Chapter XI: Found! (3)

"At last, tired of watching the band, I lay down and fell asleep. I
slept for some hours, during which a poor sheep was dragged into the
enclosure, killed, cut up, cooked in the pot, and eaten. I must have
slept until near sunset, for when I awoke another sheep was being
brought forward and I watched the process of killing and cutting up
the poor beast. The sheep was taken in hand by two men, Generoso and
Antonio generally acting as the butchers of the band. One doubled
the fore legs of the sheep across the head; the other held the head
back, inserting a knife into the throat and cutting the windpipe and
jugular vein. It was then thrown down and left to expire. When dead,
a slit was made in one of the hind legs near the feet, and an iron
ramrod taken and past down the leg to the body of the animal; it was
then withdrawn and the mouth of one of the men placed to the slit in
the leg, and the animal was inflated as much as possible and then
skinned. When the skin was separated from the legs and sides, the
carcass was taken and suspended on a peg on a tree, through the
tendon of the hind leg; the skin was then drawn off the back
(sometimes the head was the end, but this rarely). The skin was now
spread out on the ground to receive the meet, etc., when cut off the
body; the inside was taken out, the entrails being drawn out
carefully and cleaned; these were wound around the inside fat by two
or three who were fond of this luxury--Sentonio, and Andrea the
executioner, generally performing this operation. These delicacies,
as they were considered, being made about four inches long and about
one inch in diameter, are fried in fat or roasted on spits. It was
some time before I would bring myself to eat these, but curiosity
first, and hunger afterward, often caused me to eat my share, for I
soon learned it was unwise to refuse anything.

"While these two men were preparing the inside, the other two were
cutting up the carcass. The breast was first cut off, and then the
shoulders; the sheep was then cut in half with the axe, and then the
bones were laid on a stump and cut through, so that it all could be
cut in small pieces. One man would hold the meat, while another
would take hold of a piece with his left hand and cut with his
right. As it was cut up, the pieces would be put into a large cotton
handkerchief, which was spread out on the ground; the liver and
lungs were cut up in the same way; the fat was then put in the
_caldaja_, and, when this was melted, the kidneys and heart (if the
latter had not been appropriated by some one) were put in, cooked,
and eaten, every one helping himself by dipping his fingers in the
pot. The pieces of liver were considered the prizes. All the rest of
the sheep was then put in the pot at once, and after a short time
the pot was taken off the fire and jerked, so as to bring the under
pieces to the top.

"They liked the meat well cooked; and when once pronounced done, it
was divided into as many equal portions as there were numbers
present; the captives being treated as 'companions'--the term they
always used in speaking of one another. I soon found that the sooner
I picked up my share the better. If there was no doubt about there
being plenty for all, the food was never divided. Then they dived
with their hands, {122} whoever ate fastest coming off best. I could
only eat slowly, having to cut all the meat into shreds, as it was
so tough; so I always took as much as they would let me, and retired
to my lair, like a dog with his bone. If I finished this before all
was gone, I returned for more, it being always necessary to secure
as much as possible, as one was never sure when more food would be
forthcoming, and it is contrary to brigand etiquette to pocket food
when eaten thus. When it was divided, I might of course do as I
liked with my share, but even then it was prudent not to allow them
to know that I had reserved a stock in my pocket, or I was sure to
come off short on the next division taking place. The skin was now
taken and stretched out to dry, and then used to sleep on."

There were five women with the band, all dressed just like the men, except that they wore corsets. Their hair was cut short, and two of them carried guns, the others being armed with revolvers. They had no share in the ransom-money, and were often beaten and otherwise ill treated by their lords. Doniella, the partner of Pepino Cerino, one of the subordinate chiefs, was a strapping young woman about nineteen years old, with a very good figure and handsome features, a pretty smile, and splendid teeth. She and her husband were prodigious gluttons, and Pepino was eventually deposed from his rank on account of his lawless appetite. Carmina, the companion of Giuseppe, was a good-natured creature, who was often kind and generous to the English prisoner. Antonina, the wife of a whole-souled rascal named Generoso di Salerno, had a thin, melancholy face, with magnificent great lotus-eyes. She was cheerful and generous, and did a great for Mr. Moens in the way of mending his clothes and sharing her food with him during the many periods when victuals were scarce. Maria and Concetta were both ugly and sulky, hardly ever spoke, and never gave away anything.

It was a terrible life these brigands led, very different from the free and picturesque career with which poetry and romance love to identify them. Hunted by the soldiers and fleeced by their friends the peasants; suffering the extremes of hunger, thirst and fatigue; passing long days and nights of apprehension among the perpetual snows of the mountain summits, where they often durst not light a fire to warm their benumbed limbs or cook their stolen sheep or goat, for fear lest the flame should betray them, and where they would scarcely snatch a few moments for repose, that they might be ready for instant flight; dreading even to take off their clothes to wash themselves, because the pursuit might be upon them at any moment; paying absurd prices for all that they obtained from the country people; wasting in gambling the sums they received for ransoms; and haunted every hour by the Nemesis of past crimes and vain longings for a lawful and quiet life--the most wretched captive in his dungeon seems almost happy in comparison with them. Mr. Moens passed about a hundred days in their company. The ransom, finally reduced to 30,000 ducats, was not raised without some delay, in a country where he had few acquaintances, and even after it was raised the getting it safely to the band was a work of time and difficulty, for the government punishes all intercourse with the brigands with great severity. The robbers meanwhile became impatient. Our author was forced to accustom himself to kicks, cuffs, starvation, and every species of ill-usage, and there was serious talk of cutting off his ears and sending them to his wife as a gentle incentive to haste. The money came at last, however, and he parted from the gang on very friendly terms, receiving from them before he left enough money to enable him to travel to Naples "like a gentleman," besides several interesting keepsakes, such as a number of rings, and a knife which had been the instrument of one or two murders.

