Letters from Spain

by Joseph Blanco White

It would be tedious to enter into a description of the numerous orders comprehended under the two classes of Monks and Friars. The distinguishing characters of the first are wealth, ease, and indulgence—those of the last, vulgarity, filth, and vice. I shall only add that, among the Monks, the Benedictines are at the top of the scale for learning and decency of manners, while the Hieronimites deservedly occupy the bottom. To the Friars I am forced to apply the Spanish proverb—“There is little to choose in a mangy flock.” The Franciscans, however, both from their multitude and their low habits of mendicity, may be held as the proper representatives of all that is most objectionable in the religious orders.

The inveterate superstition which still supports these institutions among us has lost, of late, its power to draw recruits to the cloister, from the middle and higher classes. Few monks, and scarcely a friar, can be found, who by taking the cowl, has not escaped a life of menial toil. Boys of this rank of life are received as novices at the age of fifteen, and admitted, after a year’s probation, to the perpetual vows of obedience, poverty, and celibacy. Engagements so discordant with the first laws of human nature could hardly stand the test of time, even if they arose from the deepest feelings of enthusiasm. But this affection of the mind is seldom found in our convents. The year of noviciate is spent in learning the cant and gestures of the vilest hypocrisy, as well as in strengthening, by the example of the professed young friars, the original gross manners and vicious habits of the probations.[30] The result of such a system is but too visible. It is a common jest among the friars themselves, that in the act of taking the vows, when the superior of the convent draws the cowl over the head of the novice, he uses the words Tolle verecundiam—“Put off shame.” And indeed, were the friars half so true to their profession as they are to this supposed injunction, the Church of Rome would really teem with saints. Shameless in begging, they share the scanty meal of the labourer, and extort a portion of every product of the earth from the farmer. Shameless in conduct, they spread vice and demoralization among the lower classes, secure in the respect which is felt for their profession, that they may engage in a course of profligacy without any risk of exposure. When an instance of gross misconduct obtrudes itself upon the eyes of the public, every pious person thinks it his duty to hush up the report, and cast a veil on the transaction. Even the sword of justice is glanced aside from these consecrated criminals. I shall not trouble you with more than two cases, out of a multitude, which prove the power of this popular feeling.

The most lucrative employment for friars, in this town, is preaching. I have not the means to ascertain the number of sermons delivered at Seville in the course of the year; but there is good reason to suppose that the average cannot be less than twelve a-day. One preacher, a clergyman, I know, who scarcely passes one day without mounting the pulpit, and reckons on three sermons every four-and-twenty hours, during the last half of Lent.

Of these indefatigable preachers, the greatest favourite is a young Franciscan friar, called Padre R——z, whose merit consists in a soft clear-toned voice, a tender and affectionate manner, and an incredible fluency of language. Being, by his profession, under a vow of absolute poverty, and the Franciscan rule carrying this vow so far as not to allow the members of the order to touch money, it was generally understood that the produce of these apostolical labours was faithfully deposited to be used in common by the whole religious community. An incident, however, which lately came to light, has given us reason to suspect that we are not quite in the secret of the internal management of these societies of saintly paupers, and that individual industry is rewarded among them with a considerable share of profits. A young female cousin of the zealous preacher in question, was living quite alone in a retired part of this town, where her relative paid her, it should seem, not unfrequent visits. Few, however, except her obscure neighbours, suspected her connexion with the friar, or had the least notion of her existence. An old woman attended her in the day-time, and retired in the evening, leaving her mistress alone in the house. One morning the street was alarmed by the old servant, who, having gained admittance, as usual, by means of a private key, found the young woman dead in her bed, the room and other parts of the house being stained with blood. It was clear, indeed, upon a slight inspection of the body, that no violence had taken place; yet the powerful interest excited at the moment, and before measures had been taken to hush the whole matter, spread the circumstances of the case all over the town, and brought the fact to light, that the house itself belonged to the friar, having been purchased by an agent with the money arising from his sermons. The hungry vultures of the law would have reaped an abundant harvest upon any lay individual who had been involved in such a train of suspicious circumstances. But, probably, a proper douceur out of the sermon fees increased their pious tenderness for the friar; while he was so emboldened by the disposition of the people to shut their eyes on every circumstance which might sully the fair name of a son of Saint Francis, that, a few days after the event, he preached a sermon, denouncing the curse of Heaven on the impious individuals who could harbour a belief derogatory to his sacred character.

