A TAILOR’S DRAWER.
Nedyls, threde, thymbell, shers, and all suche knackes.
THE FOUR PS.
I.
A TAILOR’S drawer, did you say?
Yes; a tailor’s drawer. It is, indeed, rather a quaint rubric for a chapter in the pilgrim’s breviary; albeit it well befits the motley character of the following pages. It is a title which the Spaniards give to a desultory discourse, wherein various and discordant themes are touched upon, and which is crammed full of little shreds and patches of erudition; and certainly it is not inappropriate to a chapter whose contents are of every shape and hue, and “do no more adhere and keep pace together than the hundreth psalm to the tune of Green Sleeves.”
II.
IT is recorded in the Adventures of Gil Bias de Santillana, that, when this renowned personage first visited the city of Madrid, he took lodgings at the house of Mateo Melandez, in the Puerta del Sol. In choosing a place of abode in the Spanish court, I followed, as far as practicable, this illustrious example; but, as the kind-hearted Mateo had been long gathered to his fathers, I was content to take up my residence in the hired house of Valentin Gonzalez, at the foot of the Calle de la Montera. My apartments were in the third story, above the dust, though not beyond the rattle, of the street; and my balconies looked down into the Puerta del Sol, the heart of Madrid, through which circulates the living current of its population at least once every twenty-four hours.
The Puerta del Sol is a public square, from which diverge the five principal streets of the metropolis. It is the great rendezvous of grave and gay, — of priest and layman, — of gentle and simple, — the mart of business and of gossip, — the place where the creditor seeks his debtor, where the lawyer seeks his client, where the stranger seeks amusement, where the friend seeks his friend, and the foe his foe; where the idler seeks the -sun in winter, and the shade in summer, and the busybody seeks the daily news, and picks up the crumbs of gossip to fly away with them in his beak to the tertulia of Dona Paquita!
Tell me, ye who have sojourned in foreign lands, and know in what bubbles a traveller’s happiness consists, — is it not a blessing to have your window overlook a scene like this?
III.
THERE, — take that chair upon the balcony, and let us look down upon the busy scene beneath us. What a continued roar the crowded thoroughfare sends up! Though three stories high, we can hardly hear the sound of our own voices! The London cries are whispers, when compared with the cries of Madrid.
See, — yonder, stalks a gigantic peasant of New Castile, with a montera cap, brown jacket and breeches, and coarse blue stockings, forcing his way through the crowd, and leading a donkey laden with charcoal, whose sonorous bray is in unison with the harsh voice of his master. Close at his elbow goes a rosy-cheeked damsel, selling calico. She is an Asturian from the mountains of Santander. How do you know? By her short yellow petticoats, — her blue bodice, — her coral necklace and earrings. Through the middle of the square struts a peasant of Old Castile, with his yellow leather jerkin strapped about his waist, — his brown leggins and his blue garters, — driving before him a flock of gabbling turkeys, and crying, at the top of his voice, “Pao, pao, pavitos, paos!” Next comes a Valencian, with his loose linen trousers and sandal shoon, holding a huge sack of watermelons upon his shoulder with his left hand, and with his right balancing high in air a specimen of his luscious fruit, upon which is perched a little pyramid of the crimson pulp, while he tempts the passers-by with “A cala, y calando; una sandïa vendo-o-o. Si esto es sangre!” (By the slice, — come and try it, — watermelon for sale. This is the real blood!) His companion near him has a pair of scales thrown over his shoulder, and holds both arms full of muskmelons. He chimes into the harmonious ditty with “Melo — melo-o-o — melon-citos; aqui estâ el azucar!” (Melons, melons; here is the real sugar!) Behind them creeps a slow-moving Asturian, in heavy wooden shoes, crying watercresses; and a peasant woman from the Guadarrama Mountains, with a montera cocked up in front, and a blue kerchief tied under her chin, swings in each hand a bunch of live chickens, — that hang by the claws, head downwards, fluttering, scratching, crowing with all their might, while the good woman tries to drown their voices in the discordant cry of “Qmen me compra un gallo, — un par de gallinas?” (Who buys a cock, — a pair of fowls? ) That tall fellow in blue, with a pot of flowers upon his shoulder, is a wag, beyond all dispute. See how cunningly he cocks his eye up at us, and cries, “Si yo tuviera balcon!” (If I only had a balcony!)