There is a sort of relief in turning from these two narratives of rascality to the next hook on our list, though in literary merit it is very far inferior to {123} them. It is the narrative of a lady's travels in Spain. There is not much novelty in the subject, and only a very moderate degree of skill in the execution; but it is something to get into decent company. Mrs. William Pitt Byrne [Footnote 26] travelled from the Pyreneean frontier of Spain, through Valladolid, Segovia, Madrid, Toledo, and Cordova, to Seville. Her book, with all its faults, supplies some lively pictures of modern Spanish life, and the reader who has patience to hunt for them will also find in her pages some valuable bits of information about the condition and prospects of the kingdom. She has a great deal to say about the discomforts of travelling in Spain, and the horrors of the hotels and inns, which are scarcely less abominable than those of Russia. However useful these particulars may be to persons meditating a trip through the Peninsula, they can scarcely be thought very important to the public generally; and we shall therefore content ourselves with extracting from Mrs. Byrne's two handsome volumes an account of a bull-fight at Madrid, which, notwithstanding her sex, she was induced by a sense of public duty to witness. We pass over the description of the arena and the spectators, and the preliminary procession of the actors in the bloody spectacle, and come at once to the moment when the bull is let into the ring:

[Footnote 26: Cosas de España: Illustrative of Spain and the
Spaniards as they are. By Mrs. Wm. Pitt Byrne, Author of Flemish
Interiors, etc. 2 vols. 8vo. pp. 279, 322. London and New York:
Alexander Strahan.]

"No sooner was egress offered him than he rushed headlong into the
circus, dashing madly round as if he sought an escape; baffled in
this, and scared by the fanfare of the trumpets, the glare of the
sun on the yellow sand, and the vociferous shouts of the people, he
suddenly stopped, raised his head, and stared wildly round. The
blood was already streaming from his neck where the _devisa_,
[Footnote 27] in this case a sky-blue ribbon, had been fixed.
Meantime the _lidiadores_, fifteen in number, were scattered about
the arena, each with a brightly tinted cloak of different colors
twisted about his arm, the _picadores_ being drawn up in a defensive
attitude, one behind the other, as far as possible from the centre
of the circus. The horses, we observed, were blindfolded, _pour
cause_. Some precautions were taken for the safety of the _toreros_;
thus there were, here and there, slits in the barriers, [Footnote
28] through which an expert fellow could glide, in extreme cases,
and there is a step all round, from which the more readily to vault
over the paling. For the protection of the public, a tight rope was
strained all round the circus, fixed to iron stays, to arrest the
progress of the bull, if, in his fury, he should attempt to scamper
upwards among the spectators. This frequently occurs, to the great
delight of those who are far enough off not to be damaged, and who
seem to forget that the next time it may be their turn. Frightful
indeed are the accidents, both among actors and spectators, which
sometimes happen during these games; and, as they are generally of
some unexpected kind, one never knows whether some awful casualty
may not be on the point of occurring; it is always on the cards.

[Footnote 27: The _devisa_ differs in color, and indicates the
_ganaderia_ whence the bull has come.]

[Footnote 28: At Seville the _lidiadores_, at least those who are
on foot, have an additional chance of safety in the wooden screens
placed all around at intervals, about fifteen inches in front of
the fenced ring, behind which they can glide, without fear of
being followed by the bull.]

"The bull now discovered his adversaries, and seemed instinctively
to recognize their treacherous intentions. The people became
impatient for an attack, and the trumpets blew; the _capeadores_
hovered about, dazzling, perplexing, attacking and repelling the
bewildered brute, according to the different colors of their cloaks,
and always gracefully and ingeniously eluding his vengeance. At
length one, emboldened by success, continued his provocations beyond
the bounds of discretion; the bull abandoned the others, and
selecting his persevering tormentor, defied him to single combat.
Scattering about the sand with his hoofs, he ploughed the ground
with his muzzle, and, putting himself in a butting attitude, he
pointed the back of his head and the tips of his horns with a
menacing determination towards the object of his just vengeance. The
agile _torero_, however, knew his bull; he never lost presence of
mind for a moment, but twisting about the _capa_ till it became
inflated, he flung it before the beast's face, and, under cover of
its folds, fled nimbly to the barrier. The bull, furiously enraged,
tossed the crimson silk, tearing it with his horns, and then,
discovering how he had been duped, made for his foe with redoubled
rage; but the _capeador_ had just gained the time he needed to vault
over into the fenced ring just as the bull came up with him. His eye
was dilated, and seemed to glare with fire; he had pursued his foe
with such fury that the impetus given to his course served him
instead of address, and, never losing sight of his man, he followed
him, tumbling rather than leaping over the barrier into the narrow
passage, {124} within one short section of which man and beast were
now shut up together.