Crimes of the blackest description were left unpunished during the last reign, from a fixed and avowed determination of the King[31] not to inflict the punishment of death upon a priest. Townsend has mentioned the murder of a young lady committed by a friar at San Lucar de Barrameda; and I would not repeat the painful narrative, were it not that my acquaintance with some of her relatives, as well as with the spot on which she fell, enables me to give a more accurate statement.

A young lady, of a very respectable family in the above-mentioned town, had for her confessor a friar of the Reformed or Unshod Carmelites. I have often visited the house where she lived, in front of the convent. Thither her mother took her every day to mass, and frequently to confession. The priest, a man of middle age, had conceived a passion for his young penitent, which, not venturing to disclose, he madly fed by visiting the unsuspecting girl with all the frequency which the spiritual relation in which he stood towards her, and the friendship of her parents, allowed him. The young woman now about nineteen, had an offer of a suitable match, which she accepted with the approbation of her parents. The day being fixed for the marriage, the bride, according to custom, went, attended by her mother, early in the morning to church, to confess and receive the sacrament. After giving her absolution, the confessor, stung with the madness of jealousy, was observed whetting a knife in the kitchen. The unfortunate girl had, in the mean time, received the host, and was now leaving the church, when the villain, meeting her in the porch, and pretending to speak a few words in her ear—a liberty to which his office entitled him—stabbed her to the heart in the presence of her mother. The assassin did not endeavour to escape. He was committed to prison; and after the usual delays of the Spanish law, was condemned to death. The King, however, commuted this sentence into a confinement for life in a fortress at Puerto Rico. The only anxiety ever showed by the murderer was respecting the success of his crime. He made frequent enquiries to ascertain the death of the young woman; and the assurance that no man could possess the object of his passion, seemed to make him happy during the remainder of a long life.

Instances of enthusiasm are so rare, even in the most austere orders, that there is strong ground to suspect its seeds are destroyed by a pervading corruption of morals. The Observant Franciscans, the most numerous community in this town, have not been able to set up a living saint after the death, which happened four or five years since, of the last in the series of servants to the order, who, for time immemorial, have been a source of honour and profit to that convent. Besides the lay-brothers—a kind of upper servants under religious vows, but excluded from the dignity of holy orders—the friars admit some peasants, under the name of Donados, (Donati, in the Latin of the middle ages,) who, like their predecessors of servile condition, give themselves up, as their name expresses it, to the service of the convent. As these people are now-a-days at liberty to leave their voluntary servitude, none are admitted but such as by the weakness of their understanding, and the natural timidity arising from a degree of imbecility, are expected to continue for life in a state of religious bondage. They wear the habit of the order, and are employed in the most menial offices, unless, being able to act, or rather to bear the character of extraordinary sanctity, they are sent about town to collect alms for their employers. These idiot saints are seen daily with a vacillating step, and look of the deepest humility, bearing about an image of the child Jesus, to which a basket for alms is appended, and offering, not their hand, which is the privilege of priests, but the end of their right sleeve, to be kissed by the pious. To what influence these miserable beings are sometimes raised, may be learned from a few particulars of the life of Hermanito Sebastian (Little Brother Sebastian) the last but one of the Franciscan collectors in this town.

