Wanderings in Spain

A detailed description of these cloisters would require a whole chapter to itself; but, on account of my limited space and the short time that was at my disposal, the reader will excuse me for merely mentioning them in this cursory manner, and re-entering the church, where we will take at hazard, without choice or preference, the first chefs-d'œuvre we may happen to see on our right and left; for they are all beautiful and all admirable, and those which we do not mention are at the least quite as valuable as the rest.

We will first stop before this "Passion of our Lord," carved in stone by Philip of Burgundy, who, unfortunately, was not a French artist, as his name or rather his nickname might lead us to suppose. This bas-relief is one of the largest in the world. According to the usual custom in Gothic art, it is divided into several compartments, – namely, the Mount of Olives, the Bearing of the Cross, and the Crucifixion of the Saviour between the two Thieves; an immense composition which, for the fineness of the heads, and the minute accuracy of the details, is equal to the most delicate and lovely things that Albert Dürer, Hemlinck, or Holbein ever produced with their miniature-painters' pencils. This stone epic is terminated by a magnificent "Descent to the Tomb." The groups of sleeping apostles which occupy the lower compartments of the Garden of Olives possess almost the same beauty and purity of style as the prophets and saints of Fra Bartholomew; the heads of the women at the foot of the cross are remarkable for that pathetic and mournful look which Gothic art alone could convey, and which in this instance is united to an uncommon beauty of outline. The soldiers attract attention by the singularity and savage style of their apparel, which is that usually employed during the middle ages in all representations of the Ancients, the Orientals, or the Jews, whose true costume was then not known; the various postures in which they are placed are stamped with a bold swaggering air, which contrasts most happily with the ideality and melancholy of the other figures. The whole is surrounded by carving as delicate as the finest jewellery, and of the most incredible good taste and lightness. This splendid production of the sculptor's art was finished in 1536.

Since we are on the subject of sculpture, we may as well seize the opportunity to speak of the stalls in the choir, which, as a piece of admirable joinery, have not, perhaps, their equals in the world. The stalls are so many marvels. They represent subjects in bas-relief from the Old Testament, and are separated from each other by monsters and fantastic animals shaped like the arms of a chair. The flat portions are covered with incrustations, the effect of which is heightened by black hatching, like inlaid enamel-work on metal. It is impossible for arabesques or caprice to be carried to a greater length. These stalls contain an inexhaustible mine, an unheard-of abundance, a never-ending novelty, both of ideas and forms: they are a new world, a creation of themselves, marvellously rich and complete; a world in which the plants live, the men bud forth, a branch ends in a hand, and a leg terminates in foliage; a world in which the cunning-eyed monster spreads out his taloned wings, and the monstrous dolphin spouts the water through its nostrils. They form one inextricable entwining of buds and boughs, acanthuses, water-lilies, flowers, with chalices ornamented with tufts and tendrils, of serrated and twisted foliage, fabulous birds, impossible fish, and extravagant sirens and dragons, of which no tongue could ever give an idea. The wildest fancy reigns unrestrained in all these incrustations, whose yellow tone causes them to stand out from the sombre background of the wood, and gives them the appearance of the paintings on Etruscan vases; an appearance which is fully justified by the boldness and primitive accent of their lines. These designs, from which the pagan spirit of the Renaissance peeps out, have nothing in common with the destination of the stalls themselves; in fact, the subject selected very frequently shows an entire forgetfulness of the sacred character of the place. They represent either children playing with masks, women dancing, gladiators wrestling, peasants engaged in the vintage, young girls teasing or caressing some fanciful monster, animals playing the harp, or even little boys, in the basin of a fountain imitating the famous statue at Brussels. Were they but a little more slender in their proportions, these figures would be equal to the purest productions of Etruscan art. Unity in the general appearance, and infinite variety in the details, was the difficult problem which the artists of the Middle Ages generally succeeded in solving. Five or six paces farther on, this mass of woodwork, so remarkable for the wildness of its execution, becomes grave, solemn, architectural, brown in its tones, and altogether worthy of serving as a frame to the pale and austere faces of the canons.

The Chapel of the Constable (Capilla del Condestable) forms of itself a complete church. The tomb of Don Pedro Fernandez Velasco, Constable of Castile, and that of his wife, occupy the middle of the building, and are far from being its least attractive feature: they are of white marble, magnificently sculptured. The constable is lying in his war armour, enriched with the chastest arabesques, from which the sacristans take papier-maché casts, to sell to visitors. The constable's wife has her little dog by her side, while her gloves, and the brocaded flowers on her gown, are rendered with the utmost delicacy. Both their heads repose upon marble cushions, ornamented with their coronets and armorial bearings. The walls of the chapel are covered with gigantic coats of arms, while figures placed upon the entablature hold stone staves for supporting banners and standards. The retablo (which is the name given to the architectural façade before the altar) is sculptured, painted, gilt, and covered with a profusion of arabesques, varied by columns; it represents the Circumcision of our Saviour, with figures the size of life. To the right, on the same side as the portrait of Doña Mencia de Mendoza, Countess of Haro, is a small Gothic altar, coloured, gilt, carved, and embellished with an infinity of little figures, so light in appearance, and so graceful in form, that any one might mistake them for the work of Antonin Moine. On this altar there is a Christ, carved in jet. The high altar is ornamented with silver rays and crystal suns, which produce a singularly brilliant flickering effect. Carved on the roof is a rose of incredible delicacy.