What next? A Manchego with a sack of oil under his arm; a Gallego with a huge water-jar upon his shoulders; an Italian pedler with images of saints and madonnas; a razor-grinder with his wheel; a mender of pots and kettles, making music, as he goes, with a shovel and a frying-pan; and, in fine, a noisy, patchwork, ever-changing crowd, whose discordant cries mingle with the rumbling of wheels, the clatter of hoofs, and the clang of church-bells; and make the Puerta del Sol, at certain hours of the day, like a street in Babylon the Great.
IV.
CHITON! A beautiful girl, with flaxen hair, blue eyes, and the form of a fairy in a midsummer night’s dream, has just stepped out on the balcony beneath us! See how coquettishly she crosses her arms upon the balcony, thrusts her dainty little foot through the bars, and plays with her slipper! She is an Andalusian, from Malaga. Her brother is a bold dragoon, and wears a long sword; so beware! and “let not the creaking of shoes and the rustling of silks betray thy poor heart to woman.” Her mother is a vulgar woman, “fat and forty” ; eats garlic in her salad, and smokes cigars. But mind! that is a secret; I tell it to you in confidence.
V.
THE following little ditty I translate from the Spanish. It is as delicate as a dew-drop.
“She is a maid of artless grace,
Gentle in form, and fair of face.
“Tell me, thou ancient mariner,
That sailest on the sea,
If ship, or sail, or evening star
Be half so fair as she!
“Tell me, thou gallant cavalier,
Whose shining arms I see,
If steed, or sword, or battle-field
Be half so fair as she!
“Tell me, thou swain, that guard’st thy flock
Beneath the shadowy tree,
If flock, or vale, or mountain-ridge
Be half so fair as she!”
VI.
A MILLER has just passed by, covered with flour from head to foot, and perched upon the tip end of a little donkey, crying “Arre borrico!” and at every cry swinging a cudgel in his hand, and giving the ribs of the poor beast what in the vulgar dialect is called a cachiporrazo. I could not help laughing, though I felt provoked with the fellow for his cruelty. The truth is, I have great regard for a jackass. His meekness, and patience, and long-suffering are very amiable qualities, and, considering his situation, worthy of all praise. In Spain, a donkey plays as conspicuous a part as a priest or a village alcalde. There would be no getting along without him. And yet, who so beaten and abused as he?
VII.
HERE comes a gay gallant, with white kid gloves, a quizzing-glass, a black cane, with a white ivory pommel, and a little hat, cocked pertly on one side of his head. He is an exquisite fop, and a great lady’s man. You will always find him on the Prado at sunset, when the crowd and dust are thickest, ogling through his glass, flourishing his cane, and humming between his teeth some favorite air of the Semiramis, or the Barber of Seville. He is a great amateur, and patron of the Italian Opera, — beats time with his cane, — nods his head, and cries, Bravo! — and fancies himself in love with the Prima Donna. The height of his ambition is to be thought the gay Lothario, — the gallant Don Cortejo of his little sphere. He is a poet withal, and daily besieges the heart of the cruel Dona Inez with sonnets and madrigals. She turns a deaf ear to his song, and is inexorable: —
“Mas que no sea mas piadosa
A dos escudos en prosa,
No puede ser.”
>
VIII.
WHAT a contrast between this personage and the sallow, emaciated being who is now crossing the street! It is a barefooted Carmelite, — a monk of an austere order, — wasted by midnight vigils and long penance. Abstinence is written on that pale cheek, and the bowed head and downcast eye are in accordance with the meek profession of a mendicant brotherhood.
