The ghost of Charlotte Cray, and other stories
the remains, for all seemed to partake of the same hue and texture. It
is a humbling sight to look upon the dead after they have turned again
to their dust, and with but a semblance of the human frame left
clinging to them, as though in mockery of our mortality. We could not
bear to see the idlers who had followed our party down into the vaults
jeering at the appearance of these poor carcases, and touching them in
a careless and irreverent manner. Had we had our way, they should all
have been tenderly consigned again to the bosom of their mother earth,
and we experienced a strange sensation of relief as we turned our
backs upon them and emerged once more into the open air.
The principal object of a stroll in Utrera is a visit to the Church of
Consolation, which stands on the outskirts of the town, at the end of
a long walk bordered with lines of olive trees. At intervals along the
way benches are placed, and here on Sundays and feast-days the
inhabitants congregate as they come to and from the church. The latter
is an interesting edifice, though its architecture is unpretending
enough.
Its nave is lofty, and on the white-washed walls hang hundreds of
little waxen and silver limbs, and effigies, with articles of
children’s clothing and an endless assortment of plaited tails of
hair. These are all offerings made to “Our Lady of Consolation,” in
fulfilment of vows or as tokens of thanksgiving for recovery from
sickness; and there is something very touching in the idea of these
women giving up their most cherished possessions (for every one knows
how justly proud the Spanish are of their magnificent hair) as
tributes of gratitude to her from whom they have received the favours.
The walls near the western door of the Church of Consolation are hung
with innumerable pictures, each bearing so strong a resemblance to the
other, both in style and subject, that they might have been drawn by
the same hand. As works of art they are valueless, for even the rules
of perspective are ignored in a most comical manner, and with slight
variations they all represent the same subject. On one hand is an
invalid man, woman or child, as the case may be, and on the other a
kneeling figure imploring aid for them of the “Virgin of Consolation,”
who is also portrayed appearing to the suppliant, and encircled by a
golden halo. Beneath the painting is inscribed the name of the
patient, the nature of his disease, and the date of his recovery.
At the back of the church is a large garden belonging to one of the
richest proprietors in the neighbourhood of Utrera, and as the midday
heat became more oppressive it was a favourite haunt of ours during
the cool of the evening, when the air was laden with the perfume of
orange blossoms and other sweet-smelling flowers. The owners of the
garden permitted it to grow wild, but that circumstance only enhanced
its beauty. The orange trees were laden with golden fruit, of which we
were courteously invited to gather as much as we pleased. But our
visits to this charming retreat were necessarily short, for, as in
most southern latitudes, there was scarcely any twilight in Utrera,
and it always seemed as though the ringing of the Angelus were a
signal for the nights immediately to set in. But what glorious nights
they were! The dingy oil-lamps in the streets (for gas is an
innovation which had not yet found its way there) were little needed,
as the sky always seemed to be one bright blaze of beautiful stars.
The cemetery at Utrera is a quiet spot, surrounded by a high white
wall and thickly planted with cypress trees, which give it a most
solemn and melancholy appearance. They have the custom there (I am not
sure it is not prevalent in other parts of Spain) of burying the dead
in recesses in the walls, which are built expressly of an immense
thickness; the coffins are shoved into these large pigeon-holes, and
the opening is closed with a marble slab, which bears the inscription
usual in such cases, somewhat after the fashion of open-air catacombs.
But little respect seemed to be shown to the dead.
One day I met some children bearing a bier, upon which was stretched
the corpse of a little girl clothed in white garments and with a
wreath of flowers placed upon the placid brow. The children,
apparently quite unaware of the reverence due to their sacred burden,
carelessly laughed and chatted as they bore it along the highway,
sometimes sitting down to rest, and then hurrying forward with
unseemly haste, as though to make up for lost time. A tall man,
wrapped in a huge cloak, and who evidently belonged to the little
_cortège_, followed at a distance, but he too performed the duty at
his leisure, and seemed to find nothing extraordinary or out of the
way in the children’s want of decorum.
With the exception of periodical visits to the Church of Consolation
before mentioned, the people of Utrera rarely seemed to leave their
houses. To walk for the sake of walking is an idea which finds little
favour with a Spanish lady, and my friends and myself were looked upon
as very strange beings for taking so much exercise and caring to
explore the surrounding country.
But to our English taste it was pleasant to stroll up the Cadiz road
until we reached a small mound situated thereon, which was belted with
shady trees and amply provided with stone seats. This elevation
commanded the view of a vast extent of country, with the grand
frowning hills of the Sierra Nevada in the far distance, which the
gorgeous sunsets always invested with a strange, unearthly beauty. The
intense solitude of the scene, too, was not without its own peculiar
charm. At intervals the silence would be broken by the approach of a
picturesque-looking peasant bestriding a mule, the silvery jangle of
whose bells had been heard in the calm atmosphere for some time before
he made his personal appearance. These muleteers never failed to
interrupt the monotonous chants they are so fond of singing, to wish
us a friendly “Buenas tardes” (“Good evening”) while proceeding on
their way, and then we would listen to the sound of the mule’s bells
and the low rich voice of his master until both died away in the
distance, and the scene resumed its normal condition of undisturbed
tranquillity.