Enclosed in the wainscoting of the sacristy, near the chapel, is a Magdalen, said to be by Leonardo da Vinci. The mildness of the brown half-tints, merging into the light by imperceptible gradations, the lightness of touch remarkable in the hair, and the perfect rounding of the arms, render this supposition extremely probable. In this chapel, also, is preserved the ivory diptych that the constable used to take with him to the army, and before which he was accustomed to recite his prayers. The Capilla del Condestable belongs to the Duke de Frias. Cast a glance, as you pass, on that statue of Saint Bruno, in coloured wood, – it is by Pereida, a Portuguese sculptor, – and on that epitaph, which is that of Villegas, the translator of Dante.

A magnificent and most finely-built staircase, with splendidly-sculptured monsters, kept us for some minutes riveted with admiration. I am ignorant whither it leads, or into what room the small door at its extremity opens, but it is worthy of the most splendid palace. The high altar in the chapel of the Duke d'Abrantes is one of the most singular productions of the imagination which it is possible to behold. It represents the genealogical tree of Jesus Christ. This strange idea is carried out in the following manner: – The patriarch Abraham is lying at the bottom of the composition, and in his fertile breast are placed the spreading roots of an immense tree, each branch of which bears an ancestor of Jesus, and is subdivided into as many branches as that ancestor had descendants. The summit is occupied by the Virgin Mary on a throne of clouds, while the sun, the moon, and a multitude of gold and silver stars, shine through the foliage. It is impossible to think without a shudder at the immense amount of patience which must have been required to cut out all these leaves, chisel all these folds, and make all these personages stand out so prominently. This retablo, carved in the manner we have described, is as high as the façade of a house, that is to say, at least thirty feet, if we include the three stories, the second of which represents the crowning of the Virgin, and the third the Crucifixion, with St. John and the Virgin. The sculptor is Rodrigo del Haya, who lived in the middle of the sixteenth century.

The Chapel of Santa Tecla is the strangest structure imaginable. The object both of architect and sculptor seems to have been to crowd as many ornaments as possible into the least space, and they have completely succeeded; for I defy the greatest advocate of ornament to find space enough in the whole chapel for a single rose or a single flower more. It is the most wonderful and most charming specimen of the richest description of bad taste. It is one mass of twisted spiral columns, surrounded by vine-shoots, of endless volutes, of cherubim's heads and shoulders with a pair of wings sticking out like the ends of a neck-tie, of large masses of clouds, of flames rising from censers and blown about by the wind, of rays spread out in the shape of a fan, and of endive-plants in full bloom and most luxuriant growth, all gilt and painted in natural colours with the pencil of a miniature-painter. The flower-work of the drapery is imitated thread for thread, and point for point, with frightful accuracy. Santa Tecla, who is tied to the stake with the flames rising around her on all sides, and a number of Saracens in extravagant costumes exciting them, is represented as raising towards Heaven her beautiful enamel eyes, and holding in her flesh-coloured hand a large holly-branch, twisted after the usual Spanish fashion. The roof is ornamented in the same style. The rest of the chapel is occupied by other altars, which, although smaller, are quite as elaborate as that which we have described. But the whole fabric is deficient in the peculiar delicacy of Gothic art, as well as in the charming characteristics of the period of the Renaissance; richness is substituted for purity of outline; it is still very beautiful, however, like everything carried to excess, but yet complete in its own peculiar style.

The organs, which are of a formidable size, have rows of pipes laid transversely, like so many cannon with their muzzles pointed at you; they look very menacing and warlike. The private chapels have each an organ, only of a smaller size. In the retablo of one of these chapels we beheld a painting of such exceeding beauty, that I am even now at a loss to what master to ascribe it, unless it be to Michael Angelo. This magnificent work of art possesses, most undeniably, all the characteristic marks of the Florentine school, when in its most flourishing state, and would form the principal attraction in any gallery however rich. Michael Angelo, however, hardly ever painted in oil colours, and his pictures are fabulously scarce; I am inclined to think that it was painted by Sebastian del Piombo, after a cartoon, and on a drawing of this sublime artist. It is well known that Michael Angelo was jealous of Raphael's success, and that he sometimes employed Sebastian del Piombo, in order to unite colouring to drawing, and thus beat his young rival. However this may be, it is very certain that the picture is admirable. The Virgin Mary is represented seated, with her drapery disposed in majestic folds; she is covering with a transparent scarf the divine form of the infant Jesus, who is standing up by her side. From out the ultramarine of the sky two angels are contemplating her in silence, while in the background is seen a severe landscape, with some rocks and fragments of walls. The head of the Virgin possesses an amount of majesty, serenity, and force, of which it is utterly impossible to convey an adequate idea by mere words. The lines which join the neck to the shoulders are so pure, so chaste, and so noble, the face breathes such an expression of sweet maternal satisfaction, the hands are so divinely treated, and the feet are so remarkable for their elegance and grand style, that I found it almost impossible to tear myself away. Add to this marvellous design, simple, solid, well-sustained colouring, without any claptrap devices, or little tricks of chiaroscuro, but a certain look of fresco which harmonizes perfectly with the tone of the architecture around, and you have a chef-d'œuvre such as is to be found only in the Florentine or Roman school.