"The approving roars from the amphitheatre were deafening; it was
difficult not to be carried away by the general enthusiasm; it was a
moment of intense excitement; the life of a fellow-being seemed to
hang on a thread, and a moment more must decide his doom. It was a
struggle between brute force and intelligent activity:--the man got
the better of it. In that instant he made another desperate bound,
and leaped over into the next division. The people, true to its
character--

'Sequitur fortunam, ut semper, et odit Damnatos,'

and who but now had thundered a unanimous '_Bravo toro!_' changed its cry, and it was the _lidiador_ they hailed. But he was not saved yet; the next move--quick as thought--was on the part of the bull, who, making a second and almost supernatural bound, was seen coming up behind him a third time, when the active fellow, by a happy inspiration, leaped back into the arena, and his brethren in arms, rushing to the rescue, threw open the communications to give his provoked and angry foe free course, till, one of the barriers being opened, he spontaneously returned into the circus, when it was neatly closed, and the combatant was saved for _this_ time. Still panting from the desperate chase, the disappointed brute now turned upon the first _picador_, but received a check from the point of his lance; a broad stream flowed from the widening gash, crimsoning the sand, and, as might be expected, the wounded beast turned again with greater fury on his assailant, who by this time had driven his spurs into his horse, and by a bound had cleared the spot, so that the creature's horns struck violently, and with a fearful crash, into the wooden wall, and the bull, who as yet had gained no advantage, baffled and stung, coursed once more desperately round the ring.

"The men seemed to be taking breath; but the spectators had no
intention of being satisfied with this tame dallying, and they
vociferously signified their disapprobation. The trumpet sounded
once more, and the _picador_ advanced a second time to the bleeding
hero of the sport, and provoked him with his '_vara_,' at the same
time siding up to the fence, so that, in case his horse should fall,
he might secure an escape: the sagacious beast, albeit blindfolded,
seemed to have an instinctive presentiment of the fate that awaited
him; he trembled for a moment in every limb, as the bull, with a
thundering roar, rent the air; but, obedient to the spur and to his
master's voice, he recovered his pace, and advanced to meet the
inevitable attack. The bull, lowering his head, rushed at the
_picador_, and, with all the force of his weight, plunged his horns
deep into the poor beast's right flank, turning him completely round
as on a pivot, and lifting his hind quarters several times from the
ground, the horse kicking violently. It was a ghastly group. The
_picador_ kept his seat unmoved while the whole assemblage yelled
it's savage delight. The attention of the bull, as soon as the lance
had forced him to withdraw his horns, was called off by the
_chulos_, who dazzled him with the evolutions of a yellow cloak, and
the gored steed, now released, but frightfully torn, tottered on, a
hideous spectacle, endeavoring with his fast-failing strength, to
bear his rider out of danger. Arrived near the middle of the arena,
however, his broken steps were arrested; his hour was come, and,
making one last but futile effort, he fell with his rider heavily to
the ground. When a _picador_ falls, and with his horse upon him, it
is no easy matter for him to rise; and no sooner had the wretched
steed succumbed, than the bull, dashing at the struggling and
powerless man, 'in one red ruin blent,' attacked horse and man once
more with all the vigor of his horns. The _picador_ was utterly
helpless; imbedded in his deep saddle and ponderous stirrups, his
lower limbs cased in iron, he had not the shadow of a chance of
extricating himself. His lance he had dropped, and all he could do,
and all he did, was to urge his dying horse with violent and
desperate blows to rise and release him. The cruelly-used beast,
willing and intelligent to the last, mangled as he was, and almost
swimming in the crimson pool beneath him, made a supreme effort to
rise; it was in vain, and all he could now do was to serve as a
shield by receiving the attack of the enraged bull, instead of his
master. Still the position was eminently critical; the struggles of
the dying horse under the horns of the infuriated full complicated
the position, and the next moment might decide the helpless man's
fate. He looked around, dismayed, when another _picador_ advanced,
and, driving his lance into the bull's shoulder, aroused him to the
consciousness of a new foe. The _toreros_ and _chulos_ took
advantage of the diversion to bear the bruised and wounded _picador_
off the field, and the expiring horse--not deemed worth of thought,
because, pecuniarily speaking, he was valueless--was left there, not
only to struggle in the agonies of a cruel death, but to form a butt
for the frantic bull every time he passed in the fight.

