unchanging East Lamartine found the women of Nazareth clad in a loose white garment that fell around them in long, graceful folds, over which was a blue tunic confined at the waist by a girdle—a dress he thought might have come down from the time of the patriarchs.
But to return to Pacheco. It was he who, in the seventeenth century, took so active a part in the discussion whether St. Teresa, just canonized, should be chosen as the Compatrona of Spain. Many maintained that St. James should continue to be considered the sole patron, and Quevedo espoused his cause so warmly that he ended by challenging his adversaries to a combat en champ clos, and was in danger of losing his estates. Pacheco, as seen by existing manuscripts, wrote a learned theological treatise against him, taking up the cause of St. Teresa, which proved victorious. She was declared the second patron of Spain by Philip III.—a decision re-echoed by the Spanish Cortes as late as 1812. All the prominent men of the day took part in this discussion, even artists and literary men, as well as politicians and the clergy.
The place of honor in the museum is given to Zurbarán’s “Santo Tomás,” a grand picture, painted for the Dominican college of Seville. In the centre is St. Thomas Aquinas, in the Dominican habit, resting on a cloud, with the four doctors of the church, in ample flowing robes, around him. He holds up his pen, as if for inspiration, to the opening heavens, where appear Christ and the Virgin, St. Paul and St. Dominic. Below, at the left, is Diego de Deza, the founder of the college, and other dignitaries; while on the right, attended by courtiers, is Charles V., in a splendid
imperial mantle, kneeling on a crimson cushion, with one hand raised invokingly to the saint. The faces are all said to be portraits of Zurbarán’s time; that of the emperor, the artist himself. The coloring is rich, the perspective admirable, the costumes varied and striking, and the composition faultless.
Zurbarán has another picture here, of a scene from the legend of St. Hugo, who was Bishop of Grenoble in the time of St. Bruno, and often spent weeks together at the Grande Chartreuse. Once he arrived at dinner-time, and found the monks at table looking despairingly at the meat set before them, which they could not touch, it being a fast-day. The bishop, stretching forth his staff, changed the fowls into tortoises. The white habits and pointed cowls of the monks, and the varied expressions of their faces, contrast agreeably with the venerable bishop in his rich episcopal robes, and the beauty of the page who accompanies him.
The masterpiece of the elder Herrera is also here. Hermenegildo, a Gothic prince of the sixth century, martyred by order of his Arian father, whose religion he had renounced, is represented ascending to heaven in a coat of mail, leaving below him his friends SS. Leandro and Isidore, beside whom is his fair young son, richly attired, gazing wonderingly up at his sainted father as he ascends among a whole cloud of angels. This picture was painted for the high altar of the Jesuits of Seville, with whom Herrera took refuge when accused of the crime of issuing false money. It attracted the artistic eye of Philip IV. when he came to Seville in 1624. He asked the name of the artist, and, learning the cause of his reclusion
sent for him and pardoned him, saying that a man who had so much talent ought not to make a bad use of it.
There is no sculpture in the gallery of Seville, except a few statues of the saints—the spoils of monasteries, like the paintings. The finest thing is a St. Jerome, furrowed and wasted by penance, laying hold of a cross before which he bends one knee, with a stone in his right hand ready to smite his breast. This was done for the convent of Buenavista by Torrigiano, celebrated not only for his works, but for breaking Michael Angelo’s nose. He was sent to Spain by his protector, Alexander VI., who was a generous patron of the arts. Goya considered this
statue superior to Michael Angelo’s Moses.
Our last hours at Seville were spent before all these works of sacred art, each of which has its own special revelation to the soul; and then we went to the cathedral. The day was nearly at an end. The chapels were all closed. The vast edifice was as silent as the grave, with only a few people here and there absorbed in their devotions. The upper western windows alone caught a few rays of the declining sun, empurpling the arches. The long aisles were full of gloom. We lingered awhile, like Murillo, before “Christ descending from the Cross,” and then went back to the Fonda Europa with regret in our hearts.