There is also in the cathedral at Burgos a "Holy Family," without the painter's name. I strongly suspect it to be the production of Andrea del Sarto. There are likewise some Gothic paintings on wood, by Cornelis van Eyck; the fellows to them are in the gallery at Dresden. The works of the German school are not uncommon in Spain and some of them are exceedingly fine. We will seize the present opportunity to mention some pictures by Fra Diego de Leyva, who became a Carthusian friar in the Cartuja of Miraflores when he had already reached his fifty-fourth year. Among his other compositions we may notice the Martyrdom of Santa Casilda. The executioner has cut off both her breasts, and the blood is gushing forth from the two large red places which mark the spot whence the flesh has been removed; the two breasts are lying at the Saint's side, while she herself is looking with an expression of feverish and convulsive ecstasy at a tall angel, with a thoughtful, melancholy face, who has brought her a palm-branch. These frightful pictures of martyrdom are very frequently to be met with in Spain, where the love of the real and the true in art is carried to the greatest lengths. The artist will not spare you one single drop of blood; you must see the severed nerves shrinking back, you must see the quivering of the living flesh, whose dark purple hue contrasts strongly with the bluish, bloodless whiteness of the skin, you must be shown the vertebræ cut through by the executioner's blade, and the gaping wounds that vomit forth water and blood from their livid mouths; every detail is rendered with horrible truthfulness. Ribera has painted some things in this style, sufficient to make El Verdugo[4 - The hangman.] himself start back with affright. In sober truth, we require all the dreadful beauty and diabolical energy which characterize this great master, to enable us to support this flaying and slaughtering school of painting, which seems to have been invented by some hangman's assistant for the amusement of cannibals. We actually lose all desire to suffer martyrdom; and the angel, with his palm-branch, strikes us as a very poor compensation for such atrocious torments. But sometimes Ribera denies even this consolation to his victims, and allows them to writhe about in agony, like so many serpents, in the dull, menacing shade, that is not illuminated by a single ray from heaven.

The craving for the true, however revolting, is a characteristic feature of Spanish art. Idealism and conventionality are foreign to the genius of this people, who are altogether deficient in everything like æsthetic feeling. For them sculpture is not sufficient; they require their statues to be coloured, and their Virgins to be painted and clothed in real clothes. To please them, the material illusion can never be carried too far; and their unbridled passion for the real causes them sometimes to overstep the line which separates the sculptor's studio from the boiling-room of the wax-work exhibitor.

The celebrated "Christ of Burgos," which is held in such veneration, and which must not be shown until the tapers are lighted, is a striking example of this strange taste. It is not formed of coloured stone or wood, but actually consists of a human skin (at least, so they say), stuffed in the most artistic manner. The hair is real hair; the eyes are furnished with eye-lashes, the crown of thorns is really composed of thorns, and, in a word, not one detail is omitted. Nothing can be more lugubrious, or more disagreeable to behold than this crucified phantom, with its ghastly life-like look and its death-like stillness. The skin, of a brownish, rusty tinge, is streaked with long lines of blood, which are so well imitated that you might almost think they were actually trickling down. It requires no very great effort of the imagination to believe the legend which affirms that this miraculous figure bleeds every Friday.

Instead of flying drapery twisted round the body, the Burgalise Christ has got on a white tunic, embroidered with gold, and descending from the waist to the knees. This style of dress produces a strange effect, especially upon us who are not used to it. There are three ostrich-eggs encased in the foot of the cross as a sort of symbolical ornament, the meaning of which I have forgotten, however, unless they are intended to convey an allusion to the Trinity, which is the principle and germ of all things.

On leaving the cathedral we felt dazzled and crushed with chefs-d'œuvre: we were intoxicated with them; we could not admire any longer: it was only by the greatest effort that we were enabled to cast a careless glance on the arch erected to Fernan Gonzalez: it is an experiment made in the classical style, at the commencement of the Renaissance period, by Philip of Burgundy. We were also shown the Cid's house; when I say the Cid's house, I express myself badly; I mean the place where his house may have been, and which is a square place enclosed by posts. There is not the least vestige left which can authorize the general belief; but then, on the other hand, nothing absolutely proves the contrary; and, such being the case, there is no harm in our trusting the tradition. The Casa del Cordon, so called from the rope which winds round the doors, borders the windows, and serpentines through the various ornaments, is worth examining. It is the residence of the political chief of the province, and we met there sundry alcades of the environs, with features that would have struck us as rather suspicious had we happened to come across them in some lonely spot, and who would have done well to ask themselves for their papers before allowing themselves to proceed without molestation on their road.

