Letters from Spain

Mixed with the body of the procession, there appeared three sets of dancers; the Valencianos, or natives of the kingdom of Valencia, who, in their national costume of loose waistcoats, puffed linen sleeves, bound at the wrists and elbows with ribbons of various colours, and broad white trowsers reaching only to the knees, performed a lively dance, mingling their steps with feats of surprising agility: after these followed the sword-dancers in the old martial fashion of the country: and last of all, the performers of an antiquated Spanish dance—I believe the Chacona, dressed in the national garb of the sixteenth century.

A dance of the last-mentioned description, and in a similar costume, is still performed before the high altar in the presence of the chapter, at the conclusion of the service on this day and the following se’nnight. The dancers are boys of between ten and fourteen, who, under the name of Seizes,41 are maintained at the college which the Cathedral supports for the education of the acolytes, or inferior ministers. These boys, accompanied by a full orchestra, sing a lyric composition in Spanish, which, like the Greek chorusses, consists of two or three systems of metres, to which the dancers move solemnly, going through a variety of figures in their natural step, till, ranged at the conclusion of the song, in two lines facing each other as at the outset, they end with a gentle caper, rattling the castanets, which hitherto lay silent and concealed in their hands. That this grotesque performance should be allowed to continue, is, I believe, owing to the pride which this chapter take in the privilege, granted by the Pope to the dancers, of wearing their hats within view of the consecrated host—a liberty which the King himself cannot take, and which, if I am not misled by report, no one besides can boast of, except the Dukes of Altamira, who, upon certain occasions, clap on their hat, at the elevation of the host, and draw the sword, as if shewing their readiness to give a conclusive answer to any argument against transubstantiation.

The Corpus Christi procession begins to move out of the cathedral exactly at nine in the morning. It consists in the first place of the forty communities of friars who have convents in this town. They follow one another in two lines, according to the established order of precedence. The strangeness and variety of their dresses, no less than their collective numbers, would greatly strike any one but a Spaniard, to whom such objects are perfectly familiar.—Next appears the long train of relics belonging to the Cathedral, placed each by itself on a small stage moved by one or more men concealed under the rich drapery which hangs on its sides to the ground. Vases of gold and silver, of different shapes and sizes, contain the various portions of the inestimable treasure whereof the following is an accurate catalogue:

A tooth of Saint Christopher.

An agate cup used at Mass by Pope Saint Clement, the immediate successor of Saint Peter.

An arm of Saint Bartholomew.

A head of one of eleven thousand virgins.

Part of Saint Peter’s body.

Ditto of Saint Lawrence.

Ditto of Saint Blaise.

The bones of the Saints Servandus and Germanus.

Ditto of Saint Florentius.

The Alphonsine tables, left to the Cathedral by King Alphonso the Wise, containing three hundred relics.

A silver bust of Saint Leander, with his bones.

A thorn from our Saviour’s crown.

A fragment of the true cross.

Last of all appears the body of prebendaries and canons, attended by their inferior ministers. Such, however, is the length of the procession, and the slow and solemn pace at which it proceeds, that, without a break in the lines, it takes a whole hour to leave the church. The streets, besides being hung up with more taste than for the processions of the Passion Week, are shaded all the way with a thick awning, and the pavement is strewed with rushes. An article of the military code of Spain obliges whatever troops are quartered in a town where this procession takes place, to follow it under arms; and if sufficient in number, to line the streets through which it is to pass.

Under all these circumstances, the first appearance of the host in the streets is exceedingly imposing. Encircled by jewels of the greatest brilliancy, surrounded by lighted tapers and enthroned on the massive, yet elegant temple of silver already mentioned when describing the Monument,42 no sooner has it moved to the door of the church than the bells announce its presence with a deafening sound, the bands of military music mix their animating notes with the solemn hymns of the singers, clouds of incense rise before the moving shrine, and the ear is thrilled by the loud voice of command, and the clash of the arms which the kneeling soldiers strike down to the ground. When the concealed bearers of the shrine43 present it at the top of the long street where the route commences, the multitudes which crowd both the pavement and windows, fall prostrate in profound adoration, without venturing to rise up till the object of their awe is out of sight. Flowers are often scattered from the windows, and the most beautiful nosegays adorn the platform of the moveable stage.