"Meantime, as if to carry their barbarity to the lowest depth, two
or three _chulos_, watching their opportunity, advanced to the
moribund horse, and beating him violently with clubs and sticks,
tried to force him to rise, but in vain; his feet, once so swift,
were destined never to support him again, and, after several
attempts to comply, he dropped his head heavily, and with an almost
human expression of powerlessness and despair. His savage tormentors
were not satisfied even now, and as if determined the noble beast
should not even die in peace, forestalled the {125} few moments he
had yet to breathe, by dragging off, with frightful violence, the
heavy accoutrements with which he was incumbered; and, having
possessed themselves of these articles, departed without having even
had the grace to put an end to his miserable existence, the bull
being engaged in a deadly combat with the second _picador_ on the
other side of the circus. The second _picador_, indeed, came off
better than the first. _His_ horse, after the first goring, and when
just about to fall, was recalled by a sharp spur-stroke in his
already lacerated sides; he started off at a convulsive gala, and
for his rider nearly round the ring, a miserable spectacle. His
entrails were dragging along till, his feet getting entangled in
them, his master, with surprising skill, contrived to dismount
before he fell, and abandoned the dying and defenseless creature to
the fury of the bull, who again gored and tossed him violently,
escaped scot-free.

"But the term of the persecuted _toro's_ own existence was
shortening, and the people, fearing lest his end should arrive for
they had had all the enjoyment that could possibly be extracted from
his struggles, called loudly for the _banderillas_. The trumpets
blew gets approving blast, and to bold _banderilleros_ presented
themselves, after the bull had been provoked by the _chulos_ into
the right position and attitude for these new tormentors to commence
their attack. The _banderillero_ was an accomplished _torero_, who
understood his business, and he took in at a glance the bull he had
to deal with. His is a perilous office, but he executed it with
intelligence, skill, and grace; he hovered about and around his
bewildered victim, turning and twisting his _banderillas_ with
provoking perseverance, and gliding aside with surprising muscular
accuracy every time the poor bull tried to parry a feint; at last he
succeeded in planting his gaudy instruments of torture into the
exact spot in which a clever _artiste_ is bound to spike them,
unless he can face the execrations of an assemblage of fastidious
and disappointed _connoisseurs_. As it was, they testified their
appreciation of the barbarous feat by the thunder of applause as the
nimble _torero_ eluded the pursuit of his foe by swift retreat. The
bespangled and befringed _banderillas_ drooped over with their own
weight, and slapped violently on either side of the poor wretches
neck, as with the sudden start and hideous roar at the unlooked-for
aggravation, he bounded furiously across the sand, tearing up the
ground with his horns and hoofs, and tossing everything in his way,
in his frantic efforts to rid himself of the new torment; the blood,
which had quite coagulated into a gory texture, hanging like a broad
crimson sheet from either side of his neck, completely concealed his
hide, now started in a fresh stream from the new wound, and his
parched tongue hung from his mouth, eloquently appealing in its mute
helplessness for one small drop of water. Strange to say, the
pitiful sight touched no responsive chord in the hearts of that
countless mass of humanity; on the contrary, like the beast of prey
who has once licked up blood, this insatiate crowd seemed to gloat
over the scene that had well-nigh sickened us; so far from being
moved to compassion, regret, or sympathy, they urged on the
remaining _banderilleros_, eager in their turn to show their skill,
and after the usual flourishes, two more pair of fiery _banderillas_
were adding their piercing points to the smarting shoulders of the
luckless bull, 'butchered to make a _Spanish_ holiday.' What must
the Roman circus have been, if this was so unendurable?--and yet
tender, gentle, loving womankind assisted--ay, and applauded at the
ghastly human sacrifice.

"It was a relief when the trumpet blew its fatal blast, and the
_espada_ came forward, bowed to the president, threw off his cap,
and displayed his crimson flag. It was Cuchares--the great Cuchares
himself: the theatre rang with applause. The Toledo steel, bright as
a mirror, flashed in his practised hand, dexterously he felt his
ground; he eyed the bull, and in a moment--a critical moment for
him--perceived by tests his experience suggested to him the nature
of the animal he had to deal with, and the mode in which he must be
treated . . . and . . . despatched. All the other _toreros_ had
retired, and he stood alone, as an executioner, face to face with
his foredoomed victim. It was a supreme moment, and the attention of
the amphitheatre seemed breathlessly concentrated into a single
point.

"There is a wonderful power of fascination in perfection of any
kind, and, notwithstanding the nature of the act in which it was to
be displayed, we felt ourselves insensibly drawn under its
influence.

"The _matador_ began his operations by dallying with the bull:
possessing all the qualifications of a first-rate _espada_, the
confidence he had in the accuracy of his eye and the steadiness of
his hand was apparent in every gesture; the group formed a singular
_tableau_, and the attitudes supplied a series of excitements. Every
head was stretched forward with an eagerness which offered each
individual character without disguise, to be read like the page of a
book. The interest was intensified by a sudden and unexpected plunge
on the part of the bull; it was vigorous, but it was his last; the
poor beast was received with masterly self-possession on the point
of the sword, which entered deep, deep into the shoulder, just above
the blade, and with a fearful groan, the huge and bloody form fell,
an inert mass, to the ground.

