In the courtyard of the inn, our attention was attracted by a number of coarse frescoes, representing, with primitive simplicity, bull-fights: round the pictures were coplas in honour of Paquirro Montes and his quadrille. The name of Montes enjoys the same kind of universal popularity in Andalusia as that of Napoleon does with us; walls, fans, and snuff-boxes are ornamented with his portrait; and the English, who always turn the public taste—whatever it may be—to good account, send from Gibraltar thousands of handkerchiefs with red, violet, and yellow printed portraits of the celebrated matador, accompanied by verses in his praise.
Remembering our famished condition the night before, we purchased some provisions from our host, and among other articles, a ham, for which he made us pay an exorbitant price. A great deal has been said about highway robberies, but it is not on the highway that the danger exists; it is at the road-side, in the inns, that you are robbed and pillaged with the most perfect safety to those that plunder you, without your possessing the right of having recourse to your weapons of defence, and discharging your carbine at the waiter who brings you your bill. I pity the brigands from the bottom of my heart; such landlords as those in Spain do not leave much for them, and only deliver travellers into their hands, like so many lemons with the juice squeezed out. In other countries, landlords make you pay a high price for the things with which they supply you, but in Spain you pay for the absence of everything with its weight in gold.
After we had taken our siesta, the mules were put to the galera, each person resumed his place, the escopetero bestrode his little mountain-steed, the mayoral laid in a stock of small flint-stones to hurl at the ears of his mules, and we set out once more on our journey. The country through which we passed was savage without being picturesque. We beheld nothing but bare, naked, sterile, rugged hills, stony torrent-beds, like scars made in the ground by the winter's rains, and woods of olive-trees, whose pale foliage, powdered over with dust, did not suggest the least idea of refreshing verdure. Here and there, on the gaping sides of the rocks of turf and chalk, was a solitary tuft of fennel, whitened by the heat; on the powdery road were the marks of serpents and vipers, while, over the whole, was a sky as glowing as the roof of an oven and not a gust of wind, not even so much as the slightest breath of air! The grey sand which was raised by the hoofs of the mules fell again without the least eddy to the ground. You might have made iron red-hot in the sun, which darted its rays on the cloth covering of our galera, in which we were ripening like melons under a glass frame. From time to time, we got out and walked a short distance, keeping in the shade projected by the body of the horse or the wagon; when we had stretched our legs somewhat, we would scramble in again, slightly crushing the children and their mother, for we could not reach our seats except by crawling on all fours under the elliptical arch formed by the tilted roof of the galera. By dint of crossing quagmires and ravines, and making short cuts over fields, we lost our way. Our mayoral, in the hope of coming into the right road again, still went on, as if he was perfectly aware where he was going, for corsarios and guides will never own that they have lost themselves till they are reduced to extremities, and have taken you five or six leagues out of the right direction. I must, in justice, say, however, that nothing could be easier than to lose oneself on this fabulous road, which was scarcely marked out, and intersected every moment by deep ravines. At length we found ourselves in the midst of large fields, dotted here and there by olive-trees, with misshapen, dwarfish trunks, and frightful forms, without the slightest signs of a human habitation or a living being. Since the morning, we had met only one half-naked muchacho driving before him, in a cloud of dust, half-a-dozen black pigs. Night set in, and, to augment our misfortunes, there was no moon, so that we had nothing but the uncertain light of the stars to guide us.
The mayoral left his seat every instant to feel the ground with his hands, in the hopes of finding some rut or wheelmark which might direct him to the right road, but all his efforts were in vain, and, greatly against his inclination, he was under the necessity of informing us that he had lost his way, and did not know where he was: he could not understand it; he had made the journey twenty times, and would have undertaken to go to Cordova with his eyes shut. All this appeared rather suspicious, and the idea then struck us that we were, perhaps, purposely brought there in order to be attacked and plundered. Our situation was not an agreeable one, even supposing this were not the case; we were benighted in a remote spot, far from all human help, in a country which enjoys the reputation of concealing more robbers than all the other provinces of Spain united. These reflections doubtlessly suggested themselves also to the minds of the engineer and his friend, the former associate of Jose Maria, who, of course, was not a bad judge in such matters, for they silently loaded their own carbines with ball, and performed the same operation on two others that were placed inside the galera; they then handed us one apiece without uttering a syllable, a mode of proceeding that was exceedingly eloquent. The mayoral was thus left without arms, and, even had he been in collusion with the brigands, was reduced to a state of helplessness. However, after wandering about at hazard, during two or three hours, we perceived a light glittering like a glow-worm under the branches, at a long distance from us. We immediately adopted it as our polar star, and started off towards it in as direct a line as possible, at the risk of being overturned every moment. Sometimes a rise in the ground would conceal it from our eyes, and all nature seemed to be extinguished. Suddenly it would again appear, and our hopes returned with it. At last we arrived sufficiently near a farm-house to distinguish the windows, which was the sky in which our star was shining under the form of a copper lamp. A number of the peculiar wagons drawn by oxen, and of agricultural instruments, scattered here and there, completely restored our confidence, for we were not, at first, sure that we had not fallen into some den of thieves, some posada de barrateros. The dogs, having smelt us out, began barking furiously, so that the whole farm was soon in a state of commotion. The peasants came out with their muskets in their hands to discover the cause of this nocturnal alarm, and having satisfied themselves that we were honest travellers who had lost our way, politely invited us to enter and rest ourselves in the farm.
