The oppression of the Moriscoes in the city became severer in the days of Philip II. Doubt was cast upon the genuineness of belief among the 'reconciled' Moors, and they were bidden to cease reading books in the Arabic language, to abandon their ceremonies, to change their mode of dress, and to speak in Spanish. The public baths, built by the cleanly Moriscoes, were destroyed in every city, and the Mudéjares were even forbidden to bathe in their own houses. These mandates exasperated the Moriscoes throughout Andalusia. They rebelled and fought desperately; but after frightful bloodshed and suffering, they were quelled and broken down, never to regain their ancient sway. The suppression of the heretics was complete by the time of Philip III. And at this time began the decline of Seville's prosperity.

When Philip V. reigned, the sixteen thousand looms of the city had been reduced to less than three hundred, and the population was thinned to 'a quarter of its former number of inhabitants.' In the fruitful district around Seville the vineyards and olive gardens were in a state of neglect, and fields once fertile became wastes. Trade declined rapidly with the extirpation of heresy. The industrial population was deprived of its most skilful and industrious members when the last band of Moriscoes quitted the city. In the seventeenth century Andalusia suffered fearful poverty. Whole villages were deserted, the land was going out of cultivation, and the tax-collectors were enjoined to seize the beds and such wretched furniture as the indigent peasants possessed in their cheerless houses.

When Philip II. died, loyal Seville honoured the departed King by a magnificent funeral service in the Cathedral. A monument, forty-four feet square, and forty-one feet in height, was designed by Oviedo, at a cost of fifteen thousand ducats. Montañes, the famous sculptor, whose work is to be seen in several of the Seville churches, produced some of the statuary to adorn the monument, and the young Pacheco, then unknown, assisted in the decoration. On November 25, 1598, the mourning multitude flocked to the dim Cathedral. While the people knelt upon the stones, and the solemn music floated through the long aisles, there was a disturbance among a part of the congregation. A man was charged with deriding the imposing monument, and creating a disorder in the holy edifice. He was a tax-gatherer and ex-soldier of the city, named Don Miguel de Servantes Saavedra. Some of the citizens took his side, for there was a feud between the civil and ecclesiastical authorities of Seville, and the tax-gatherer had merely shown public spirit. The brawler, whom we know as Cervantes, was expelled from the Cathedral with his companions, and order was restored. But he had his revenge. He went to his room and composed a satirical poem upon the tomb of the King, which was soon published and read everywhere in the city. Here is one of the English translations of the poem:—

TO THE MONUMENT OF THE KING AT SEVILLE.

'I vow to God I quake with my surprise!
Could I describe it, I would give a crown—
And who, that gazes on it in the town,
But starts aghast to see its wondrous size;
Each part a million cost, I should devise;
What pity 'tis, ere centuries have flown,
Old Time will mercilessly cast it down!
Thou rival'st Rome, O, Seville, in my eyes!
I bet the soul of him who's dead and blest,
To dwell within this sumptuous monument
Has left the seats of sempiternal rest!
A fellow tall, on deeds of valour bent,
My exclamation heard. "Bravo!" he cried,
"Sir Soldier, what you say is true, I vow!
And he who says the contrary has lied!"
With that, he pulls his hat upon his brow,
Upon his sword hilt he his hand doth lay
And frowns—and—nothing does, but walks away.'

The discovery of the New World, with its opulence of treasure, and the expulsion of the Moriscoes, did not yield a permanent prosperity to Seville. Even before the death of Philip II., the few far-sighted and reflective men doubted whether a great influx of gold and silver, and the annihilation of freedom of thought, were likely to benefit Spain, either in the material or spiritual sense. The gold fever seized like a frenzy upon the avaricious, and the early colonisers turned their backs upon any country that lacked precious minerals. Nothing save gold and silver was considered valuable. As a consequence these minerals became redundant, and in the meantime the cultivation of the land at home and abroad, and the development of manufactures, were neglected. No one had the enterprise to prevent the silting up of the tidal waters of the Guadalquivir, and so Seville lost its importance as a busy port.

While nobles were fighting for gold, and harrying heretics, briars and weeds were spreading over the fields that the patient Moors had tilled and made marvellously fertile. The establishment of the alcavala tax upon farming produce and manufactured articles hastened the decline of agriculture and of crafts in Andalusia. Finally, under the Bourbons, Cadiz became the rival of Seville, and the Council of the Two Indies was removed to the southern port in 1720. In good or ill fortune Seville remained loyal, winning for itself the title of: Muy noble, muy leal, muy heroica é invicta, i.e., 'Very noble, very loyal, very brave and invincible.'

Some interesting pictures of Seville at the close of the eighteenth and beginning of the nineteenth centuries are to be found in the Letters from Spain, by D. Leucadio Doblado, written in 1824. Doblado is the pseudonym of Blanco White, son of the British Vice-Consul at Seville in those days. White was born in the city in 1775, brought up as a Spaniard, and sent to the University. His parents were very austere Catholics, but reading and study developed a sceptical tendency in young White's mind, and he subsequently came to England and was well-known in Unitarian circles.

In his Life, Blanco White describes the quaint ceremony of entrance into the University of Seville. 'Every day of the week preceding the admission, the candidate was obliged to walk an hour in the principal quadrangle of the college, attended by one of the servitors, and his own servant or page—a needy student who, for the sake of board, lodgings and the cast-off clothes of his master, was glad in that humble capacity to go through the course of studies necessary for the profession—Divinity, Law or Medicine—which he intended to follow.' The custom of the caravanas was a trying ordeal for the student. He was compelled to run the gauntlet of the gibes of a mob of spectators, as a trial of his patience. No physical violence was permitted, except when a candidate lost his temper. An irascible victim was speedily ducked in the basin of the fountain of the quadrangle. Ladies came to see the sport. When White passed through this ordeal, he was dressed in fantastic garments, and led by his tormentors by a rope.