The Sunny South: An Autumn in Spain and Majorca

by John William Clayton · English · Gutenberg #49491 · 397,780 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: The Sunny South: An Autumn in Spain and Majorca

Author: John William Clayton

Release date: July 19, 2015 [eBook #49491]
Most recently updated: October 24, 2024

Language: English

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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE SUNNY SOUTH: AN AUTUMN IN SPAIN AND MAJORCA ***

[Illustration: DISTANT VIEW OF BARCELONA. FROM A DRAWING
BY THE AUTHOR.]

THE SUNNY SOUTH.

AN AUTUMN

IN SPAIN AND MAJORCA.

[Illustration: The Dragonera Rock, Majorca. From a Drawing
by the Author.]

CAPTAIN J. W. CLAYTON, F.R.G.S.,

LATE 13TH HUSSARS.

LONDON:
HURST AND BLACKETT, PUBLISHERS,
13, GREAT MARLBOROUGH STREET.
1869.

_The Right of Translation is reserved._

[Illustration: [++] Decorative Image]

THE SUNNY SOUTH.

[Illustration: [++] Decorative Image]

I INSCRIBE THIS BOOK

ISABEL AND HAROLD,

IN THE HOPE THAT THESE PASSAGES IN THE TRAVEL-LIFE OF
THEIR FATHER MAY BE SOME DAY NOT WITHOUT
INTEREST TO THEM.

[Illustration: [++] Decorative Image]

CONTENTS.

CHAPTER I.

FOLLOWERS OF MAXIMILIAN OF MEXICO.--HAVRE DE GRÂCE.--ROUEN.--THE
CATHEDRAL.--INFLUENCE OF SACRED MUSIC.--HEART OF RICHARD I. OF
ENGLAND.--ANCIENT QUARTERS OF ROUEN.--MOUNT ST CATHERINE.--THE
SEINE.--NORMAN PEASANT GIRLS.--LISIEUX.--STOPPAGE AT MEZIDON 1

CHAPTER II.

LE MANS.--ANCIENT CITY BY NIGHT.--THE LUXURY OF BATHING.--CATHEDRAL
OF ST. JULIEN.--TOURS.--POITIERS.--ANGOULÊME.--BORDEAUX.--EN ROUTE
FOR BAYONNE.--A MERCANTILE DEFAULTER.--A LONELY REGION.--HOTEL
INTERIOR.--INGENIOUS INVENTION.--TABLE D'HÔTE 16

CHAPTER III.

THE CITADEL.--BIARRITZ.--HOW THE VISITORS KILL TIME.--EN ROUTE FOR
SPAIN.--ST. JEAN DE LUZ.--HENDAYE.--THE BIDASSOA CROSSED.--WINTER
IN SPAIN.--IRUN.--CUSTOM-HOUSE OFFICIALS.--ST. SEBASTIAN.--THE
ALAMEDA PROMENADE.--THE PLAIN OF VITTORIA 34

CHAPTER IV.

BURGOS.--THE FONDA DEL NORTE.--THE ODOUR OF SANCTITY.--SPANISH
CHARACTERISTICS.--SCENES IN THE STREETS.--THE CONVENT OF LA
CARTUJA.--TOMB OF JUAN AND ISABELLA.--THE CASTLE.--THE CID.--THE
CATHEDRAL.--HOW PRIESTS MAKE MONEY 57

CHAPTER V.

AGAIN ON THE RAIL.--VALLADOLID.--THE FONDA DEL SIGLO DE ORO.--THE
COLEGIO MAYOR DE SANTA CRUZ.--CONVENT INTERIOR.--CHAMBER OF
HORRORS.--COLEGIO DE SAN GREGORIO.--THE CATHEDRAL.--SPANISH
CHARACTERISTICS.--THE THEATRE.--USE OF TOBACCO 80

CHAPTER VI.

EN ROUTE FOR MADRID.--TYPES OF NATIONAL CHARACTER.--GEOLOGICAL
CONNECTION OF SPAIN AND AFRICA.--A STATION IN THE
WILDERNESS.--AVILA.--A FUNERAL.--THE GUADARRAMA HILLS.--THE
ADUANEROS.--MADRID.--HOTEL DE LOS PRINCIPES.--PUERTA DEL SOL 103

CHAPTER VII.

MADRID.--GREAT ENGINEERING FEAT.--THE PICTURE-GALLERY.--PASTIMES
AND OCCUPATIONS OF THE MADRILEÑOS.--THE BATH AND TOILET.--QUEEN
ISABEL AND THE KING CONSORT.--THE VIRGIN'S WARDROBE.--THE ROYAL
ARMERIA.--REMARKABLE PAINTINGS.--CHURCH IN THE CALLE DE TOLEDO 122

CHAPTER VIII.

THE ESCORIAL.--ITS PRECINCTS.--SPIRIT AND CHARACTER OF THE
EDIFICE.--MAUSOLEUM OF THE KINGS OF SPAIN.--MELANCHOLY
GUIDE.--SUBTERRANEAN PASSAGES.--ROYAL REMAINS.--CHARLES V.--PHILIP
II.--THE PLAZA MAYOR OF MADRID.--QUEEN ISABELLA AT THE OPERA 142

CHAPTER IX.

A BULL-FIGHT.--THE ARENA.--THE SPECTATORS.--PROCESSION.--THE
BULL.--APPEARANCE OF THE MEN AND HORSES.--NIMBLE FOOTMEN.--THE
COMBAT.--SCENE OF HORROR.--THE BANDERILLEROS.--THE ESPADA.--DEATH
OF THE BULL 158

CHAPTER X.

TOLEDO.--VIEW OF THE CITY.--THE CATHEDRAL.--PROCESS OF
SMOKE-DRYING.--ALMANZA.--VALENCIA.--THE FONDA DE MADRID.--A
BENEVOLENT DOCTOR.--SPANISH MULETEERS.--HOW CONTROVERSIES ARE
SETTLED 171

CHAPTER XI.

VOYAGE TO THE BALEARES.--MAJORCA--PALMA DE MALLORCA.--OUR
APPREHENSION.--FONDA DE LAS TRES PALOMAS.--HISTORICAL
NOTICES.--DON JAYME.--THE RAMBLA.--COSTUME.--LANGUAGE.--CLIMATE.
--CHARACTER OF THE PEOPLE 196

CHAPTER XII.

THE VALE OF SOLLER.--INTRODUCTION OF THE TELEGRAPH.--SUPERSTITION
OF THE PEASANTRY.--PRODUCTIONS OF THE ISLAND.--THE ROAD.--GUARDIA
CIVIL.--OBLIGING LANDLADY.--BRIDGE OF LA MÀ.--BATTLE WITH THE
TURKS 219

CHAPTER XIII.

THE PORT OF SOLLER.--CONVENT OF LLUCH.--A LEGEND OF THE
MONASTERY.--CATHEDRAL OF PALMA.--REMAINS OF KING JAYME
II.--ATTRACTIONS OF THE BALEARIC ISLES.--MINORCA.--ITS CONNECTION
WITH ENGLISH HISTORY 237

CHAPTER XIV.

HOW TO STUDY SPANISH CHARACTER.--BULL-FIGHTS.--PROVISION FOR THE
SPIRITUAL WELFARE OF BULL-FIGHTERS.--FIGHT BETWEEN AN ELEPHANT
AND A BULL.--EXPEDITION TO THE CAVES OF ARTÀ 249

CHAPTER XV.

CONSIDERATIONS ON SANITARY MATTERS.--THE MEDICAL PROFESSION IN
SPAIN.--THE ART OF PACKING.--NIGHT SIGNALS.--EL GRAO.--CHASSE AUX
CALEÇONS ROUGES.--VALENCIA.--DRIVE THROUGH THE CITY.--THE
CATHEDRAL 267

CHAPTER XVI.

DEPARTURE FROM VALENCIA.--A RAILWAY JOURNEY.--DIFFICULTIES TO
WHICH TRAVELLERS ARE EXPOSED.--TARRAGONA.--SKETCHES OF ITS
HISTORY.--ARRIVAL AT BARCELONA 281

CHAPTER XVII.

BARCELONA.--HISTORICAL REMINISCENCES.--CASTLE OF MONJUICH.--THE
CATHEDRAL.--THE GRAND OPERA.--THE PLAZA DE TOROS.--THE LITTLE
ROPE-WALKER.--MONTSERRAT 295

CHAPTER XVIII.

ANCIENT BRIDGE OF GERONA.--THE POPULATION.--A FIESTA.--SEARCH
FOR AN HOTEL.--THE FONDA DE LA ESTRELLA.--LAST SIEGE OF
GERONA.--THE CATHEDRAL.--A FEW CONCLUDING WORDS ON SPAIN 313

[Illustration: [++] Decorative Image]

CHAPTER I.

FOLLOWERS OF MAXIMILIAN OF MEXICO.--HAVRE DE GRÂCE.--ROUEN.--THE
CATHEDRAL.--INFLUENCE OF SACRED MUSIC.--HEART OF RICHARD I. OF
ENGLAND.--ANCIENT QUARTERS OF ROUEN.--MOUNT ST. CATHERINE.--THE
SEINE.--NORMAN PEASANT GIRLS.--LISIEUX.--STOPPAGE AT MEZIDON.

It was almost at the last moment when, after having bid farewell to all
our friends, we found ourselves on board the steamer that was to take
us from England on an autumn tour to the sunny south. There was great
noise and bustle on deck; the friends of the departing passengers had
all left the ship, and in a few minutes the anchor was weighed.

It was yet early morning, and the sun was rising with great brilliance
in the east; but his appearance was only momentary, for while we were
rejoicing in the prospect of a beautiful sunlit day, he suddenly
withdrew from our sight, and hid his glorious visage behind a thick
cloud. So unexpected was his obscuration, that we could almost have
fancied he had covered his face with a veil to conceal from his sight
a scene of unexampled squalor and misery that lay heaped upon the
fore-deck. A band of fifty followers of the unfortunate Maximilian of
Mexico, who had landed in England a day or two before, were now being
wafted by a friendly breeze, not the less welcome that it came so late,
towards their homes, with simply nothing left to them but their lives.

Without other clothing than a few parti-coloured rags, which but a
short time back had composed the gay panoply of war, clinging to their
festering bodies, without that glory which, in the lack of every other
reward, is often sufficient to compensate soldiers for having left the
happy hearths of their homes and the loving eyes of their kindred,
these sons of fair-haired Austria were slowly returning, feeble in
body and broken down in spirit, to their fatherland, carrying with
them the mortifying recollection of a shameful defeat at the hands of
a distant, half-barbarous race whom they had despised, and with the
destruction of health for life, the loss of limbs, and the blighting
of hopes which they had once nourished. Such were the subjects, such
the colours, which composed this little illustrative picture of the
pomp and circumstance of glorious war. Those young soldiers, all of
whom were either suffering from wounds or prostrated by sickness, were
standing on the deck in haggard groups, chatting about their native
place, about the home of their youth, or about the plans which they
intended to carry out when they arrived there. A few were groaning with
pain, some of them suffering so severely as to be almost insensible to
what was passing around them. Others who were in a comparatively sound
condition were laughing and dancing, forgetting with the light spirit
of soldiers both what they themselves had endured, and the anguish of
their suffering comrades. The garb of all was in the most miserable and
tattered condition, showing how soon the gaudy uniform of the soldier
is tarnished in the tug of actual war. Falstaff's wretched band of
followers did not exhibit more diversity in the colour and fashion of
their habiliments than did these followers of an imperial prince.

One poor ragged wretch in a darkly stained red jacket, with a wisp
of clotted canvas round his head, lay on his back helpless, without
arms or legs, and totally blind. A cannon had burst close to him, and
inflicted on him those injuries which must render him henceforward
dependent on the bounty and kindness of others. I was informed that
his mental sufferings from seeing himself reduced to such a miserable
condition were so severe that they had partially affected his mind, and
some fears were entertained that he might never recover the use of his
faculties. His, in fact, was one of those cases in which mental eclipse
would almost be the greatest of mercies. It was sad to see the poor
fellow moving the stumps of his arms to and fro like fishes' fins, as
they appeared to me; while from time to time some rough comrade tended
him gently, and fed him like an infant.

These men, the followers of an emperor, were the intended regenerators
of a barbarous state, the agents of the bright spirit of civilization;
and what was their state now as they lay there, prostrate in filth,
overcome by sorrow, suffering from wounds, and overrun with vermin?
They were all swathed in the foul old clothes they had begged by the
way, or tricked out in faded remnants of old uniforms, some of them
spotted with blood, and others, that had perhaps belonged to officers,
covered with rusty patches of gold lace. It is always a sad sight
to see misery like this that one cannot relieve, and we were glad
when our eyes no longer rested on such illustrations of the pomp and
circumstance of glorious war. We came across them afterwards at Havre,
enclosed in a sort of sheep-pen at a railway station. The mob were
jeering at them through the railings, and the gentle passed them with a
sigh.

After a pleasant passage, we glided quickly into the port of Havre, and
landed amidst a jargon of bad English and worse French, the British
Cockney preferring to explain all manner of difficulties in a foreign
tongue, however imperfectly understood, while the cocked-hatted
individual whom he addressed manfully persisted in his endeavours to
make everything intelligible in his own peculiar mode of speaking
the English language. Here at Le Havre, all good little boys and
girls should remember, Bernardin de St. Pierre, the author of "Paul
and Virginia" was born; also Casimir Delavigne. Here, too, Henry
the Seventh embarked _en route_ for Bosworth Field; and close by is
Honfleur, where most of the new-laid eggs that one gets in London come
from. Two thousand dozen are despatched per week to England.

Delightful old Rouen, city of a hundred memories, sitting by the
winding waters of the Seine, which glide like memories away! Where
can we go now-a-days, in this blessed nineteenth century, to see a
city so complete an embodiment of the past? Perhaps Pompeii; certainly
not the boulevards, the gas-lit streets, and the flaming shops of the
generality of French towns. However, there before us is the glorious
old cathedral, the handiwork of our Norman ancestors, defying shocks,
storms, and time. The Gothic façade, the impression produced by which
is so imposing, is a miracle of profuse lace-work petrified; and the
dark towers and pinnacles, which rise high over all, are so richly
ornamented as to resemble filigree work.

We lift a heavy curtain, and facing us as we enter, motionless, on
a high stool placed in a corner, sits an awful creature, completely
draped in a costume of coarse black serge, with bent head deeply
veiled. It seems some living thing from a few low moans which issue
occasionally from underneath the drapery, but otherwise is without
form, though it can scarcely be called void. A pale skeleton hand
nevertheless now and then slowly turns from one side to another a tin
box full of copper coins. Throughout the live-long days, year after
year, sits this dismal-looking being, concealing, it may be, beneath
that dark veil and hood, some mystery which excites a painfully intense
curiosity as one stands in its presence amongst the tombs and gloom of
the old cathedral.

The grand Gothic arches are lofty and beautifully proportioned, meeting
above and lessening away into perspective, like the great avenue of
some old forest of an earlier world, with its stems and foliage now
turned into everlasting stone. The large rose-windows let in from the
day without floods of rich and mellow lights, colouring the dim, heavy
air with a splendid diversity of hue. The chaunt of gaudily-robed
priests rises upward with the pomp and incense of High Mass, and a
dark crowd kneels on the cold stones which cover the bones of ancient
chivalry. No language can describe the elevation of feeling which one
experiences as he treads these solemn aisles where generations of
worshippers have in succession raised their thoughts to Heaven. As
the organ peals forth its solemn notes we feel inspired by the spirit
of devotion, and are sensible of that diviner principle within us
which carries the thoughts of man beyond the bounds of time and space.
We have heard organs innumerable, but never have we listened to one
which produced such an effect as that of which we were sensible on the
occasion in question. A perfect storm of passion seemed to be swept
from the great pipes, and when that was succeeded by the soft strains
of the _voix céleste_, one felt as if he were yielding to the gentle
influence of some radiant presence, not of this, but of a better world.
When men can produce such music, we may naturally ask if the spirits of
the departed are near, quickening the soul of the unconscious musician
with a spark of the music-spirit of a higher world? This may be
considered by many as wild talk; but there are still some human beings
who, at least once in their lives, have felt a strain of melody fall
with entrancing power upon their hearts, inspiring diviner thoughts
than they had ever known before, and so subliming the feelings, that
for a time they felt a consciousness of their heavenly origin. He who
has never experienced an enthusiasm like this can have no soul for
music, but must be entirely of the earth, earthy--"only a clod."

Near the high altar the lion-heart of Richard I. of England was buried.
It is now in a very shrunken state, enclosed in a casket, and kept
in the museum. It was left as a legacy to Rouen, for which favour no
doubt the good inhabitants have been very grateful up to the present
hour. His body is in the undisturbed possession of the population of
Fontevrault.

Notwithstanding all the modern improvements which have swept away most
of ancient Rouen, there still remain some wonderful old quarters, where
the crazy wooden houses of centuries back nod towards each other, in
a general state of paralysis, across the dark and narrow streets. How
they manage to stand at all, leaning upon one another for support,
is a mystery; and why they don't sit down bodily upon their occupants
is a subject of painful speculation to those good people. It is most
interesting to wander in the nooks and corners of this solemn old city;
and if the visitor loses his way in the narrow old streets, he may
come unexpectedly upon some venerable remnant of antiquity. In many
parts every turn reveals some splendid relic of bygone days, of an age
of cross-bows, of processions headed by men-at-arms bearing naming
braziers through the dark streets, of gallant companies of splendid
dames, and flaunting cavaliers in slashed doublets, trunk hose, and
inconveniently long swords, all flashing and clanking in the glare as
they pass; of an age of night broils, when the clash of arms was heard
beneath the dark tower, grated window, and overhanging eaves. Within
that ancient palace, ploughed and seamed from gabled roof to the carved
monsters on the balustrades beneath, with one rich mass of florid
Gothic fretwork, armorial bearings, and quaint gargoyles, we might see
the cruel Cardinal of Winchester pacing to and fro in the oak-panelled
hall, fretting that the preparations in the square outside, for the
burning of Jeanne d'Arc, were proceeding so slowly as to make him late
for dinner.

Of course we are not going to describe Rouen and its wonderful
architectural remains, nor conjure up visions of mailed Norman chiefs,
nursed in war, whose unscrupulous will and iron hearts, backed by the
moral weight of great warrior prelates, enforced submission upon all
races between Normandy and the far East, from their stern old capital
at Rouen. Tempting as is the subject, we have no intention of entering
upon any disquisition regarding the vigorous race who founded the city,
or of describing the antiquarian relics of which it possesses so rich a
store.

It is pleasant to ascend the Mont St. Catherine, and look down upon
the fine old town, with its broken walls and ramparts, which have
witnessed the gallant struggles of the stout hearts of earlier days,
which opposed the onset of Henry V. of England and Henry of Navarre,
now overgrown with hoar moss or buried in labyrinths of modern streets,
with scarce a thought bestowed upon the past of those mighty chiefs
who in old times assailed or defended them--men who, by their deeds,
laid the foundations of modern history. It is pleasant to see and feel
the solemn air of repose or gentle majesty which hangs over the more
silent streets where still stand those time-honoured buildings, the
fortresses, palaces, and convents, with piles of toppling planks and
wooden turrets, witnesses of ancient story and actors in its varied
scenes. There, from the midst of the venerable city, spire up to the
level of the wood-crowned heights surrounding Rouen, the fretted
pinnacles of the cathedral towers, and beneath them the gables of
Gothic houses pierce the air, while afar off the silver windings of the
Seine, studded with green islets, lose themselves in the mist which
hangs in the distance, seaward.

In the city below died the simple-minded, heroic, and betrayed Maid
of Orleans. There, forsaken by his own sons, and his menials even, in
agony and neglect, William, the Conqueror of England, and of our Saxon
Harold, departed this life. There died also the great Clarendon; and
there Corneille and Boieldieu were born.

It is pleasant to look at all this from afar, but very unpleasant
to be in the midst thereof; for it is a remarkable fact, alike
observable in Cologne as in Rouen, that the more historical the
city, the more horrible the smells. Coleridge counted in the former
city a certain and distinct number of odours vile; we wonder to what
numerals his inquiring nose would have extended itself at Rouen. The
prevailing type of flavour in the latter city seems to be a compound
of extra-sour vinegar, stale slop pails, and burnt india-rubber. It
is also unpleasant to be ferried over a rapid river in a thing like a
worn-out gondola, with several holes in the direction of the keel, the
portentous effects of which the strenuous baling powers of two men with
a sardine box and a coffee cup could scarcely allay. It was, however,
observed of us before we embarked, by a funny friend who accompanied
us, and whose miserable puns often made us melancholy, that if we
trusted ourselves to such a craft we should be _in Seine_.