What is this world to thee, thou man of penitence and prayer? What hast thou to do with all this busy, turbulent scene about thee, — with all the noise, and gayety, and splendor of this thronged city? Nothing. The wide world gives thee nothing, save thy daily crust, thy crucifix, thy convent-cell, thy pallet of straw! Pilgrim of heaven! thou hast no home on earth. Thou art journeying onward to “a house not made with hands” ; and, like the first apostles of thy faith, thou takest neither gold, nor silver, nor brass, nor scrip for thy journey. Thou hast shut thy heart to the endearments of earthly love, — thy shoulder beareth not the burden with thy fellow-man, — in all this vast crowd thou hast no friends, no hopes, no sympathies. Thou standest aloof from man, — and art thou nearer God? I know not. Thy motives, thy intentions, thy desires are registered in heaven. I am thy fellow-man, — and not thy judge.
“Who is the greater?” says the German moralist; “the wise man who lifts himself above the storms of time, and from aloof looks down upon them, and yet takes no part therein, — or he who from the height of quiet and repose throws himself boldly into the battle-tumult of the world? Glorious is it, when the eagle through the beating tempest flies into the bright blue heaven upward; but far more glorious, when, poising in the blue sky over the black storm-abyss, he plunges downward to his aerie on the cliff, where cower his unfledged brood, and tremble.”
IX.
SULTRY grows the day, and breathless! The lately crowded street is silent and deserted, — hardly a footfall, — hardly here and there a solitary figure stealing along in the narrow strip of shade beneath the eaves! Silent, too, and deserted is the Puerta del Sol; so silent, that even at this distance the splashing of its fountain is distinctly audible, — so deserted, that not a living thing is visible there, save the outstretched and athletic form of a Galician water-carrier, who lies asleep upon the pavement in the cool shadow of the fountain! There is not air enough to stir the leaves of the jasmine upon the balcony, or break the thin column of smoke that issues from the cigar of Don Diego, master of the noble Spanish tongue, y hombre de muchos dingolondangos. He sits bolt upright between the window and the door, with the collar of his snuff-colored frock thrown back upon his shoulders, and his toes turned out like a dancing-master, poring over the Diario de Madrid, to learn how high the thermometer rose yesterday, — what patron saint has a festival to-day, — and at what hour to-morrow the “King of Spain, Jerusalem, and the Canary Islands” will take his departure for the gardens of Aranjuez.
You have a proverb in your language, Don Diego, which says, —
“Despues de comer Ni un sobrescrito leer” ; —
after dinner read not even the superscription of a letter. I shall obey, and indulge in the exquisite luxury of a siesta. I confess that I love this after-dinner nap. If I have a gift, a vocation for any thing, it is for sleeping; and from my heart I can say with honest Sancho, “Blessed be the man that first invented sleep!” In a sultry clime, too, where the noontide heat unmans you, and the cool starry night seems made for any thing but slumber, I am willing to barter an hour or two of intense daylight for an hour or two of tranquil, lovely, dewy night!
Therefore, Don Diego, hasta la vista!
X.
IT is evening; the day is gone; fast gather and deepen the shades of twilight! In the words of a German allegory, “The babbling day has touched the hem of night’s garment, and, weary and still, drops asleep in her bosom.”
The city awakens from its slumber. The convent-bells ring solemnly and slow. The streets are thronged again. Once more I hear the shrill cry, the rattling wheel, the murmur of the crowd. The blast of a trumpet sounds from the Puerta del Sol, — then the tap of a drum; a mounted guard opens the way, — the crowd doff their hats, and the king sweeps by in a gilded coach drawn by six horses, and followed by a long train of uncouth, antiquated vehicles drawn by mules.
The living tide now sets towards the Prado, and the beautiful gardens of the Retiro. Beautiful are they at this magic hour! Beautiful, with the almond-tree in blossom, with the broad green leaves of the sycamore and the chestnut, with the fragrance of the orange and the lemon, with the beauty of a thousand flowers, with the soothing calm and the dewy freshness of evening!
XI.
I LOVE to linger on the Prado till the crowd is gone and the night far advanced. There musing and alone I sit, and listen to the lulling fall of waters in their marble fountains, and watch the moon as it rises over the gardens of the Retiro, brighter than a northern sun. The beautiful scene lies half in shadow, half in light, — almost a fairy land. Occasionally the sound of a guitar, or a distant voice, breaks in upon my revery. Then the form of a monk, from the neighbouring convent, sweeps by me like a shadow, and disappears in the gloom of the leafy avenues; and far away from the streets of the city comes the voice of the watchman telling the midnight hour.
