, (as is seen in the old pictures of Philip II.'s time,) a red sash, and the black hat turned up all around. Presently we come upon the Guadalquivir, upon which Cordova is situated, and which is crossed here by a bridge of black marble. We drive up the cool, shady streets, catching glimpses, through open doors and curtains, of the little paradise within—the marble courts, with fountain, and orange-trees, and flowers, and vines—a vestige of the old Moorish time. In fact, everything here so preserves its Arabic character that one is transported six centuries back, into the palmy days of the Kalifs, when this city was said to have contained half a million of inhabitants, 200,000 houses, 60,000 palaces, 700 mosques, 900 baths, 50 hospitals, and a public library of 600,000 volumes. Of all these glories only the mosque remains to show by its magnificence that these accounts cannot be exaggerated.
Saturday, September 19.
We hasten to see the mosque, (the cathedral now,) and, entering a low door-way in the wall which surrounds it, you find yourself in a beautiful oriental court, with fountains, and rows of tall palms, and ancient orange trees and cypress. This is called "the court of ranges." Open colonnades surround the court on all sides save one, from which twenty doors once opened into the mosque; only one of these is now open. Enter this, and you find yourself in a forest of pillars—a thousand are yet left—of every hue and shade, no two alike, of jasper, and verde antique, and porphyry, and alabaster, and every colored marble, fluted, and spiral; and over these, rises arch upon arch overlapping each other. These divide the mosque into twenty-nine aisles from north to south, and nineteen from west to east; intersecting each other in the most harmonious and beautiful manner. The Moors brought these pillars from the ancient temples of Rome, and Nismes, and Carthage. The mosque was built in the eighth century, by Abd El Rahman, who aimed to make it rival those of Damascus and Bagdad. It is said he worked upon it an hour every day with his own hand, and it is certain that it ranked in sanctity with the "Caaba" of Mecca, and the great mosque of Jerusalem. Ten thousand lamps illuminated it at the hour of prayer; the roof was made of arbor vitae, which is considered imperishable, and was burnished with gold. The chapel, where is the holy of holies—where was kept the Koran—gives one an idea of what the ornaments of the whole must have been. Here the carvings are of the most exquisite fineness, like patterns of lace; the gold enamel, the beautiful mosaics, are as bright as if made yesterday. In the holy of holies—a recess in this chapel—the roof is of one block of marble, carved in the form of a shell, supported by pillars of various-colored marble. Around this wall a path is worn in the marble pavement, by the knees of the faithful making the mystic "seven rounds;" and our guide tells us that, when a few years ago, the brother of the king of Morocco came here, he went round this holy of holies upon his knees, seven times, crying bitterly all the while. The chapel of the Kalifs is also remarkable, from the floor to the ceiling, the marble being carved in these beautiful and delicate patterns.
From the cathedral, we go to visit the old Roman bridge of sixteen arches, which spans the Guadalquivir. This looks upon some ruins of Moorish mills, and the orange-gardens of the Alcazar, (now in ruins,) once the palace of Roderick, the last of the Goths. As we pass the modern Alcazar, (used as a prison,) an old cavalry officer comes out of the government stables, and invites us to look at the horses—the silky-coated Andalusians of which we have heard so much, and the fleet-footed, graceful Arabians. Each horse had his name and pedigree on a shield over his stall. Returning to our hotel for breakfast, we go out again to see the markets and the shops; visit some churches, and the lovely promenade by the Guadalquivir. Our costumes excite great remark; one woman says to another, "They are masqueraders;" another lifts her hands and exclaims "Ave Maria;" and but for the intervention of our guide, who reproves their curiosity, we should be followed by a troop of children.
Sunday, 20.
Coming to breakfast, we are charmed to find our young American friend whom we had left in Valencia; and, in spite of a pouring rain, we all set out to hear high mass in the cathedral. The mosque was consecrated, and made the cathedral, when the city was captured by St. Ferdinand in 1236. Several chapels and altars were then added, and in 1521, the transept and choir were begun, to make room for which, eighty pillars were sacrificed. Charles V., who gave permission for this act of vandalism, was deeply mortified when he saw what had been done, and reproved the canons of the church, saying, they had destroyed what was unique in the world, to raise that which could be found anywhere.
While we are at mass, our young American arrives with the guide, to tell us that a revolution has broken out, and entreats us to return to the hotel. Some of the ladies are much alarmed; but my friend and myself, remembering that revolutions are chronic in Spanish countries, and are generally bloodless, we maintain our ground, too old soldiers to be driven from the field before a gun is fired; and the result justifies our faith.
Nobody quits the church. We have a solemn procession of the Blessed Sacrament after mass, winding through these beautiful aisles, accompanied by a band of wind instruments, the whole congregation following. We reach home to find our fellow-travellers very much frightened and annoyed at the prospect of a long detention; but we are assured that the worst which can befall us is a delay of a few days, to which we can well submit in this comfortable inn. Making acquaintance with our fellow-prisoners, we grow jolly over our misfortunes. The railways are all cut; General Prim and his colleagues (the exiled generals) are besieging Cadiz; and the queen has fled to Biarritz, to claim the intervention of the Emperor Napoleon. These are some of the rumors which are rife during the day. Hosts of red umbrellas parade the town—the most formidable weapon which we encounter; a few voices faintly cry "Libertad!" and "Viva!" some damp-looking soldiers pass by, with lances from which depend little red flags, looking limp and hopeless in the heavy rain. These troops declare for the people. We ask one of these what they want; the answer is, "Liberty." (Of course.) "And what is that?" "We want a King. We will not be governed by a woman." Inflammatory hand-bills are distributed amongst the crowd, very vague in their demands, "an empty throne" being the first requisite on the list.