No one in these parts, excepting idiots or princes, being in the habit
of travelling in a first-class carriage, we started in a second (we
mean no pun) _en route_ for Le Mans, in the fresh and healthy society
of some young Norman peasant girls. No abominable chignon disfigured
the backs of their neat little heads, for there was no necessity
with them to shine with borrowed plumes. Their smooth hair was neatly
arranged beneath the small linen cap of snowy white, while a striped
kerchief was drawn modestly across the breast. "There is no joy without
alloy," however, and certainly the old peasant woman up in the corner,
with a bottle of red acid liquor and a stout staff of bread--the real
staff of life--guarding-like a halberdier the well-closed windows, did
not strike the eye as anything peculiarly attractive, excepting perhaps
at times, when, from the red acid which she occasionally imbibed, her
face took a sympathetic tone, and being completely encircled by her
large frill, produced an effect which a rather extravagant imagination
might regard as something like that of the setting sun in a nightcap.
The girls were young--_she_, doubtless, at some time or other had
been so too; but grey moustaches are not generally associated with
any distinct type of beauty in ladies. Notwithstanding the aforesaid
head-gear she certainly could not be pronounced _cap_-tivating as our
punning friend said and, wonderful to say, she knew it!

Our train passed through Lisieux, where Henry II. was married to
Eleanor of Guienne, and where the modern inhabitants are chiefly
employed in the manufacture of horse clothing and general flannelry.
Near this not very striking town, M. Guizot spends his summer months,
and in it, by-the-by, Thomas à Becket passed his banishment in 1169.
About four o'clock P.M. our train turned us out high and dry, bag and
baggage, on to a lonely wooden platform in the midst of a dreary flat
tract of country, compared with which Cambridgeshire is extremely steep
and alpine.

"Où sommes-nous donc?" asked we.

"À Mezidon, m'sieu," said an official. "Deux heures d'attente."

We immediately left our luggage with this trusty man, set our watches
by the clocks of the _gare_, pulled our hats with determination on to
our heads, and walked desperately four miles straight along a dusty
high road, then turned round and walked four miles back; by which time
the train was ready to start again.

[Illustration: [++] Decorative Image]

CHAPTER II.

LE MANS.--ANCIENT CITY BY NIGHT.--THE
LUXURY OF BATHING.--CATHEDRAL OF ST.
JULIEN.--TOURS.--POITIERS.--ANGOULÊME.--BORDEAUX.--EN ROUTE
FOR BAYONNE.--A MERCANTILE DEFAULTER.--A LONELY REGION.--HOTEL
INTERIOR.--INGENIOUS INVENTION.--TABLE D'HÔTE.

At midnight Le Mans was reached, amidst a deluge of rain and an
insufficiency of street lamps. Gas, we believe, has found its way to
Jerusalem, but not to Le Mans; and yet Le Mans is a large and important
town, blessed with an enlightened and despotic government.

After settling ourselves, to our extreme inconvenience, in a vehicle
like an opera-box drawn side-ways by a horse and bells, we bumped and
jingled slowly on through long, dark streets, the houses in which were
all so large and gloomy that they looked like prisons, and in which
there appeared to be a general flushing of sewers.

Le Mans may or may not be the "trodden ground" our critics complain
of, but we are quite sure it was not so when we arrived there, for
not a living thing was seen in the great black town save a benighted
cat or two and one very ancient rag-picker. A more forsaken and
deserted-looking place could not be imagined--no, not even by
Daniel the Prophet, with all his experience of "the abomination of
desolation," &c.

The grey light of the skies showed us at last a great square opening
before us, with a lofty stone building like a war tower rising dark in
the midst. We stopped at an inn door in this square, and descended,
the opera-box making a vigorous plunge to assist us in the operation.
Repeated pulls at a cracked bell, which sounded dismally in some remote
depth of the old house, eventually produced the effect desired, for a
rattling of chains was heard, and then the heavy door swung slowly on
its hinges, sufficiently to admit of the protrusion of a man's head.
The head came out as far as the shoulders, and nothing more ghastly
could be conceived, as for a few seconds it remained there motionless
and isolated against the black background, like the decapitated skull
of some malefactor nailed to a gibbet, the face gleaming deadly in
the uncertain night-light. The dreary silence of the dark square was
broken only by the lonely cry of some distant watchman, pacing the old
streets here and there with a dull lamp, which served to deepen still
more the darkness beyond, whilst, high, gaunt, and spectral against the
dull grey air, loomed the fortress-like building. A gigantic lighted
clock was poised on a high tower, the long hands thereof making great
leaps of five minutes each along the dial, as if it were dozing,
and then suddenly waking and making up for lost time by desperate
strides. In fact, to anyone who had recently supped upon pork chops,
or to the cheerful mind of the late lamented Mrs. Anne Radcliffe, of
raw-head-and-bare-bones memory, this old tower and its clock might
have appeared as the Ogre Time, or some huge Cyclopean ghoul of night,
watching and gloating, with its burning eye, over the surely passing
hours of the thousand slumberers lying for a season sweetly unconscious
of the fleeting of life beneath, and counting each heave of breath
which as it passes must bring all nearer and nearer to its maw.

The waiter who belonged to the head before mentioned turned out to be
a most excellent young man, and, in his assiduous exertions to make
himself agreeable to apparently the first British traveller he had
ever beheld, danced about like an electrified frog. Indeed, we were
grateful enough for this very sprightliness of his, for it acted as a
corrective to the depressing effect of the entire establishment, which
was pervaded by an air of dull, forlorn gloom. The walls appeared to
be constantly in tears. The long cavernous passages and mysterious
corridors were made doubly dark by the sulky gleam of a consumptive
"short ten." The lofty bedrooms were provided with beds which had
too close a resemblance to four-post hearses, and their furniture in
general had too much of the faded grandeur of other days. The old
wooden staircases creaked audibly before we began to walk upon them,
as if some invisible ghost of a dead housemaid were waiting to show us
up to bed, and when we ventured upon them we found they were leaning
alarmingly on one side. We endeavoured as well as we could to keep in
the middle, but they were so unsteady that their movement produced a
sensation like that of mild intoxication or incipient sea-sickness.
We were not without dread lest, supposing the balustrades showed equal
signs of weakness, we might, if we did not hug the wall and coast along
it very carefully, be shovelled neck and crop into the abyss below. Can
anyone wonder, therefore, that in such a place we were grateful for
the sprightliness of our waiter, whose good spirits and lively antics
prevented us from indulging in depressing thoughts? Variety of any
kind is pleasing. Who has not heard of the gentleman who got into such
a depressed condition of mind from attending the debates in the House
of Lords and the burlesques at the London theatres, that, with the
view of obtaining a little beneficial change, he took occasional walks
in Brompton Cemetery, attended executions at the Old Bailey, or paid
frequent visits to an anatomical museum? It was the same gentleman who
was said always to carry an umbrella with an ivory death's-head as the
handle, who had a velvet coat made from a piece of his wife's pall, and
who took to singing the songs of Claribel.

Le Mans is a grand old town, stately, but mouldy and only half alive.
Throughout there is happily an absence of that white garish Parisian
element. No whitewash, gilded railings, or sculptured gewgaws offend
the genius of the spot. The solemn old houses and walls stand looking
down on the quiet streets as sadly as on that day when the last remnant
of the gallant Vendean army under Larochejaquelein, wearied with the
toils of long campaigns, was cut to pieces beneath them in the year
1793. The face of the old town seems as sorrowful now as when the
shrieks of dying women and children, remorselessly slaughtered before
it by the conquering Republicans, died away upon the air, on that day
when cannonades of grape and volleys of musketry swept through all the
streets, among a helpless crowd of the wretched wives and little ones
of the scattered Royalists, of whom ten thousand corpses lay red in
that awful sunset.

In the early morning we nearly frightened to death some good citizens
by bathing in the river Sarthe, and several crowded to the bank to
witness the last gasps of two insane victims to the love of ablution.
It was a fine warm day in September, yet the idea to them seemed
madness. However, this little adventure brought to light what Diogenes
had so long sought for--an honest man. As we were drying ourselves on
the river bank, beneath the shadows of the old cathedral on the height
above, a passer-by in course of conversation observed,--

"_Pour moi, messieurs_, I detest water--never touch it--_ni chaude, ni
froide_."

Now we like this blunt truthfulness, so much better than the big talk
of some people respecting their tubs and baths, who yet never go near
them. We remember, upon one occasion, in a country house there was a
gentleman who was always talking about the luxury of "tubbing," and
whose constant refrain was, "What a brute a man must be who doesn't
tub," &c. Being the occupant of the adjoining room to us, we happened,
quite by accident, one fine morning, upon hearing a tremendous
splashing and dashing, to look through the key-hole, and discovered,
much to our astonishment, our friend standing up, half dressed, in
knickerbockers, shirt, and diamond pin, squeezing a sponge into a
tin bath, and shouting in a very loud whisper (which would have made
his fortune in an "aside" on the stage), as if overpowered with the
freshness of the water, "Oh! how delightful! By Jove, how cold! Ahi!
phew! a--h! oh!"

The cathedral of St. Julien is a grand, imposing Gothic structure, grey
with the hoar of age. Its lofty towers, which are so richly ornamented
that they appear as if covered with fretwork, hang at a great elevation
above the city, crowning a height. In it we found the monument of
Berengaria of Sicily, Queen of Richard I. of England, and the tomb of
Charles of Anjou.

Le Mans has the honour of having given birth to Henry II., the
first Plantagenet king of England; and we suppose we ought here to
mention, what every one on earth must know, that his father Geoffroi
always wore in his cap a sprig of genêt, or broom, which grows
luxuriantly throughout Maine and Anjou, and hence the name of a race of
kings--Plante-a-genêt.

From Le Mans we took the railway to Tours. Upon nearing that city we
passed an old red château, where Louis XI. shut himself up, dreading,
like Oliver Cromwell and many great criminals, daily assassination.
Gates within gates, castle within castle, like a remarkably strong
Chinese ball-puzzle; such is the interior. On a plain near Tours--an
old story--Charles Martel beat the Saracens in 731. No one writes on
Tours who does not say, "If the Saracens had beaten Charles Martel, we
should all be keeping harems, smoking tchibouques, and praying on bits
of square carpets, or, whenever we had a moment or two to spare, on
turnpike roads," &c.

After we had passed Tours the country was flat, ugly, and very
uninteresting. Poitiers, which we reached in due course, is a
picturesque, battlemented old town, built on the tops of precipices,
the sides of hills, rocks, and ravines, with green slopes, gardens,
and river. We say nothing about the Black Prince, Lord Chandos, and
King John, at the battle of Poitiers. We wonder, indeed, if they were
ever there; for was there not a man who once wrote a book to prove that
there had been no such person as Napoleon?

After passing Angoulême, at which we stopped for a short interval,
it became too dark to see or read, and we tried to sleep; but soon
discovered what a quantity of hitherto unknown and extraordinary bumps
and sharp angles the human form possesses. In spite, however, of our
discomforts, the train rattled on, and we arrived at Bordeaux. After a
good night's rest, the disagreeable effects of our journey disappeared;
and getting up fresh and active in the morning, we set out to explore
the city. But what did we see? Docks, _et præterea nihil_!

As we were taking our seats in the train for Bayonne, we perceived
in the next carriage to us, guarded by three gendarmes, a pale,
middle-aged man of gentle exterior, at whom several persons at the
carriage window were hurling execrations. Being unfortunate in the
management of his affairs, he had attempted to maintain his position
by means which brought him within the clutch of the law, and the
consequence was loss and ruin, not only to himself, but also to many
who had placed entire confidence in his integrity. Now, doubtless, he
regretted his folly, and formed many good intentions as to the future;
but, alas, several years must pass over before he can put them into
practice, and when he emerges once more into life, the world will laugh
to scorn the fine sentiments of a man out of jail, and, securely
mailed in the panoply of their own good luck,--we beg its pardon, high
morality,--politely refer him to an observation of Seneca's:--"Quid est
turpius quam senex vivere incipiens?"[1]

However, every proverb has its reverse, "Ogni medaglia ha il suo
reverso;" and against Seneca we can pit Mr. Charles Reade, who thinks
it "never too late to mend."

We were roused from our reverie by a voice exclaiming, "En voiture,
messieurs!" and at the same time the whistle screamed, the bell rang,
and that great leveller, the railway train, glided off. In a few
minutes the spires and masts of Bordeaux had passed away, and with them
every vestige of the bustle and clang of busy life. How strange it
seemed that in so short a time we should have dashed into the midst of
lonely regions where the tracks of civilization seemed all but lost!
Onwards we scoured, over the desolate Landes, over brown trackless
moor, and through the gloom of forests. The leaden heavens seemed
stagnant and dead, and indeed a ray of sunlight or gleam of warmth in
such a scene would seem but a mockery to the heart. On, through desert
places where the wild bird and solitary wood-cutter alone quicken the
deadness of the silent wastes which spread away in dark expanse to the
horizon. Far and wide no life is seen, and no sign thereof, save an
occasional group of wretched hovels buried in the recesses of the black
woods, which are perceived only for a moment through a storm-torn gap
as we fly along and then are gone, leaving the wilderness again in all
its dead stillness under the fading light of the dreary skies.

The lights of Bayonne at length gladly broke upon us as the evening
darkened, and in a short time we were rattling with horse and bells
through the heavy stone gates, and over the moats and drawbridges of
the city walls. The old narrow streets, with their tall houses covered
with balconies, lattices, and coloured blinds, were a foretaste of
those to be seen in Spain. The rows of lighted shops, beneath heavy low
arcades built of hewn stone, and supported by stout pillars, brown with
age, were all crowded with busy passengers, garbed with sash, velvet
breech, and bonnet. The bright cafés--filled with loungers, small
politicians, and trim waiters, with their hair mowed to the roots--were
shedding on the roadway floods of yellow light.

On we rattled, over roads not paved yesterday, if ever paved at all,
amidst bumping and jingling, forced to listen from time to time to
periodic fits of shocking language addressed to the smoking horses,
gay in coloured trappings, and trotting us merrily along. Now we dived
into a narrow alley, black as pitch darkness could make it. Then we
twisted out of it so sharply, round a corner, that, had our hair not
been carefully oiled, it would have stood on end, and emerged into a
wide street full of gas lamps, illuminated windows, and rows of bright
green little trees, trimmed so artificially that they had as little
resemblance to their natural growing congeners as those in a child's
Noah's ark. It was pleasant, after our dreary day's journey, to find
ourselves thus hurrying, in the brilliant flare of the night lamps,
through a most picturesque old town, over bridges from which we could
see in the rapid waters below the twinkling reflection of a hundred
lights, along streets in which we passed companies of soldiers marching
to the music of drums and bugles, and through busy quays all alive with
bustle and loaded with merchandise. In fact,

"The city gates were opened; the market, all alive
With buyers and with sellers, was humming like a hive;
Blithely on brass and timber the craftsman's stroke was ringing;
And blithely o'er her panniers the peasant girl was singing."

And "blithely" we eventually entered the Hotel * * *, and sat down to
a remarkably good dinner of fresh sardines, wild boar, _paté de foie
de canard_, and a dish of _beccaficoes_. "Our bore," the inevitable
Cockney across the table, fired off a sickly joke at the expense of
those little birds, to the effect that, if we had never yet eaten
_beccaficoes_, we ought-to-learn (_ortolan_). Now really! Oh! who can
minister to the "mind diseased" that produces such monstrosities?

The hotel was a great square house, with a wonderful collection of keys
on a board by the entrance door, as if they had been fired there like
grape-shot out of a gun. The passages and staircases were liberally
supplied by day with sand and saliva, and by night with cockroaches of
remarkable size. Hanging on the walls of the _salle-à-manger_ were
advertisements of bull-fights to come off in various towns of Spain,
and also others of various hotels in different countries. There was one
of a boarding-house in Weymouth Street, Portland Place, London, with
a picture of the same. Now we do not wish to set up as art-critics,
but merely state that we have once or twice in the course of our lives
had occasion to find ourselves in that salubrious district, but don't
remember noticing any detached house or Italian villa in a park, with
palm trees waving over it, and a plantain in full growth. There was
another picture of a hotel in Granada, with the Moors walking about the
streets and conversing with the waiters at the door, as if Abderrhaman
was still residing in Spain.

In the courtyard of our inn a fountain was playing, and a vine formed a
large shady arbour for smokers and idlers beneath. There was not much
to complain of, and notwithstanding the general smell of garlic, and
an odour resembling that of steamboat cabins, with which the bedrooms
were perfumed, we slept most comfortably for a short time with calm
consciences and clean sheets, gratefully manufacturing a proverb for
the occasion, to the effect that fine feathers make fine beds, to
say nothing of good housemaids. We even glided into dreams, in which
we held conversations with individuals of every possible complexion,
dressed in scarlet Scotch bonnets, velveteen jackets, broken out into
a nettle-rash of metal buttons, red sashes, breeches, and hose, in
Basque, Spanish, French, English, and all sorts of patois, all at once,
and with incredible ease, coherence, and velocity. We say we slept
most comfortably for a short time, and one must have been very deaf,
or stolid, or philosophical,--in a word, insensible to all sorts of
disturbance,--to have slept comfortably after 2 A.M. in such a place.
For diligence after diligence coming from somewhere or other, and going
in the same direction, rolled by every quarter of an hour immediately
underneath our windows, accompanied with loud shouts, cracking of
whips, and jangling of bells.

Between the quarters of the hours a gentleman and his wife enlightened
the entire hotel with a domestic wrangle in one of the rooms in our
neighbourhood, and at 5 A.M. some person or persons overhead, probably
experimentalising with a cold tub for the first time in their lives,
apparently found it impossible to restrain themselves from giving vent
to the natural exhilaration produced by the bath in what seemed, by
the trampling they made, to be an Indian war-dance. Added to this,
there was a clock in our apartment which struck six when it should have
struck four, and eight when it should have struck six, thereby becoming
a source of much anxiety to the half-dormant mind, torturing it with
vague speculations when it should have been at rest.

The bedroom bell was ingenious enough, going off like an alarum when a
knob of wood fixed in the wall was touched; and the invention would be
still more valuable if it would at the same time induce any servants
to answer it. As it was, the only chance, after prodding it for a good
quarter of an hour without any other result than a sore thumb and a
great deal of noise, was to seat oneself in an arm-chair before it
with the latest newspaper, or some interesting book, and, the elbow
firmly pressed against the knob, so to remain, if needs be, for the
whole afternoon until some one below was sick of the rattle, and
condescended to come and inquire the cause of the summons.

A _table-d'hôte_ breakfast in places like Bayonne is very trying to
a delicate stomach, especially when an opposite lady is in the habit
of wearing a false nose, and when the gentlemen wear diamond rings
and very dirty wristbands. Individuals of excited imaginations may
possibly regale themselves with _potage à paté d'Italie_, but to minds
of ordinary level it appears but as some mystic and not very inviting
fluid with things like boiled gentles in it. _Rognons sautés en
champagne_ is a dish also considered by the sanguine as something quite
unique, whereas a philosopher (at all events at so early a meal as
breakfast) is apt to connect that condiment in a general way with old
hats and hot water.

FOOTNOTE:

[1] What is more miserable than to see an old man just entering on the
practice of virtue?

[Illustration: [++] Decorative Image]

CHAPTER III.

When after breakfast we looked out of our window, we perceived on
the opposite side of the way a grim old castle, with little grated
windows sunk deep into its walls, like the eyes in a consumptive
face. And well, indeed, should that old building hide its eyes from
all creation, for did not its walls give shelter to the guilty trio
who planned within them the devilish scheme of the massacre of St.
Bartholomew,--the Duke of Alva, Catherine de' Medici, and her miserable
offspring, Charles IX.?

A walk about Bayonne brings to notice of course a great amount of
fortification, especially the citadel of Vauban, where Marshal Soult
and the Duke of Wellington fought very hard and sacrificed a great
number of the soldiers of their respective countries. Proceeding in
another direction outside the town, the tourist will come to a cemetery
where lie forgotten, mouldering in the dust of a foreign land, the
remains of the officers of the British guards who fell during the
fruitless siege of Bayonne. Down in a dim dell, amongst old trees
whispering a requiem in the breeze of falling night, we stood over
those solitary graves, near which there was no sign of life, and where
the brambles of the wilderness did their utmost to impede the tributary
footsteps of the two English pilgrims to this forgotten shrine of their
brave countrymen, on which the last beams of sunset threw what seemed
in imagination a bloody light.

On a fine southern morning, we climbed on to the top of a crazy
diligence, swinging in a very top-heavy and uncomfortable manner over
some very high wheels. The vehicle swayed to and fro in such a way
that the last carriage of an express train on the narrow gauge would
appear immovable compared with it. The _banquette_, with its hood,
in which we were travelling for pleasure, seemed quite overburdened
with politeness, and bowed in the most humble manner to everybody and
everything it met. We were now on our way to Biarritz, a place we
reached after an hour's drive in which there is nothing very remarkable
to attract the traveller's attention.