"The crimson tide of life burst like an unstemmed torrent from his
wide nostrils and gaping mouth, and with a quiver which seemed to
communicate itself to the whole {126} amphitheatre, he was still for
ever. The air was rent with shouts of men, screams of women, cries
of approbation and roars of applause, which were still at their
height, when one of the barriers suddenly opened, and the mules,
with their harness glittering, and their _grélots_ tinkling, trotted
gaily in; a rope was fastened with great dexterity around the neck
of the still palpitating carcase, which was then dragged off with
incredible rapidity, leaving a purple furrow in the sand: the dead
bodies of the luckless horses, one of which still lingered on, were
mercilessly disposed of in a similar manner; the _chulos_ came in,
some raked over the large deep stains beneath where the dead had
lain, and cleverly masked the tracks they had left, and others
sprinkled fresh sand over the spots. All traces of the deadly
contest were obliterated, and in the few moments the arena, bright
and sunny as ever, was prepared for a new _corrida_; the _toreros_
appeared again, as smart and dapper as the first, their costumes as
fresh, their silk stockings as spotless; not a splash of blood had
touched them, and their limbs appeared to retain their original
pliability to the last. One _corrida_ is so like another, the
routine is so precisely the same--never, apparently, having varied
since the first bull-fight that was ever exhibited in the crudest
times, and--unless there be an accident--the detail is so slightly
varied, that it would be needless to add to the notes we have
already recorded, especially as it is not an entertainment we would
willingly linger over, even in recollection. We felt we ought to see
it once; we saw, were utterly disgusted, and hope never to witness
the horrid exposition a second time."

We have another book on Spain, just published in London, and much better written than Mrs. Byrne's, though it does not contain a quarter so much information as that lady's desultory journal. It is by Mr. Henry Blackburn, [Footnote 29] who made a trip through the kingdom, in 1864, with a party of ladies and gentlemen.

[Footnote 29: Travelling in Spain in the Present Day. Henry
Blackburn. 8vo. pp.248. London: Sampson, Low, Son & Marston.]

He too went to see a bull-fight at Madrid, and he really seemed to have enjoyed it, his chief regret, when he thinks of the performance, being that the odds were too great _against the bull!_ If the beast had only been allowed a fair chance, he would have liked it a great deal better. He attended another bull-fight at Seville, and did not like it at all. The great attraction on this occasion was a female bill-fighter, who was advertised as the "intrepid señorita" She entered the arena in a kind of Bloomer costume, with a cap and a red spangled tunic, made her bow to the president, and then lo! to the English gentlemen's unspeakable disappointment, a great tub was brought, and she was lifted into it. It reached her arm-pits and there she stood, waving her darts, or _banderillas_. At a given signal the bull was let in, his horns having been previously cut short and padded at the ends. "As the animal could only toss or do any mischief by lowering its head to the ground, the risk did not seem great, or the performance promising." The bull evidently considered the whole thing a humbug, for at first he would have nothing to do with the tub, and kept walking round and round the ring. At last indignation got the better of him, and turning suddenly upon the ignominious utensil, he sent it rolling half way across the arena, with the intrepid señorita curled up inside. This seemed very much like baiting a hedgehog; but when the bull caught up the tub on his horns and ran bellowing with it round the ring, the sport began to look serious. There was a general rush of _banderilleros_ and _chulos_ to the rescue. The performer was extricated and smuggled shamefully out of the amphitheatre, and the bull was driven buck to his cage. The next act Mr. Blackburn characterizes by the appropriate name of "skittles." Nine grotesquely dressed negroes stood up in a row, and a frisky young bull was let in to bowl them over. They understood their duty, and went down flat at the first charge. Then they sat on chairs, and were knocked over again. This was great fun, and appeared to afford unlimited satisfaction to the bull, the ninepins, the audience, and everybody except Mr. Blackburn. The performance was repeated several times. After that came a burlesque of the _picadores_. Five ragged beggars, with a grim smile on their dirty faces, rode {127} forward on donkeys, without saddle or bridle. The gates were opened, and the bull charged them at once. They rode so close together that they resisted the first shock, and the bull retired. He had broken a leg of one of the donkeys, but they tied it up with a handkerchief, and continued marching slowly round, still keeping close together. A few more charges, and down they all went. The men ran for their lives and leaped the barriers, and the donkeys were thrown up in the air. So, with many variations and interludes, the sport went on for three hours; and at last, when night came, two or three young bulls were let into the ring, and then _all the people!_ "We left them there," says our author, "rolling and tumbling over one another in the darkness, shouting and screaming, fighting and cursing--sending up sounds that might indeed make angels weep."

The Spaniard does not always figure in Mr. Blackburn's book as the high-bred gentleman we are wont to imagine him. Take, for example, this picture of a señor travelling: "For some mysterious reason, no sooner does a Spaniard find himself in a railway carriage than his native courtesy and high breeding seem to desert him; he is not the man you meet on the Prado, or who is ready to divide his dinner with you on the mountain-side. He is generally, as far as our experience goes, a fat, selfish-looking bundle of cloaks and rugs, taking up more than his share of the seat, not moving to make way for you, and seldom offering any assistance or civility. He is not very clean, and smokes incessantly during the whole twenty-four hours that you may have to sit next to him; occasionally toppling over in a half-sleep, with his head upon your shoulder and his lighted cigar hanging from his mouth. He insists upon keeping the windows tightly closed, and unless your party is a large one you have to give way to the majority and submit to be half suffocated." Nor is it much better at the hotels: "A lady cannot, in the year 1866, sit down to a _table d'hôte_ in Madrid without the chance of having smoke puffed across the table in her face all dinner-time; her next neighbor (if a Spaniard) will think nothing of reaching in front of her for what he requires, and greedily securing the best of everything for himself. That is an educated gentleman opposite, but he has peculiar views about the uses of knives and forks; next to him are two ladies (of some position, we may assume; they have come to Madrid to be presented at the levée to-morrow), but their manners at table are simply atrocious. In his own house, it must be admitted, the Spaniard behaves better; but it is only among the few that one encounters the same degree of refinement and good manners that commonly prevail in England and America. The Spanish gentry read little and are very ignorant; and, as a rule, ignorance and refinement are hardly ever found together."