The Puerta de Santa Maria, erected in honour of Charles V., is a remarkable piece of architecture. Although the statues placed in the niches are short and squat, they have an appearance of force and vigour which amply compensates for any defect in gracefulness of form. It is a great pity that this superb triumphal arch should be obstructed and disfigured by a number of plaster walls, which are placed there under the pretence of their being fortifications; they should immediately be pulled down. Near this gate is the public promenade on the banks of the Arlanzon, a very respectable river at least two feet deep, which is a great depth for Spain. The promenade is ornamented with four very tolerable statues, representing four kings or counts of Castile – namely, Don Fernan Gonzalez, Don Alonzo, Don Enrique II., and Don Fernando I. I have now mentioned almost everything worth seeing at Burgos. The theatre is even more primitive than the one at Vittoria. The evening I was there, the performance consisted of a piece in verse, entitled "El Zapatero y el Rey" (the Cobbler and the King), by Zorilla, a young and very talented author, who is very popular in Madrid, and who has already published seven volumes of poetry much extolled for its harmony and style. All the places, however, had been taken beforehand, so that we were obliged to renounce the pleasure we had promised ourselves, and wait until the next night for the "Three Sultanas," which, we were informed, was a piece interspersed with singing and Turkish dances of the most transcendent comicality. The actors did not know a word of their parts, and the prompter spoke so loudly that he completely drowned their voices. I may mention that the prompter is protected by a sort of tin shell, arched like the roof of an oven, to shield him against the patatas, manzanas, and cascaras de naranja– potatoes, apples, and orange-peel – with which the Spanish public, as impatient a public as ever existed, never fails to bombard those actors who displease them. Each person brings his store of projectiles in his pocket: if the actors play well, the various vegetables return to the saucepan and serve to augment the puchero.

For one moment, we thought we had at length discovered the true type of a Spanish beauty in one of the three sultanas – large, arched, black eyebrows, sharp nose, a long oval face, and red lips; but an obliging neighbour informed us that she was a young French girl.

Before leaving Burgos, we paid a visit to the Cartuja de Miraflores, situated at half a league from the town. A few poor old decrepit monks have been allowed to await their death there. Spain has lost a great deal of its romantic character by the suppression of the monks, and I do not see that it has gained much in other respects. A number of magnificent edifices, which can never be replaced, and which were formerly preserved in all their integrity, will fall into a state of dilapidation, and crumble to the ground, adding their ruins to those which are already so common in this unhappy country; and thus unheard-of treasures in the way of statues, pictures, and objects of art of all kinds, will be lost, without any one deriving the least advantage. It strikes me that our Revolution might be imitated in other things than its stupid Vandalism. Murder each other if you will, for the ideas you imagine that you possess; fatten with your bodies the meagre plains ravaged by war – that is all very well; but the stone, the marble and the bronze touched by genius, are sacred – at least spare them. In two thousand years your civil dissensions will all be forgotten, and the future will only know that you were once a great people by some marvellous fragments dug from out a heap of ruins.

The Cartuja is situated upon a hill. Its exterior is austere and simple, consisting of grey stones and a tile roof, that says nothing to the eyes, but everything to the imagination. In the interior are long, cool, silent cloisters, with whitewashed walls, and a number of doors leading to the various cells, and windows with leaden casements, containing different religious subjects on stained glass, especially a remarkable composition representing the Ascension. The body of our Saviour has already disappeared; there is nothing left but his feet, the marks of which are seen on a rock which is surrounded by pious personages lost in admiration.

The prior's garden is situated within a little courtyard, in the midst of which is a fountain, from which the water, clear as crystal, runs out drop by drop. A few stray sprigs of the vine somewhat enliven the melancholy aspect of the walls, while a few tufts of flowers and clusters of plants are seen springing up here and there, in picturesque disorder, pretty much as they were sown by the hand of Chance. The prior, an old man, with a noble, venerable face, and dressed in a garment resembling as much as possible a gown (for monks are not allowed to preserve their costume), received us very politely, and, as it was not very warm, made us sit around the brazero, and offered us cigarettes and azucarillos, with cool spring water. An open book was lying on the table: I took the liberty to glance into it. It was the "Bibliotheca Cartuxiana," a collection of all the passages of the various authors who have written in praise of the order and lives of the Carthusian monks. The margin was covered with annotations, written in that stiff, formal, priest-like hand, rather large, which appeals so strongly to the imagination, but says nothing to the hasty and offhand man of the world. This poor old monk, left thus, out of pity, in a deserted convent, the vaults of which will soon fall over his unknown grave, was still dreaming of the glory of his order, and inscribing with a trembling hand, in the blank spaces of the book, some passage or other that had either been forgotten, or recently been found.