Biarritz is a town situated on the shores of the Bay of Biscay, and
consists chiefly of hotels and boarding-houses built on rocks. It is
peopled generally by emperors, waiters, hawkers of spurious Spanish
goods, and very idle ladies and gentlemen. Creatures like mermaids,
with their extremities encased in mackintosh, are seen nearly all day
long sporting about in the waters which break upon the yellow sand, and
dancing quadrilles in the sea with very odd-looking fish of the male
gender, also swathed in curious garments, which cause them at a little
distance to resemble very badly rolled-up umbrellas, or an imperfect
class of sausages. Barring the bathing, the amusements of Biarritz,
or Biarits, as some of the natives write it, are very dear and rather
silly. People revolve nightly on their own axes to the solemn strains
of a horn band in a large casino, with expressions of countenance
as serious and business-like as if they were undergoing a course of
rotatory exercise recommended by their medical advisers as a stimulant
after the chills of the bath; while the day is consumed, one hardly
knows how, except it be in flirting, aquatics, scandal, abuse of one's
neighbours, or in buying from gaudy coffee-coloured Spaniards trumpery
which, under no conceivable circumstances, could the most ingenious
mind ever turn to any account. There is certainly grand food for the
eye whichever way it may turn, "whene'er we take our walks abroad," for
the long jagged line of the Spanish mountains is seen, now clear, dark,
and sharp, now wild and storm-wrapped, rising loftily from the far blue
main; and there is always playing on one's cheek, or with the flowing
tress of many a pretty damsel, the pure strengthening air of the Bay of
Biscay, sweeping with untainted breath from across the dark, wild waves
of the rolling Atlantic. From the summits of the various sea-worn rocks
and pinnacles which jut out from the land may be seen beautiful views
of the white amphitheatre of Biarritz, formed by clusters of villas,
casinos, and bathing pavilions along the curving shore, or piled on
gentle hills, rising one above the other in picturesque confusion, with
their sunny walls shaded here and there by green shrubberies, or gay
with flaunting banners waving over shining terrace and grassy slope,
the stately Villa Eugénie of the Empress commanding the whole. In front
the restless waves are ever rolling in on the yellow sands, in their
ceaseless chase from the Bay of Biscay, spread out so broad, blue, and
beautiful; while to the south the distant skies seem walled up by that
grand dark chain of the Spanish mountains, towering through clouds and
tempests in wild and lofty grandeur, or melting away on the far horizon
into the heat of the golden day and the spume of the tossing sea.

The people at Biarritz seem to be in a chronic state of masquerade. In
some the disease takes a severe and malignant form, in others simply
that of a mild and harmless lunacy. Very fierce and dirty individuals
prowl about the streets, in what is popularly supposed to be the
Spanish costume, namely, shabby velveteen inexpressibles, jackets
covered with a perfect eruption of buttons and bobbins, and the
calves of their legs swathed in linen bandages, as if they were in a
general state of poultice. These individuals have dreadful long Spanish
knives to sell, knives which, when any Englishman is so infatuated
as to decline buying Birmingham cutlery at Biarritz, they grasp in
a very portentous manner, opening and shutting them with an air of
determination which is most alarming to the weak and nervous.

"Who comes in foreign trashery
Of tinkling chain and spur,
A walking haberdashery
Of feathers, lace, and fur?"

Who indeed? the poet might well ask on the afternoon parade at
Biarritz; and it is not at all certain that the people know themselves.
There are gentlemen in short white jackets made of blanket,
lemon-coloured tights, and Napoleon boots, or in knickerbockers and
top-boots, Scotch plaids, and very tall hats, with brims so narrow as
to be rather problematical. The British traveller is, of course, to be
seen there, as everywhere else, with a beard in that state which one
does not know whether to attribute to neglect or intention.

The ladies simply _dress at_ one another, and the extravagance of their
costumes can only be conceived by minds of the calibre of Gilray, or
by such as can picture to themselves Paris fashion gone mad. We saw
one lady in short skirts and Hessian boots, with little bells for
tassels. The dress itself was so stiff with embroidery and needlework
that it would have made a capital diving-bell; and the jacket was so
profusely embroidered with lace that it seemed made of solid gold.
Nearly every lady finds it necessary, for some at present inscrutable
reason,--which, however, like other mysteries will some day be made
known,--to walk about with a slender white wand with a nail at the end.
What are these sticks? Are they fetishes, or are they connected with
any form of superstition. Why are they adorned with nails? And for what
reason are they carried like toothpicks between the finger and thumb
of a tight kid-gloved hand? We should also like to ask why do young
English ladies at foreign _tables d'hôte_ always appear as if somebody
was perpetually on the point of whispering something improper to them?
Their frightened air, indeed, as one out of common politeness prepares
to address them with some commonplace remark, is so infectious that it
is a wonder one does not fall plump into a perfect mire of mistakes and
_gaucheries_, a miserable martyr to the cause of amiability.

It certainly is a marvel how people manage to thrive on the fare
provided at these entertainments,--ghostly entertainments, we may call
them,--for there, as surely as the clock tolls forth the hour, appears
the spectre "cock and salad," which, with the perversity of fate, ever
haunts the path of the European tourist, to scare and depress his
appetite. The old philosopher, in observing

"Ὁ ἁνθρωπος εὑεργετος πεφυκως,"[2]

must have had some prophetic revelation of the after-times of modern
civilization, and particularly of Biarritz _tables d'hôte_; for if
man was not naturally a benevolent creature how could he endure with
equanimity day after day the same plateful of luke-warm water--_potage
à l'eau chaude_, it ought to be called--apparently stirred up with a
tallow candle to give it a flavour; the same recurring square phids of
old dry rug (rosbif) of which the soup was made; the same _perdreaux
aux choux_, which sound so magnificent in theory, but when reduced
to sad reality consist mainly of _choux_ and the bones of some small
specimens of the feathered tribe? Then the _filets de bœuf_--can they
be made of old door-mats?--what labour must one undergo before he can
persuade the "too solid flesh to melt!"

At these gastronomic revels we are sure to meet an English
paterfamilias, with mamma and daughters. When we say English, we do not
mean moderately English, but downright and awfully British--British
in the dogged look of plethoric, stupid self-complacency and general
superiority over everybody and everything not British--British in that
moneyed bovine state of mind which distinguishes the inferior specimens
of the _nouveau riche_ fresh from Albion. The mamma and daughters, too,
are British to a degree, as they sit enveloped in a dull atmosphere of
Clapham gentility, striving to their utmost to appear easy and graceful
"at meals and in company." But in spite of these laudable endeavours,
it is a difficult point to decide which is preferable to witness--the
alarming efforts of people endeavouring to eat and drink elegantly,
holding their knives and forks like pens, and a wine-glass between a
finger and thumb, with the rest of the fingers outstretched to their
fullest tension, ending in the little finger pointing away in far
perspective; or honestly at once scratching themselves with a spoon,
lapping up gravy with a knife at the fearful risk of widening their
mouths to the extent of the aperture of a letter-box, and when thirsty
taking a hearty draught of water from the finger-basins. As for the
_juste milieu_ people talk about, that at most _tables d'hôte_ seems
quite Utopian and might form an innocent branch of study for the Reform
League.

Bathing goes on during the whole morning and afternoon, and the method
is in this wise. We walk down across the sands from the bathing
cabinets, a distance of a hundred and fifty yards, barefooted, like
some ancient friar going on a pilgrimage. We are wrapt in the white
flowing folds of a long garment resembling a Knight Templar's cloak,
and are attended in state by two men rolled up in oil-cloth. When we
have arrived at the brink of the sea, our attendants venture in with us
to a depth perhaps of twelve inches, and we are recommended by them to
put a little water into the hollow of the hand and pour it carefully
on to the top of the head. This ordeal being safely accomplished, we
commence a polite little dance hand-in-hand with one of the bathing
men in the presence of the crowd--it may be the whole town--on the
beach. After jumping up a few times as high as possible, in order to
avoid every wave as it approaches, the two bathing attendants inquire
after Monsieur's health, and how he carries himself--_comment se
porte-il?_--and finally they lead us back by the tips of our fingers,
and on the points of their toes, across the sandy plain, still in full
view of the assembled populace, to the row of sentry boxes or cabinets
on the grand parade, where we pass in a very depressed condition
through the centre of a large concourse of splendidly attired ladies
and gentlemen. If we are in luck, perhaps an old lady or two may smile
blandly at us as we pass, as if to congratulate us on our escape from
the perils we have encountered. If we wish to keep in the highest
_mode_, a slight walking-stick or cane is considered an elegant and
useful accompaniment to the bath.

Young ladies are conducted singly into the water in the same manner
by the men in mackintosh, and upon these occasions they seem to
disport themselves in the most playful manner. They of course do not
neglect this opportunity of adorning themselves with the most singular
costumes, and look in their tunics, trousers, and straw hats very
androgynous. They never wet their heads, and on their return deposit
their feet immediately in very hot water, to draw the blood from the
brain. We preferred, however, to bathe in our own native style, and
found it very pleasant to walk into the sea at the Port Vieux, and swim
out, far away from bathers and bathees, until we could disport in the
open sea. We swam past the two opposite capes which form the entrance
to the little bay, where the buoyant water supports us as a sofa;
and from the bosom of the deep, on which we reclined, we enjoyed the
splendid panorama of the distant Pyrenees which our own unaided efforts
had procured us. It is pleasant to stand on any of the island rocks of
Biarritz and hear the great waves below dash amidst the caverns they
have hewn out, sounding like far artillery. It is amusing, when one
is not in a critical mood, to meet a funny Briton now and then at
the _table d'hôte_, who tells you little innocent lies to the effect
that his uncle, being evangelical, had four sons named Matthew, Mark,
Luke, and John, and when a fifth was born, called him "The Acts of the
Apostles." But the most pleasant thing of all is to find one's back
turned, after a sojourn of four days, upon this stupid little town,
where there is so much frivolity and, curious as it may seem, no less
dulness.

_Eh bien, nous voici enfin_ well started for Spain! We reflected we
should arrive at Burgos at twelve at night. However (as a Spanish
railway accident is an awful affair), better late than never. The
hotels would, no doubt, all be closed, and we should find ourselves in
rather an awkward position. We neither speak nor understand a word of
Spanish, but the people at Burgos are much in the same predicament, as
they have a patois or dialect of their own. Most of the silver money
of the country is bad, and the keepers of hotels or _fondas_ in Spain,
are as _fond as_ (the author of this bright idea was our funny friend)
innkeepers in England of practising a little harmless extortion upon
travellers,--in fact, _fonder_.

We passed St. Jean de Luz, a queer tumble-down old town on the borders
of the sea, in whose cathedral the Grand Monarque was married to Maria
Theresa, daughter of Philip IV. of Spain, and in the great red house
in the square the happy couple lived for a fortnight or so in nuptial
beatitude. Some way off rises the mountain of Bayonnetta, down whose
slopes a spirited band of peasants once charged their enemies with
poles, to the ends of which they had lashed their long-bladed knives.
Some find in this fact the origin of the bayonet. The town is inhabited
by whale-fishers, a few soldiers, and some centipedes.

When we arrived, the loungers at the station were still talking over
the recent accident which had well nigh upset all the calculations that
Napoleon III. has made as to his dynasty. The sea is generally very
rough at the entrance to the little harbour; and on the occasion in
question, as the Empress was landing in a small boat from her steamer,
the boat was upset close to land. The Empress and Prince both struck
out, the one shouting as much as was consistent with a mouthful of
water, "Save my son!" the other, "Save my mother!" This was as it
should be. Eugénie and the heir to the imperial throne were saved, but
the poor pilot was drowned.

We shortly reached Hendaye, the last French town, and the Bidassoa,
which here divides the two countries, was crossed. There are some
low swampy lands visible at low water between the sea and the bridge
over the river, and no one but amphibious creatures would, one would
imagine, venture upon them. In 1813, the Duke of Wellington, however,
persuaded his army to wade through them; thereby succeeding in both
astonishing Marshal Soult and taking his position.

We next arrived at Irun, the first Spanish town, in a storm of sleet
and rain, and in a hurricane of wind. In fact, it had rained, and blown
great guns and small arms, almost incessantly for the last four days
at Bayonne and Biarritz, and the farther south we got the worse got
the weather. People for some inscrutable reason go to Spain for the
winter. They had surely better remain in the mild and even climate
of Ventnor or Torquay; for if the sample of autumn we were favoured
with was supposed to be genial, the Fates and common sense defend us
against experimentalising with our miserable bodies upon the Spanish
winter! To winter amidst the damps, or rather wets (for damp is a mild
expression indeed), the violent winds and the shelterless plains of the
north of Spain would, we fancy, be sufficient to send a Laplander into
a consumption. What effect it would produce upon a delicate English
female, we cannot attempt to decide upon our own authority. We doubt
not, however, that Seville, Valencia, Granada, or even Barcelona, with
their sunny skies and favourable position, may be more favourable to
the invalid, and melt the icy fingers of winter ere they can reach him;
though, alas! the frost of death will strike down its victims even
under warm and radiant skies. True, it seems at times as if death might
be touched with a temporary remorse, and be persuaded to defer the
fatal blow; but what matter a few moments longer in a dreary world? Of
what value is another year amidst a sea of troubles--an ocean of toils
and cares? Whether our life be a dream of sorrow or of bliss, it must
shortly end. If the former, why should we care to prolong it? If the
latter, it is like the one joyous life-hour of the butterfly,--'tis
gone at our sunset, when the poor heart has beaten itself out. The
blushing flowers of summer, even as we bend over them, fade, wither,
and die; and the music of a woman's whisper faints away even as it is
uttered. All that is mortal, all that is lovely, must pass away into
darkness, and the objects of our fondest affections must disappear in
the shifting sands of Time!

At Irun the _aduaneros_, who are all mustachios and impertinence, are
supposed to be very exacting, and one is warned not to look cross or
anxious as one's portmanteaux are plumbed, and rummaged, and mauled
by the fingers of gentlemen who seem to think that smoking and eating
garlic are nearer to godliness than cleanliness. So, taking advantage
of this advice, we immediately on our arrival called up a ready-made
and vacant smile, and assumed such an air of nonchalance, that the
_aduaneros_ must have thought we were stupidly regardless of our
personal property. One sharp-eyed little official, however, not quite
understanding how any sane man could travel about Europe with a washing
apparatus, seized greedily upon our friend's india-rubber bath with
a little growl of ferocity. This convenient article, as all know,
is fluted round the edges; and the little man consequently came to
the conclusion that the fluted divisions must constitute some kind
of infernal machine, provided with a certain number of barrels, the
explosion of which would blow up the Queen of Spain and her Ministry;
and that we, of course, were a couple of daring revolutionists. It was
with some difficulty that we succeeded in convincing the important
official that he was in error, and then we were allowed to proceed.

The rain still descended in cataracts, the wind blew with unrestrained
violence, and everything looked damp, dirty, and dull, as we once more
entered the railway carriage. Here we rashly fired off a sentence
of Spanish in the reckless manner of one who fires off his gun when
"Woodcock" is suddenly shouted in a plantation, viz., shutting the
eyes, firing in the air, and trusting to Providence.

"_No se cambia coches Burgos?_" gasped we.

"No, señor," answered the guard.

We restrained all further desire for conversation with that
functionary, as vain, weak, and unprofitable, for it is said, "Set a
beggar on horseback, and he will ride to"--a gentleman not usually
mentioned in polite society. But for our part, we make it a golden
rule, when we wish to air our French or Italian, never to address
persons of a stern aspect, never to make linguistic experiments upon
hard-looking men. It is better to single out an individual with a mild
and rather fatuous countenance for the purpose in question. We avoid
individuals of imposing presence, and seek out humble little men who
slink into corners, and, if possible, people of delicate constitution.
A quiet young man in spectacles, for instance, who is going to Mentone
for health, and who has a box by his side labelled, "_Fragile--Huile de
foie de morue_," is a good subject; in fact, any one who is too feeble
to be astonished at anything.

As we continued our journey into Spain, the lower spurs of the Pyrenees
rose darkly over the sea, and waved away in lofty undulations of vale
and mountain, with their slopes up to their summits clothed in green
woods, or dotted here and there with pretty Swiss-looking cottages,
while through the drifting scud a stray sunbeam occasionally found
its way, and ever and anon fell in a flash of glory athwart the golden
tints of the autumnal woods.

At length a high citadel and some turret-crested hills came into
view, looking down upon a clustering group of grotesque old houses,
fishermen's huts and vessels, the masts and sails of merchant craft,
while whitewashed Basque cottages were seen in all directions peeping
out from thick foliage, and appearing very bright and clean. This was
San Sebastian. Here the upper ten thousand of Madrid resort for bathing
in the summer season, when the shores of the little bay are turned into
a perfect camp of tents, pavilions, and bathing-machines.

The Alameda promenade is crowded on afternoons with hundreds of people
in quaint Basque costumes. The bull-ring and the theatre are also
favourite resorts of the inhabitants and visitors.

The fair amount of beauty met with amongst the females of this fine
semi-barbarous Celtic race occasionally tempts the passing traveller to
remain a day or two in this curious and pleasant old town.

All seems so peaceful now in and around San Sebastian, the sleepy
quiet of which is broken only by the roar of distant waves, that it is
difficult to conjure up the scenes of carnage which, after the defeat
of the French garrison by the English, took place here--the rush of
hissing shot, the crash of falling houses, and the shrieks of women and
children dying midst flames and smoke! Who can imagine the condition of
a town given up to drunken soldiers, maddened with lust, success, and
wine? England has glorious annals in her history, and well may her sons
rejoice in their English birth; but there have been times when devils
might have rejoiced and angels wept at the deeds done by Englishmen,
and the day of the sack of San Sebastian was one of them.

After a short stoppage we proceeded onwards again through sombre
gorges, rocky defiles, and verdant valleys. We swept across dry and
arid plains, with the long line of the retiring Pyrenees bounding their
horizon, and past wonderful old villages, mostly in ruins, built in the
chinks and crannies of rocky mountains, and inhabited by wild-looking
men and women. The plashing rain descended and the wind whistled as we
dashed through the spume and mist, with great rocks, old castles, and
majestic trees looming in the midst thereof like uncouth ghosts. Then--

"One long last peal of thunder,
The clouds are cleared away;
And the glorious sun once more looks down
Upon the dazzling day."

When light once more shone on our path, we looked up and beheld high
overhead beetling crags and detached boulders of rock, suspended
apparently so insecurely that a breath might dislodge them from their
lofty shelves, and dash them down in ruin upon the passing pigmies
beneath. On that spiring pinnacle sits a mouldering castle, where
Roderick, last of the Goths, transported the lovely La Cava, who cost
him his sceptre and his life.

The plains of Vittoria at last appeared spread before us, indistinctly
seen in the darkening twilight, with a lunar rainbow hanging over them.

Oh! the oppressive heat of Spain! Oh! the suffocating and sultry air!
But the Spanish climate is often subject to great changes, and we can
only say right glad were we that we took a fool's counsel, viz.,
our own, and had brought no end of wrappers. Like Job, we had our
comforters, and fortunately had carried with us a stout great-coat to
this broiling land!

FOOTNOTE:

[2] Man is naturally a benevolent creature.--ANTONIN.

[Illustration: [++] Decorative Image]

CHAPTER IV.

We arrived at Burgos in the midst of a hurricane of piercing wind--wind
that was more easily felt by us than it will be understood by our
friends in England, who cling to the obstinate notion of the incessant
heat of Spain. The cold of that October night, far more intense than an
ordinary mid-winter night in England, was made more severe by the utter
absence of all comforts, and by the piteous appearance of the natives
who shiver and shake all over the country, rolled up into peripatetic
bundles of drapery, like denizens of frozen regions. There are people
who leave off fires and flannel waistcoats in England because it is
the first of April, although, snow may be on the ground; and we have
no doubt that several of our friends would have had us array ourselves
in white jane pantaloons and linen jackets because we were in Spain.
No, there is no reason that, because a man is clever and _au fait_
at all that concerns that state of life to which God has called him
in the British metropolis, his meteorological and thermal assertions
respecting other countries are to be believed in unreservedly by his
friends.

Meanwhile, "Burgos!" was suddenly shouted by the guard of the train,
and on looking out, we found we had arrived at that station. About
a mile off was the great cathedral, so well portrayed by our David
Roberts, looming before us ghostly in the dim light of the watery
moon. We descended on to the platform half asleep, and anxious about
the portmanteaux, while the train whisked off, leaving us alone, like
stranded mariners on an unknown shore. We looked about us, and saw
uncouth figures gliding about here and there with lanterns gleaming in
the darkness, shapeless forms wrapped up to the eyes in dirty coloured
blankets--their heads extinguished with steeple hats and other
romantic and curious gear.

A small crowd gradually gathered around us as we sat upon our pieces of
baggage, like Marius among the ruins of Carthage, and then everybody
began to talk at once with the most frightful velocity and alarming
gestures. The chorus, not very unlike that of evil demons in some weird
opera, continued for several minutes, raging with great vigour and
such rapidity that we could not make even the wildest guess at their
meaning, because, amidst the babel no words of their patois could be
distinctly singled out. However, directed we suppose by the special
providence which presides over British tourists, we eventually made
a desperate resolution to follow our luggage and cling to it to the
last. Following these tactics, we found ourselves in a short time
seated in an elongated vehicle, innocent of all springs, which had some
resemblance to a schoolroom on wheels, with all the candles put out.
In this conveyance we had the further advantage of the uninterrupted
society of a monkish gentleman with sandals, cowl, rope, and what
seemed to be a long hairy dressing-gown. Now, we have often heard of
the odour of sanctity, but if the odour by which this holy person was
accompanied was the article in question, we must say we didn't think
much of it.