One man is killed, (a fine young officer of the queen's troops mercilessly shot down,) and another man is wounded. In the evening, we hear that the revolution is accomplished in Cordova; the insurrectionists have the city!
Monday, 21.
All is peaceful in appearance, and we go out to shop, to find some of the filagree jewelry for which Cordova is remarkable—an art retained from the time of the Moors. The rain drives us in, and we spend the day with music, books, and in conversation with our new friends—a Spanish lady of rank, who has come to Cordova about a lawsuit, and who shakes with fright, and goes about with a glass of water and a cup of vinegar to quiet her nerves; the poor lady neither eats nor sleeps. The others are of different calibre; a sturdy Scotch lady, and her companion, a sweet and charming German girl. "Who's afeard!"
Tuesday, 22.
We are roused by the sound of military music, and find that 5000 of the queen's troops are entering the city. Such. splendid-looking fellows! Such handsome officers! It is plain the city is taken in earnest now! The inconstant populace clamor and shout; all is enthusiasm; the report is, that the insurrectionists are fled to Seville; the roads are repaired, but we are not allowed to leave the city. Still prisoners of war! Later in the day, we hear that the troops we saw this morning are those which had joined the insurgents at Seville. The queen's troops, commanded by the Marquis de Novaliches, are outside the town, fearing to be too few for those within, and waiting the turn of events. It is supposed there will be some compromise entered into; a convention patched up; and no fighting. The prime minister, Gonzales Bravo, has fled from Madrid, where all is anarchy. This man, who has been the author of all the oppressive measures, and all the banishments which have made the queen's government unpopular, now, in her hour of need leaves her to her fate, after cruelly deceiving her. When she feared the danger of revolution, he assured her she might leave the country without any anxiety; and she went to Biarritz in ignorance of the truth; thus giving her enemies the very opportunity they desired. Even now, (they say,) were she to return, and throw herself upon the generosity of the people, she would be received kindly; such is the loyalty of Spaniards to their monarchs. The influence of Bravo banished the Montpensiers, (the queen's sister and her husband, the son of Louis Philippe,) who were naturally her best friends, and to whom she had showed every kindness. He sent away many of her most popular generals; and now they return, with men and arms, and British and Prussian gold; the people sympathize with them, the troops join them; we hear from Cadiz, that there was a perfect ovation upon their landing.
To-day, we have a fine walk in a beautiful park, on one side of the city, from whence we have a charming view of the mountains; on one side, so grand and bold, with olive groves, and white country houses sparkling in the sunshine; on the other side, the hills are low, and their graceful, wavy outlines have the peculiar purple hue belonging to Spain, and form a striking contrast to the others. Between the two, lies the city, and the fertile plains about it. We lose our way in the tortuous streets, and spend the morning peeping into the beautiful patios, (courts,) which open to the heavens, or have sometimes a linen awning over them; with marble pavements, over which the cool fountains play; with orange-trees, and flowers, amongst which sofas, and chairs, and pictures are disposed; and around which often runs a marble corridor, with pillars and curtains, communicating with the other apartments. Here the family sit, and here take place the "tirtulias," the meetings for talk and music. A picture of one of these patios is thus charmingly translated from one of Fernan Caballero's beautiful tales by a late English traveller; and which any one who has been in Spain will recognize:
"The house was spacious, and scrupulously clean: on each side the door was a bench of stone. In the porch hung a little lamp before the image of our Lord in a niche over the entrance, according to the Catholic custom of putting all things under holy protection. In the middle was the 'patio,' a necessity to the Andalusian. And in the centre of this spacious court an enormous orange-tree raised its leafy head from its robust trunk. For an infinity of generations had this beautiful tree been a source of delight to the family. The women made tonic decoctions from its leaves; the daughters adorned themselves with its flowers; the boys cooled their blood with its fruits; the birds made their home in its boughs. The rooms opened out of the 'patio,' and borrowed their light from thence. This 'patio' was the centre of all the 'home;' the place of gathering when the day's work was over. The orange-tree loaded the air with its heavy perfume, and the waters of the fountain fell in soft showers on the marble basin, fringed with the delicate maiden-hair fern. And the father, leaning against the tree, smoked his 'cigarro de papel;' and the mother sat at her work, while the little ones played at her feet, the eldest resting his head on a big dog, which lay stretched at full length on the cool marble slabs. All was still, and peaceful, and beautiful."
We close the day with a farewell visit to the cathedral. Surely it is the most wonderful building in the world. Even St. Peter's hardly fills one with greater astonishment. This is altogether unique; and its grace, and elegance, and harmony win one to love it. We lingered by the chapel of the holy of holies, finding beauties which we had not before seen, and bade farewell to it with deep regret; then wandered to the bridge over the Guadalquivir, and gazed upon the truly eastern prospect it reveals.
To-day, a great robber from the mountains, upon whose head a price had been fixed by the late government, comes boldly into town. The people cry, "Viva Pacheco!" In half an hour after, we hear he has been shot—the victim of private revenge.
Cordova is the birthplace of Lucan, the author of the Pharsalia; of the two Senecas; of many eminent Moslem poets and authors, and of the famous Gonzales de Cordova, "El Gran Capitan."