The cemetery is shaded by two or three large yew-trees, like those in the Turkish cemeteries. It contains four hundred and nineteen monks, who have died since the foundation of the convent. The ground is covered by thick luxuriant grass, and neither tomb, cross, nor inscription, is to be seen. There do the good monks all lie together, as humble in death as they were in life. This cemetery, without a single name, has something calm and silent about it that is refreshing to the soul. A fountain situated in the midst of it sheds a stream of limpid tears, as bright as silver, for these poor creatures, all dead and forgotten. I took a draught of the water, filtered through the ashes of so many holy persons; it was pure, and icy as death.

But though the dwelling of man is poor, that of God is rich. In the middle of the nave are placed the tombs of Don Juan II. and Queen Isabella, his wife. The spectator is lost in astonishment at the fact of human patience ever having completed such a work. Sixteen lions, two at each angle, support eight shields with the royal arms, and serve as base to the structure. Add to these a proportionate number of virtues, allegorical figures, apostles, and evangelists, imagine a countless number of branches, birds, animals, scrolls of arabesque and foliage, twisting and twining in every direction, and you will yet have but a feeble notion of this prodigious masterpiece. The crowned statues of the king and queen are lying at full length on the top of the tomb. The king is holding his sceptre in his hand, and is enveloped in a long robe, guilloched and figured with the most incredible delicacy.

The tomb of the Infante Alonzo is on the left-hand side of the altar. The Infante is represented kneeling before a fall-stool. A vine, with open spaces, in which little children gathering grapes are suspended, creeps, in festoons of the most capricious and endless variety around the Gothic arch that serves as a framework to the composition, half buried in the thickness of the wall. These marvellous monuments are in alabaster, and are due to the chisel of Gil de Siloe, who also executed the sculptures for the high altar. To the right and left of the latter, which is a most beautiful work of art, are two open doors, through which you perceive two Carthusian friars in the white robe of their order, standing motionless before you. At first sight you are inclined to take these two figures, which are probably by Diego de Leyva, for living beings. The general decoration of the building is completed by stalls in the Berruguete style, and it is a matter of astonishment for the visitor to find all these wonders in so deserted a spot.

From the top of the hill we were shown, in the distance, San Pedro de Cardeña, which contains the tomb of the Cid and of his wife, Doña Ximena. By the way, in connexion with this tomb there is a strange anecdote told, which I will here relate, without, however, answering for the truth of it.

During the French invasion, General Thibaut conceived the idea of having the Cid's bones removed from San Pedro de Cardeña to Burgos. His intention was to place them in a sarcophagus on the public promenade, in order that the presence of these illustrious remains might inspire the people with sentiments of heroism and chivalry. It is added, that the gallant general, in a fit of warlike enthusiasm, placed the hero's bones in his own bed, in order that he might elevate his courage by this glorious proximity, a precaution of which he had no need. The project was not put into execution, and the Cid returned to Doña Ximena's side, at San Pedro de Cardeña, where he has since remained; but one of his teeth, which had fallen out, and which had been put away in a drawer, had disappeared, without any one being able to find out what had become of it. The only thing that was wanting to complete the Cid's glory, was that he should be canonized, which he would have been, had he not, before his death, expressed the Arabo-heretical and suspicious wish that his famous steed, Barbieca, should be buried with him. This caused his orthodoxy to be doubted. Talking of the Cid, I must remark to Monsieur Casimir Delavigne that the name of the hero's sword is Tizona, and not Tizonade, which rhymes rather too closely with lemonade. I say this, however, without any desire of damaging the Cid's fame, who, to his merit as a hero, added that of inspiring so poetically the unknown author of the Romancero, as well as Guilhen de Castro, Diamante, and Pierre Corneille.

CHAPTER V

FROM BURGOS TO MADRID

    El Correo Real; the Galeras – Valladolid – San Pablo – A Representation of Hernani – Santa Maria – Madrid.