We made an expedition once, by the new railroad, to Moron, a very old
town perched on an almost perpendicular rock and visible for miles
distant. The heat was intense, but we toiled manfully up the steep and
execrably-paved street from the station, and, weary and footsore, were
thankful to find ourselves within the cool walls of the fine old
church. It possesses some valuable Murillos--one of which,
representing the head of our Blessed Lord, is especially beautiful.
The altar-rails, screen and reredos are all richly gilt, and the
sacristan, taking us into the vestry, unlocked several massively
carved chests, which disclosed some valuable plate and precious
stones; referring to which, he boasted, with pardonable pride, that
Utrera could not produce anything half so handsome. And indeed the
inhabitants of Moron may well congratulate themselves on these
treasures having escaped the grasp of the French during the war, for
the sacristan related to us how everything had been hidden away and
miraculously preserved from the hands of the spoiler.
But my chit-chat is drawing to a close. It was not without a certain
regret that we bade farewell to Utrera, for during the whole of our
stay there we had experienced nothing but kindness from all with whom
we had come in contact, and the memory of our sojourn in that little,
out-of-the-way Andalusian town, if not fraught with brilliant
recollections, will, at all events, take its rank with that portion of
the past which has been too peaceful to rise up again to trouble us.
And it were well if we could say the same for every part of our
storm-ridden lives.
THE SECRET OF ECONOMY.
Apparently, there has been much to say and write lately upon
domestic economy. From the time, indeed, that the question of the
possibility of marriage upon three hundred a-year was mooted, the
subject has never fairly been dropped.
Men, with incomes of less than three hundred a-year, do not seem to
like the idea that they are bound in consequence to renounce all
thoughts of matrimony, and inquiries respecting the matter from
aggrieved bachelors are constantly cropping up in those corners of the
weekly papers devoted to correspondence. They have even gone so far
lately as to suggest, since it seems impossible in this century of
riots and rinderpest to curtail one’s expenses, whether it may not be
both lawful and feasible to curtail one’s family.
The question of, on how much, or on how little, a certain number of
persons can exist, is certainly one which affects the mass, but which,
to be answered with fairness, must be put individually. There are
women and women. What one housekeeper can accomplish on three hundred
a-year, another cannot effect on three thousand, for it is not
incompatible with many luxuries to possess very little comfort; and
comfort is, after all, the essence of domestic felicity.
Yet, it is not fair to lay the whole blame of the impossibility of
marriage in these days upon a moderate income, on the extravagance of
women, for the difficulty is just as often attributable to the
disinclination of men to resign the luxuries to which they have been
accustomed. For every really extravagantly disposed female mind there
may be found two thriftily disposed ones; and had such minds but been
endued with the proper knowledge to carry out their efforts to do
well, existence might not be found so difficult a matter as it appears
to be at present.
It is true that the “girl of the period” (not the _Saturday
Reviewer’s_ “girl” by any manner of means), is, generally, better
dressed and more accustomed to luxury than her mother was before her.
But it must be remembered that the expenses of a girl before marriage
are regulated by the wishes of her parents, and because they like to
see her sail about in the last Parisian fashion, it by no means
follows that she will always expect to be dressed the same, or that
she will not cheerfully resign some of the luxuries she has been
accustomed to, to meet the means of the man who has taken it upon
himself to support her.
Apropos of which I have far oftener been called upon to remonstrate
with newly-married female friends on their folly in stripping the
trousseaux, which had been prepared for them with such care, of all
their pretty trimmings of lace and ribbon and embroidery, in order to
adorn the little frocks and caps which are scarcely ever noticed but
by the mother herself, than to blame them for out-running their
husbands’ means in order to procure such vanities.
Various reasons may combine to make the parent, who can afford it,
take pleasure in seeing her daughter well dressed. A true mother is
naturally proud of a girl’s good looks; and anxious to show them off
to the best advantage; or the feeling that her child may not long be
with her may make her desirous to please her to the utmost whilst she
remains. Of course, the indulgence may arise from lower and more
mercenary motives, such as have been attributed for many a long year
to the stereotyped “Belgravian mother”; but even in such a case it
does not follow that the girl will never be able contentedly to
accommodate herself to a lower range of comfort. It is not to be
expected that, single-handed, she should put away from her the
luxuries which her parents’ income can command; but it remains to be
proved whether she will not willingly exchange them to become the
mistress of a house of her own, even though it may be smaller than the
one to which she has been accustomed. Naturally parents wish to see