The vehicle in which we were seated started with a shout, a crack,
and a jerk, very suddenly, and, to any one a little absent, without
sufficient warning. After rattling over the most fearful pavement,
past grey, gaunt buildings, and through dark, narrow, shadowy streets,
illuminated at long intervals by a misty lamp swung across from house
to house, we were landed at the door of the Fonda del Norte.

At this juncture, the fact that in this life confidence in things
as they should be, instead of suspicion of things as they are, is a
mistake, was forced upon us very decisively; for had we, on descending
from the omnibus, not considered it natural that there should be a step
upon which to place the foot, instead of regarding it as possible that
there might not be one,--especially if it was at all required,--we
should not have fallen heavily out into the road, and been smeared all
over with dirt and mire.

After holding out a handful of small coins, thus simplifying matters
by letting the omnibus-driver help himself, we were escorted in slow
procession,--the luggage going first,--by a train of four damsels,
and a very brown old woman, bearing candles, through winding passages
all whitewashed, up cold stone flights of stairs, the walls of which
seemed to be covered with any amount of black-beetles, until we
were ushered into a small double-bedded room, also whitewashed, and
adorned with violently coloured prints of saints and martyrs, with
what appeared to be fireworks fizzing and exploding out of the backs
of their heads. We were then presented with a cup of some darkly red
and rather muddy-looking fluid called chocolate, highly flavoured
with what to us is the most nauseous thing in the world,--cinnamon.
A piece of black bread, and a pat of something which might once have
been butter, but now resembled railway wheel-grease, or cheese, was
then given to us. Half of a cold bird, of a species, we should imagine,
nearly extinct, seemed as little calculated to please the appetite
as the bread, butter, and chocolate. These luxuries were placed upon
a chest of drawers, there being no table; and as no chair could be
found of sufficient altitude to raise us to a proper level with these
delicacies, we were constrained to stand at our feast.

The procession of curious followers had now halted, and deployed
into a semicircle around us, doubtless to watch the effects of this
astonishing banquet upon our weak minds and empty stomachs. To taste of
the half-bird was at once to come to the conclusion that the poultry
in Spain is fed chiefly on gravel. The black-eyed young ladies who
lingered round us wonderingly while we were regaling ourselves, as if
we were two specimens of some remarkable race of men, or inhabitants
of the planet Jupiter dropped into their hotel, were at length swept
off tittering by the brown old female, and we were left alone with
the pyrotechnical saints, the whitewashed walls, a couple of iron
bedsteads, two chairs, and the chest of drawers, which still groaned
beneath the weight of the remains of the viands that had formed our
initiatory banquet in the land of Spain. The wild cry of the watchman
moaning through the narrow, silent streets, the distant clang of
the great cathedral bell sounding the hour, and the misty moonlight
streaming through the casement, gave a peculiar finish to our novel
experiences of men and things; and so to bed--to a sleep confused with
all sorts of impressions, blurred and running into each other on the
palette of the mind.

Here we were in Spain; Spain, the land of historical memories--Iberian,
Celtic, Phœnician, Greek, Carthaginian, and Roman. From the Phœnicians
sprang Cadiz, Seville, Malaga, and Cordova. From the Greeks, Rhodians,
and Zanteans, arose Rosas in Cataluña, the populations of the Balearic
Isles, and the immortal Saguntum (Murviedro), which heroically resisted
Hannibal, and caused the second Punic war. From the Carthaginians,
who conquered Southern Spain (B.C. 237), sprang Carthagena, and also
Barcelona. All Spain fell beneath the Roman yoke, and continued under
it for a period of four centuries.

Spain, the land of historic memories, Gothic, Moorish, French, British;
the land of the Cid and of chivalry; the land of the Inquisition and
of bigotry, of the religious monster, Torquemada,[3] and of the great
and cruel Duke of Alva; the land of the conquerors of Mexico and
Peru, of Cervantes, Lope de Vega, and Calderon; the land of Velasquez,
Murillo, and the Ideal, not to speak of extortionate hotel-keepers who
are much attached to the Real;[4] the land of impecuniosity, bigotry,
intolerance, and fleas; the land of love and revenge, mantillas and
stilettos; the land of plenty and horror, gazelle-eyed women, and the
blue cholera; the land of bull-fights, cigarettes, blue blood, beggars,
monks, and dinners cooked in oil; the land of the wondrous architecture
of the sombre Goth and sensuous Moor; the land of a corrupted and
vicious court--of lounging, intrigue, procrastination, and pride;
the land of staunch, changeless, and noble characters, and of pure
and chivalrous hearts; the land of the vine, orange, and cypress--of
purple mountains and dreaming sea; the land of light and shadow, of
love and hatred, glory and gloom;--in fine, the land of a sensitive,
generous, warm-hearted, and graceful people, but the worst government
in Christendom.

We are in Spain, certainly; but how cold and sepulchral a city Burgos
is! It is chill and damp, and subject to violent attacks of wind, being
situated on an elevated, exposed, and treeless plain, 3075 feet above
the level of the sea, and surrounded by a wide Arabian-like yellow
desert, which, however, waves one vast sea of corn in summer, for it is
the granary of Spain. It is sepulchral because, for all the purposes
of an advanced and enlightened age, it is a buried city; and there is
nothing a Burgolese hates so much as improvement. We are many hundred
miles south of England; but how much more bleak and inhospitable is
the climate than that of our temperate Northern isle; and we can well
understand the proverb relating to the weather in this place, "_Diez
meses de invierno y dos de infierno_."

Burgos is, as we have said, much behind its time. There is no
particular trade, excepting in the simple articles considered necessary
for the population. The hotels are but second-rate, and are used
chiefly as eating-houses for the higher class of tradespeople. Few
foreigners seek their shelter.

As the morning broke we were favoured with a glimpse of the sun,
which cheered us with its vivifying beams for about one hour, and then
the dull leaden clouds once more passed over the face of day, while
the cold winds swept down from the bare and dusty hills overlooking
the town. However, as one wanders through the quiet old streets, one
experiences a feeling of indolence which is soothing after the busy
roar of other cities. The various colouring of the quaint Spanish
streets, with the picturesque irregularity of the houses, as looked at
in perspective, is light and lively. The appearance of the balconies,
coloured matting, and painted shutters and blinds, is pleasing to
the eye of the stranger from its novelty. There are never too many
passengers to mar the repose of the scene; and on such as glide quietly
past us we look with no small degree of curiosity. How interesting it
is to see the good priest with the shovel hat, long black skirts, and
stomach-buckle of "Il Barbiere," politely saluting the olive-coloured
young lady with the graceful mantilla as she sweeps along with natural
and queen-like dignity!

However offensive may be some of the sights we see in this country,
however reluctant may be many of its fair denizens to part with
their birthright of dirt, there is grace everywhere--grace innocent
of the slightest attempt at effect, or of the smallest appearance of
affectation; natural indigenous grace, worn by all, either in manner,
dress, or bearing, from the highest to the lowest in the land. Even
the vermin-hunting beggar, sunning his idle self beneath the carved
church door, can be graceful in his rags; and an old rug flung loosely
around his form, with the folds caught up here and there, and falling
in an easy and becoming manner from his shoulder to his feet, gives to
his figure, as he paces calmly by, an air of dignity rarely to be met
with elsewhere; while the worn broad-brimmed velvet sombrero, jauntily
poised on the coloured napkin which is bound round the head and falls
in a knot on the nape of the neck, completes the well-known picture of
the proud but beggarly Don, and places him _in propriâ personâ_ before
our eyes.

At every turn the eye may fall upon beautiful old gems of Gothic
architecture, quaint and solemn old houses, carved with heraldic
blazonry, or with statues of illustrious warriors dead ages ago set in
their walls. Column, pillar, and arch are so intertwined and twisted in
all directions, that the buildings look as if they had been suddenly
paralysed whilst writhing all over in a fit of agony. One may pass
under some beautifully fretted arch, and find oneself within a ruined
court of the most graceful Saracenic device. No step breaks the sleepy
silence of its light arcades; some goats only are quietly cropping the
rank grass amongst the broken pavements of its great square; and the
clouds are passing on softly above.

In the outskirts of the town we observed some massive yellow walls,
with noble Gothic arches and windows, deep and barred, standing all
alone amidst the dust of this arid climate, and looking upon the barren
hills in the distance; but there was no living soul to attest whether
they were convent or prison. Here and there, too, some rich relics
of ancient sculpture were seen built up amidst the bricks of a barn
or storehouse--the tottering Past nursed in the arms of the strong
Present! In and around the city, feudal towers, grand old gateways, and
the palaces of ancient nobles, of the old constables of Castile, with
their _façades_ ornamented with wonderful devices, armorial bearings,
and heraldic monsters, are frequent objects of interest to him who can
read a country's history in its antiquarian remains. From the eminence
on which is built the convent of La Cartuja, situated about two miles
from the city, a general view of Burgos is obtained, with the lace-like
pinnacles of the Cathedral spiring to the skies, surrounded on all
sides by the desolate hills and far-stretching Sahara-like plains,
with scarce a patch of verdure for the aching eye to rest upon in any
direction. We, in a weak moment, hired a _calèche_ to convey us to the
convent; but as the road thither was over the most harassing ground,
now following the track of a water-course strewn with great stones,
then across level ground in which we sank up to the axles in white
dust, we came to the conclusion that, like the man in the sedan-chair
when the bottom came out, if it were not for the honour of the thing,
we might just as well walk. Indeed, we might as well have owned to
walking at once,--walking ostensibly, for though the carriage of honour
was by our side, we really had to walk half the way.

Upon arriving at the gloomy portal of the convent, with its yellow
walls, grated windows, and strong buttresses, upon which the long weeds
were waving in the blast like the wild straws in the head of some
melancholy maniac, we lifted a heavy knocker, and with it produced
some blows which sounded dismally and preternaturally loud amidst the
silence within. In answer to our summons, a cavernous, lean, pale face
appeared for a second or so at a grating to inspect the intruders,
and our exterior probably attesting the fact that no danger was to
be apprehended from us, the heavy door was swung open by a poor
dilapidated son of religion, in a long serge gown and sandals, who
looked so depressed and shy with life-long dulness and superstition,
that it was no wonder he could not lift his eyes higher than the knees
of his visitors. We then entered an elegant little church with pointed
arches, of the florid Gothic style, beneath a _façade_ emblazoned with
the arms of Castile and Leon. In the midst of the subdued light of the
holy place, there suddenly broke upon us the magnificent tomb of Juan
II. and Queen Isabella of Portugal, formed of white marble. It is truly
wonderful that in the recesses of these lonely and decaying walls,
in this forlorn spot of earth, inhabited only by five wretched and
poverty-stricken monks, are seen objects of interest which, in their
marvellous beauty, are unequalled, perhaps, in the world. Executed in
pure Carrara marble, octagonal in shape, and raised about six feet
from the pavement, with a circumference of nearly thirty-six feet, the
tomb of Juan and Isabella perfectly tortures the eye by the amazing
intricacy of its detail. Sixteen lions, bearing the royal escutcheons,
stand in pairs at each angle; groups of innumerable statuettes, each
individual a masterpiece of itself, appear resting under filigree
canopies, and within a perfect network of marble lace of infinite
delicacy; while festoons and bowers of feathery foliage, fruits and
flowers, support birds and insects treading in their marble imagery
with the springy touch of life. The statues of the royal pair lie side
by side, robed in drapery which might be the finest needlework were it
not stone.

In a recess in the wall near by is another wonderful tomb of the same
profuse ornament and delicate finish, that of Don Alonzo, son of the
above. Over the high altar is a _retablo_, a mass of gorgeous gilt
woodwork representing angels sitting on very solid clouds, while whole
coveys of little winged cherubim, with very red cheeks, hover round the
great central figure of Christ hanging on the cross, and surmounted
by a pelican tearing her breast to feed her young. The entire height
of the _retablo_, from the kneeling figures of the king and queen
below to the summit of the topmost clouds amidst which the Assumption
of the Virgin is represented, must be nearly forty feet. The gilding
with which this magnificent work is profusely adorned, is said to be
part of the gold brought by Columbus from America. The finely-carved
walnut-wood stalls of the choir are specimens of the wonderful industry
and exquisite taste of olden times, and a characteristic of all Spanish
churches.

In the central ground of the silent convent cloisters the rank weeds
wave over some hundred graves of Carthusian monks. As time rolls on the
weeds rise higher and tangle thicker, but the stoneless mound gradually
sinks down to the general level of the earth. However worthy the
actions or great the deeds of the poor, their graves are ever silent,
their names are but writ in water, and the very grass above them
withers not so soon as their memory.

After having seen everything that attracted our curiosity, we returned
through the deep white dust, and over the stony tracts, with our
very useful vehicle jolting behind us, the coachman wrapping more
closely round him his ample garment,--a garment with considerably more
pretension to hair than to shape, being composed of the skins of many
goats. I suppose he rarely, if ever, took it off, night or day; and it
is probable, if he ever ventured to dispense with a vestment which had
become almost a part of himself, he might have felt the consequences of
his rashness.

We fear it is our painful duty to remind the reader that Burgos and
the Duke of Wellington were once associated together. Glory is a fine
thing, but it is apt after a time to become a _bête noire_ to many
excellent readers; however, that is their look-out. In November, 1808,
Burgos became the head-quarters of Napoleon. Wellington, fresh from his
victory of Salamanca, invested the town; but, in consequence of the
insufficient support of the Spanish general, was compelled to raise
the siege in order to escape being captured by Marshal Soult, who
was approaching with an enormous force. To join Hill was the Duke's
necessary object, as his troops were few in number, badly provisioned,
and worn out by a continued struggle against great odds and many
disadvantages, the little band having with them to carry on the siege
but three field-pieces and five howitzers, against twenty-six of the
French. After a loss of two thousand men, the retreat of the English
was carried out with much hazard; but in June, 1813, the fortune of
war was changed, and King Joseph, upon the approach of the Duke of
Wellington, evacuated the citadel, after blowing up the fortifications,
and with them several hundred Frenchmen.

In the Castle at Burgos, once a sumptuous palace as well as a citadel,
the marriage of the Cid took place; also that of Edward the First of
England and Eleanor of Castile. Burgos is illustrious among cities, as
having given birth to the Cid, who in 1040, first saw the light in a
house which stood on the spot where now stands an obelisk, in the Calle
Alta, erected by Charles III. in 1784. There are, of course, a large
number of people who know all about the _Cid_, and the derivation of
the word. But as we are equally certain there are a fair amount who do
not, we may as well mention the following particulars in connection
with that semi-mysterious personage, to whom frequent allusions are
unavoidable in a book about Spain.

Don Rodrigo Diaz de Bivar, otherwise the Cid, was a gentleman of very
warlike tendencies, and spent most of his time in giving vent to the
martial ardour within him. He has consequently been regarded by his
countrymen of all times as their national hero, and wrapped in a bright
haze of fabulous glory and fame. He, however, accomplished a good deal
of the work attributed to him, and chased, harassed, conquered, and
imprisoned the Moors throughout Spain to a most satisfactory extent.
His love for the beautiful and heroic Ximena exemplifies the adage
that none but the brave deserve the fair, and shows his prowess in the
bowers of Venus as well as in the field of Mars. Shortly after his
death a grand poetical glorification of his exploits was offered to his
manes in the "Chronicle of the Cid;" and another, a very long time
after, by the immortal Corneille in his masterpiece of "Le Cid." Upon
the occasion of a great victory, some Moorish notables came to the hero
and prostrated themselves at his feet, saluting him with the title of
_Seid Campeador_, or Champion Prince--whence the appellation _Cid_.

Valencia was the last Moorish stronghold which fell to his arms; and
there, after hanging up his spurs and horse-bit upon the Cathedral
wall, where they remain to this day, he died in the year 1099. Any
inquiring traveller may now satisfy the combined bent of a historical
and anatomical mind by inspecting within a wooden urn in the Town Hall
of Burgos, the bones of the immortal Don Rodrigo and his lovely Ximena.

Only to see the Cathedral of Burgos would amply serve as a grateful
end to a pilgrimage from the uttermost parts of the earth. Coming
suddenly from round the angle of some narrow street, there bursts upon
the eye that glorious Gothic pile, with all its airy pinnacles. In the
interior how rich is this majestic temple with that unequalled pomp so
significant of the Roman Catholic faith, while the solemn walls are
fretted with chaste ornaments of the rarest beauty, and with groups of
slender, graceful pillarets which rise arrow-like to the lofty roof.
When one views it, as Scott recommends us to view Melrose, in the pale
moonlight, how profound is the impression produced by the weird-like
appearance of the immense building, the design of which is so noble, so
perfect! The awed pilgrim from other lands, when his eyes first rest
on this unequalled shrine, stands enchanted, as if rooted to the spot,
his soul leaping within him, transported with the beauty of so rare a
spectacle.

As the great carved door swings back behind us, and shuts out from
the senses the glare of the Spanish day, the head is instinctively
bowed, and the knee bends in worship; for everything in this
consecrated temple of the Divinity is calculated to excite the spirit
of adoration, and to raise our faith heavenward. When we stand silent
on the threshold of that holy place, beneath the lofty arches of the
vaulted roof, supported by rows of colossal columns melting away
into the distance; when we slowly pace the long aisles, with the
tombs of the mighty dead on each side; or when we kneel with the
devout worshippers before the altars in the various chapels, gemmed
by hundreds of star-like lamps, the soul feels the reality of things
unseen; while with the deep diapason of the organ, blended with the
holy song of bands of choristers, its aspirations mount like clouds of
incense to heaven. Never shall I forget the profound impression which I
experienced when, in that noble fane, I felt that religious faith was
at once the grandest and the most genuine growth of the human soul.

The staircase, which descends in graceful curvings from the altar to
the marble floor beneath, with great griffin heads terminating the
balustrades, is very beautiful, and was much admired by our own David
Roberts. How magnificent, too, is the choir, with its two hundred
stalls, adorned with spires, which are ornamented with the richest and
most minute carving! The dark walnut-wood is all chased, chiselled, and
traced from pinnacle to floor with one mass of amazing ornamentation,
amidst the intricacies of which the sight loses itself, and becomes
dim. The choir is entirely surrounded by tall brass railings of
exquisite workmanship; and in the fifteen chapels, each enclosing
objects of marvellous interest or beauty, the altars are supported by
jasper pillars and columns of rarest marbles, while the _retablo_ rises
to the roof--a perfect labyrinth of gilt wood-carving, crowded with
subjects of wondrous device. On a shelf in a sacristy is mouldering
away into chips a great wooden chest which belonged to the Cid, for
the indulgence of looking at which not very remarkable article of this
hero's outfit a priest did not charge us more than a shilling a head.

FOOTNOTES:

[3] In the course of sixteen years, Torquemada, first
Inquisitor-General of Spain, committed to the flames eight thousand
eight hundred victims.

[4] About twopence halfpenny. The real is the basis of the whole
monetary system of Spain.

[Illustration: [++] Decorative Image]

CHAPTER V.

As the train moved away from Burgos, the city and the great cathedral
melted away from our sight, and we glided over the wide African-like
plains and dried-up watercourses, past the stony hills which, extending
to the far horizon, reflected the dazzling rays of the sun. Not a blade
of grass or sprig of green was there to refresh the eye of man, or for
cattle to ruminate on. No wonder the butter of the country is made of
lard, or the milk we drink taken from the mare!

At a little station where the train stopped, an old lady, closely
hooded in black serge, and looking like the popular representation of
Old Bogey, entered our carriage, together with a monk. Where they came
from it was impossible to conjecture, as there was no sign of village
or habitation within sight of this very purposeless station in the
desert. They were attended, however, by the usual escort in vogue in
this country, a portion of which immediately leapt upon us and bit us.
The poor insects had made but a scanty meal of their innutritious monk,
and came to us for their _chasse café_, or rather _chasse moine_.

We arrived in the evening at Valladolid, once the capital town of
Spain. Indeed, in spite of its position in the centre of a wide,
wind-swept, sandy plain, which causes the city to be the sport of
a chronic simoom, it seems to be a capital town still. For trade
and agriculture the situation appears convenient, for, wonderful
to say, they have got some water amidst the _tierras de campos_,
which consequently yield abundant produce; added to which, the river
Duero connects the city with the Atlantic--in a rather difficult and
spasmodic manner, however--and the railroad maintains its commercial
relations with the south and north. The name of Valladolid is supposed
to be derived from the Moorish Belad Walid, or land of the Walid. This
may be, however, as "our bore" said at the _table d'hôte_, "inwalid,"
and not to be relied upon.

In the Plaza Mayor of this city, the great Alvarez de Luna, "Spain's
haughty constable," was beheaded. "Uneasy lies the head that wears
a crown," and how uneasy must sit the head that trusts in princes,
especially old princes who marry young queens, for all sense of honour,
justice, and gratitude seems to walk out of the door when uxoriousness
comes in at the window.