Close behind the host follows the archbishop, surrounded by his ecclesiastical retinue. One of his chaplains carries a large double cross of silver, indicative of metropolitan dignity. The train of the purple mantle is supported by another clergyman. These, like the rest of the prelate’s attendants and pages, are young men of family, who disdain not this kind of service, in the expectation of high church preferment. But what gives all this state the most unexpected finish is an inferior minister in his surplice bearing a circular fan of richly embroidered silk about two feet in diameter, and attached to a silver rod six feet in length. At a convenient distance from the archbishop this fan is constantly waved, whenever during the summer months he attends the cathedral service, thus relieving him from the oppressive effects of his robes under the burning sun of Andalusia. This custom is, I believe, peculiar to Seville.

SAINT JOHN’S EVE

Feelings far removed from those of devotion prevail in the celebration of the Baptist’s festival. Whether it is the inviting temperature of a midsummer night, or some ancient custom connected with the present evening, “Saint John,” says the Spanish proverb, “sets every girl a gadding.” The public walks are crowded after sunset, and the exclusive amusement of this night, flirtation, or in the Andalusian phrase, pelar la Pava, (plucking the hen-turkey) begins as soon as the star-light of a summer sky, unbroken by the partial glare of lamps, enables the different groups to mix with a liberty approaching that enjoyed in a masquerade. Nothing in this kind of amusement possesses more zest than the chat through the iron bars of the lower windows, which begins about midnight. Young ladies, who can compose their mamas to sleep at a convenient hour, glide unperceived to the lower part of the house, and sitting on the window-sill, behind the latticework, which is used in this country instead of blinds, wait, in the true spirit of adventure, (if not pre-engaged to a dull, common-place matrimonial prelude,) for the chance sparks, who, mostly in disguise, walk the streets from twelve till dawn. Such, however, as the mere love of mirth induces to pass the night at the windows, generally engage another female companion, a sister, a friend, and often a favourite maid, to take a share in the conversation, and by a change of characters to puzzle their out-of-doors visitors. These, too, when not seriously engaged, walk about in parties, each assuming such a character as they consider themselves most able to support. One pretends to be a farmer just arrived from the country, another a poor mechanic, this a foreigner speaking broken Spanish, that a Gallego, making love in the still less intelligible dialect of his province. The gentlemen must come provided with no less a stock of sweetmeats (which from the circumstance of being folded each separately in a piece of paper, are called Papelillos) than of lively small talk and wit. A deficiency in the latter is unpardonable; so that a bore, or Majadero,44 if not ready to quit the post when bidden, is soon left to contemplate the out-side of the window-shutters. The habitual distance at which the lower classes are kept from those above them, prevents any disagreeable meddling on their part; and the ladies who indulge in these frolics, feel perfectly safe from intrusion and impertinence.

The sauntering about the fields, practised by the populace of Madrid, on the same night, is there called “Cogér la Verbena,” gathering Vervain; an appellation evidently derived from an ancient superstition which attributed preternatural powers to that plant when gathered at twelve o’clock on St. John’s Eve. The nocturnal rambles of the present times, much as they might alarm the guardians of public morals, if such an office existed among us, need not give any uneasiness on the score of witchcraft to the Reverend Inquisitors.

SAINT BARTHOLOMEW

The commemoration of this Apostle takes place on the 24th of August. It is not, however, to record any external circumstance connected with this church festival—which, in fact, is scarcely distinguished by any peculiar solemnity—that I take notice of it, but for a private superstitious practice which strikes me as a most curious modification of one used by the pious housewives in the days of Augustus.

Intermittent fevers, especially the Tertian and Quartan, are very common in most parts of Andalusia. The season when they chiefly attack the inhabitants, is summer; and whether the unbounded use, which all sorts of people, but particularly the poor, make of grapes and melons, contributes to the production of the disease, or whether the mere coincidence of the two facts is, as usual, taken for cause and effect; it is an established opinion in this part of the country that, if fruit is not the original source of the ague, an abstinence from that kind of food is indispensable to avoid a relapse into that treacherous complaint.