El Correo Real in which we quitted Burgos merits a particular description. Just fancy an antediluvian vehicle, of which I should say that the model, long since discarded, could at present only be found in the fossil remains of Spain; immense bell-shaped wheels, with very thin spokes, placed considerably behind the frame, which had been painted red, somewhere about the time of Isabella the Catholic; an extravagant body, full of all sorts of crooked windows, and lined in the inside with small satin cushions, which may, at some remote period, have been rose-coloured; and the whole interior quilted and decorated with a kind of silk that was once, probably, of various colours. This respectable conveyance was suspended by the aid of ropes, and bound together in several suspicious-looking places with thin cords made of spartum. To this precious machine was added a team of mules of a reasonable length, with an assortment of postilions, and a mayoral clad in an Astracan lambs-wool waistcoat, and a pair of sheepskin trousers which looked tremendously Muscovitish. When all our preparations were completed, we set off in the midst of a whirlwind of cries and oaths, accompanied by a due proportion of whipping. We went at a most terrific pace, and literally flew over the ground, the vague outlines of the objects to our right and left flitting past us with phantasmagorical rapidity. I never saw mules more fiery, more restive, and more wild; every time we stopped, a whole army of muchachos was requisite to harness one to the coach. The diabolical animals came out of their stables on their hind legs; and it was only by the instrumentality of a bunch of postilions hanging on the halter of each one, that we succeeded in again reducing them to the state of quadrupeds. I think that it was the idea of the food that awaited them at the next venta– for they were frightfully thin – which filled them with this fiendlike impetuosity. On leaving one small village, they commenced kicking and capering about in such a fashion that their legs got entangled in the traces; whereupon they were belaboured with a shower of blows and kicks which must be seen to be believed. The whole team fell down, and an unfortunate postilion, who was mounted on a horse which in all probability had never before been in harness, was dragged from beneath this heap of animals, almost as flat as a pancake and bleeding from the nose. His sweetheart, who had come to see him off, began shrieking enough to break any person's heart; I should never have thought that such shrieks could proceed from a human breast. The ropes were at last disentangled, and the mules set upon their feet again. Another postilion took the place of the wounded man, and we set off with a velocity which I should say could not be surpassed. The country through which we passed had a strange, savage look; it consisted of immense arid plains without a single tree to break their uniformity, and terminated by mountains and hills of a yellow-ochreish hue, which with difficulty assumed an azure tint even at a distance. From time to time we passed a dusty mud-built village, mostly in ruins. As it was Sunday, we saw, all along the yellowish walls illuminated by a sickly sun, whole ranks of haughty Castilians as motionless as mummies, and enveloped in their tinder-like rags, who had placed themselves there to tomar el sol, a species of amusement which would cause the most phlegmatic German to die of ennui at the expiration of an hour. This peculiarly Spanish amusement was, however, on the day in question, very excusable, for the weather was atrociously cold, while a furious wind swept the plain with the noise of thunder and of an infinity of war-chariots filled with armour rattling over a succession of brazen vaults. I do not believe that anything more barbarous and more primitive can be met with in the kraals of the Hottentots and the encampments of the Calmucks. I took advantage of a halt to enter one of these huts. It was a wretched hovel, without any windows. It had a fireplace of unhewn stones in the centre, and a hole in the roof for the smoke to escape. The walls were of a dark brown colour, worthy of Rembrandt.

We dined at Torrequemada, a village situated on a small river which is choked up by the ruins of some old fortifications. Torrequemada is remarkable for the total absence of glass; the only window-panes to be seen there are in the parador, which, in spite of this unheard-of luxury, is nothing more nor less than a kitchen with a hole in the ceiling. After having swallowed a few garbanzos, which rattled in our stomachs like shots in a tambourine, we re-entered our box, and the steeple-chase recommenced. The coach at the back of the mules was like a saucepan tied to the tail of a tiger, and the noise it made only served to render them still more excited than they were before. A straw fire that was lighted in the middle of the road nearly caused them to set off with the bit between their teeth. They were so shy, that it was necessary for the postilions to catch hold of them by the bridle, and cover their eyes with their hands whenever another carriage was approaching them from the opposite direction. It may be taken as a general rule, that when two carriages drawn by mules meet, one of them is destined to capsize. At last, what was to happen, did happen. I was engaged in turning over in my brain the end of some hemi-stich or other, as I am accustomed to do on my travels, when I saw my companion, who was seated opposite to me, describe a rapid parabola in my direction. This strange action was followed by a severe shock and a general cracking. "Are you killed?" said my friend, finishing his curve. "Quite the contrary," I replied; "and you?" "Very slightly," was his answer. We made our way out as speedily as possible through the shattered roof of the unfortunate coach, which was shivered into a thousand pieces. It was with an infinite degree of satisfaction that, at about fifteen paces off, we beheld in a field the box of our daguerreotype, as perfect and unharmed as if it had still been in Susse's shop, engaged in producing views of the Colonnade of the Bourse. As for the mules, they had disappeared, carrying off with them, Heaven knows whither, the front part of the carriage, and the two small wheels. Our own loss was limited to a button, which flew off with the violence of the concussion, and which we were unable to find. In sober truth, it would be impossible for any one to capsize more admirably.

I never in my life saw anything so ridiculous as the mayoral lamenting over the ruins of his coach. He put the pieces together just like a child who has broken a tumbler; finding, however, that the damage was irreparable, he began swearing most awfully; he beat himself, he rolled upon the ground, and imitated all the excess of grief as represented by the ancients; the next moment he softened down, and gave free course to the most touching elegies. What grieved him most was the rose-coloured cushions, scattered in all directions, torn and covered with dirt; these cushions were evidently the most magnificent things that he, as a mayoral, could conceive, and his heart bled to see that so much splendour had for ever vanished.