Here, in 1506, Columbus departed this life, and Philip II., the
fortunate possessor of our sweet queen, Mary of England, came into it
on May 21st, 1527. Here, in the sixteenth century, _auto-da-fés_ and
periodical bonfires of heretics were kept up with great spirit,--one
being under the especial patronage of the above-mentioned blessed
monarch, upon a scale of unprecedented magnificence. Here, Cervantes
lived and wrote, and here, we regret to be obliged to add, the Duke
of Wellington made his public entry, and took up his residence in the
bishop's palace.

The _Fonda del Siglo de Oro_, although rather ambitious in its choice
of a name, is a tolerable house enough, and the provision for the
necessaries of life is not quite so primitive here as at Burgos. As
regards that essential element of civilisation, the bath, the Spaniard
seems still proudly wrapped in primeval darkness. On the morning after
our arrival at the Hotel of the Golden Age,--where one would think
all would be surrounded by pure delights,--the egregious desire for
a bath took possession of us as usual; but, as in other places, we
had some difficulty in obtaining that refreshing article. We pull the
bell, the waiter appears; we utter the word "baños," in a low and
rather humble tone, as if knowing it was vain to expect a favourable
reply. The waiter inquires, "Caliente?" We answer, "No, frio." "Frio!"
screams the waiter, with blanched visage, and instantly disappears
like a harlequin through a trap. Presently, however, he reappears with
another waiter, both looking as scared and uncomfortable as if they
expected to be cross-examined at a coroner's inquest as two suspicious
witnesses connected with our decease. Again we venture to ask timidly
for "baños." Both waiters exclaim, in a tone of helpless amazement,
"Frio?" to which query we reply in the affirmative by a nod, and they
withdraw, muttering and gesticulating all down the stairs. The Spanish
pathologist observes that the fit of hydromania generally attacks the
Englishman between the hours of eight and ten.

In a few minutes, after a deal of scuffling outside the door, the
two waiters appeared again, followed by the landlord, his wife, and
a strange gentleman, carrying between them an object which had some
resemblance to the state-chair of St. Peter in the basilica of that
name at Rome. When this ponderous piece of furniture was settled in the
middle of our room, we discovered that the seat had been removed, and
a square tin pan fixed beneath, containing about two pints of brown
water. Into this we madly plunged, and although perfectly sober at the
time, imagined we were enjoying a refreshing sponge bath. However, this
sort of thing is one of the _cosas de España_, so we suppose it was all
right.

_À propos_ of the general wonder expressed at any one wishing for cold
water to wash in, there seems in Spain to be an equal terror of fresh
air. Upon one occasion we had been in bed but a short time when a
waiter entered the room to inquire if Señor had all he required. His
eyes had no sooner rested upon the open window, which admitted the
clear night air, than his whole countenance became locked and rigid,
as if some dreadful personage--the travelling prophet of Khorassan, it
might be--had suddenly presented himself at the window. The functionary
in question, however, soon recovered his presence of mind, and having
cast one anxious glance at our bed, to satisfy himself that all was
right with us, he flew across the room with a bound and an oath,
slammed the casements together, and the shutters after them, flinging
the cross bar into its socket with such force as to show that he
intended it to remain there.

The hotels in Spain, in the larger towns, are generally clean and well
kept; though some persons, perhaps, might be able to dispense with a
little of that universal odour of onions and ammonia which constantly
prevails throughout the house; and the goods and chattels of travellers
in the various rooms would not be absolutely endangered if common
beggars from the streets were prevailed upon not to spend quite so
much of their time on the stairs between the bed-chambers and the
ground-floor.

Valladolid being a town of considerable importance in the history
of Spain, we were eager to see it, and were soon threading our way
through the sunny streets, underneath the broad band of blue overhead,
until we found ourselves face to face with the Colegio Mayor de Santa
Cruz, a grand old palace founded by Cardinal Mendoza in 1479, and now
standing with all its beautiful fretwork clogged with wild weeds, and
its light arcades, Saracenic columns, and Gothic porches mouldering
away in sun and silence. On we wandered, through the long galleries,
till we reached the library, apparently so called on account of the
total absence of books, but which is filled with a mine of wealth in
the shape of a profusion of specimens of the most exquisite carvings
in walnut wood and dark oak. There are _salas_ after _salas_ filled
with old musty pictures, carvings, and wooden sculptures, collected
from the various convents at the period of their suppression. The
pictures are mostly bad, though many of them are curious. Of course
there are numbers of hoary old saints in rags, with gold quoits fixed
on to the backs of their heads, glorifying in the lying label placed
beneath them. A long room is filled with fearful painted figures
carved in wood, representing troops of gigantic ruffians in the act
of persecuting Christ, more grotesquely hideous than anything we
could imagine in our worst dreams. Is it in order to inspire a due
reverence and affection for Our Saviour that the figure of the Redeemer
is represented in these productions as a meagre, wan, and emaciated
skeleton of a man, covered all over with blood, dirt, the marks of
stripes, and tangled masses of real red hair? or is it to render
more intense the dislike with which we regard his persecutors? These
individuals are represented belabouring their unfortunate victim with
cudgels considerably larger than their own bodies, which have the most
revolting appearance from deformity and disease, enormous tumours being
generally appended to their throats.

In the midst of these delectable horrors, and placed on a large
plate, is a painted wood-carving of the decapitated head of St. Paul,
with which any amateur executioner may regale himself to his heart's
content. So faithfully rendered is the last look of horror in the
half-closed glass eyes, that one cannot help doubting, when he first
glances at it, whether it is only a model. We were glad to escape from
this religious Madame Tussaud's into the bright sun and open air, where
we could dismiss the fancies inspired by such horrible sights.

We felt quite relieved when we found ourselves again in the great
square, alive with dark-skinned men and women, with their gay dresses
and sonorous voices. The jingling mules even were a pleasant sight
to us, and we gazed with delight on the white walls, reflecting with
such dazzling brilliance the rays of the sun, and on the universal
dust, which almost half choked us, not to speak of the blue sky and
the green acacia trees. In fact, the very odour of garlic was not so
detestable to us as it used to be. Certainly those vast, prison-like
convents standing on the outskirts of the town, are most fitting
places in which to immure for life young men and women--fitting for
their purpose, that is, inasmuch as there is nought to be seen from
the grated windows to tempt them back to the world they have left.
They may strain their dimming eyes as much as they please through the
bars, they will see no stirring crowds in pursuit of business or
pleasure, no happy pairs, no manly form or sweet face, to make the
still warm heart thrill with joyful memories; they will see nought but
wild tracts of desert, and yellow plains fading into the hot horizon,
and spreading away like a burning ocean. We have by chance upon rare
occasions caught sight of faces at convent gratings, and their glance
fell like an icicle on the heart--faces which, though young in years,
were aged in sadness, and perchance with the remorse--most probably
with the regret--that comes too late. I saw, on one occasion, two young
girls, pale from confinement within the yellow walls of a religious
prison at Valladolid, and the bloodless cheek rendered the dark blaze
of the gazelle-like eyes almost unnaturally bright with a false
lustre, the lustre caught from the soul loosened by the partial decay
of its prison-house, and struggling to be free. How strange that so
much young, ardent life, so much beauty, so many loving hearts, and
so much generous energy should choose to rot uselessly away in such
prison-houses, like pale and lonely lamps flickering in a tomb! Strange
that their mission as tender women, who might have soothed the griefs
and tempered the hardness of many an honest man, who in return might
have loved them as his life, his pride, his all, should be--as citizens
of the world--tied to a destiny so awfully aimless, hopeless, and
loveless: so dead in their life, and in only too many cases so utterly
heart-weary and forlorn!

Well, to proceed with our stroll through the picturesque old Spanish
streets. We say Spanish,--for it is not every town even in Spain that
is Spanish in the character of its architecture. Madrid, for instance,
with the exception of a few of the old quarters, has nothing nationally
characteristic about it. The sun was now beginning to make itself felt
with more than usual vigour; but that was to be expected here, for it
is one of the _cosas de España_. From the yellow walls of churches
and palaces, its rays were reflected, while overhead there hung one
spotless lake of blue. Down a melancholy silent street, where lean
dogs were quarrelling for offal, and fierce-eyed, ragged fowl were
pecking savagely amongst the dust, was a plain square house, with a few
small windows closed by shutters. In this house Columbus died, as the
stranger is informed by the following inscription over the door: "Acqui
murio Colon."

A little further on we came upon an avenue of dry poplars, bordering a
small sluggish stream, through which was seen a telescopic view of hot,
yellow hills beyond, dotted here and there with rare patches of green,
as if the genius of fecundity, in flying over them, had by accident
occasionally dropped from his cornucopia a huge bunch of cress. By the
side of a ditch, we observed hundreds of washerwomen on their knees,
washing shirts in mud, with a large stone. The chattering they made
induced "our bore," whom we suddenly met on the bridge, to observe
that "there seemed to be a great deal more talking about one thing
and another than about anything else." What he meant, goodness knows!
A little beyond, was a boy on his stomach, drinking from the stream,
not, like the wolf in the fable, above the lamb, here typified by the
washerwomen, but below. No wonder cholera is more than usually fatal in
Spain, for, certainly, many of their practices invite the approach of
pestilence!

It seems an innocent practice enough, the taking notes occasionally
in a pocket-book; but here, in the Peninsula, it is rather nervous
work. For example, we had scarcely finished a few lines in pencil
on one occasion, when we became aware of the close proximity of two
_gendarmes_, who were both looking aslant over our shoulder, into the
book. For half an hour or so, they followed us persistently wherever we
went, occasionally stopping and conferring earnestly together, until we
feared we were going to be apprehended and thrown into a dungeon for
plotting against Queen Isabel, now dethroned, and taking notes of the
weak points in the character of her government and people, of which, by
the way, the mode of washing linen is one.

In all the walks outside Valladolid, everything reminds us forcibly of
the East, and affords evidence of the Oriental descent of the Spaniard.
There is, in fact, much truth in the assertion that Spain is but
_l'Afrique qui continue_. There are the same hot, white, dusty roads,
bordered by feathery acacias, and giving birth to the aloe; the same
brazen, dry, and wide sandy plains and stunted trees. There are many
of the same flat-roofed houses, against whose dazzling walls the fig
and oleander cast their shadows. There are the same brown, semi-nude
urchins, shouting Arabic-sounding words and whacking mules harnessed
with coloured drapery.

When we look towards the town, we see vast convent walls standing
defiantly, as those of fortresses, and pile after pile of great square
buildings, domes, and towers, rising against the blue, sleepy sky in
all their solemn beauty. When we enter the city, and walk along the
cool high streets, leaving the sultry plains behind us baking in dust
and glare, the eye turns upon old palaces converted into barracks and
alms-houses, and upon Moorish courts and Gothic halls, apparently
tenantless of any one save flea-bitten beggars, mumbling Babel only
knows what language, who crawl about, scratching themselves, half
asleep, amidst princely porticoes and noble columns. Everywhere we
observe groups of graceful, hooded women, men swathed in red sash,
striped cloak, and yellow shirt, looking out keenly from beneath
the sombrero's shade. The Spaniard seems to delight in gaudy hues.
Mules are clad in gay trappings, and the houses are painted in bright
colours; yet everywhere, too, we see dirt, decay, and sloth, and are
repelled by abominable smells.

In our rambles we went past the _façade_ of the church of San Pablo,
the stone ornaments of which are like lace-work executed three
hundred years ago. This, one of the finest _façades_ in Castile, was
begun in the fifteenth century by the Abbot of Valladolid, Fr. Juan
de Torquemada, and finished by the Duke of Lerma at the beginning
of the seventeenth century. We passed into the beautiful patio and
court of the Colegio de San Gregorio, and walked amidst the tall
spiral pillarets, supporting Gothic arches, light and lovely. We then
sauntered up the rich staircase, with its carved stone balustrades,
diminishing away in needle-like delicacy, and looked out upon the
open court with all its chiselled galleries. Even in these beautiful
structures neglect was visible. Weeds in many places covered the
marble, and the smell of death seemed somehow to linger around.

To a dreamy mind, or to one which easily vibrates to a touch of
poetry, it is a grand luxury to turn into those fine old churches,
where the light is subdued and the air is cool, from the scorching
sun and glare without. We thus, occasionally, lifted the curtain, and
passed under the porch of the cathedral of Valladolid. Its enormous
square Corinthian columns stand in all their granite strength, as
if to outwatch the world. The colour prevailing in this church is
grey and sober. There is something grand and harmonious in its huge
proportions; but in its simplicity it appears more like some massive
sepulchre of the past than the temple of an ostentatious religion.
Scattered groups of women are kneeling before the altars, and the
still forms of devotees are bending on the cold pavement. Brazen
gates and lofty railings surround the choir, through which coloured
figures move indistinctly, as in a dream. There is some magnificent
dark oak carving. Clusters of tapers pierce through the gloom, and
the melancholy chaunt of distant choristers echoes softly through the
aisles. Out again into a sunny market-place, with gipsy-like women
squatting on the ground, amongst the melons and tomatoes, the pots and
pans. Dirty though graceful men, smoking cigarettes, and entangled in
rusty cloaks, with their heads tied up in gaudy kerchiefs, are lounging
about in picturesque squalor; while others in black sombrero, velveteen
breeches, and jacket adorned with metal buttons, are lading great
mules, decked in vivid housings. Farther on are more Moorish-looking
women, with pitcher on head, resting by a fountain side; and above are
little boys, perched in the belfries, clanging the church bells with
hearty good-will.

The Spaniard is certainly very courteous by nature, and although
generally shy of foreigners, most anxious to please them when he finds
them _chez lui_, and to send them away with good impressions both of
his country and of himself. We were looking, on one occasion, at some
monument in the town, when two young gentlemen of finished manners
suddenly addressed us by raising their hats, and after politely
offering us cigarettes, requested us to oblige them by an inspection
of their club. Of course we were glad to do so. This establishment,
which we found to be cool and comfortable enough, consisted of a
suite of lofty rooms, decorated _à la Watteau_, filled with little
knots of polite young men of easy manners, all dressed very soberly
in black cloth, and with remarkably tall hats of the latest Parisian
fashion. Most of them were chatting, playing cards, or smoking the
cigarette, around a small billiard table, with very large balls and a
set of skittles in the centre. A small fireplace, recently put up, was
introduced to our notice, and we were favoured with a description of
its functions, which could not have been given with greater pride if
it had been some grand scientific discovery intended to enlighten and
benefit the world. After we had been entertained for a short time, we
took leave of this society of very pleasant young gentlemen, who again
took off their tall hats as we bowed to them, exchanged expressions of
undying respect, and favoured us with a few more cigarillos.

Spaniards seem to be generally very accommodating persons; but they
must never be hurried, and never asked twice for a light for the same
cigarette. They are ordinarily reserved, and have a keen sense of
private dignity; but when treated with perfect consideration, are most
gracious in return. Their politeness may proceed, perhaps, from a sense
of patriotic obligation more than from any serious love for your person.

The ladies possess the same characteristics, and although exacting as
to formalities, are generally agreeable and good-natured. It must be
admitted, however, that they are very idle, entirely lacking the quick
vivacity and wit of their lively neighbours, the French. The languid
blood of their Moorish ancestors, and their sultry, oppressive climate,
may account greatly for the indolence which is common to both sexes.

The Gran Teatro Calderon has a very pretty interior, and is quite
Parisian in appearance. When filled almost exclusively with
sparkling dresses and gorgeous uniforms, it has a brilliant effect.
Notwithstanding recent events, the Spanish people, when we were at
Valladolid, seemed to be enthusiastically loyal. Just before the
performance began, a large picture of Queen Isabel, placed in the
centre of the house, immediately over the royal box, was suddenly
unveiled. All in the theatre with one accord stood up, turning
reverentially towards it. The gendarmes posted in various parts of the
_salle_ presented arms, and the orchestra played the national hymn. The
performance of some never-before-heard-of opera, with a title that, to
us foreigners, was incomprehensible, did not, in a musical sense, do
much credit to Spanish talent. However, if the prompter perhaps had
not shouted so loud all through the piece, we should have heard the
singers to better advantage. As it was, there was one singular duet, at
all events, between a very fat, square little tenor and a long, lean
baritone, of which no adequate idea can be presented, unless it be that
of a two-part song performed by some person in the agonies of death
and an old hound shut up in a kennel when the rest of the pack are out
hunting.

What we liked very much, at all events while on our travels, was to
be able to light cigarettes at the lamps in the grand saloon. Here in
Spain one smokes well nigh everywhere. Oftentimes in the middle of the
_table d'hôte_, if the _entr'acte_ between the courses be at all a long
one, cigarettes are lighted, and thrown away after a dozen puffs or
so. Now women cannot naturally dislike tobacco, for in Spain tobacco
is smoked everywhere, and the ladies don't faint or turn up the whites
of their eyes in pretended horror of the filthy weed. On the contrary,
smoking with themselves is a favourite pastime in private, if not in
public, and the ladies' apartments are often fragrant with more than
a _soupçon_ of that herb the odour of which was so abominable to the
British Solomon. And, indeed, why should it not be so? There are many
worse smells that are endured without a murmur than the fresh aroma of
pure Havanna tobacco, King James's Counterblast notwithstanding.

After the before-mentioned exhilarating duet, we thought that for the
first dose we had better not exceed or try the human system too much;
for, like the people who can in the course of time and practice take as
much laudanum as would kill an ox, there was no knowing what we might
be brought to endure. We strolled, therefore, into the Teatro Lope,
where a farce "was on," as they say in dramatic phrase. The sources of
amusement--the characters, plots, and style of playing--appeared to be
pretty nearly the same as they are in England. There were, as on our
stage, heavy fathers, walking ladies, housemaids, lovers concealed in
cupboards, rejected suitors favoured by stern parents, but suffering
much from the practical jokes of the faithful groom of the family,
all shaken up together into a confused plot, and holding hands in a
row when the piece was brought to the usual happy termination. When
the curtain falls, cigars are lighted, and the tobacco smoke rises in
clouds, until the entire house, as well as the brains of the audience,
is entirely befogged. All the private boxes at this house were thickly
padded with stuffed and quilted leather, with what object it was
difficult to conjecture. The orchestral arrangements were conducted
upon rather a _laissez aller_ principle; and the boy who played the
cymbals seemed scarcely to be what we should call a regular musician,
but one engaged for the nonce. Being a quick-witted, sharp-eyed lad,
however, he managed, by keeping his gaze steadily fixed on the leader,
to play his noisy instrument with some discretion, guided by an
occasional wink from that functionary. He was probably paid so much
a smash, like the man with the great drum at Jullien's concerts, who
received twopence per whack.

Valladolid is an exceedingly pleasant place, and we enjoyed very much
this _existence de flâneur_, going about during the day from sight to
sight, and passing the evening in the theatre. Indeed, when one is
associated with a kindred spirit, what more charming holiday can there
be than to be carried past a panorama of ever-changing scenes, and,
with all care left behind with the London fogs and lawyers, to witness
views of life, nature, and character dissolving one into the other by
easy gradations, now light, now grave, now humorous, now gently sad?
It was with equal delight that we wandered through the busy city and
in the mountain breeze, under balmy skies, and over the azure sea. So,
then, Valladolid, _addios_!

[Illustration: [++] Decorative Image]

CHAPTER VI.

We had the advantage of an American gentleman's society in the railway
carriage when we started for Madrid; also that of a rather pedantic
Englishman--both types of their respective nations. It was most
interesting to observe how, by asking both the same question, the
peculiarity of their separate nationalities was brought into curious
contrast.

"Do you prefer the opera house at Valladolid to Her Majesty's?" asked
we, in the course of conversation, of the Englishman.

"Sir," replied he, "upon the occasion of an examination at a public
school, I was once requested to name the greater prophets, and then to
name the less. I immediately refused, and observed to my examiner that
I never made invidious distinctions. I now make you the same answer."

We then put the question to the American, who said,--

"Waal, stranger, I guess I prefer neither, for the manner in which
you conduct operatics in Europe is a caution to snakes, and aside of
being ridiculian in manner, I put it down slick as base and tyrannical,
which howsomever is only as how yew poor Eurōpean critturs is suckled
to enjure, except Irish cutes, who, I calculate, are absquatulating
from the rotten old world, and making pretty quick tracks across the
fish-pond to the Almighty States, and that's a faact."

At this juncture it seemed necessary to lead our friend back to the
subject of the opera, else he would have probably dilated upon very
inconvenient subjects, until, as he himself had occasion to observe,
"Eternity's bell rang."