That there should be a particular Saint, to superintend the medical department of curing the ague, is so perfectly consistent with the Catholic notions, that a deficiency on that point would more surprise me than to find a toe not under the influence of some heavenly aspect in the Vox Stellarum, which was one of my wonders in England. That province, in fact, is allotted to Saint Bartholomew. Now, ninepence is a sufficient inducement for any of our sons of Esculapius to mount his mule as well as his wig, and dose you with the most compound electuary he is master of; but how to fee a supernatural doctor, would be a puzzling question, were it not that tradition teaches the method of propitiating every individual mentioned in the calendar. Each Saint has a peculiar fancy—from Saint Anthony of Padua, who will often delay the performance of a miracle till you plunge him into a well, or nail his print topsy-turvy upon the wall, to Saint Pasqual Baylon, who is readiest to attend such as accompany their petitions with some lively steps and a final caper. As to Saint Bartholomew, nothing will induce him to cure an ague but a vow to abstain, on the day of his festival, from all food except bread and fruit—the very means which, but for his miraculous interference, would, according to common opinion, cause either a return, or an aggravation of the complaint.

Mark, now, the vow employed by the Roman matrons for the cure of intermittents. It is recorded by Horace, and thus translated by Francis:—

“Her child beneath a quartan fever liesFor full four months, when the fond mother cries,Sickness and health are thine, all-powerful Jove;Then, from my son this dire disease remove,And when your priests thy solemn fast proclaim,Naked the boy shall stand in Tiber’s stream.Should chance, or the physician’s art, upraiseHer infant from the desperate disease;The frantic dame shall plunge her hapless boy,Bring back the fever, and the child destroy.”45

The existence of Heathen superstitions adapted to Christian worship is too common to excite surprise; nor is it any similarity in the externals of the two practices I have just compared, that constitutes their analogy. My mind is struck alone by the unchangeable spirit of superstition, which, attributing in all ages and nations, our own passions and feelings to supernatural beings, endeavours to obtain their favour by flattering their vanity. Both the ancient Roman and modern Spanish vow for the cure of the ague, seem to set at defiance the supposed and most probable causes of the disease, from which the devotees seek deliverance; as if to secure to the patron deities the undoubted and full honour of the miracle.

DETACHED PREJUDICES AND PRACTICES

Having mentioned the superstitious method used in this country for the cure of the ague, I wish to introduce a short account of some popular prejudices more or less connected with the prevalent religious notions. I shall probably add a few facts under this head, for no better reason than that I do not know how to class them under any other.

There is an allusion in Hudibras to an antiquated piece of gallantry which I believe may be illustrated by a religious custom to which I was sometimes subjected in my childhood. The passage runs thus:

I’ll carve your name on barks of treesWith true love-knots and flourishes, …Drink every letter on’t in stum,And make it brisk Champaigne become. 46

The latter compliment is paid by sick persons to the Virgin Mary, in the hope of recovering health through her intercession. An image is worshipped at one of the principal parish churches in this town, under the title of the Virgin of Health. The charm of this denomination draws numbers to the sanctuary, which, being in the centre of the wealthiest population, derives considerable splendour from their offerings. In exchange for these they often receive a sheet of printed paper containing at regular intervals the words Salus infirmorum, in very small type. In case of illness, one of the lines is cut off, and, being coiled into a small roll, the patient swallows it in a glass of water.

The room where a person lies dangerously ill, generally contains more relics and amulets than the chimney-piece of an invalid, under the care of a London apothecary, holds phials of all shapes and sizes. The friends of a lady near her confinement, vie with each other in procuring her every kind of supernatural assistance for the trying hour; when, strange to say, she is often dressed in the episcopal robes of some saint, which are supposed to act most effectually when in contact with the body of the distressed petitioner. But whatever patrons the ladies may choose to implore in those circumstances, there are two whose assistance, by means of relics, pictures, or the apparel of their images, is never dispensed with. The names of these invisible accoucheurs are Saint Raymundus Nonnatus, and Saint Vincent Ferrer. That the former should be considered as peculiarly interested in such cases, having, as his addition implies, been extracted from the womb of his dead mother, is perfectly clear and natural. But, Ferrer’s sympathy requires a slight explanation.