After all, our situation was not over pleasant, although we were seized with a most violent fit of laughter, which was certainly rather ill-timed. Our mules had disappeared like smoke, and all that we had left was a dismantled carriage without wheels. Luckily, the venta was not far off. Some one went and procured two galeras, which came for us and our luggage. The galera (galley) most undoubtedly justifies those who gave it the name it bears. It is a cart on two or four wheels, with neither top nor bottom. A number of cords made of reeds form, in the lower portion of it, a sort of net, in which the packages and trunks are stowed. Over these is spread a mattress – a real Spanish mattress – which in no way prevents you from feeling the sharp angles of the baggage, thrown in any how beneath. The victims arrange themselves, as well as they can, on this novel instrument of torture, compared to which the gridirons of Saint Lawrence and Guatimozin are beds of roses; for on them, at least, it was possible to turn round. What would the philanthropists, who give galley-slaves post-chaises to ride in, say, if they saw the galeras to which the most innocent people in the world are condemned, when they visit Spain?

In this agreeable vehicle, completely innocent of anything like springs, we went along at the rate of four Spanish leagues, which are equal to five French leagues, an hour; just one mile an hour more than the rate attained by our best horsed mails on our best roads. Had we desired to have gone faster we must have procured English racers or hunters. Our route was diversified by a succession of steep ascents and rapid descents, down which we always rattled at a most furious gallop. All the assurance and skill for which Spanish postilions and conductors are famous was requisite to prevent our being shivered into a thousand pieces at the bottom of the various precipices; instead of capsizing merely once, we ought to have been capsizing without intermission. We were thrown from one side to the other like mice, when a person shakes them about for the purpose of stunning and killing them against the sides of the trap. Nothing but the severe beauty of the landscape could have prevented us from becoming melancholy and crooked in the back; but the lovely hills, with their austere outline, and their sober, calm tints, imparted such a distinctive character to the horizon, which was changing every moment, that they more than compensated for the jolting we got in the galera. A village, or some old convent, built like a fortress, varied the oriental simplicity of the view, which reminded us strongly of the background of Decamps's picture of "Joseph sold by his Brethren."

Dueñas, which is situated upon a hill, looks like a Turkish cemetery. The caverns, scooped out of the living rock, are supplied with air by little bell-shaped towers, which at first sight bear a singular resemblance to minarets. A Moorish-looking church completes the illusion. To our left, in the plain, we caught occasional glimpses of the canal of Castile; it is not yet completed.

At Venta de Trigueros, a most singularly beautiful rose-coloured horse was harnessed to the galera. We had given up mules. This horse fully justified the one which has been so much criticised in the "Triumph of Trajan," by Eugene Delacroix. Genius is always right. Whatever it invents, exists; and Nature imitates it in almost its most fantastic eccentricities. After crossing a road skirted by mounds and jutting buttresses, which presented a tolerably monumental appearance, we at last entered Valladolid, slightly bruised, but with our noses undamaged, and our arms still hanging to our bodies without the assistance of black pins, like the arms of a new doll. I cannot say much for our legs, in which we seemed to feel all the pins and needles that were ever manufactured in England, as well as the feet of a hundred thousand invisible ants. We alighted in a superb and scrupulously clean parador, where we were ushered into two splendid rooms, with balconies looking out upon a square, coloured matting, and walls painted in distemper, yellow and russet-green. As yet we had met with nothing which could justify the charge of uncleanliness and poverty, which travellers make against Spanish inns; we had not found any scorpions in our beds, and the promised insects had not made their appearance.

Valladolid is a large city that is almost entirely depopulated. It is capable of containing two hundred thousand souls, and the number of its inhabitants scarcely amounts to twenty thousand. It is a clean, quiet, elegant town, possessing many peculiar features that tell us we are approaching the east. The façade of San Pablo is covered with marvellous sculptures, of the commencement of the Renaissance period. Before the entrance, and arranged like posts, are granite pillars, surmounted by heraldic lions, holding in every possible position a shield with the arms of Castile upon it. Opposite this edifice is a palace of the time of Charles V., with a courtyard surrounded with extremely elegant arcades and most beautifully sculptured medallions. In this architectural gem, the government sells its ignoble salt and detestable tobacco. By a lucky chance, the façade of San Pablo is situated in a square, so that a daguerreotype view can be taken of it, which there is generally a great difficulty in doing in the case of edifices of the Middle Ages, almost always hemmed in by a heap of houses and abominable sheds; but the rain, which did not cease for a moment during our stay in Valladolid, prevented our profiting by this circumstance. Twenty minutes of sunshine, piercing the streams of rain at Burgos, had enabled us to take very clear and distinct views of the two spires of the Cathedral and a large portion of the portal; but, at Valladolid, we did not have even twenty minutes, a circumstance which we regretted all the more from the fact of the town abounding in charming specimens of architecture. The building which contains the library, and which they wish to turn into a museum, is built in the most pure and delicious style; and although certain ingenious restorers, who prefer bare boards to bas-reliefs, have scraped away the admirable arabesques in a shameful manner, there is still enough left to render the edifice a masterpiece of elegance. We would particularly direct the attention of draughtsmen to an internal balcony, which cuts the angle of a palace situated on this same Plaza de san Pablo, and forms a mirador of the most original description. The outline of the small column uniting the two arches, is peculiarly happy. According to the tradition, it was in this house that the terrible Philip II. was born. We may also mention the colossal fragment of an unfinished cathedral, of granite, by Herrara, in the style of St. Peter's at Rome. This edifice was abandoned for the Escurial, that lugubrious and fantastic production of Charles V.'s melancholy son.