It came out, however, that the English method of conducting operatic
matters was worthy only of an effete and senseless old aristocracy.
In England we were assured by our independent _compagnon de voyage_
that a prima donna who happened to have a bad sore throat was still
compelled to sing as well as if her voice was in the best condition.
Was there ever such cruelty? Notwithstanding the danger to that
delicate and costly organ of song, the human throat, she was forced
to come forward and execute the most elaborate and difficult airs,
with variations, to amuse a public the most exacting and the least
sympathetic in the world; whereas in America, if the lady's throat
was at all in a delicate condition, she was at once excused by her
enlightened audience, who never expected that impossibilities were to
be accomplished for their gratification. In fact, according to this
gentleman's account, America must be so free and enlightened a country,
that it is a wonder that such old-fashioned notions as obligation,
contract, &c., &c., should exist therein, or that prima donnas should
ever sing at all during an opera, unless perfectly convenient to
themselves. In fine, if our friend's judgment was to be trusted, the
national motto of Columbia should be the accommodating one of that
much respected establishment, suppressed a century ago, the Hell-Fire
Club--to wit:--"Fay ce que voudras."[5]

The commencement of the journey, after leaving Valladolid _en route_
for Madrid, lay through vast tracts of sandy plains, with the far
horizon bounded by brazen hills like those of Africa, and long, lofty
table-lands, beneath which the Nile might well be streaming. But this
is indeed, at this season at all events, a dry and barren land, where
no water is. However, many broad acres of this now arid country were
a few months ago smiling with waving corn. Still desolation must in
a great measure be the general characteristic of the scene, with
Oriental-looking mountains of bare sand, on which nothing can grow but
stones, and where life is rarely seen in any form save that of the
wild goat, the vulture, and the outlaw. There is little doubt that, at
one of those far distant epochs with which geological science makes
us familiar, the two continents joined at the spot where are now the
Straits of Gibraltar, and that Spain was then continuous with Africa.
In point of fact, the soil of Spain, as far as Burgos, has precisely
the same characteristics as that of Africa.

So on we glide, over plains and tracts of glaring sand, enlivened only
here and there by a solitary peasant driving a flock of black sheep
over the white expanse to places where a few miserable patches of some
rank vegetation offer a meagre grazing ground for the poor animals. At
long intervals there appears, seated on the plain like some low, flat
island, a wretched poverty-stricken town, the burning rays of the sun
reflected from its broken house-tops and off its yellow walls. In the
far distance the eye may perhaps distinguish another, and after we have
passed it, yet another, rising far away, isolated on the dreary waste.
A large church seems to domineer over the hovels beneath, its toppling
spire leaning as it were with neglect and exhaustion. Scarce a soul
appears amidst these mural wildernesses. There is none of that stir,
animation, and cheerfulness which generally accompany city, town, or
village life in other countries. The burning sun, the sandy desert,
the monotonous wilderness, have evidently left their impress on the
character of the people. As we proceed rapidly over the plain, a pile
of tower and battlement in ruins--a relic of heroic story, and of the
glories of other days--appears before us, standing midst the solitude
like the skeleton of some long-forgotten animal which had fallen there
when the world was yet young, and over which now the wild birds scream
and whirl, while the long, rank weeds which nearly cover it sigh to the
passing breeze.

This bright October weather is like the finest July days in England,
tempered by a fresh, gentle, and wholesome breeze. We stop at little
stations in the midst of the wilderness; in fact, it seems that we
stop pretty nearly as often as it suits the guards or engine-drivers,
for the stoppages are not confined to stations or villages, but
sometimes take place in the middle of fields, where there is no sign
of habitation. Some woman, perhaps, may rise from the border of a
ditch, where she has been resting, with a child in her arms, and
all the officials will get down and have a chat with her, while the
good-natured passengers, who take the stoppage as a matter of course,
get out and smoke cigarettes.

When some lone station, which is represented by one small house, is
reached, the carriage windows are immediately surrounded by tottering
old men in ancient velvet hats with very broad brims, and with little
silk balls dangling therefrom. They are all swathed in a wonderful
collection of rags, pinned, sewed, nailed, and tied on to their bodies
anyhow, while their legs are bound up in pieces of sacking, and their
feet apparently encased in poultices. Where they come from none can
tell, nor can man's ears divine their speech--some patois which even
native Spaniards can hardly understand.

Amongst the specimens of drapery composing the toilet of one poor old
man, whose face was simply black from dirt and sun, who seemed actually
rotting alive, and who appeared to think there was nothing in his
condition to regret, there were two triangular patches of green damask,
with roses worked thereon, fastened somehow on to his back, together
with a remnant of a sail-cloth shirt. One sleeve of the latter was of
yellow cotton, while the other arm was concealed from view by a short
mat of horse-hair and a piece of carpet sewn together. A sash of faded
scarlet encircled his waist, and his lower extremities were enclosed
in inexpressibles made of goat-skin with the hair outside. He had a
long stick in his hand, and was accompanied by a lynx-like dog, who
devoured greedily grape-skins as they fell from a carriage window. This
poor old man had no teeth, only one eye, and was very much bent. He and
the other ancients were such masses of dirt that they must have been
designed by Providence as places of refuge for destitute insects.

These beggars are generally seen in small companies, and it is not
advisable to approach them too nearly, as there is a deal of _esprit
de corps_ amongst them. Whence the poor wretches come, and where they
live, no one can tell, for there is not even one of those decaying old
towns, with the big church before mentioned, near their usual haunts.
They seem to exist simply--because they don't die--from mere force
of habit. There are beggars, of course, in all countries; but such
degraded, miserable beings as we meet in beautiful Italy and brilliant
Spain, are to be seen in no other part of the world.

After this purposeless stoppage, our express train moves on again at
a good six miles per hour, and there is no further halt till we reach
the ancient city of Avila, founded by Hercules, and the birth-place of
St. Theresa. Its decaying old streets, its high mouldering castle, its
Gothic houses, and its large churches, have all a very forsaken aspect.
It is surrounded by great military walls, lofty, massive, and grey,[6]
through which the listless-looking natives have egress from the city
into the wilderness around by means of gateways of enormous thickness.
There is something sad and impressive in seeing this ancient city, in
which there are so many remains of power and grandeur, now given up to
the inexorable hand of time and the cold blight of desolation. What
a sermon might be preached from such a text on the mutability of all
earthly grandeur!

As if to make the solemnity of the scene more complete, while we
were sauntering during our hour's halt through the dark old streets
of Avila, a funeral procession came by, preceded by a troupe of
ghoul-like creatures, bearing their stiff and soul-less burden, hooded
in black from crown to sole, with scarce a semblance of humanity in
them, save the unholy-looking eyes, which, amidst the deep drapery,
glanced furtively at us from out the cavernous eyeholes in the masks
which they wore. The mournful procession consisted, as usual, of
shaven priests, attendants bearing flambeaux, and children singing
the Miserere; in a word, there was all the empty pageantry with which
the Catholic Church deposits the dead in their last earthly home. The
coffin was painted a bright crimson colour, and a key was fastened near
the lock by a chain, to be in readiness at the Day of Judgment.

When we had taken our places in the train again, the steam was put on,
and we moved off, gradually increasing our speed till it reached the
unprecedented velocity of nine miles an hour. This greatly alarmed a
lady in the carriage, who, no doubt, was of that Spanish Conservative
party which prefers things as they are. People in America, even the
ladies, take matters much more quietly. An ancient dame was travelling
by rail for the first time in her life, and when the "smash up," which
is almost a matter of course among our go-a-head friends, came, and
fatigue-parties arrived to carry her off with the other wounded on a
stretcher, she was quite astonished when told that it was an accident,
as she had thought the whole thing a regular pre-arranged part of
the business of every-day railway travelling, and took it all quite
comfortably. In fact, she was rather interested than otherwise in her
initiation into one of those stirring incidents which it is the fortune
of travellers to encounter more frequently in America than elsewhere.

Meanwhile we glide on through dreary regions, the far distance bounded
by barren mountains. We pass over vast treeless plains strewn in all
directions, as far as the horizon, with huge broken masses and boulders
of granite. A scene more expressive of gloom and desolation cannot be
imagined. The huge fragments, scattered about as far as the eye can
reach, are piled up occasionally into enormous heaps, which look like
the remains of ruined cities of an unknown age; or spread widely over
the grey expanse, like the tombs of the races which once inhabited
these regions. It is impossible, indeed, to conceive anything more
austere than the effect produced by a scene at once so grand and so
desolate.

The railroad now began to ascend by gradual inclines, making wide
casts over the stony tracts. The amount of engineering skill, money,
patience, and gunpowder it must have taken to cut through, in some
places, miles of solid granite, must have been great. We were now
commencing the ascent of the Guadarrama Mountains, which overlook from
afar the capital of Spain. This fine _ferrocarril_, the construction of
which is somewhat similar to that of the railroad over the Sömmering
Pass near Trieste, surmounts altitudes by curves and gradual inclines.

The Guadarrama Mountains, with other sierras, of which the principal
are the Somo Sierra, the Sierra Morena, the Alpuxarras, the Sierra
Nevada, and the Sierra de Ronda, are remarkable features in the aspect
of Spain. Surrounding the plains of Castile and La Mancha, the highest
of such extent in Europe, with strong natural bulwarks, they are
invaluable to the Spaniard in the defence of his native land. They even
seem to constitute distinct moral divisions of the inhabitants. The
whole country thus appears to be formed of several intrenched camps,
and is admirably adapted for a war of posts--particularly for guerilla
warfare, by their skill in which the Spanish mountaineers were enabled
to offer such a successful resistance to their French invaders.

Higher and higher wound the road, until we suddenly burst into a
region of pine forests, which darkened the sides of the mountains.
The profound gorges, the aspect of which was so savage, were rapidly
filling with purple mist as the sunset left them, to fall in various
tints of farewell glory upon the loftier ranges of distant mountains,
which seemed to melt away, wave on wave, against the clear, far
heavens. The middle ground was filled with a broad expanse of warm,
rose-lit plains, from the bosom of which, at unequal distances, towered
enormous rocks, clothed to their summits with pine-trees. What a
prospect it was! Such a scene of mingled gloom and glory the pencil of
Salvator alone could render--the funereal plumage of the deep forests
waving on the mountain's side, and the long rays of the sinking sun
shooting through the darkness like celestial arrows, while high above a
few feathery cloudlets sailed tranquil through the liquid ether, like
troops of supernal messengers.

The shades of evening were falling upon the earth, when a vast, grey
edifice of gloomy majesty loomed ghostly in the twilight, resting
under the shadows of a darkening mountain, and all alone amidst a
region of wild and desolate grandeur. This was the Escorial, the grand
convent-palace of Philip II., and the burial-house of the Spanish
kings. Such an edifice, almost the vastest in the world, in such a
spot, and seen for the first time at such an hour, impressed one with
a feeling of wonder and awe. We had little more than a glimpse of this
historical building as we glided past. Our carriage moved on, now
filled with dark women with brown babies, and soldiers with white kepis
and red trousers; while, of course, a dash of garlic was not wanting,
with the odour of five cigarettes going simultaneously, to render
unbearable the atmosphere in the carriage, all the windows of which
were hermetically closed, in order to exclude the terrible fresh air.

At last, however, to our joy, Madrid was reached. Nothing could exceed
the extreme polish and urbanity of the _aduaneros_, of whose severity
we had heard so much. Instead of ransacking the luggage, and making
hay of one's shirts, a very handsome dark young man in uniform, having
satisfied himself of the truth of our statement, that we were not
professional smugglers, offered us a cigarette, gave us a light from
his own, took off his hat, observed that he immensely admired the
British Constitution, and then ordered us a brougham. The existence of
such a class of officials at a terminus is really not an unmixed good.
Imagine what might have occurred had we been susceptible daughters of
Albion on their travels with an invalid or sleepy mamma! We tremble for
the peace of mind of future English young ladies, travellers to Madrid.

Madrid, looked upon merely as the capital town of Spain, is extremely
disappointing,[7] and simply a bad imitation of Paris, with little
or nothing in it of original Spanish customs or life. The street
architecture is modern, garish; it has a gingerbread appearance, and
the use of whitewash has been too liberal. Although in the centre of
Spain there are no remains of the Moorish or mediæval periods, nothing
to represent the better class of art; and if you would find a bit of
downright, dirty, picturesque Spanish street, you must penetrate to
the back settlements, or the St. Giles's of Madrid--in fact, to the
Calle de Toledo. There, beneath a blue sky, with squatting brown women
suckling naked brown babies in the sun, gaudy churches, squalid houses,
priests and beggars, not to speak of fish, vegetables, offal, and dogs,
you may, after removing your handkerchief for one moment from your
nose, imagine yourself amongst the slums of Naples.

With the exception of some few women of the middle and lower classes,
who pin black silk aprons on to the backs of modern _chignons_, and on
Sunday, or at the bull-fight, perhaps a bit of old lace, none are seen
wearing the graceful mantilla, or those dark robes with ample skirts
that sweep the streets. The traveller has rarely an opportunity of
observing in the capital that delicate and piquant flirting with the
fan which we always associate with our ideas of Spanish ladies; but
he may occasionally remark very bright and meaning glances directed to
the opposite sex by eyes of dazzling lustre. To see the romance of old
Spain, however, one must go down south to warm Seville and historic
Granada, where, by the way, we do not intend to go, as everybody has
been there before; and it has now become a matter of legitimate pride
to be able to say: "Behold before you a man who has not been to the
Alhambra!"

The men in Madrid, although sometimes wrapped from heel to nose in
the orthodox conspirator cloak, make themselves very eccentric in
appearance by crowning their heads with that latest invention of the
Evil One, the modern French chimney-hat; and that, too, in a very
exaggerated form. The utter incongruity of these two articles of
manly dress must be seen and felt to be thoroughly appreciated. To a
tourist, indeed, who travels at a vast outlay of time and expense--to
say nothing of cheerfully delivering up his body as a pasture-ground
for innumerable fleas--in order to see Spain and the Spaniards as they
ought to be, it really enters like iron into the soul (although, for
the life of us, we could never understand that anatomical operation),
to see Spain and Spaniards, in the matter of costume, at all events, as
they are, and as they ought not to be.

However, here we are, for better or for worse, safely landed at the
best hotel in Madrid, on the Puerta del Sol, and we are bound to say
we did not find it as a married man, on the authority of a well-known
anecdote, is said to have found his wife,--all worse and no better.
The Hotel de los Principes will take a deal of beating from any hotel
in Europe in point of comfort, cleanliness, and civility. Situated on
the sunny side of the Puerta del Sol one has the pleasure of looking
on an ever-changing and busy scene below, as he smokes the morning
_cigarillo_ in the balcony. On this spot, in former days, according to
a popular legend, there stood a church upon whose door the sun, for
some mystic reason, remained long after it had left all other doors.
The gateway or door of this church was consequently called _La Puerta
del Sol_, from which the present _plaza_ derives its name.

This open space is the life and heart of Madrid, all the principal
arteries of the city proceeding from it. Here, all business is done,
and pleasure taken; speculations are entered into, and politics
discussed (as much as is consistent with personal security); and,
consequently, it is the first place to which foreigners resort. It is
the exchange, the betting-ring, and the general lounge. The garrison,
with flags and band, march through it once a day; and to those who
were so minded, here was the best chance, at the time of our visit, of
looking upon the countenance of Queen Isabel II., as she passed in her
chariot and four-in-hand of mules.

FOOTNOTES:

[5] Motto in old French, now to be seen over the Abbey door of
Medmenham, near Harleyford, the seat of Sir W. R. Clayton, Bart., where
the Hell-Fire Club held its carousals.

[6] Some of the walls composing the fortifications, which are a sample
of the engineering skill of the eleventh century, are forty feet in
height and twelve in breadth.

[7] The Madrileños, however, are very proud of their city, hence the
proverb:--"_Hay una ventana en el cielo para mirar Madrid_."

[Illustration: [++] Decorative Image]

CHAPTER VII.

Madrid is by far the most flourishing town of Spain; and if there is
such a thing as progress, artistic, political, or social, it is of
course to be found therein. It suffers, however, under an unfortunate
agglomerate of disadvantages, such as a river without water;[8] a great
elevation in the midst of barren sandy plains, over whose treeless
surface the winds are ever blowing--in summer hot and blighting, in
winter with keen and piercing breath, from the snows of the Guadarrama
range; streets periodically liable to showers, not of rain, but of
bullets; careless government; a distrustful population; and a total
want of private enterprise, which has been all but stamped out.

One hears, however, a great deal about _Progresista_ ministers, who
have certainly instituted various companies of credit, to which is
owing the web of railways which is rapidly spreading throughout the
country, and connecting the capital with the Mediterranean, the
Atlantic, and the North. Drought, which was once much dreaded, is
now at least rendered impossible, as a river, the Lozoya, has been
conducted from twelve leagues off, amongst the Guadarrama mountains,
to the city;[9] an engineering feat that the Progresistasts are never
tired of bringing before the notice of the intelligent foreigner,
and which the priests look upon with great suspicion, as some of the
first-fruits of the great Antichrist, Civilisation, the attendant
fiends on which, in their opinion, are Industry and Progress. A
fountain of real water(!) now plays in the centre of the Puerta del
Sol, of which the inhabitants are extremely proud.

Some of the larger buildings of Madrid are ambitious in design,
but somehow they appear as flimsy as if the material used in their
construction were pasteboard. The general aspect of the streets,
compared with those of the old Spanish cities, with their massive
and venerable buildings, is modern and paltry. There is none of that
imposing magnificence which in some of the old provincial capitals
seems to accord so perfectly with our conception of Spanish dignity
and grandeur. There are twelve theatres, a splendid bull-ring, an
enormous palace, the finest gallery of pictures in the world--for
which the Spaniards are indebted to a great extent to Cromwell, who
blindly sold them the fine collection which he appropriated from his
king's effects after he had brought his plot for the judicial murder of
Charles I. to a successful issue. In a long promenade called the Prado,
the winds are ever blowing, but the flowers never; and although there
are two melancholy rows of little trees, which in some measure remind
one of those in a Noah's-ark, their attempts to reach anything like a
decent growth, from a soil of hardened sand and stones, are singularly
disheartening. Among other places provided for the amusement of the
Madrileños, there is a casino, where they may play at the lucrative
game of _trente-et-quarante_. Though the metropolis of the kingdom,
there is no cathedral in Madrid. Some of the shops are very splendid;
and to finish this rapid survey, I need scarcely mention that there is
hardly a single mouth without a cigar in it, or a solitary spot that is
not perfumed with the odour of tobacco smoke.

Art is here at a standstill, and the moral and material resources which
raise a nation in the respect of the world are but slowly and feebly
developed. Literature, which the Inquisition in past times rendered a
perilous occupation, has never been able to recover the ground it has
lost, and is now almost abandoned.[10] Fierce political contests and
party animosities occupy all the spare time of the Madrileños; and in
these the angry Dons are always ready to engage, generally with more
spirit than discretion. The lounge, if not the bath, is, however, a
favourite way of passing the time in Madrid, as in London. In the
Prado, as in Rotten Row, one meets with some very alarming dandies,
who favour one with a cold stare, as if they intended to measure him
from head to foot. Yet from the best authority, as well as from our own
observation, we know perfectly well that in this country, which is a
very poor one, these dazzling señors and señoras find that pride has a
hard struggle to maintain against poverty, and that consequently all
is not gold that glitters. Although the boot is bright, it frequently
contains no stocking. Although the scarf be vivid, and the pin stuck
into it be gorgeous, there may be no shirt beneath. And so these
beautiful Apollos, whom we behold sucking the knobs of their canes with
such dignified grace, while ogling "partial beauty" over railings, may
often be compared not only to whitened, but to painted sepulchres. As
an illustration of Spanish manners, we have learned on good authority
that an illustrious minister of government, a man of high education and
taste, remained a fortnight in an hotel, and would never during that
period allow the _garçon_ to change the water in his washhand basin.
"The farther South, the farther the bath," might well be a Spanish
proverb, if it is not; and, in fact, as all geographers know, the Wash
is only to be found in the North.

Now if ablution is so little practised by the higher classes, we may
well ask what must be the state of the lowest? When the unsavoury truth
is told, one can only exclaim with a gasp, What do they do, then? Those
beautiful girls, so well _soignées_, so gaily dressed, and so fair
to behold--what substitute have they for this first necessary of the
toilet? "Well," we are told, "they are instructed from early youth by
their medical advisers that water is unwholesome, and, as it renders
the skin coarse and rugose, must be avoided. Consequently, once a week
they attempt to clean themselves, as Dejazet used to do, with cold
cream, a dry towel, and some white sand."

The Spaniards, in fact, are an indolent people, and have no desire to
correct their slothful habits by the bracing effects of cold water;
and although the great ladies, in the utter absence of all occupation,
have no other task than that of fostering their beauty and pampering
their vanity, they do not consider water necessary to these ends:
moreover, water is scarce, and therefore dear. The medical men beyond
the Pyrenees, who might be expected to correct so grave an error,
are creatures of habit, conservative from force of education, and
comparatively cut off from the remainder of the scientific world. The
Spaniard too, besides being an hydrophobist, has always a shivering
dread of fresh air. Whenever he is asked to go anywhere, it is always
_muy frio_ with him. And yet in spite of these customs he is not, we
suppose, more unhealthy than other men.

