prudent Senoras, preceded by a servant with a Persian rug, prayed in comfort. The crucifixes, here as elsewhere, have petticoats, sometimes of muslin, sometimes of crimson silk, fringed with gold.
There is one old Gothic building, called the Silk Hall, of which Valencia may well be proud, where the merchants meet to discuss the prospects of the trade. It is an immense high hall, the roof supported by twisted pillars; the windows were once filled with most delicate tracing, vestiges of which can be seen from the romantic garden, full of orange and lemon trees, which being then laden with golden fruit, contrasted well with the snowy trumpet-blossomed datura.
Travellers are wont to proclaim that in Spain no antiquities can be found, that the all-pervading Israelite has swept away everything worth having. But this is really not the case. The genuine lover of antiquities pursues his search with all the greater zest, the more difficulties obstruct his path. To go into a well-stocked “Magasin d’Antiquités” is a true delight to him; but greater still is his pleasure, when by dint of invading uninviting pawn-shops, strange cellars, and dusty garrets, he unearths some treasure, unvalued by its possessor, and priceless in his eyes, its merits being enhanced to him in proportion to the difficulties he has conquered in possessing himself of it. The ardent antiquarian has, as it were, a new sense, a perpetual source of pleasure, unknown to the vulgar crowd who revel in the “last novelty,” or esteem old porcelain and the thousand-and-one quaint legacies of past centuries by a vile monetary test. He is never at a loss for occupation and interest; he defies “Ennui,” and her attendant goblins of Discontent and Worry. In the most out-of-the-way hamlet where he is storm-stayed, he finds some trace of by-gone years, either in the peasant’s cottage or the ancient church. Not only has he all the present interests of the age, but he is “en rapport” with the past, and is familiar with the works of the noblest spirits of each age. In his researches he invades alike princely halls and peasants’ cottages, and has thus an immense insight into the modes and habits of life of a nation. It becomes more interesting and exciting than hunting, which it resembles, in details of action; as first comes the drawing of coverts, then the find, the chase, and the trophy. Bloodless trophy, with no stain of cruelty to mar the triumph of success.
Drawing the covert is the first point: innkeepers, drivers, shop-people, are all interrogated in turn as to who are the possessors of curiosities in the place. Often and often the covert is drawn in vain, and disappointed with the sight of horrid daubs, broken modern china, and rubbishy Chinese novelties: the antiquarian turns away, to search again. Then comes the find: who, that has not known it, can tell the joy of seeing in some dusty corner what looks suspiciously like a majolica vase or Venetian goblet? Then comes the chase: first diplomatically veiling your surprise and delight, then misleading the wary owner by praising some other article, and finally obtaining it on your terms, and going off triumphant with your precious canvas or crockery, whose well-known mark has quickened the beating of your heart.
In this pleasing pursuit the three days of detention at Valencia passed pleasantly away, but I will not betray all we saw nor what we left, lest Wardour Street should send immediately a deputation to ransack the town.
The evenings we beguiled by visiting the pretty theatre, as good in its way as any in London. The boxes all belong to abonnés, who go to them as a matter of course every evening, and entertain their friends during the entre actes in the little salons which open off each. The divisions between each box being very low, the occupants of the back row of seats do not, as in our theatres, run the danger of suffocation. We watched with much amusement a little girl of eight or nine years old, evidently a regular habituée of the place. She had her little opera-glass, and used her tiny fan with as great dexterity and adroitness as any grown-up lady present, flashing it open and shutting it up again in a moment. In the comparative silence between the scenes, rustle rustle go the fans, with a noise like wind fluttering among the crisp leaves of autumn. Our little Senorita was up to every dodge with hers, made signals to her friends far and near, kissed her hand, winked, and bowed with a gaiety and liveliness perfectly irresistible. The acting was much above mediocrity; the women threw themselves into their parts, too conscious of their own merits to be always looking out for admiration.END OF VOLUME THE EIGHTH.
BRADBURY AND EVANS, PRINTERS, WHITEFRIARS, LONDON.