The worthy people were just going to sup. A wrinkled, bronzed, and, so to speak, mummified old woman, whose skin formed, at all her joints, large folds like a Hessian boot, was preparing a gigantic gaspacho in a red earthen pan. Five or six magnificent greyhounds, with thin backs, broad chests, and splendid ears, and who were worthy of being in the kennel of a king, followed the old woman's movements with unflagging attention, and the most melancholy look of admiration that can possibly be conceived. But this delicious repast was not intended for them; in Andalusia it is the men, and not the dogs, who eat soup made of bread-crusts steeped in water. Some cats, whom the absence of ears and tails—for in Spain these ornamental superfluities are always cut off—cause to resemble Japanese monsters—were also watching these savoury preparations, only at a greater distance. A plateful of the said gaspacho, two slices of our own ham, and a few bunches of grapes, of the colour of amber, composed our supper, which we were obliged to defend from the greyhounds, who were encroachingly familiar, and, under pretence of licking us, literally tore the meat out of our mouths. We rose from our seats, and eat standing up, with our plates in our hands, but the diabolical brutes got on their hind legs, and, throwing their fore-paws over our shoulders, were thus on a level with the coveted food. Even if they did not actually carry it off, they at least gave it two or three licks with their tongues, and thus contrived to obtain the first taste of its flavour. It appeared to us that these greyhounds must have been descended in a right line from the famous dog, whose history Cervantes, however, has not written in his Dialogues. This illustrious animal held the office of dish-washer in a Spanish fonda, and when the girl was blamed because the plates were not clean, she swore by everything she held holy, that they had been washed in six waters por siete Aguas. Siete Aguas was the name of the dog, who was so called because he licked the plates so scrupulously clean, that any one would have supposed that they had been washed in six different waters; on the day in question he must have performed his work in a slovenly manner. The greyhounds of the farm certainly belonged to the same breed.
Our hosts gave us a young boy as guide, who was well acquainted with the road, and who took us safely to Ecija, which we reached about ten o'clock in the morning.
The entrance to Ecija is rather picturesque. You pass over a bridge, at the end of which is a gateway like a triumphal arch. This bridge is thrown over a river, which is no other than the Genil of Granada, and which is obstructed by ancient arches and milldams. When you have passed the bridge, you find yourself in an open square, planted with trees, and ornamented with two rather strange monuments. The first is a gilt statue of the Holy Virgin, placed upon a column, the pedestal of which evidently forms a kind of chapel, decorated with pots of artificial flowers, votive offerings, crowns formed of the pith of rushes, and all the other gewgaws of Meridional devotion. The second is a gigantic Saint Christopher, also of gilt metal, with his hand resting upon a palm-tree, a sort of walking-stick in keeping with his immense size; on his shoulder he bears, with the most prodigious contraction of all his muscles, and with as great an effort as if he were raising a house, an exceedingly small infant Jesus, of the most delicate and charming style. This colossus, said to be the work of the Florentine sculptor, Torregiano, who flattened, with a blow of his fist, Michael Angelo's nose, is stuck upon a Solomonic column (as wreathed columns are here called) of light, rose-coloured granite, the spiral wreaths of which end half-way up in a mass of volutes and extravagant flower-work. I am very partial to statues placed in this position; they produce a greater effect, and are seen advantageously at a longer distance. The ordinary pedestals have a kind of flat, massive look, which takes away from the lightness of the figures which they support.
Although Ecija lies out of the ordinary route of tourists, and is generally but little known, it is a very interesting town, and very original and peculiar in its appearance. The spires which form the sharper angles in its outline are neither Byzantine, nor Gothic, nor in the Renaissance style; they are Chinese, or rather Japanese, and you might easily mistake them for the turrets of some miao dedicated to Kong-fu-Tzee, Buddha, or Fo; for the walls are entirely covered with porcelain tiles of the most vivid tints, while the roofs are formed of varnished white and green tiles, arranged like the squares of a chessboard, and presenting one of the most curious sights in the world. The rest of the buildings are not less chimerical. The love of distorted lines is carried to the utmost possible lengths. You see nothing but gilding, incrustation, breccia, and various-coloured marbles, rumpled about as if they were cloth and not stone, garlands of flowers, lovers'-knots, and bloated angels, all coloured and painted in the most profuse manner and sublime bad taste.
The Calle de los Caballeros, where the nobility reside and the finest mansions are situated, is truly a miraculous specimen of this style: you have some difficulty in believing that you are in a real street, between houses that are inhabited by ordinary human beings. Nothing is straight, neither the balconies, the railings, nor the friezes; everything is twisted and tortured all sorts of ways, and ornamented with a profusion of flowers and volutes. You could not find a single square inch which is not guilloched, festooned, gilt, carved, or painted; the whole place is a most harsh and extravagant specimen of the style termed in France rococo, and presents a crowding together of ornament that French good taste, even during its most depraved epochs, has always successfully avoided. This Pompadour-Dutch-Chinese style of architecture amuses and surprises you in Andalusia. The common houses are whitewashed, and their dazzling walls stand out wonderfully from the deep azure of the sky, while their flat roofs, little windows, and miradores, reminded us of Africa, which was already sufficiently suggested to our minds by thirty-seven degrees of Réaumur, which is the customary temperature of the place during a cool summer. Ecija is called the Stove of Andalusia, and never was a surname more richly merited. The town is situated in a basin, and surrounded by sandy hills which shield it from the wind, and reflect the sun's rays like so many concentric mirrors. Every one in the place is absolutely fried, but this did not prevent us from walking about all over it while our breakfast was being prepared. The Plaza Mayor has a very original look, with its pillared houses, its long rows of windows, its arcades, and its projecting balconies.