As a specimen of one of the lower classes take this extract: "Our beds are made by a dirty, good-natured little man, who sits upon them and smokes at intervals during the process. Our fellow-travellers, who have been much in Spain and have been staying here some time, say that he is one of the best and most obliging servants they have met with. He attends to all the families on our _étage_, and earns 18s. or 20s. a day! Every one has to fee him, or he will not work. We found him active enough until the end of the week, when our 'tip' of 60 or 70 reals, equal to about 2s. a day, was indignantly returned, as insufficient and degrading. The latter was the grievance: his pride was hurt, and we never got on well afterward. He had a knack of leaving behind him the damp, smouldering ends of his cigarettes; and on one occasion, on being suddenly called out of the room, quietly deposited the morsel on the edge of one of our plates on the breakfast table."

{128}

The great feature of Spanish life seems to be its laziness. Crowds of idlers, wrapped in their picturesque cloaks, stand about the plazas from morning till night, doing noting, rarely speaking, and scarcely seeming to have energy enough to light a cigarette. Sometimes they scratch their fusees on the coat of a passer-by, in a contemplative, patronizing fashion, that takes a stranger rather aback. A young Madrileño is content to lounge his life away in this manner; and if he has an income sufficient to provide him with the bare means of subsistence, with his indispensable _cigarito_ and his ticket for the bull-fight, he will do no work. In the morning he lounges on the Puerta del Sol; in the afternoon he lounges (if he can't ride) on the Prado; in the evening he lounges in the cafe or the theatre. This is all he cares for, and about all he is fit for. The middle class--the shop-keepers--have as little energy as their betters. "We went into a confectioner s one day," says Mr. Blackburn, "to purchase some chocolate, and were deliberately told that, if we liked to get it down from a high shelf, we could have it; no assistance was offered, and we had to go empty away." Could we accept Mr. Blackburn's sketch, or Mrs. Byrne's either, as a true picture of Spanish society, we might indeed despair of the ultimate regeneration of the kingdom. But the author of Travelling in Spain at the Present Day has the candor to admit that he is only a superficial observer, and with the following honest and commendable passages from his concluding chapter, we take leave of him and our readers together:

"Spain is not a country to travel in, and there is no nation which
is more unfairly estimated by foreigners who pay it only a flying
visit. We have no opportunity of appreciating the Spaniards' good
points, nor do we become at all aware of their latent fund of humor,
their good-heartedness, and their true _bonhomie_. We jostle with
them in crowds, we rub roughly against them in travelling, our
patience is sorely tried, and we are apt, as Miss Eyre did, to
denounce them as worse than 'barbarians. But we should bear in mind
that Spaniards differ from other nations conspicuously in this--that
they become sooner '_crystallized_;' and crystals, we all no well,
are never seen to advantage when in contact with foreign bodies. In
short Spaniards are not as other men; and Spain is a dear delightful
land of contraries, where nothing ever happens as you expect it, and
where 'coming objects _never_ cast their shadow before!'"

--------

ORIGINAL.

ANNIVERSARY.

The brooding July noon, the still, deep heats
Upon the full-leaved woods and flowering maize,
The first wheat harvest, and the torrid blaze
Which on the sweating reapers fiercely beats
And drives each songster to its own retreats,--
Much less the stately lily of the field,
Gorgeous in scarlet, whose large anthers yield
The honey-bee meet prison for its sweets,
A flame amid the meadow-land's rich green--
With the revolving year is never seen
But o'er the sunny landscape creeps a shade
Of solemn recollection. Lilies! lean
Your brilliant coronals where once was laid
A boy's brow grand in death, and "Rest in peace" be said.

------

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From The Month.

ST. CATHARINE AT FLORENCE.

The history of every race, every institution, every community, and even every family, has facts, phenomena, and characteristics of its own, which are the necessary results of the operation of certain elements or influences that belong to the subject of the history, or bear upon it with a peculiar force. It is the province of the philosophical historian to seize upon these characteristic features in each ease, and to give them their due prominence; and an intimate acquaintance with them and a due estimate of them are essentially necessary to any one who understands the work of such a historian. To be deficient in this point is enough to ruin the attempt. Thus, we might have a rationalistic writer on church history free from every prejudice, and endowed with literary powers of the highest kind--candid, impartial, industrious, judicious, full of generous sympathies, and large-minded and clear-sighted enough to take rank by the side of Thucydides or Tacitus--and yet he would fail even ludicrously as a Christian historian, because he did not recognize the ever living supernatural agency which the fortunes of the church are ordinarily guided--the force of prayer, the power of sanctity, the softening and restraining influences of faith, charity, and conscience, even on men or masses of men but imperfectly masters of their own passions, and by no means unstained by vice.

