From the north wall of the court rises the campanilla, or belfry, from the summit of which a fine view is obtained of the city. Beneath it is an archway of more recent date than the mosque, called the Gate of Mercy, through which a flight of steps leads from the street into the court. This gate faces the principal entrance into the Mezquita.
The cathedral is rich in silks, jewels, candlesticks, and brocades; and the altar of the chapel of Villa Viciosa is splendidly furnished.
The sacristy contains also some tolerable paintings, said to be by Murillo, and other first-rate Spanish artists, but I doubt whether any of them are originals; for the French, who have a nice discrimination in these matters, twice sacked the city, and were on both occasions so little expected, that the priests had barely time to carry off the plate, and reliques of the churches, to places of greater security. Besides which, the Spaniards are prone to call every black, tarnished old painting a Murillo or a Velasquez.
The bishop’s palace is an immense, and rather handsome pile, standing a little removed from the cathedral, towards the river. The very face of it shows, however, that of late years the prelates have appropriated the revenues of the see to some other, perhaps more legitimate, though less orthodox, purpose, than that of setting their house in order, for it is in a very neglected state. The interior, which is not better looked after, exhibits, in an eminent degree, that mixture of splendour and misery so conspicuous in all things Spanish. A spacious, costly, and particularly dirty marble staircase ascends to the first floor, whereon are the state apartments; they consist of a suite of long, narrow, whitewashed rooms, communicating one with another the whole extent of the building, and each furnished with a prodigious number of shabby old chairs, an antediluvian sofa, and some daubs of paintings in poverty-stricken gilt frames.
The principal apartment, or sala de la audienca, is hung with portraits of all the goodly persons who have worn the episcopal mitre of Cordoba, from the days of San Damaso (who flourished about the middle of the third century) to the present time. Some of these paintings have much merit; but, if they are likenesses of those for whom they were drawn, a disciple of Lavater or Spurzheim must either abandon his faith, or admit that most of the beetle-browed, low-crowned originals, deserved a gibbet rather than a bishop’s cap. Nevertheless, several of these peculiarly “ill-favoured” ecclesiastics are—so our conductor solemnly assured us—now saints in heaven.
One old gentleman, who was not exalted to the episcopal see until he had attained a very advanced age, by way of giving a sarcastic reproof to his patron, had his portrait taken, with a grim figure of death placing the mitre on his head. Another painting represents death holding the mitre in one hand, whilst with the other he is directing a dart at his victim’s breast; leaving us to infer, that the bishop died whilst the pope’s diploma was yet on its way to him from Rome.
At the head of the bench is suspended a very good painting, and admirable likeness, of the truly amiable Pius VII.; and over the fireplace hangs an execrable daub, but an equally striking resemblance, of the detestable Ferdinand VII.
The most noble part of the episcopal palace is the kitchen; which, whether the bishop be at his residence or not, daily furnishes food for 2000 poor persons.[238]
The garden is laid out with taste, and contains some rare transatlantic plants.
There is little else worth noticing in Cordoba. The king’s palace is not occupied; the royal stud-house, where, in former days, the best breeds of Spanish horses were reared, is empty; the fine alameda, outside the city gates, is unfrequented; there is not a handsome street, I may almost say an edifice, in the place; and idleness, penury, and depravity, meet one at every step.