I Knew A
Gentleman In The West Whose Circumstances Had Forced Him To Become A
Waiter In A Backwoods Restaurant.
He bore a deadly grudge at the
profession that kept him from starving, and asserted his unconquered
nobility of soul by scowling at his customers and swearing at the viands
he dispensed.
I remember the deep sense of wrong with which he would
growl, "Two buckwheats, begawd!" You see nothing of this defiant spirit
in Spanish servants. They are heartily glad to find employment, and ask
no higher good-fortune than to serve acceptably. As to drawing
comparisons between themselves and their masters, they never seem to
think they belong to the same race. I saw a pretty grisette once stop to
look at a show-window where there was a lay-figure completely covered
with all manner of trusses. She gazed at it long and earnestly,
evidently thinking it was some new fashion just introduced into the gay
world. At last she tripped away with all the grace of her unfettered
limbs, saying, "If the fine ladies have to wear all those machines, I am
glad I am not made like them."
Whether it be from their more regular and active lives, or from their
being unable to pay for medical attendance, the poorer classes suffer
less from sickness than their betters. An ordinary Spaniard is sick but
once in his life, and that once is enough, - 'twill serve. The traditions
of the old satires which represented the doctor and death as always
hunting in couples still survive in Spain. It is taken as so entirely a
matter of course that a patient must die that the law of the land
imposed a heavy fine upon physicians who did not bring a priest on their
second visit. His labor of exhortation and confession was rarely wasted.
There were few sufferers who recovered from the shock of that solemn
ceremony in their chambers. Medical science still labors in Spain under
the ban of ostracism, imposed in the days when all research was impiety.
The Inquisition clamored for the blood of Vesalius, who had committed
the crime of a demonstration in anatomy. He was forced into a pilgrimage
of expiation, and died on the way to Palestine. The Church has always
looked with a jealous eye upon the inquirers, the innovators. Why these
probes, these lancets, these multifarious drugs, when the object in view
could be so much more easily obtained by the judicious application of
masses and prayers?
So it has come about that the doctor is a Pariah, and miracles flourish
in the Peninsula. At every considerable shrine you will see the walls
covered with waxen models of feet, legs, hands, and arms secured by the
miraculous interposition of the genius loci, and scores of little
crutches attesting the marvellous hour when they became useless. Each
shrine, like a mineral spring, has its own especial virtue. A Santiago
medal was better than quinine for ague. St. Veronica's handkerchief is
sovereign for sore eyes. A bone of St. Magin supersedes the use of
mercury. A finger-nail of San Frutos cured at Segovia a case of
congenital idiocy. The Virgin of Ona acted as a vermifuge on royal
infantas, and her girdle at Tortosa smooths their passage into this
world. In this age of unfaith relics have lost much of their power. They
turn out their score or so of miracles every feast-day, it is true, but
are no longer capable of the tours de force of earlier days. Cardinal
de Retz saw with his eyes a man whose wooden legs were turned to
capering flesh and blood by the image of the Pillar of Saragossa. But
this was in the good old times before newspapers and telegraphs had come
to dispel the twilight of belief.
Now, it is excessively probable that neither doctor nor priest can do
much if the patient is hit in earnest. He soon succumbs, and is laid out
in his best clothes in an improvised chapel and duly sped on his way.
The custom of burying the dead in the gown and cowl of monks has greatly
passed into disuse. The mortal relics are treated with growing contempt,
as the superstitions of the people gradually lose their concrete
character. The soul is the important matter which the Church now looks
to. So the cold clay is carted off to the cemetery with small ceremony.
Even the coffins of the rich are jammed away into receptacles too small
for them, and hastily plastered out of sight. The poor are carried off
on trestles and huddled into their nameless graves, without following or
blessing. Children are buried with some regard to the old Oriental
customs. The coffin is of some gay and cheerful color, pink or blue, and
is carried open to the grave by four of the dead child's young
companions, a fifth walking behind with the ribboned coffin-lid. I have
often seen these touching little parties moving through the bustling
streets, the peaceful small face asleep under the open sky, decked with
the fading roses and withering lilies. In all well-to-do families the
house of death is deserted immediately after the funeral. The stricken
ones retire to some other habitation, and there pass eight days in
strict and inviolable seclusion. On the ninth day the great masses for
the repose of the soul of the departed are said in the parish church,
and all the friends of the family are expected to be present. These
masses are the most important and expensive incident of the funeral.
They cost from two hundred to one thousand dollars, according to the
strength and fervor of the orisons employed. They are repeated several
years on the anniversary of the decease, and afford a most sure and
nourishing revenue to the Church. They are founded upon those feelings
inseparable from every human heart, vanity and affection. Our dead
friends must be as well prayed for as those of others, and who knows but
that they may be in deadly need of prayers!
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