That saint—a native of Valencia, and a monk of the order of Saint Dominic, possessed the gift of miracles in such a degree, that he performed them almost unconsciously, and not unfrequently in a sort of frolic. Being applied to, on a certain occasion, by a young married lady, whom the idea of approaching maternity kept in a state of constant terror, the good-natured Saint desired her to dismiss her fears, as he was determined to take upon himself whatever inconvenience or trouble there might be in the case. Some weeks had elapsed, when the good Monk, who had forgotten his engagement, was heard in the dead of night roaring and screaming in a manner so unusual, and so little becoming a professional Saint, that he drew the whole community to his cell. Nothing, for a time, could relieve the mysterious sufferings, and though he passed the rest of the night as well as could be expected, the fear of a relapse would have kept his afflicted brethren in painful suspense, had not the grateful husband of the timid lady, who was the cause of the uproar, taken an early opportunity to return thanks for the unconscious delivery of his consort. Saint Vincent, though according to tradition perfectly unwilling to stand a second time proxy for nervous ladies, is, from a very natural sympathy, constantly in readiness to act as the male Lucina of the Spanish matrons.

FUNERALS OF INFANTS AND MAIDS

From the birth to the death of a child the passage is often so easy that I shall make it an apology for the abruptness of the present transition. The moral accountableness of a human being, as I have observed before, does not, according to Catholic divines, begin till the seventh year; consequently such as die without attaining that age, are, by the effect of their baptism, indubitably entitled to a place in heaven. The death of an infant is therefore a matter of rejoicing to all but those in whose bosoms nature speaks too loud to be controlled by argument. The friends who call upon the parents, contribute to aggravate their bitterness by wishing them joy for having increased the number of angels. The usual address on these occasions is Angelitos al Cielo! Little Angels to Heaven—an unfeeling compliment, which never fails to draw a fresh gush of tears from the eyes of a mother. Every circumstance of the funeral is meant to force joy upon the mourners. The child, dressed in white garments, and crowned with a wreath of flowers, is followed by the officiating priest in silk robes of the same colour; and the clergymen who attend him to the house from whence the funeral proceeds to the church, sing in joyful strains the psalm Laudate, pueri, Dominum, while the bells are heard ringing a lively peal. The coffin, without a lid, exposes to the view the little corpse covered with flowers, as four well-dressed children bear it, amidst the lighted tapers of the clergy. No black dress, no signs of mourning whatever are seen even among the nearest relatives; the service at church bespeaks triumph, and the organ mixes its enlivening sounds with the hymns, which thank death for snatching a tender soul, when through a slight and transient tribute of pain, it could obtain an exemption from the power of sorrow. Yet no funerals are graced with more tears; nor can dirges and penitential mournings produce even a shadow of the tender melancholy which seizes the mind at the view of the formal and affected joy with which a Catholic infant is laid in his grave.

A young unmarried woman among us

—– “is allowed her virgin crants,47Her maiden strewments, and the bringing homeOf bell and burial.”

In addition to the wreath of flowers, a palm-branch is put into a maiden’s hand; an emblem of victory against the allurements of love, which many a poor fair conqueror would have willingly exchanged for a regular defeat. They are dressed in every other respect like nuns, and the coffin is covered with a black velvet pall, as in all other funerals.

The preceding passage in Hamlet begins with an allusion to a very ancient custom, which is still observed in Spain at the monumental crosses erected on the highways to those who have perished by the hands of robbers.

“For charitable prayers,Sherds, flints, and pebbles, should be thrown on her.”