It is our object in these papers to give prominence to some of what may be conceded to be the more characteristic features of Christian history, which may nevertheless be left in the shade by those to whom it is little more than the history of Greece or Rome. Thus, a philosophical historian might see in the return of the Holy See from its long sojourn at Avignon a stroke of profound policy, by which it's emancipation from the straitening influences of nationalism was cheaply purchased, even at the cost of the great scandals which followed, and which a calculating politician might have foreseen. But to such a writer the manner in which the step was brought about would seem to be a riddle; for nothing is clearer than that it was consciously no stroke of policy at all. The wisest heads and the most powerful influences at the pontifical court were united against it; it was the work of an irresistible impulse on the conscience of a gentle and peace-loving Pope, the subject of a secret vow, a design conceived under the personal influence of one saintly woman--of princely race indeed, and reverend age, and large experience--but carried out under that of another in whom these last qualities were wanting; young, poor, the daughter of an artisan, yet who was able to succeed in her mission when success seemed hopeless, and to become the instrument of strengthening the successor of St. Peter in an emergency that might have taxed the courage of the great apostle himself.

Catholic art has sometimes represented St. Catharine of Siena as taking a part in the triumphal procession with which Gregory XI. entered Rome, and so terminated the long exile of the Holy See at Avignon. These representations, although true in idea, are false as to the historical fact; for St. Catharine never entered Rome in the lifetime of Gregory. After having seen him embark from Genoa on his {130} voyage toward the Holy City, she betook herself, with her company of disciples, to her own home at Siena, where she seems to have remained, with occasional excursions into the neighboring country, for nearly a year. She then reappears in public, having been sent once more by the Pope to Florence, in the hope that her presence there might strengthen the hands of the better party in the Republic, and bring it round again to peace with the church. In the interval she resumed her usual occupations, exerting herself in every possible way for the good of souls. Her letters at this time show great anxiety for the peace, which had not yet been obtained in Italy; for the crusade, which was always in her heart; and, perhaps more than all, for the most difficult, yet most necessary of the objects that were so dear to her--the reform of the clergy, and especially of the prelacy. It would be a thankless task to inquire into the many causes which had foster worldliness among churchmen at that time, and so prepared all the elements for the great scandal that was so soon to follow in the "schism" of the West. The best interests of the church had, in reality, more deadly enemies than Barnabo Visconti or the "Eight Saints" at Florence, in men who wore the robes of priests and even the mitre of bishops.

There is every reason to suppose that the corruption was not widely spread; but it had infected many in high station and authority, and even a few bad and ambitious prelates can at any time do incalculable mischief. The illuminated eye of Catharine had become familiar with the evil that was thus gnawing at the very heart of the church, manifesting its presence already by the pride, ambition, and luxury of ecclesiastics, and ready, when the moment came to give it full play, to break out into excesses still more deplorable than these. She saw passion and vice enough to produce the worst of the evils by which the providence of God permits the church to be afflicted, if only the provocation came that would fan into full blaze the fire that was already kindled. The B. Raymond tells us that, so far back as the beginning of the troubles in the Pontifical States, when the news came of the revolt of Perugia, he went to her in the deepest affliction to tell her what had happened. She grieved with him over the loss of souls and the scandal given in the church; but, seeing him almost overwhelmed with sorrow, she bade him not begin his mourning so soon. "You have far too much to weep for: what you see now is as milk and honey to that which is to follow."

"How can any evil be greater than this," he replied, "when we see Christians cast away all devotion and respect to Holy Church, show no fear of her censures, and by their actions publicly deny their validity? Nothing remains for them now to do but to renounce entirely the faith of Christ."

"Father," said Catharine, "all this the laity do: soon you will see how much worse that is which the clergy will do."

Then she told him that there would be rebellion among them also, when the Pope began to reform their bad manners, and that the consequences would be a widespread scandal in the church; "not exactly a heresy, but which would divide it and afflict it much in the same way as if it were." This prophecy was made about two years before the time of which we are now speaking. It is no wonder that, with this clear view of the existing elements of evil before her, Catharine should have urged upon Gregory XI. the apparently impossible project of a reform of the clergy. It was apparently impossible, partly from the circumstances of the time, partly from the character of the pontiff himself. The troubles of Italy still continued: all attempts at pacification failed, and the fortune of the war was by no means favorable to the cause of the church, Moreover, at Rome, the _banderesi_ or bannerets, who had for some {131} time had possession of the chief power in the city, had laid, indeed, their rods of office at the feet of Gregory at his entrance, but they still exercised their authority without regard to his orders for his wishes, and he found himself, therefore, not even master in his own capital. This was not the time to undertake that most difficult of all tasks, which was yet imperatively required for the welfare of the church. Nor was Gregory, with his feeble health, with the hand of death already upon him, and with his gentle and patient disposition, fitted rather for suffering than for action, the natural instrument for a work that called for sternness severity. Nevertheless, Catharine urged it upon him with a firmness that shows fact once the influence she had required, and her burning sense of the necessity of the measure. In one of the three letters to him that belong to this time, she tells him that the supreme truth demands this of him: that he should punish the multitude of iniquities committed by those who feed themselves in the garden of the Holy Church: "Beasts ought not to feed themselves on the food of men. Since this authority has been given to you, and you have accepted it, you ought to use your power: if you will not use it, it were better to renounce it, for the honor of God and the salvation of souls." She insists also upon the necessity of granting peace to the revolting cities on any terms that were consistent with the honor of God and the rights of the church. "If I were in your place, I should fear that the judgment of God might fall on me; and therefore I pray you most tenderly, on the part of Jesus Christ crucified, that you obey the will of God--though I know that you have no other desire than to do his will; so that that hard rebuke may never be made to you, 'Woe to thee, for that thou hast not used the time and the power that were committed to thee'" (Lett. xiii.) These were strong words. Catharine sent Father Raymond about the same time to Rome with a number of practical proposals for the good of the church. It appears from a letter to Raymond himself that Gregory XI. was displeased with her, either for her great liberty of speech, or, as is more probable, for the ill-success that seemed to have followed the step that he had taken at her advice. Nothing can be more beautiful or more touching than her humble apology for herself--she is ready to believe that all the calamities of the church were occasioned by her own sins.

