Spain in 1830, vol. 2

by Henry D. Inglis

Walking late in the evening through the streets of Seville, (for I generally spent my evenings at a friend’s house, situated half a mile beyond the gate), I was frequently startled by the sound of broils,—some of which most probably ended in murder; and although often strongly tempted to approach the scene of contention, prudence always gained the victory over curiosity. Sounds and sights of a more agreeable, or more picturesque kind, sometimes awaited me. Once or twice, the sound of the guitar and an accompanying voice, rose suddenly from the shaded angle of a garden wall. Another time, the lover had been more adventurous, for the serenade rose from within the sanctuary of the garden. The night after, proceeding a little way along a narrow street, in which I heard the thrumming of a guitar, a cloaked caballero stepped from the shade of a wall which inclosed an orangery—the scene of the serenade—and crossed the street towards me. I thought it safest not to interrupt the affair, whatever it was; and returned to my lodgings by a more circuitous road: and once, in passing the garden of a female convent, I am strangely mistaken if I did not see two figures disappear from the top of the wall. It is certain, that while I was at Seville, there was a strange rumour respecting the arrest and private examination of two Frenchmen, said to have been detected in some forbidden exploit.

Next to Toledo and Murcia, among the larger cities of Spain, superstition and bigotry have the firmest footing in Seville; and from my longer residence in Seville than in Toledo, I had more personal proofs of this, as well as better opportunities of receiving authentic information upon these matters. I will throw some facts together, as they occur to me.

I was surprised, the first visit I made to the cathedral, to observe suspended in the chapels of the different saints, legs, arms, eyes, and other parts of the body, in wax or silver: by the side of one altar I saw a pair of crutches hanging; and by the side of another, the entire body of a child in wood. These are offerings made by devout persons, to the saint whose intercession they believe to have been the means of restoring them to health; and, in token of gratitude, they offer at the altar of the saint, a representation of that part of the body which had been the subject of disease. Vows of various kinds of penance, or of offerings, are made by devout persons when afflicted. Sometimes in walking the streets, you are startled by the apparition of a nun; but this is only some female who, when dangerously ill, has made a vow to wear a certain habit during one, two, or three years. This, it may easily be believed, is the most genuine proof of devotion and gratitude that a Spanish woman can give; for it is no light sacrifice to throw aside her laces and silks, and shroud her graceful figure in the coarse and inelegant garb of a sister of St. Francis. The most celebrated beauty of Cadiz lately testified her devotion in this way,—she vowed to wear the Augustin habit for two years, and the penance had not concluded when I visited Cadiz. Nor is it at all uncommon to see in the streets of Seville, little boys dressed in the full habit of a Franciscan friar,—this also originates in superstitious vows: when children are affected with a dangerous malady, parents make this vow in their behalf; and the order of friars so honoured, is always one of the most austere. But women sometimes resort to modes of inflicting penance upon themselves, more agreeable to them than concealing their charms. One day, when strolling through the cathedral, I saw a respectable woman, not thirty years of age, making the tour of the aisles upon her knees. I watched her progress, and saw her complete the circuit of the cathedral. This might possibly have been enjoined by the confessor; though it is more than probable that it was the result of a secret vow, because money to purchase masses would have been a more likely exaction on his part.

It is impossible to turn the eye in any direction, without finding proofs of the superstition of the inhabitants of Seville; every second or third window is decorated with a palm-branch, which is looked upon as a security against disease coming to that house, the branches having, of course, been duly consecrated. The very names of the streets, but above all the names of the inns, savour strongly of religious bigotry. You read Posada de la Concepcion, Posada de la Natividad, Posada de la Virgen, Posada de todos los Santos. In the respect too that is paid to religious processions, there is a remarkable difference between Madrid and Seville. In Madrid, people only take off their hats when the host is carried by; in Seville, every one falls upon his knees; and if this happen to be at night, no sooner is the little bell heard, than every one hastens to throw open the window and place lights upon the balcony, and to drop upon their knees behind them,—so that the carrying of the host always produces a partial illumination. But more marked honours than even these, are paid to the host, in Seville.

If a person driving in his carriage, should be so unfortunate as to meet this procession, he must leave his carriage, and give it up to the host and the attendant priest; or, if a carriage should drive past the door of a house into which the host has already entered, the carriage must wait at the door, to carry back to the church, or the convent, the consecrated wafer. But I can cite a yet stronger example of superstition than these. One of the convents, the Dominican I think, lay in my way from my lodgings to the Alameda; and I noticed several times the same new carriage standing at the convent door; and upon inquiring the meaning of this, I received the following explanation. When a devout person has a new carriage built, it is sent to wait at the door of one of the churches, or convents, until some dying person may happen to send to that church, or convent, for the last offices of religion: and until the carriage has been blessed by carrying the host, the owner would feel himself unblessed in entering it. But even more gross instances of superstition than these occasionally occur in Seville. Only a very few months before I visited Seville, a Capuchin friar died, one who had the reputation of being even more than usually holy; and so great a commotion was excited, by the hundreds, or rather thousands, who besieged the convent doors to obtain parts of his garments, that the aid of the military was required to preserve order. Not six months before this, it was given out, that a certain virgin, who had up to that time honoured the Carthusian convent by making her abode in it, was found one morning upon the summit of St. John’s Hill; she was brought back to the convent: but next morning she was again discovered to be missing, and was again found on St. John’s Hill: a third time she was made prisoner by the Carthusians, and a third time she returned to her favourite spot on St. John’s Hill. The fathers, no longer able to resist the evidence of the virgin’s will, erected a chapel for her on St. John’s Hill, where she now attracts the footsteps of the devout. It is scarcely credible that an imposition like this should be practised in the middle of the nineteenth century,—and yet the hoax succeeded,—and thousands in Seville believe, that the Carthusian friars were concerned in the affair no farther than in yielding to the wishes of the virgin, in erecting a chapel for her.

