Coming to breakfast, we are charmed to find our young American friend whom we had left in Valencia; and, in spite of a pouring rain, we all set out to hear high mass in the cathedral. The mosque was consecrated, and made the cathedral, when the city was captured by St. Ferdinand in 1236. Several chapels and altars were then added, and in 1521, the transept and choir were begun, to make room for which, eighty pillars were sacrificed. Charles V., who gave permission for this act of vandalism, was deeply mortified when he saw what had been done, and reproved the canons of the church, saying, they had destroyed what was unique in the world, to raise that which could be found anywhere.
While we are at mass, our young American arrives with the guide, to tell us that a revolution has broken out, and entreats us to return to the hotel. Some of the ladies are much alarmed; but my friend and myself, remembering that revolutions are chronic in Spanish countries, and are generally bloodless, we maintain our ground, too old soldiers to be driven from the field before a gun is fired; and the result justifies our faith.
Nobody quits the church. We have a solemn procession of the Blessed Sacrament after mass, winding through these beautiful aisles, accompanied by a band of wind instruments, the whole congregation following. We reach home to find our fellow-travellers very much frightened and annoyed at the prospect of a long detention; but we are assured that the worst which can befall us is a delay of a few days, to which we can well submit in this comfortable inn. Making acquaintance with our fellow-prisoners, we grow jolly over our misfortunes. The railways are all cut; General Prim and his colleagues (the exiled generals) are besieging Cadiz; and the queen has fled to Biarritz, to claim the intervention of the Emperor Napoleon. These are some of the rumors which are rife during the day. Hosts of red umbrellas parade the town—the most formidable weapon which we encounter; a few voices faintly cry "Libertad!" and "Viva!" some damp-looking soldiers pass by, with lances from which depend little red flags, looking limp and hopeless in the heavy rain. These troops declare for the people. We ask one of these what they want; the answer is, "Liberty." (Of course.) "And what is that?" "We want a King. We will not be governed by a woman." Inflammatory hand-bills are distributed amongst the crowd, very vague in their demands, "an empty throne" being the first requisite on the list.
One man is killed, (a fine young officer of the queen's troops mercilessly shot down,) and another man is wounded. In the evening, we hear that the revolution is accomplished in Cordova; the insurrectionists have the city!
Monday, 21.
All is peaceful in appearance, and we go out to shop, to find some of the filagree jewelry for which Cordova is remarkable—an art retained from the time of the Moors. The rain drives us in, and we spend the day with music, books, and in conversation with our new friends—a Spanish lady of rank, who has come to Cordova about a lawsuit, and who shakes with fright, and goes about with a glass of water and a cup of vinegar to quiet her nerves; the poor lady neither eats nor sleeps. The others are of different calibre; a sturdy Scotch lady, and her companion, a sweet and charming German girl. "Who's afeard!"
Tuesday, 22.
We are roused by the sound of military music, and find that 5000 of the queen's troops are entering the city. Such. splendid-looking fellows! Such handsome officers! It is plain the city is taken in earnest now! The inconstant populace clamor and shout; all is enthusiasm; the report is, that the insurrectionists are fled to Seville; the roads are repaired, but we are not allowed to leave the city. Still prisoners of war! Later in the day, we hear that the troops we saw this morning are those which had joined the insurgents at Seville. The queen's troops, commanded by the Marquis de Novaliches, are outside the town, fearing to be too few for those within, and waiting the turn of events. It is supposed there will be some compromise entered into; a convention patched up; and no fighting. The prime minister, Gonzales Bravo, has fled from Madrid, where all is anarchy. This man, who has been the author of all the oppressive measures, and all the banishments which have made the queen's government unpopular, now, in her hour of need leaves her to her fate, after cruelly deceiving her. When she feared the danger of revolution, he assured her she might leave the country without any anxiety; and she went to Biarritz in ignorance of the truth; thus giving her enemies the very opportunity they desired. Even now, (they say,) were she to return, and throw herself upon the generosity of the people, she would be received kindly; such is the loyalty of Spaniards to their monarchs. The influence of Bravo banished the Montpensiers, (the queen's sister and her husband, the son of Louis Philippe,) who were naturally her best friends, and to whom she had showed every kindness. He sent away many of her most popular generals; and now they return, with men and arms, and British and Prussian gold; the people sympathize with them, the troops join them; we hear from Cadiz, that there was a perfect ovation upon their landing.
To-day, we have a fine walk in a beautiful park, on one side of the city, from whence we have a charming view of the mountains; on one side, so grand and bold, with olive groves, and white country houses sparkling in the sunshine; on the other side, the hills are low, and their graceful, wavy outlines have the peculiar purple hue belonging to Spain, and form a striking contrast to the others. Between the two, lies the city, and the fertile plains about it. We lose our way in the tortuous streets, and spend the morning peeping into the beautiful patios, (courts,) which open to the heavens, or have sometimes a linen awning over them; with marble pavements, over which the cool fountains play; with orange-trees, and flowers, amongst which sofas, and chairs, and pictures are disposed; and around which often runs a marble corridor, with pillars and curtains, communicating with the other apartments. Here the family sit, and here take place the "tirtulias," the meetings for talk and music. A picture of one of these patios is thus charmingly translated from one of Fernan Caballero's beautiful tales by a late English traveller; and which any one who has been in Spain will recognize:
"The house was spacious, and scrupulously clean: on each side the door was a bench of stone. In the porch hung a little lamp before the image of our Lord in a niche over the entrance, according to the Catholic custom of putting all things under holy protection. In the middle was the 'patio,' a necessity to the Andalusian. And in the centre of this spacious court an enormous orange-tree raised its leafy head from its robust trunk. For an infinity of generations had this beautiful tree been a source of delight to the family. The women made tonic decoctions from its leaves; the daughters adorned themselves with its flowers; the boys cooled their blood with its fruits; the birds made their home in its boughs. The rooms opened out of the 'patio,' and borrowed their light from thence. This 'patio' was the centre of all the 'home;' the place of gathering when the day's work was over. The orange-tree loaded the air with its heavy perfume, and the waters of the fountain fell in soft showers on the marble basin, fringed with the delicate maiden-hair fern. And the father, leaning against the tree, smoked his 'cigarro de papel;' and the mother sat at her work, while the little ones played at her feet, the eldest resting his head on a big dog, which lay stretched at full length on the cool marble slabs. All was still, and peaceful, and beautiful."