Lounging one day on the Prado, a great clattering of hoofs was heard,
and the Queen of Spain, in an open carriage, drawn by six magnificent
mules, all over silver and gold, dashed past, escorted by a detachment
of cavalry. By her side sat an ordinary-looking young man, who, we were
informed, was the King-Consort. Every Saturday afternoon, Her Majesty
visits the Church Atocha[11] to pay her respects to a coarse, black
wooden doll, which is wrapped, in a very grotesque manner, in garments
encrusted with gold and stiff with precious stones of sufficient value
to build half a dozen hospitals and endow the poor of Madrid for life.
This image, which is supposed to have been carved by St. Luke, is said
to have been brought from Antioch, and popular superstition ascribes to
it the power of performing miracles.

Within this church we were shown the court dress in which the Queen was
arrayed some years ago when an attempt was made upon her life. It is,
of course, very splendid, and the blood-stained robes were presented to
the Virgin as an offering of the Queen's gratitude for her deliverance
from the arm of the assassin. As the gift is repeated every year on the
anniversary day, the Virgin[12] has now about as splendid a wardrobe as
any modern Queen of Sheba.

While the verger, or whatever he called himself, was explaining this
remarkable exemplification of his Monarch's piety, we observed that he
was smoking a cigarette; upon which we, naturally thinking it was the
correct thing, proceeded to do likewise. That functionary, however, put
an end to our delusion at once, by observing,--

"Señor, the profane may not smoke here. I am within the bosom of the
church, and my actions are consecrated."

Regarding this as one of those singular _cosas de España_ to which
the stranger must submit, we presented the holy, but rather dirty,
gentleman with the cigarette from which our too confiding lips were so
cruelly divorced.

Within the Royal Armeria are many interesting objects. Although the
veneration with which we regard a sword which the hand of Cortes
once upon a time touched, or a particular suit of armour in which
the body of Columbus was once encased, like a jelly in a mould, may
savour, perhaps, of hero-worship, idolatry, and superstition, we must
acknowledge the imputation that we are subject to it. Here are the
swords of Philip II. and of Francisco Pizarro, conquerors of Peru, and
there that of Charles V., Emperor of Germany, together with his entire
armour--the actual suit in which he was painted by Titian. Several
revolvers of the seventeenth century, and a war-saddle of the Cid, are
also exhibited.

For anyone who wishes to enjoy a feast of pictures uninterruptedly,
and we suppose that is not an unnatural taste, the Madrid gallery is
the place. Few but English travellers go there, the Spaniards seeming
to care as little about the glories of their Murillos and Velasquez',
as they do about Leech or Cruikshank, and perhaps not so much. There
is plenty of space for the loiterer in the gallery, and in its silence
he may dream away in peace a few happy hours. There are pictures here,
of course, on which genius has stamped its impress, and on which
all who are capable of appreciating the beauty of art gaze with
admiration. That wondrous Crucifixion, for instance, by Velasquez,
produces at once an impression which roots one to the spot. In the
midst of a waste of lonely darkness, hangs heavily on a coarse stake
of wood the dead form of the wearied man. The end of all his misery,
the relief brought by death, seems to be distinctly delineated in the
attitude of that forsaken, emaciated form,--with half its face veiled
by the dank hair which falls over it as the head bows forward at the
last mortal spasm,--a sight at which the words "It is finished" rise
instinctively to our lips while we gaze at that marvellous production
of perfect art. The next picture on which the eye falls is one of a
brighter character--The Assumption of the Virgin, by Murillo. The
look of childish, confiding innocence in the gentle face is beyond
expression. As there have been inspired writers, surely there have
been also inspired painters, and this Spanish master must have been
one of them, during the composition of this immortal work. Close at
hand is the famous picture of the infant St. John, by the same hand.
Beside the beautiful boy is a gentle lamb. The little animal has crept
confidingly, without a symptom of fear, to the child's side. As it
should be with so pure a subject, the colouring and general treatment
are nobly simple, and that is the source of its beauty.

Velasquez, of course, is represented in all his strength. Whether
the subject of his portraiture be the haughty noble or the loathsome
pauper, he is the quintessence of strength and truth, and the highest
delineator of national character. The splendid colouring and fine
_chiaroscuro_ of Ribera can be recognised in several of his most
beautiful productions. In the centre of the long gallery the steps
are suddenly arrested before a painting which really deserves the
title that the catalogue gives it--a marvel, _El Pasmo de Sicilia_,
one of the masterpieces of Raffaelle. The subject is that of Christ
falling under the cross; and in truth, it is a noble example of power,
colouring, and harmony. The development of the human form is at once
muscular and graceful, and the sufferer's sorrow is expressed with
wonderful force. The grouping of the figures, most of which are nearly,
if not quite, the size of life, is perfection. For force of treatment
the work is a worthy rival of the Transfiguration in the Vatican,
albeit the latter is celestial and mystic; while this represents the
pure earthly side of Christ's nature, depicting him as a man ennobled
by sorrow, untainted by sin, and purified by suffering. The expression
of the Saviour's countenance, as his eyes meet those of his mother, at
the moment when, smarting under blow and taunt, he faintly endeavours
to rise from his bruised knees, is beyond everything that has been
depicted on canvas.

Farther on, amongst this _embarras_ of gems, which includes a long
array of pictures any single one of which would add to a city's fame,
hangs a noble Titian. Mounted (life-size) on his sturdy Flemish
charger, is a grand old mediæval knight, dressed in chased and
damascened armour. His round, dogged-looking head is thrust well into
a simple morion, and his beard of a week's growth shows a disregard
of personal foppery not unbecoming in those who make war a business,
and perhaps unavoidable in the life of the camp. With stern and steady
look, his long lance grasped in his nervous hand, ready to place in
rest at a moment's need, he gallops towards the fray.

A _San Sebastian_ of Guido, is a painting which it would be impossible
to match, except by that in the capitol at Rome, by the same hand.
This is, indeed, a noble picture of the young martyr. One can see by
the ecstatic expression of the countenance that he is exulting in a
hope that carries him, on the wings of faith, beyond the persecutions
and sufferings of this world, and reveals to him the dawn of a higher,
better, and purer life. What to him are the arrows burying themselves
one after the other deep in his fair flesh? His soul is above, far away
from pain, and in the joy of opening immortality is no longer sensible
of the agonies of its earthly body.

There is a beautiful picture by Barbalunga of a dying girl. The dull
grey of twilight is gradually deepening to night in the lonely chamber,
and the film of death is slowly gathering on the flickering eye,
symbolising the end of all that is beautiful on earth. We particularly
noted one fine production by Guercino. Some wicked-looking old men are
stealthily approaching Susanna bathing, creeping onward from behind
with outstretched hands, as if they were going to catch a butterfly.
Two naked ladies, by Titian, in his most untrammeled style, are
distinctly of the flesh, fleshy; but they are splendid specimens of
that great master's proficiency in delineating the human form--of his
consummate fidelity to truth in colouring and expression.

The vast picture by Rubens of the Adoration of the Magi shows
plainly--with many hundred others, however--how Art, _longa_ as it may
be, must, like all things mortal, have a limit. This limit, in the
present instance, is where, the mirror being held up to Nature, Nature
herself cries out with delight at her own reflection, mistaking it for
another self. The limitation here attained is Perfection. We suppose
that expression of adoration, as seen in the fifty faces delineated,
is beyond imitation. Then how admirable is the grouping, how gorgeous
the colouring, how perfect the arrangement of light and shade, never
surpassed, or perhaps equalled, either by the master himself or by
Titian. What an advantage to modern art it would be if we could gain
some insight into the chemistry of the colours used in past centuries!
Why should our Reynolds and Lawrences fade away, in some cases into
mere outlines filled up with pale tints, when the paintings of the
sixteenth century still retain the hues on their canvas in all their
pristine splendour? The crimson drapery of one of the Magi in the
picture in question seems as fresh and as brilliant as it was on the
day when it was painted by the master's hand.

Of course it appears something like presumption in us to add our feeble
commentaries upon the numerous gems in this matchless collection to
those of the great judges who have preceded us; yet, perchance, in
his simple worship of art, a little outburst of enthusiasm upon the
subjects which strike a sympathetic chord within the humbler pilgrim as
he passes, may be pardoned.

The great picture by Velasquez called _Las Meniñas_--The Favourites--is
worthy of the distinguished reward bestowed on its painter by his
patron, Philip IV. On the left, as one views the work, the great artist
is seen at his easel taking the portrait of the Infanta Margarita,
daughter of the king, as she stands amidst her attendant _meniñas_.
The depth of the background, on which is painted the distant wall of
the great oaken chamber, with a mirror in which is seen reflected the
faces of Philip and his consort, is admirably given, although we are
rather mystified in endeavouring to explain how persons are to be
reflected in a glass when nobody is in front of it except those who
are not reflected. The sombre air of the interior of the old room is
truth itself. Monotony in the effect of the brown tones is saved by
the distant light streaming in through an open door. On the right, in
the foreground, two favourite dwarfs are toying with a large dog. The
picture is a noble rendering of the domestic arrangements of Spanish
royalty in the seventeenth century.

When it was finished, Velasquez inquired of the king whether anything
was wanting in the work. "Yes, there is one thing, and one only,"
replied Philip; and, taking a brush from the artist, he traced with his
own hand the red cross of Santiago, the highest order in Spain, on the
painter's breast.

There are, of course, as in all galleries, no end of dead Christs and
live Apostles; and also very vivid productions in the horror-line by
one Goya, whose life appears to have been, besides that of an artist,
court favourite, and bull-fighter, a mixture of that of Don Juan and
Baron Munchausen. It would take volumes to describe half of the works
worthy of high admiration contained in this richest of collections;
for it holds, besides the general mass of its treasures, ten Raphaels,
sixty-two Rubens', forty-six Murillos, fifty-three Teniers', sixty-four
Velasquez', forty-three Titians, thirty Tintorettos, twenty-two
Vandycks, fifty-four Breughels, nineteen Poussins, ten Claudes,
twenty-three Snyders, fifty-five Giordanos, fifty-eight Riberas, ten
Wouvvermans, _cum multis aliis_. They have been collected chiefly from
the palaces of La Granja, the Escorial, and El Pardo. When it is said
it is the finest collection in the world, the expression alludes more
particularly to the number of actual gems and masterpieces contained
therein, than to any complete chronological series of schools gradually
developed before the eye.

The exterior of the gallery, or Real Museo de Pinturas, as seen
from the Prado, is elegant and classic, but not too pure; and it is
decidedly too long for its height.

Of course in every continental town there is always that architectural
black-dose, the Cathedral, to be _done_. But, praise be to the
divinity presiding over the weary Cockney, there is none at Madrid.
There is nothing nearer to a cathedral than a dirty, big church in
the Calle de Toledo, where we were regaled with the sight of various
delectable relics: such as a saint's toe in pickle and a martyr's
tooth on a velvet cushion. This church is amongst the _quartiers_
of the poorer classes. It was natural, consequently, that we, poor
benighted foreigners, should be supposed to be able to see, do, or
understand nothing without assistance. We were, therefore, escorted
all over the building by a sickly-looking old hag of a lady, who, with
the one remaining tusk sticking out of her jaw like a dilapidated
milestone, created sad havoc in her attempts to articulate "_la lingua
dulce de España_." What she said no pronouncing dictionary could have
enabled us to interpret. She seemed particularly enthusiastic about
the saint's toe, and, as she pointed it out, smiled sweetly on the
side of her mouth where the one tooth was. Now, when we are shown such
things as saints' toes in pickle, or the bottled tears of martyrs,
we make a point of never appearing to doubt the authenticity of the
same for a moment. Firstly, we assume an appearance of credulity from
motives of good taste; secondly, for the reason that if the old lady
who exhibits them sees one is interested in the articles brought to
notice, there is no knowing what may not be eventually produced for
one's delectation, even to a phial of ink which was once shown to one
of our friends, in a church in Italy, as "some of the darkness which
covered Egypt." We never came across anyone yet whose tongue so fairly
bolted with her as this yellow old lady, who followed us like a shadow
into the very streets, scratching herself with one hand, while with the
other she tried to arrange into a round knot the stubble on the top of
an otherwise bald head.

We that evening dined luxuriously on one of the great continental
standing dishes: "Cock and Salad"--notwithstanding that the former
article looked, if it did not taste, as if it had departed this life,
not by violence, but from some natural disease. Being in Spain, we
called for a bottle of Sherry or Xeres, the first glassful of which
took us by the throat like a bull-dog and held us there. The next
morning, after breakfasting at the cheerful hour of five upon tea
which, when analytically considered, seemed to consist chiefly of
chopped broomsticks and dead flies, we started by train for the
Escorial.

FOOTNOTES:

[8] The Manzanares.

[9] The engineer, Señor Lucio del Valle, was created Marqués del Lozoya.

[10] The _Annual of Public Instruction_, nevertheless, gives a pompous
list of national libraries and their contents. The number of volumes
contained in those establishments is 1,166,595, spread over the
capital and provinces. The library of Madrid alone contains 390,000;
that of the Central University, 300,000; of Barcelona, 136,000; and
of Salamanca, 55,000. There are similar institutions not only on the
Continent, but in the Balearic and Canary Isles; that of Palma and
Majorca contains 35,000 volumes, and that of Mahon nearly 11,000. As
to the archives, the entire history of the country, of its customs
and political life, may be said to be represented in them. There are
70,278 packets of papers in the old palace of Simancas, 35,000 at
Alcala de Henares, 34,000 in the archives of the Crown of Aragon, and
97,000 in the national historical record office. As regards the public
instruction of Spain, there are at present 27,000 infant schools; 77
institutions for training teachers, and 5 for the deaf and dumb or
blind.

[11] Antioch.

[12] The Virgin in Spain, besides having a wardrobe equal to that of
a dozen earthly queens, and a collection of jewels which would take
Messrs. Hancock and Emmanuel months to value, always wears a royal
crown, and ranks as queen. Her household consists of the noblest and
haughtiest dames in the country, and she possesses landed estates, the
revenues of which are invested for the maintenance of her worship,
processions, &c.

[Illustration: [++] Decorative Image]

CHAPTER VIII.

The village in the vicinity of the great palace is called El Escorial
from the quantity of scoriæ of iron which is found strewn about the
neighbourhood, the _débris_ of extinct iron mines. The region, from
the midst of which rises the enormous mass of the second Philip's
convent-palace, is very forlorn and gloomy--a spot over which we may
say, figuratively, the sable wing of desolation hangs heavily. The
masses of broken masonry once formed the offices of the palace which
the French destroyed in war, and they now cover the sides of the barren
mountains with their ruins for leagues around. The population of the
rotting village, who are seething in squalor, consist almost entirely
of poor beggars, crawling through the miserable rock-strewn streets, in
rags which scarcely conceal their nakedness. Hungry-eyed dogs prowl,
like wolves, amongst the broken walls. The whole landscape is wild
and lifeless, and our glance wanders far away over lonely plains to
the sad horizon, with nothing to refresh the eye, fatigued by such an
expanse of grey stony regions, but forests of mournful pine, and the
lofty peaks of shattered mountains in the distance, the grey giant
pile of the convent itself looming in the midst like the stupendous
landmark of some inexorable fate set up to outwatch the cycle of ages.
The place is one of great solemnity, and one cannot approach it without
feeling oppressed by its gloom; nor was that painful impression at all
alleviated by the squalid and decaying appearance of the more humble
human habitations in its neighbourhood, the inmates of which were
equally dull, hopeless, and sad in their aspect.

The Escorial itself may be described as an enormous heap of granite
formed into a tripartite whole--a church, palace, and convent. To enter
into the spirit of the place the mind of the writer should be imbued
with those cold and gloomy hues which characterised that of Philip
II., its founder. The nature of the man, who was at once a despot
and a bigot--in a word, a monarch educated by ecclesiastics--affords
a key to the nature of the immense building which he reared. To be
able to describe, one should feel. And here, in this vast tomb-like
edifice, one does feel an indescribable awe, a sense of veneration
in the contemplation of the mighty effort of the human intellect and
imagination that must have been exerted in conceiving, planning, and
executing a work of such stupendous proportions. Superstition is no
doubt a great evil, but it has aided in developing that spirit to which
we owe some of the grandest edifices that the past has transmitted
to us--some of them, dreary follies, like this, even while we admit
them to be magnificent works of art. The Escorial, in fact, is the
mind of Philip in stone. It exemplifies no era in art, no national
peculiarities. It is the costly caprice of a man--half monarch, half
monk--of a proud and bigoted spirit, too superb to forego the haughty
functions of royalty, too pious not to desire to perpetuate the
fame of his religious devotion to all time and generations, although
devoid entirely of that quiet humility and simple piety which are the
characteristics of true devotion, and place a brighter diadem on the
head of kings than either crowns of gold or a vain display of sanctity.

The Escorial is said to owe its origin to a vow of gratitude made
by Philip to his patron saint, St. Lawrence, on the occasion of the
victory of St. Quentin, gained by him over the French, and to the
constantly expressed desire of his father, the Emperor Charles V.,
to have a burial-house of suitable Grandeur for himself and his
descendants. Approaching the building we were met by a melancholy
ecclesiastic, who looked as if a glass of port wine would do him a
world of good. This personage was to be our conductor through the
extensive pile of buildings. We passed beneath a lofty portal into
a long gloomy corridor, which seemed to dwindle away into endless
distance. As we looked around and above, at the ponderous blocks
composing this mountain of granite, the door closed behind us with a
dull, heavy sound, shutting us up amongst the wide labyrinthine maze
of innumerable passages and galleries, crossing and recrossing one
another in incomprehensible order.[13] We could not help feeling at the
moment as if we were bidding adieu to the world, to life, and to hope.

The passages through which we were led were often very draughty; but
the vast gloomy halls were magnificent. Grim statues were arranged
along the walls, and the ceilings were adorned with beautiful
paintings, now fading. The staircases we ascended were so broad and
colossal that they might have supported the tread of giants. We entered
also some dark damp passages, on either side of which were ranged long
rows of gloomy damp cells. As we followed our melancholy guide we asked
him many questions, which were answered in sad tones, accompanied by
sighs. Some enormous courts, open to the day, were covered with the
rank weeds growing between the stones with which they were paved, as
they did on the stupendous walls rising like Titan tombs around us.

We entered a huge vaulted gallery or saloon, with arched roof, and
walls all ablaze with the rich coloured fancies of old painter-poets,
supported by fluted columns of marble with gilded capitals, and
surrounded with splendid cabinets set with jewels. These latter contain
the far-famed illuminated missals and manuscripts of the Escorial.
Through corridor and passage, through cloister and portal, through long
suites of apartments hung with tapestry, lace, and silk, and commanding
from their windows wide-spread views of the desolate plains and rugged
mountains, we followed our dejected guide, ever and anon meeting his
earnest glance. Passing through a low stone doorway we came suddenly
into a lofty, superb, and solemn temple, supported by great granite
piers, massy and solid enough in appearance to sustain the fabric of a
world. When one contemplated the height of the stately walls, he could
not but regard with wonder the amount of labour that must have been
expended in the erection of a building of such amazing dimensions.

One of the great ends which these noble temples serve is the production
of that feeling of veneration with which one cannot but be inspired
when he enters their precincts. Devotion is readily kindled at such
altars; and those who covered the face of Europe with these Christian
fanes, knew well how they might best gather into one flock all who
desired to make open profession of their Christian faith.

We next ascended a broad flight of red-stained steps, and saw before
us the high altar, formed of a variety of precious marbles, and inlaid
with jasper. Above it rises the _retablo_, which is supported to the
height of ninety-three feet by noble columns of the four orders of
architecture, and composed of red granite, precious jaspers, and gilded
bronze; while beneath the broad marble platform on which we stand is
the Panteon--the burial-chamber of the kings of Spain.

High up to the right is the window of the cell in which Philip died,
and through which his last gaze fell upon the altar beneath, as he took
a farewell glance at the marvellous church which owed its origin to
him. We now approached a heavy door, guarded by the statues of Nature
and Hope, the former with the inscription, "Natura occidit," and the
latter, "Exaltat spes." As our monkish guide preceded us with his
melancholy mien, there was something in his glance which, as if to
prepare us for what we were to see next, seemed to say:--

"Keep silence, child of frivolity, for death is in those chambers.
Startle not with echoing sound the strangely solemn peace;
Death is here in spirit, watcher of the silent tomb."

The passage through which he led us was so dark and gloomy that we
could follow him only by the flaring light of the torch which he
carried.

We descended a long series of steps, which, as we could see by the
occasional glare of the torch falling upon them, were composed of rare
and precious marbles, as were also the walls of the passage itself. No
gleam of daylight ever finds its way to these subterranean chambers and
galleries, and it was only by the uncertain flame of the torch that we
could distinguish the objects around us.