This is literally done by every peasant when passing one of those rude and melancholy monuments. A heap of stones is always observed at the foot of the cross; not, however, instead of prayers, as the passage would seem to imply, but as a tale by which the number of Paternosters said by the compassionate passengers, might be reckoned. The antiquity of this Christianized custom appears, from a passage in the Book of Proverbs, to be very great. The proverb or sentence, translated as it is in the margin of the English Bible, runs thus: “As he that putteth a precious stone in a heap, so is he that giveth honour to a fool.”48

The Latin version which, you must know, is of great antiquity, and was made the basis of Jerom’s, about the middle of the fourth century, renders this proverb in a remarkable manner. Sicut qui mittit lapidem in acervum Mercurii; ita qui tribuit insipienti honorem. As he that casts a stone on the heap of Mercury, &c. &c. Now, bearing in mind that stones are at this day thrown upon certain graves in Spain; that, according to the passage in Shakspeare, a similar custom seems to have prevailed in other parts of Europe; and that Jerom believed he rendered the spirit of the Hebrew proverb by translating the word which the English Divines doubted, whether to construe a sling, or a heap of stones, by the phrase, acervus Mercurii; a deity, whose statues were frequently placed over sepulchres among the Romans—bearing all this in mind, I say, it appears to me that the custom of covering some graves with stones thrown at random, must have existed in the time of the writer of the Proverbs. Perhaps I may be allowed to conjecture that it originated in the punishment of stoning, so common among the Jews; that passengers flung stones, as a mark of abhorrence, on the heap which hid the body of the criminal; that the primitive Christians, many of whom were Jews, followed the same method of shewing their horror of heathen tombs, till those places came to be known, in Jerom’s time, by the appellation of heaps of Mercury; that modern Christians applied the same custom to the graves of such as had been deemed unworthy of consecrated ground; and, finally, that the frequency of highway robberies and murders in Spain detached the custom from the idea of crime, and softened a mark of detestation into one of prayer and intercession for the unfortunate victim.

SPANISH CHRISTIAN NAMES

The extraordinary devotion of the Catholics, especially in this country, to the Virgin Mary, and the notion, supported by the clergy, that as many Saints as have their names given to a child at baptism, are, in some degree, engaged to take it under their protection, occasion a national peculiarity not unworthy of remark. In the first place few have less than half a dozen names entered in the parish register, a list of which is given to the priest that he may read them out in the act of christening the child. It would be difficult indeed, under these circumstances, for most people to know exactly their own names, especially if, like myself, they have been favoured with eleven. The custom of the country, however, allows every individual to forget all but the first in the list. In our devotion to the Virgin, we have hitherto avoided the strange solecism of the French Monsieur Marie, though almost every Spaniard has Maria for a second name.

The titles given to the innumerable images of the Virgin Mary, which supply the usual names of our females, might occasion the most ludicrous puns or misnomers, if habit had not diverted the mind from their real meaning. No names are more common than Encarnacion, Incarnation—Concepcion, Conception—Visitacion, Visitation—Maravillas, Marvels—Regla, Rule—Dolores, Pains—Agustias, Anguishes—Soledad, Solitude—Natividad, Nativity, &c. Other titles of the Virgin afford, however, more agreeable associations. Such are Estrella, Star—Aurora—Amparo, Protection—Esperanza, Hope—Salud, Health—Pastora, Shepherdess—Rocio, Dew, &c. But words, as it is said of the chameleon, take the colour of the objects to which they are attached; and I have known Pains and Solitudes among our Andalusians, who, had they been more numerous, might have produced a revolution in the significations of the language.

CHRISTMAS

Since no festival of any interest takes place between summer and this season, it is already time to conclude these notes with the expiring year.

It was the custom, thirty or forty years since, among families of fortune, to prepare, for an almost public exhibition, one or two rooms of the house, where, upon a clumsy imitation of rocks and mountains, a great number of baby-houses and clay figures, representing the commonest actions of life, were placed amidst a multitude of lamps and tapers. A half ruined stable, surrounded by sheep and cattle, was seen in the front of the room, with the figures of Joseph, Mary, and some shepherds, kneeling in adoration of the child in the manger—an act which an ass and an ox imitated with the greatest composure. This collection of puppets, called Nacimiento, is still, though seldom intended for show, set up in many houses, both for the amusement and the religious gratification of the family and their more intimate friends.