The Alcazar, or ancient palace of the Moorish kings, is very fine and quite worthy of its reputation, but it does not surprise any one who has seen the Alhambra at Granada. You meet the same small white marble columns, the painted and gilt capitals, the heart-shaped arcades, the panels with mottoes from the Koran entwined with arabesques, the doors of larch and cedar wood, the stalactite cupolas, and the fountains ornamented with carving, which may vary in appearance, but of whose endless details and minute delicacy no description can convey an idea. The Hall of Ambassadors, the magnificent doors of which have been preserved in all their integrity, is perhaps more beautiful and rich than that at Granada; unfortunately, the authorities have hit upon the idea of hanging between the slender columns which support the roof, a series of portraits of the kings of Spain from the most ancient times of the monarchy down to the present day. Nothing could be more ridiculous. The old kings, with their breastplates and iron crowns, manage to make a respectable appearance, but the more modern ones, with their powdered hair and uniforms produce a most grotesque effect. I shall never forget a certain queen with a pair of spectacles on her nose and a small dog upon her knees; she must feel very much out of her element. The baths, named after Maria Pedrilla, the mistress of the king, Don Pedro, who resided in the Alcazar, are still in the same state as in the time of the Arabs. The vaulted roof of the bath-room has not undergone the slightest alteration. Charles V. has left far too many marks of his presence in the Alcazar of Seville, as he did in the Alhambra of Granada. This mania of building one palace in another is as frequent as it is deplorable; we must for ever regret the number of historical monuments it has destroyed, to substitute insignificant edifices in their stead. The Alcazar contains gardens laid out in the old French style, with yew-trees tortured into the strangest shapes imaginable.
Since we have come with the purpose of visiting all the public buildings, let us enter, for a few moments, the manufactory of tobacco, which is only two paces distant. This vast building is very well adapted to the business carried on in it, and contains a great number of machines for scraping, chopping, and grinding the tobacco; these machines make a noise like that of a multitude of windmills, and are set in motion by two or three hundred mules. It is here that they manufacture el palbo Sevilla, which is an impalpable, pungent powder, of a yellowish gold colour, with which the marquises of the time of the Regent were so fond of sprinkling their laced shirt-frills; its strength and volatility are so great that you begin sneezing the moment you put your foot into the rooms where it is prepared. It is sold by the pound and half-pound, in tin canisters. We were also shown into the workshops, where the tobacco-leaves are rolled up into cigars. Five or six hundred women are employed in this branch of the trade. Immediately we entered this room, we were stunned by a perfect tempest of noise; they were talking, singing, and disputing, in the same breath. I never in my life heard such a disturbance. Most of them were young, and several very pretty. The extreme carelessness of their dress allowed us to contemplate their charms at our ease. Some of them had got the end of a cigar boldly stuck in the corner of their mouth, with all the coolness of an officer of hussars, while some—O Muse, come to my assistance!—were chewing away like old sailors, for they are allowed to take as much tobacco as they can consume on the spot. They earn from four to six reals a day. The Cigarera of Seville is a type, as just like the Manala of Madrid. She is worth seeing, on Sundays or the days of the bull-fights, with her short basquina decorated with enormous flounces, her sleeves ornamented with jet buttons, and the puro, which she passes, from time to time, to her admirer, after having first inhaled its smoke herself.
Let us finish this inspection of the public buildings, by a visit to the celebrated Hospital de la Caridad, founded by the famous Don Juan de Marana, who is by no means a fabulous being, as the reader might suppose. An hospital founded by Don Juan!—Ay!—it may appear strange, but it is true. The following circumstance was the cause of its being erected. One night, as Don Juan was returning from some orgy or other, he met a funeral procession going to the Church of Sant-Isidore, with black penitents masked, yellow wax tapers, and, in a word, with something more lugubrious and sinister about it than an ordinary burial. "Who is dead? Is it a husband killed in duel by his wife's lover? or an honest father, who lived too long before his wealth came to his heir?" asked Don Juan, excited by the wine he had drunk. "The deceased," replied one of those who were bearing the coffin, "is no other than Don Juan de Marana, whose funeral service we are now going to perform. Come, and pray for him with us." Don Juan having approached, saw by the light of the torches (for in Spain the face of the deceased is always left exposed to view) that the corpse resembled himself, and, in fact, was himself. He followed his own bier to the church, and recited the usual prayers with the mysterious monks: the next morning he was found lying insensible on the stones of the choir. The circumstance produced such an impression on him, that he renounced his roystering life, assumed the monkish cowl, and founded the hospital in question, where he died almost in the odour of sanctity. The Caridad contains some very beautiful Murillos—namely, Moses Striking the Rock, The Multiplication of the Loaves, two immense compositions of the richest disposition, and San Juan de Dios carrying a dead body, and supported by an angel, a masterpiece of colouring and chiar'-oscuro. Here, too, is the picture, by Juan Valdes, known under the name of Los Dos Cadaveres, a strange and terrible painting, compared to which the blackest conceptions of Young may be looked upon as exceedingly jovial facetiæ.
The Circus was shut, to our great regret, for according to the aficionados the bull-fights at Seville are the most brilliant in all Spain. The circus here is remarkable from the fact of its forming a semicircle, at least as far as the audience portion of it is concerned, for the arena is round. It is said that a violent storm threw down all one side, which has not since been rebuilt. This arrangement enables you to obtain a marvellous view of the cathedral, and forms one of the finest sights imaginable; especially when the benches are filled with a brilliant crowd, resplendent with the brightest colours. Ferdinand VII. founded at Seville a School of Tauromachia, where the pupils were first exercised on pasteboard bulls, then on novillos, whose horns were tipped with balls, and lastly, on bulls in good earnest, until they were worthy of appearing in public. I am not aware whether the Revolution has respected this royal and despotic institution. Our hopes having been deceived, we had nothing left but to depart. Our places were already taken by the Cadiz steamer, and we embarked in the midst of the tears, the sobs, and the lamentations of the sweethearts or wives of some soldiers, who were changing their garrison, and going in the same vessel as ourselves. I do not know whether all this grief was sincere, but never did antique despair, or the desolation of the Jewish women in the days of their captivity, reach such a pitch.
CHAPTER XIV.
FROM CADIZ TO BARCELONA—AND HOME.
Cadiz—Visit to the brig "Le Voltigeur"—The Rateros—Jeres—Bull-fights—The Steamer—Gibraltar—Carthagena—Valencia—The Lonja de Seda—The Convent de la Merced—The Valencians—Barcelona—The Return to France.