Then, If Ever, The Stranger May See The Dancing, And Hear
The Singing And Playing Which All The Other Year In Seville Disappoints
Him Of.
VIII
On the eve of All Saints, after we had driven over the worst road in the
world outside
Of Spain or America, we arrived at the entrance of the
cemetery where Baedeker had mysteriously said "some sort of fair was
held." Then we perceived that we were present at the preparations for
celebrating one of the most affecting events of the Spanish year. This
was the visit of kindred and friends bringing tokens of remembrance and
affection to the dead. The whole long, rough way we had passed them on
foot, and at the cemetery gate we found them arriving in public cabs, as
well as in private carriages, with the dignity and gravity of
smooth-shaven footmen and coachmen. In Spain these functionaries look
their office more solemnly even than in England and affect you as
peculiarly correct and eighteenth-century. But apart from their looks
the occasion seemed more a festivity than a solemnity. The people bore
flowers, mostly artificial, as well as lanterns, and within the cemetery
they were furbishing up the monuments with every appliance according to
the material, scrubbing the marble, whitewashing the stucco, and
repainting the galvanized iron. The lanterns were made to match the
monuments and fences architecturally, and the mourners were attaching
them with a gentle satisfaction in their fitness; I suppose they were to
be lighted at dark and to burn through the night.
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