Gregory had in fact continually occupied himself with endeavors for peace with Florence and the other confederated cities; but there had been the usual insincerity on the other side, and besides, the barbarities committed by the Breton troops at Cesena had produced their natural effect of alienating still more his revolted subjects. Negotiations had been recommenced even before the departure of the Pope from Avignon, at least so far that the Florentines had been desired to send ambassadors to meet him at Rome. He did not arrive there by the time appointed, and wrote again from Corneto to fix a later time. The negotiation failed, as we have said, not from any lack of a desire for peace on the part of Gregory, but on account of the bad faith of the rulers of Florence, who really wished the war to continue. Their cause seemed to gain strength with time; for Visconti now took their side, regardless of the treaty that had been made with him, and the English company under Sir John Hawkwood entered their service. A gleam of hope came when one of the revolted leaders, the Lord of Viterbo, made his peace with the church. Gregory immediately despatched two envoys to Florence, but their efforts were in vain; and in the autumn of 1377 the Eight, who still held the supreme power, ventured on a step which gave still greater scandal than any of their former excesses, and seemed to widen still further the breach between the Republic and the Holy See.

{132}

Florence had now been for nearly a year and a half under an interdict, The churches were closed--the sacred offices could not be performed, nor the sacraments administered, except in private. This weighed heavily on the mass of the population. There were probably but few, besides the Eight and their immediate followers, who regarded it with indifference. The Italian character is in many respects unintelligible to those who have not studied it in Italy itself. We can hardly understand how nine-tenths of the population of a city or a duchy can submit quietly to be governed by a handful of usurpers, who proclaim themselves the representatives of the people--the great majority of whom have abstained from the nominal voting that had conferred that character upon them--and let things take their course under the tyranny of their new masters, though that course lead to financial ruin, burdensome taxation, and the spoliation of the best institutions of the country, as well as to open persecution of religion and deliberate attacks on morality. An Anglo-Saxon population would either have brought public opinion and general feeling to bear irresistibly upon the magistrates, or would have taken the matter into its own hands, and sent the "Eight Saints" floating down the Arno if they had not conformed their policy to the all but universal desire for peace. But the Florentines waited and suffered, showing their attachment to the church and to the services from which they were debarred in many touching ways, some of which have been specially recorded by the historians of the time. It was forbidden, for instance, that the divine office--at which, at that time, it was the custom of the laity to assist--should be sung publicly in the churches; but pious persons could not be forbidden from practising such devotions as might occur to them in place of the regular services; and we find that in consequence they organized themselves into confraternities, and went about in processions singing hymns in praise of God. Many of these seem to have been composed by followers or disciples of St. Catharine. There was a movement of popular devotion to make up for the solemn ecclesiastical worship which was suspended. No doubt it was a symptom of an irrepressible feeling in the public mind which frightened the "Eight Saints." At length the feast-day of St. Reparata approached--Oct. 8th. She was the titular saint of the cathedral, [Footnote 30] and her feast was usually celebrated with splendor and popular devotion. Were the people to be shut out of the church again on the day of their patron saint? The Eight had, as we have seen, just concluded their league with the lord of Milan, and strengthen their arms by the accession of Hawkwood, and their envoys had have returned from Rome without terms of peace. They determined to brave the Pope still further, and to plunge the city into still more flagrant rebellion against his authority, by ordering the violation of the interdict. They would indulge the religious wishes of the people, making them, at the same time, partners in a gross insults to religion. They would force the clergy themselves to the alternative of taking part against the church, or of suffering civil penalties and persecution if they refused to do so.

[Footnote 30: the Duomo of Florence, as it is signified by its
name--S. Maria del Flore--is dedicated in honor of our Blessed Lady;
but it was originally called after St. Reparata, an early martyr in
Palestine, in gratitude for the deliverance of the city from a horde
of Huns that besieged it in the fifth century; which deliverance
took place on the date of the saint--Oct. 8th. The feast was kept as
one of the first class, with an octave. The epithet "del Flore,"
added to our Lady's name in the present title, signifies Florence
itself, the emblem of the city being a lily.]