Lovely art thou, O Night, beneath the skies of Spain! Day, panting with heat, and laden with a thousand cares, toils onward like a beast of burden; but Night, calm, silent, holy Night, is a ministering angel that cools with its dewy breath the toil-heated brow; and, like the Roman sisterhood, stoops down to bathe the pilgrim’s feet. How grateful is the starry twilight! How grateful the gentle radiance of the moon! How grateful the delicious coolness of “the omnipresent and deep-breathing air!” Lovely art thou, O Night, beneath the skies of Spain!
ANCIENT SPANISH BALLADS.
I love a ballad but even too well, if it be doleful matter merrily set down, or a very pleasant thing indeed, and sung lamentably.
WINTER’S TALE.
How universal is the love of poetry! Every nation has its popular songs, the offspring of a credulous simplicity and an unschooled fancy. The peasant of the North, as he sits by the evening fire, sings the traditionary ballad to his children, —
“Nor wants he gleeful tales, while round
The nut-brown bowl doth trot.”
The peasant of the South, as he lies at noon in the shade of the sycamore, or sits by his door in the evening twilight, sings his amorous lay, and listlessly,
“On hollow quills of oaten straw,
He pipeth melody.”
The muleteer of Spain carols with the early lark, amid the stormy mountains of his native land. The vintager of Sicily has his evening hymn; the fisherman of Naples his boat-song; the gondolier of Venice his midnight serenade. The goatherd of Switzerland and the Tyrol, — the Carpathian boor, — the Scotch Highlander, — the English ploughboy, singing as he drives his team afield, — peasant, — serf, — slave, — all, all have their ballads and traditionary songs. Music is the universal language of mankind, — poetry their universal pastime and delight.
The ancient ballads of Spain hold a prominent rank in her literary history. Their number is truly astonishing, and may well startle the most enthusiastic lover of popular song. The Romancero General contains upwards of a thousand; and though upon many of these may justly be bestowed the encomium which honest Izaak Walton pronounces upon the old English ballad of the Passionate Shepherd,— “old-fashioned poetry, but choicely good,” — yet, as a whole, they are, perhaps, more remarkable for their number than for their beauty. Every great his toric event, every marvellous tradition, has its popular ballad. Don Roderick, Bernardo del Carpio, and the Cid Campeador are not more the heroes of ancient chronicle than of ancient song; and the imaginary champions of Christendom, the twelve peers of Charlemagne, have found a historian in the wandering ballad-singer no less authentic than the good Archbishop Turpin.
Most of these ancient ballads had their origin during the dominion of the Moors in Spain. Many of them, doubtless, are near
ly as old as the events they celebrate; though in their present form the greater part belong to the fourteenth century. The language in which they are now preserved indicates no higher antiquity; but who shall say how long they had been handed down by tradition, ere they were taken from the lips of the wandering minstrel, and recorded in a more permanent form?
The seven centuries of the Moorish sovereignty in Spain are the heroic ages of her history and her poetry. What the warrior achieved with his sword the minstrel published in his song. The character of those ages is seen in the character of their literature. History casts its shadow far into the land of song. Indeed, the most prominent characteristic of the ancient Spanish ballads is their warlike spirit. They shadow forth the majestic lineaments of the warlike ages; and through every line breathes a high and peculiar tone of chivalrous feeling. It is not the piping sound of peace, but a blast, — a loud, long blast from the war-horn, —
“A trump with a stern breath,
Which is cleped the trump of death.”
And with this mingles the voice of lamentation, — the requiem for the slain, with a melancholy sweetness: —
Rio Verde, Rio Verde!
Many a corpse is bathed in thee,
Both of Moors and eke of Christians,
Slain with swords most cruelly.
And thy pure and crystal waters
Dappled are with crimson gore;
For between the Moors and Christians
Long has been the fight and sore.
Delphi Complete Works of Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (Delphi Poets Series Book 13) Page 193