I shall add two other facts that occurred at Seville within the last three years. A sacrilegious thief contrived to enter the Capuchin convent during the night, or more probably secreted himself in it during the day, and stole a diamond ring of great value, from the finger of “the Holy Shepherdess,” an image much venerated in that convent, and very richly clothed. The thief, however, was detected, and the ring found upon his person. He was examined before the civil magistrate, and in presence of the superior of the convent, and of many persons whom the rumour of the thing had collected together; and he gave this history of the affair: while praying with great earnestness at the feet of the Holy Shepherdess, he raised his eyes and saw her stretch forth her hand; and while impressed with awe and devotion, she took the ring from her finger and presented it to him. It would have been most unwise had the superior of the convent refused to credit the miracle; he affected to believe it,—told the thief to keep, and ever to venerate the ring,—but advised him never in future to accept presents from this, or any other virgin.

The other extraordinary fact I have to relate is this. Among the many processions of Holy week, there is one, of the Virgin Mary and St. John Baptist, which issues from the church of St. Juan, and makes the tour of the city, passing by the cathedral. The procession left the church, and it began to rain; the friars and their charge took refuge in the Franciscan convent,—and the rain subsiding, the procession proceeded. However, just as it reached the Plaza of the cathedral, a tremendous storm burst overhead, and torrents of rain threatening to descend, the procession sought shelter in the cathedral. Here it remained for some time; but the rain increased, and it began to grow dusk. The Virgin and John Baptist were in their best clothes, which the rain would have entirely spoiled; and besides, it would have shewn a want of respect to take them back to the church without the pomp usually attendant upon so important a procession. In this dilemma, it was resolved that the Virgin and John Baptist should remain in the cathedral all night; but now an unthought-of difficulty arose. Could the Virgin and John Baptist be left in the cathedral all night by themselves with any propriety? The canons were sent for, and the difficulty was stated. One said, “No es decente se quedase St. Juan con ella.” “It is not decent to leave St. John and her together.” Another, a more jocular canon, quoted the well-known Spanish proverb, “El fuego junto á la estopa llega el diablo, y sopla.” “When fire is put to the hemp, the devil comes and blows it.” The result was, that a message was actually dispatched to the captain-general to request a guard; and a captain’s guard, with torches, did accordingly keep watch upon the Virgin and John till morning. These facts I learned from the lips of a lady who had taken refuge in the cathedral, and who herself heard the consultation. I could perceive no symptom of any diminution in the superstitions of Seville, or in the influence possessed by the friars; and the highest public civil authorities lend all the aids of their influence and example to support the delusions. While I was at Seville, it was in contemplation to revive a procession which had not been seen for forty years; this was the burial of Christ; and large funds were required for the exhibition. The Intendente of Seville,—the civil governor,—took up the affair, and sent his son round among the inhabitants to solicit subscriptions; I need scarcely say, that nobody refused. So much for the superstitions of Seville.

The first Sunday after my arrival in Seville, I walked, after dinner, to the Paseo, always an admirable place, in Spain, for making observations upon the population. There is more than one Paseo in Seville; but the most recently formed is the pleasantest and the most frequented: it is a broad paved walk, lying parallel with the river, elevated about ten feet above the surrounding country, and set round with two rows of stone benches. It is the work of the present Intendente, who is also laying out a garden around the Paseo. I found the walk crowded from end to end; and all the benches occupied by friars, whiffing their cigars, and enjoying the cool breeze off the river. The universal dress of the ladies was black, with white silk stockings, and the mantilla; and a few wore veils. At Madrid, when I used to speak without any enthusiasm of Spanish beauty, I was told to reserve my opinion till I had seen the ladies of Seville and Cadiz; but, on the Paseo of Seville, I saw no good reason to alter the opinion I had already formed. If splendid eyes and graceful forms are of themselves sufficient for female beauty, then are the ladies of Seville beautiful. The step and air of the Andalusian, are even more striking than the grace of the Castilian; but the gait of an Andalusian woman, we should scarcely consider decorous in England: this opinion was well expressed by a French lady at Barcellona, to whom I remarked, that the Spanish women walked tres bien. “Trop bien,” she replied.

I took care to be on the Paseo before sunset, that I might witness that impressive ceremony, called oracion,—now banished from Madrid and the northern parts of Spain, and found only in the provinces last occupied by the Moors. Nothing can be more imposing than this old usage: at the same instant that every church and convent bell in the city, peals forth the signal for prayer,—motion and conversation are suspended; the whole multitude stands still; every head is uncovered; the laugh and the jest are silent; and a monotonous hum of prayer rises from the crowd: but this expression of devotion lasts but a moment—the next, it is past; heads are covered; every one turns to his neighbour, and says, “Buenas noches;” and the multitude moves on. During the heats of summer, the Paseo is crowded till midnight; at that season, it is impossible to stir out till after eight o’clock; and it is not unusual to rise at four in the morning, and ride or walk for an hour or two, and then return to bed.

A more delightful walk than the Paseo, is the Delicias: this is situated about a mile down the river, and is, in fact, a grove of flowering trees and aromatic plants. There is here a complete underwood of geraniums, bordering the walks, trailing upon the trees, and spreading over every unoccupied spot. Rows of acacia line the avenues, and form, with majestic weeping willows, a delicious shade; the mingled fragrance of the acacia blossoms, the geraniums, and the adjacent orange and lemon groves, realizes those dreams of far distant and almost fabled lands, that have been the visions of our youthful fancy.