As we approached an arched gallery, we were met by a cold damp breath
of air which fell icily on the brow, and told us that we were close
to the Royal Mausoleum. We felt awed by the thought that we were now
in the presence of all that earth contains of men who were once the
mightiest monarchs of the world. The mortal remains of the kings of
Spain repose in an octagonal vault, in niches rising one above another
to the roof, which terminates in a sort of cupola. There are, including
the queens, twenty-six bodies here inurned; and two empty urns await
the present (or rather recent) queen and her mother, to whom fate will
probably now deny the privilege of finding their last resting-place in
the tomb of their ancestors. Two years ago Queen Isabella had the lids
of all the sarcophagi removed. Profound interest was naturally felt in
approaching that of Charles V., and when the form and features of the
most powerful monarch of his time were found nearly intact, all who
were present gazed upon his remains with mingled feelings of curiosity
and awe. So little altered were the lineaments that, though nearly
three hundred years had passed, they could be easily identified by
those who had seen the portrait of the king by Titian. The face of his
son Philip II. had shrunk greatly; but all were reported to be in good
condition.

The urns are all of marble, beautifully sculptured; and the sanguine
glow of the flame played on the gilded ornaments with which they were
decorated. The kings are on the right of the altar, with its great
gaunt crucifix, and the queens on the left, all of royal descent,
in their day reigning monarchs, but now sharing the common fate of
humanity. In that niche, and within that shining casket, lies what
remains of him whom once the nations feared, _el César_ and "Master of
the World," the Emperor Charles V. Beneath, is Philip II., his son,
founder of the Escorial. Within this mournful chamber the spirit of
the past speaks to us, telling us how little different from that of
the poorest slave is the destiny of the mightiest potentate. For the
rest--"Pallida mors æquo pulsat pede," &c. Kings whose power has shaken
the earth must perish, although their great influence may still throb
through the globe. Subject to the common lot, their ashes are scattered
on the wind, and their bodies have mouldered back into clay.

"The glories of our birth and state
Are shadows, not substantial things;
There is no armour against fate:
Death lays his icy hand on kings.
Sceptre and crown
Must tumble down,
And in the dust be equal made
With the poor crooked scythe and spade."[14]

The evening shades were falling as we emerged from the Escorial; the
wild pine forests covering the mountain sides, seemed like a deep pall
spread upon the land; and we looked lingeringly back on the great mass
of the prodigious edifice rearing all its domes and pinnacles against
the last melancholy glory of the sunset.

* * * * *

The Plaza Mayor in Madrid is a fine remnant of mediæval architecture,
with its lofty ornamented façades, and its low dark arcades running
round the square. These arcades, unfortunately, are now filled with
musty slop shops, and stalls where the worst Birmingham jewellery
is sold. In this immense plaza, in the year 1623, Charles I. of
England--then Prince of Wales--witnessed a bull-fight in honour of his
betrothal with the Infanta Maria, surrounded by all the grandees and
beauty of Spain, and attended by "the profligate minister Buckingham,"
as good history books would call him. However, as we all know, the
matrimonial engagement came to nothing, and Henrietta Maria of France
was reserved for the professional attentions of the widow-maker
Cromwell.

From all the country around, the square white mass of the royal palace
of Madrid is seen dominating over the entire city, the immense building
appearing, in comparison with the smaller houses around it, like a
whale among minnows. From its terraces it commands a superb view of
wide plains, stretching like a yellow sea to the Guadarrama mountains
on the far horizon. It was built by Philip V., the ambitious imitator
of the magnificence of the _grand monarque_, who aspired to possess a
residence which should render Versailles insignificant. The building
is, in some sort, a bad and most limited imitation of the Escorial,
inasmuch as it covers a space of only four hundred and seventy-one feet
square, and is no more than a hundred feet in height--a mere kernel
for the shell of an Escorial. It possesses a chapel, courts, _patios_,
no end of entrances, a perfect village of offices, and some dried-up
leafless plots of ground, called by courtesy gardens. The situation is
lofty, and consequently it is a veritable temple of the winds, as Her
Majesty's soldiers have often experienced during the winter nights,
when it was their duty to be on guard. A great _patio_, one hundred and
forty feet square, surrounded by an open portico formed of thirty-six
arches, and adorned with statues of various Roman Emperors,--and, we
are bound to say, of some of the best of those magnates,--occupies
the central part of the palace. Of course in this, as in most other
overgrown domiciles of royalty, there is a grand staircase, spacious,
costly, and magnificent, as described by enthusiastic sight-seers. It
is constructed of black and white marble, and adorned with sculptured
lions of the same beautiful stone. Upon one of these Napoleon is
reported to have placed his hand, saying, "Je la tiens enfin cette
Espagne si desirée." Having performed this little imitation of Cæsar's
first action on landing upon the shores of Britain, he is also said
to have observed to his brother Joseph--the puppet he had set up, "Mon
frère, vous serez mieux logé que moi;" and then, in the character of
invader, he began to contemplate with a fellow-feeling a portrait of
Philip II., the husband of Bloody Mary of England, the builder of the
Escorial and the projector of the Armada. Napoleon, in fact, is one of
those inevitables who have left the impress of their name on almost
all the cities of Europe. Thanks to history, legend, and tradition,
there is nothing about the Cid at Madrid. The chapel royal, which is
pseudo-classical in style, is adorned with Corinthian marble columns,
and with frescoes. In our desire to see everything interesting,
we visited even the coach-houses and harness-rooms, with the
horse-trappings embroidered in the time of Charles V., &c., finishing
with the splendid Armeria before mentioned.

We had the happiness of beholding Queen Isabella at the opera, through
an atmosphere tolerably free from tobacco smoke. Her Majesty wore a
wreath of diamonds, and a dress of white _moiré_ silk, overlaid with
_tulle_, &c.; and, although it is not very courtier-like to say so, we
may add that the lady in question was remarkably stout, and of the
middle age;--

"That on her cheek, and eke her nose,
In great abundance bloom'd the rose."

She might, in fact, be compared to the arbutus loaded with scarlet
fruit, mentioned by the poet Ovid[15]--a description which ought to
be very gratifying, for does not the proverb tell us that "a blush is
the complexion of virtue?" The queen wore a profusion of beautiful
blue-black hair, and the expression of her countenance indicated that
it was possible for her, now and then, to entertain strong opinions of
her own. She was, in fact, or rather is, what vulgar people would call
"a lusty woman."

The opera-house is internally pretty, and very French in appearance.
The presence of so many bright uniforms, profusely adorned with various
orders of knighthood, contributed much to the brilliancy of the scene.
Of the performance we have little or nothing to say. The same old
operas which are in vogue on the fashionable stage of other European
capitals are repeated here, and no new flight is attempted. Here also
a curious operatic problem, which we had previously endeavoured to
solve at London and Paris, suggested itself to us, wherefore, namely, a
married man or father on the stage should invariably have a bass voice,
a villain a baritone, and a lover or _batelier_ a tenor? I am not aware
that in ordinary life, when we enter the holy state of matrimony, our
voices as a rule descend from tenor to bass, or that gentlemen who
have to leave England on _urgent business_ for a few years, come back
with their tones perceptibly deepened. No doubt, however, such profound
students of real life as operatic managers must have a good reason for
all they do.

FOOTNOTES:

[13] Within the Escorial everything is on a colossal scale. There are
16 courts, 40 altars, 1,111 windows outside, and 1,562 inside. There
are 12,000 doors, 86 staircases, and 15 sets of cloisters. There are
galleries of 300 feet in length, painted in elaborate fresco, 89
fountains; and if one traversed the entire fabric in all its parts,
one would have to walk ninety and odd miles. It is considered by the
Spaniards as the eighth wonder of the world.

[14] Shirley.

[15] "Pomo onerata rubenti arbutus."

[Illustration: [++] Decorative Image]

CHAPTER IX.

I, of course, paid a visit to that peculiarly Spanish institution, the
circus, in which the people of Madrid are accustomed to glut their
savage taste for blood. Immense crowds were bending their footsteps
in the direction of the great national spectacle, and like a straw in
a torrent I was carried with them along the glaring and dusty road.
The roar of the multitude was deafening, and shouts of laughter pealed
in the air. The people were arrayed in their gayest holiday attire of
lace and gold; and the young women flashed their bright eyes and tossed
their black hair in response to the sallies of their cavaliers. Proud
dames were borne through the rushing stream in stately carriages,
attended by handsome gallants, pushing forward their foaming horses
to keep by the side of the fair ones whose favour they sought. High
and low, rich and poor, the young maiden and the gallant youth, the
strong soldier and the tottering beggar, troops of children and
aged crones,--an entire city's people--were jostling each other to
be forward in the throng among the thousand horses and vehicles of
every sort, and the masses of those who were on foot hastening in the
blinding dust and heat along that yellow road.

The building in which the favourite sport takes place is an
amphitheatre, having some resemblance to that of old Rome, open at the
roof, through which a circle of the soft heavens can be seen hanging
above like a broad and azure banner. An eager and seething multitude
were struggling and pushing for entrance through the numerous doors and
passages, until bank after bank was dark with the thick crowds of men,
and all the balconies glowed with the bright garments, waving fans, and
fair faces of women. Below was an extensive round space of ground, on
which sand and sawdust were spread in anticipation of the approaching
slaughter. It is difficult to convey the impression with which I heard
around me in such a place the laughter of young girls and the prattle
of little children. I could not but wonder for what reason these young
creatures had been brought thither. When, at last, the seats and
benches of the whole wide circle were filled, the walls seemed white
with twelve thousand faces, and glowed with endless colours, while
myriads of fans were constantly waving, and the hum of impatience
proceeded from the vast assemblage.

At length a trumpet sounded with a loud, clear tone; a sigh of relief
arose from the expectant multitude; and their eyes flashed with joy
as the sun poured down upon the great ring of sand below in rays of
dazzling light. The doors of the arena were opened wide, and a gay
procession, consisting of those who were to take part in the sport,
made its entrance, accompanied by the sound of martial music. A
cavalcade of lancemen[16] and horsemen, clad in the velvet gear of a
bygone age, were most conspicuous.[17] These were preceded by a band
of footmen, decked in brave array of gold lace, their garments of the
brightest hues, orange, violet, rose, and crimson. These men had over
their shoulders numerous red cloths and scarlet flags, besides which
each one carried in his hand a naked sword. The procession was closed
by teams of mules, gaily attired, dragging at their heels a great iron
hook.

This gallant company was a pleasant enough sight to the eye; and the
maiden's cheek might well redden as the graceful forms of the strong
young men, with thew and sinew swelling round and fair beneath the
tight jackets of satin, the coloured pantaloons, and the silken hose,
passed erect below, glittering bravely in the sunlight that streamed
upon them. They all made a low salute to him who was master of the
sports that day, and immediately after the arena was cleared of all
save three lancemen, sitting silent and still on the backs of lean
horses, which had their eyes closely bandaged. The various footmen,
each with red cloak in hand, lingered around, behind, or nigh to
the high wooden barriers surrounding the ring, as if in case of some
anticipated danger.

When the hour announced for the commencement of the sport arrived,
the vast assemblage became hushed in silence, which was at last
broken by a shrill trumpet-peal that suddenly pierced the air. After
a moment of suspense, a broad wooden door flew open, and in rushed a
wild bull of Andalusia, decked with a flowing riband, or moña. The
formidable-looking animal halted in mid-career, and with loud ominous
snorts, glared savagely around at the great array of its persecutors,
at the same time pawing the ground with ire, and wildly lashing its
angry tail. In another instant, with his long horns lowered and
levelled, and amidst a cloud of dust, he dashed round the ring swift
as a bolt discharged from a catapult, hurling into the air, or casting
down on the earth, everything in his path. Three horses which were in
his way fell headlong with their riders in confused and dusty heaps,
and lay quivering on the ground. The poor animals were disembowelled,
and their blood tinged the sand, a sight which was greeted with the
cry of "Bravo, Toro!" ringing from twelve thousand throats. A score
of footmen leapt down into the ring, and quickly scoured to the scene
of action, waving their scarlet mantles in the eyes of the enraged
bull to draw off its attention from the _picadores_, who lay prostrate
beneath their wounded horses. At the same time the mules were driven
in, and the hook being applied, they galloped off with the carrion,
which left a broad red track behind it. The bull, meanwhile, charging
here, charging there, dashed now after one foe, now after another, as
they darted about, carefully avoiding the long horns, which missed
their mark, perhaps only by an inch, as the runner, stopping suddenly,
leapt nimbly on one side, and left the furious beast to turn in pursuit
of fresh tormentors, trailing a flaunting banner before his eyes. In
one of his furious charges he came against the wooden barrier of the
arena with a crash that shook the building. He was only half a foot
behind the lithe form of one of his enemies, who assured his safety by
vaulting over the barrier. A moment or two later, or an orange peel in
his path, and no human power could have saved him.

After a series of impetuous charges, the first strength of the
bull being exhausted, he was left panting for a short time without
provocation, until the gates admitted three fresh lancemen, who urged
their sorry blindfolded hacks into the ring with the sharp angles of
their ample Moorish stirrups. With a wild snort, a shower of foam
falling from his mouth, the bull rushed at the nearest horse; but the
dexterous horseman, receiving the charge obliquely with the point of
his lance, although well-nigh dismounted by the shock, caused the
great beast to rear aside with the sudden smart. A shout of "Bravo,
Picador!" arose from the crowd; but ere it ceased, the baffled brute,
directing its attack against another opponent, had buried its horns up
to its forehead in the ribs of the nearest horse, which, blinded as it
was, stood there a mere butt for the onset. The rider's lance at the
same moment was plunged into the neck of the bull, and blood flowed in
torrents.

A fierce light now glared in the eyes of the people, of man and of
maiden, as if the most ferocious instincts had been awakened in them.
Near me I saw, in their private balcony, a stately dame alone with
her beautiful daughter, both gazing with the deepest interest on the
bloody contest. Some young ladies, the daughters of haughty grandees,
were actually listening in such a place to the whispers of love from
gallant young nobles, while they reclined luxuriously among cushions
and flowers. Men were even beating with iron rods the fetlock joints of
the dying horses, lest they should fail ere the bull was spent. Ripped
and mangled as they were, they were compelled to stand on their legs
for another onslaught. I can never forget one poor horse which I saw
trotting across the ring to meet each charge with his entrails dragging
in the dust. Another wretched animal, from whose eyes the bandage had
fallen, looked around on the vast assemblage with an appealing glance;
but there was no mercy in any heart that beat there.

Again a trumpet sounded, and several young men appeared in gay attire
of lace, silk, and embroidery, with the velvet bonnet of Spain on their
crisp shaved heads. The agility of their supple limbs seemed to equal
that of the antelope; their forms were graceful as that of Apollo, and
they were fearless as young lions. These, the _banderilleros_, bore
in either hand long iron arrows, keen and barbed, to each of which was
attached a web of coloured ribbons.

The powerful beast--though rage still burned in his lurid eyes, and
foam fell from his dilated nostrils and quivering flank--now showed
signs of languor, and a more uncertain though still threatening front.
One of the _banderilleros_ advanced boldly in front of the bull, in
dangerous proximity to his sharp, bloody horns. He waved his arms, and
brandished his ribboned darts as if he were derisively taunting the
rabid beast. It seemed dangerous to presume thus much, for the bull,
excited to madness, suddenly rushed on him; but cool and watchful, the
man lightly stepped aside as if disdaining to move one superfluous
inch. As the animal passed him in his furious career, the darts with
their ribbons were buried with the speed of lightning in his gory neck.
With a wild bellow of rage and pain the furious brute makes at another
foe in his path, but distracted by the number of his persecutors
dancing like demons around him, and exhausted by the loss of blood, he
sinks fainting to the earth, though still to the last defiant, amongst
the yells of the excited crowd.

In a few minutes a man with a bright, naked sword, called the _espada_,
entered the arena, and demanded permission from the _autoridad_ to kill
the bull. This was accorded amid the increasing buzz and restlessness
of the crowd. Carrying in his left hand a dark red flag, to act as a
bait for the still sensitive eye of the _toro_, and in his right a good
Toledan blade, the _espada_ cautiously advanced towards the crouching
beast, more dangerous now, perhaps, than in the full vigour of his
strength. The man appeared to be the incarnation of address as opposed
to brute-force; firm of nerve, sharp of sight, undaunted in courage.
Approaching to within eight inches of his glaring foe, he stood face
to face with him, prepared for mortal struggle. Waving the red flag to
the left, to lure away the horns from the front of his chest, he slowly
raised his long sword up to the level of his eye, and then drew back
his arm with as little motion as possible, to make the fatal plunge
at that narrow point in the neck where the spinal cord may best be
severed, that immediate death may ensue. As the blow was delivered,
the beast, swerving aside, dashed at the red flag waving in his face,
his long horns almost grazing the man's left breast, while the steel
was plunged to the hilt into his body. The blow had not been fairly
struck, and the mad brute darted away, carrying with him the _espada's_
sword, the blood spouting in jets at every stride. A shout of
execration proceeded from all the balconies at this unlucky blow, which
should have laid the bull motionless. The bull-fighter, meanwhile,
determined to retrieve his reputation, remained calm as at first.
Crying with a loud voice to some functionary for _el cachete_, he
received a small, sharp dagger, which he screwed slowly and carefully
round within the hollow of his right hand. Arranging once more the dark
red flag in his left, he calmly awaited the onslaught of the bull. The
great brute, still formidable, made straight to the middle of the ring,
where his opponent stood, and when his eye caught again the hated red
flag which the _espada_ was waving in his face, he pulled up short,
with concentrated rage and fury.

As the two thus stood face to face,--the desperate beast and the single
man with his bodkin,--we were reminded of Glaucus of Pompeii fronting
the lion with his _stylus_, while the crowd of the amphitheatre
thirsted for his blood. The bull-fighter kept his eye fixed on that of
the bull, which had it not been for a slow oscillation of the head--as
his eyes seemed to follow, fascinated, the gentle waving of the
flag--would have appeared motionless. The man crept to within an inch
of the long horn-points, cautiously and slowly extending his right arm
with the dagger over the animal's neck, and stretching his body forward
till the left horn almost touched his chest. The eye of the bull was
still distracted by the red flag which was incessantly waved before
him, amidst the most profound silence. Suddenly, like a flash of light,
the knife was brought down, the exact point was hit, and the ponderous
brute rolled over, weltering in a dark torrent of gore. Showers of
flowers were thrown on the victor's head by fair hands above, who thus
testified that in their eyes the brave man had retrieved his fault. The
gaudy mules once more dashed in, and in a moment galloped back again,
dragging the great carcass behind them.

How impressive are the contrasts of nature! At the moment when this
scene of blood was brought to an end, a lark soared calmly across the
blue circle of the quiet heavens above, while near to me a fair young
mother hushed her new-born infant to sleep.

FOOTNOTES:

[16] Picadores.

[17] Police of the ring, who preserve from custom their mediæval
costume, and are a mere form.

[Illustration: [++] Decorative Image]

CHAPTER X.

TOLEDO.--VIEW OF THE CITY.--THE CATHEDRAL.--PROCESS OF
SMOKE-DRYING.--ALMANZA.--VALENCIA.--THE FONDA DE MADRID.--A
BENEVOLENT DOCTOR.--SPANISH MULETEERS.--HOW CONTROVERSIES ARE
SETTLED.

Oh! Toledo, imperial city, beloved of the old Goth, rich home of the
Moor and Jew,[18] and chosen throne of the Emperor of the West,[19] how
art thou fallen! And yet thy destiny has only been that which awaits
all cities, all nations. Still the old town has a proud and lofty
aspect on its rock-built seat, and though the splendours for which
it was once celebrated are now mouldering, it still looks down with
haughty glance on the feeble kingdom beneath, and its insolent modern
capital in the midst. A volume might well be devoted to the description
of Toledo, which is still magnificent even in ruins, and inexhaustible
in objects of interest; but as we mean to explore some of the regions
and cities of the warmer South, and even to extend our journey to the
Spanish islands of the Mediterranean, we may not indulge in more than
a passing glance at the crumbling walls, the falling palaces, and the
Oriental courts of the old metropolis of Spain.

A view of the city from any advantageous position in its neighbourhood
is very imposing. The venerable hue of antiquity is upon the whole
place; and there is not a street in which there are not buildings that
have been connected with important events in the history of Spain.
As seen from a distance, its sombre towers rising from the treeless
Vega[20] have a striking resemblance to a great fretted crown, such
as might have been worn by some old barbarian giant, while the green
fields through which the Tagus pursues its course appear like a green
velvet cushion on which the royal diadem reposes. As we approached
nearer we could judge more accurately of the height of the majestic
rock on which the town, like a great castle, is built. The streets are
generally steep and winding. Those of Moorish origin are very narrow,
and it is difficult to find one's way through them. Their narrowness
has this advantage, that it affords a protecting shadow from the
oppressive heat of the noonday sun. Some of the churches are splendid
specimens of Gothic architecture, though, from being towerless, they
are occasionally heavy in aspect. There are many fine examples of the
Mediæval and Saracenic styles, the graceful, airy-like character of the
latter having something peculiarly attractive in it. But the interest
of all we see attaches only to the past; the life of the city has
departed long ago; and we walk through its silent streets as in a dream.

The cathedral--one of the richest in the world--is of very ancient
origin; its foundation belonging to a period far back in the history of
Spain. Many are the c

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