During the last year of Philip V. Brother Sebastian was presented to the Infantes, the king’s sons, that he might confer a blessing upon them. The courtiers present, observing that he took most notice of the king’s third son, Don Carlos, observed to him that his respects were chiefly due to the eldest, who was to be king. “Nay, nay, (it is reported he answered, pointing to his favourite) this shall be king too.” Some time after this interview, Don Carlos was, by the arrangements which put an end to the Succession War, made Sovereign Prince of Parma. Conquest subsequently raised him to the throne of Naples; and, lastly, the failure of direct heirs to his brother Ferdinand VI. put him in possession of the crown of Spain. His first and unexpected promotion to the sovereignty of Parma had strongly impressed Don Carlos with the idea of Sebastian’s knowledge of futurity. But when, after the death of the prophet, he found himself on the throne of Spain, he thought himself bound in honour and duty to obtain from the Pope the Beatification, or Apotheosis, of Little Sebastian. The Church of Rome, however, knowing the advantages of strict adherence to rules and forms, especially when a king stands forward to pay the large fees incident to such trials, proceeded at a pace, compared to which your Court of Chancery would seem to move with the velocity of a meteor. But when the day arrived for the exhibition, before the Holy Congregation of Cardinals, of all papers whatever which might exist in the hand-writing of the candidate for saintship, and it was found necessary to lay before their Eminences an original letter, which the King carried about his person as an amulet; good Carlos found himself in a most perplexing dilemma. Distracted between duty to his ghostly friend, and his fears of some personal misfortune during the absence of the letter, he exerted the whole influence of his crown through the Spanish ambassador at Rome, that the trial might proceed upon the inspection of an authentic copy. The Pope, however, was inexorable, and nothing could be done without the autograph. The king’s ministers at home, on the other hand, finding him restless, and scarcely able to enjoy the daily amusement of the chase, succeeded, at length, in bringing about a plan for the exhibition of the letter, which, though attended with an inevitable degree of anxiety and pain to his majesty, was, nevertheless, the most likely to spare his feelings. The most active and trusty of the Spanish messengers was chosen to convey the invaluable epistle to Rome, and his speed was secured by the promise of a large reward. Orders were then sent to the ambassador to have the Holy Congregation assembled on the morning when the messenger had engaged to arrive at the Vatican. By this skilful and deep-laid plan of operations, the letter was not detained more than half an hour at Rome; and another courier returned it with equal speed to Spain. From the moment when the King tore himself from the sacred paper, till it was restored to his hands, he did not venture once out of the palace. I have given these particulars on the authority of a man no less known in Spain for the high station he has filled, than for his public virtues and talents. He has been minister of state to the present King, Charles IV., and is intimately acquainted with the secret history of the preceding reign.[32]

Great remnants of self-tormenting fanaticism are still found among the Carthusians. Of this order we have two monasteries in Andalusia, one on the banks of the Guadalquivir, within two miles of our gates, and another at Xeréz, or Sherry, as that town was formerly called in England, a name which its wines still bear. These monasteries are rich in land and endowments, and consequently afford the monks every comfort which is consistent with their rule. But all the wealth in the universe could not give those wretched slaves of superstition a single moment of enjoyment. The unhappy man who binds himself with the Carthusian vows, may consider the precincts of the cell allotted him as his tomb. These monks spend daily eight or nine hours in the chapel, without any music to relieve the monotony of the service. At midnight they are roused from their beds, whither they retire at sunset, to chaunt matins till four in the morning. Two hours rest are allowed them between that service and morning prayers. Mass follows, with a short interruption, and great part of the afternoon is allotted to vespers. No communication is permitted between the monks, except two days in the week, when they assemble during an hour for conversation. Confined to their cells when not attending church-service, even their food is left them in a wheel-box, such as is used in the nunneries,[33] from which they take it when hungry, and eat it in perfect solitude. A few books and a small garden, in which they cultivate a profusion of flowers, are the only resources of these unfortunate beings. To these privations they add an absolute abstinence from flesh, which they vow not to taste even at the risk of their lives.