In a church that was closed, we were shown a collection of pictures that had been made at the time the convents were suppressed, and taken to Valladolid in obedience to an order of the superior authorities. This collection proves those who pillaged the convents and churches to be excellent artists and admirable connoisseurs, for they left none but the most horrible daubs, the best of which would not fetch fifteen francs in a broker's shop. The Museum contains a few tolerable specimens, but nothing at all first-rate; to make up for this defect, there is a great quantity of wood carving, and a large number of ivory figures of our Saviour, but they are more remarkable for their size and antiquity than for the actual beauty of the execution. Persons who go to Spain for the sake of purchasing curiosities will be greatly disappointed; they will not find a single valuable weapon, a rare book or a manuscript. Such objects are never to be met with.

The Plaza de la Constitucion at Valladolid is very handsome and very large. It is surrounded by houses, which are supported by columns of bluish granite formed of a single block. These columns produce a fine effect. The Palace de la Constitucion is painted russet-green, and ornamented with an inscription in honour of the innocente Isabella, as the little queen is called here; it also possesses a clock which is illuminated at night, like that of the Hôtel de Ville at Paris, an innovation whereat the inhabitants seem greatly to rejoice. Under the pillars are established swarms of tailors, hatters, and shoemakers, whose callings are the three most flourishing ones in Spain. Here, too, are the principal coffee-houses, and the whole life of the population seems to be centered in this one spot. In the other parts of the town you will only meet at rare intervals some straggling individual or other, a criada going to fetch water, or a countryman driving an ass before him. This appearance of solitude is augmented still more by the large extent of ground occupied by the town, in which the squares are more numerous than the streets. The Campo Grande, near the principal gate, is surrounded by fifteen convents and could make room for a great many more.

On the evening of our arrival, the performance at the theatre consisted of a piece by Don Breton de los Herreros, a dramatic author who is greatly esteemed in Spain. This piece bore the strange title of El Pelo de la Desa, which signifies when literally translated, The Hair of the Pasturage, a proverbial expression which it is rather difficult to explain, but which answers to the French saying, "La caque sent toujours le hareng" (what is bred in the bone will never come out of the flesh). The plot of the piece turns upon the fact of an Aragonese peasant being about to marry a young girl of noble birth, but having the good sense to feel that he can never be fitted for polite society. The comicality consists in the perfect imitation of the Aragonese dialect and accent, a kind of merit that is not easily perceived by foreigners. The baile nacional, without resembling the "Dance of Death" quite as much as that at Vittoria, was but a poor affair. The next day they played Victor Hugo's Hernani, ou l'Honneur Castillan, translated by Don Eugenio de Ochoa. We took care not to neglect so fine an opportunity. The piece is rendered verse for verse with scrupulous exactitude, save some few passages and scenes which were necessarily omitted to suit the public taste. The Scene of the Portraits is reduced to nothing, because Spaniards consider it insulting, and imagine that they are indirectly ridiculed in it. There are also some passages omitted in the fifth act. In general, Spaniards feel affronted when they are spoken of in a poetical manner; they assert that they are calumniated by Victor Hugo, Mérimée, and most of the authors who have written on Spain; yes – calumniated by being represented nobler than they are. They most strenuously disavow the Spain of the Romancero and the Orientals; they almost invariably assert that they are neither poetical nor picturesque, and their assertion is, alas! but too well founded. The drama was well played. The Ruy Gomez of Valladolid was most certainly equal to that of the Rue de Richelieu, which is not saying a little. As for the Hernani, that rebelle empoisonné, he would have been highly satisfactory, had he not had the bad taste to dress himself up like the troubadour on a clock. The Doña Sol was almost as young as Mademoiselle Mars, without her talent.

The Theatre at Valladolid is of a very pleasing shape, and although the interior is only decorated with a coat of white paint, ornamented with cameos on a grey ground, it produces a pretty effect. The decorator has hit upon the strange fancy of painting the partitions of the stage-boxes, so as to resemble windows with spotted muslin curtains, exceedingly well imitated. These windows have a very singular appearance. The balcony and the front of the boxes are formed of open-work, which enables the spectator to see whether the women have small feet and well-made shoes; indeed, it also enables him to see whether they possess a neat ankle and well-fitting stocking. This, however, cannot be at all disagreeable to Spanish women, who are nearly always irreproachable in this respect. I perceived by a charming feuilleton written by my literary substitute (for the Presse penetrates even into these barbarous regions), that the boxes of the new Opéra Comique are constructed on the same plan.

Beyond Valladolid the character of the country changes, and the vast heaths recommence. They possess, however, the advantage over those of Bordeaux of being dotted with clusters of green dwarf oaks, and fir-trees that spread out more at the top, and somewhat resemble a parasol in shape. But they are marked by the same aridity, the same solitude, the same look of desolation. Here and there are scattered heaps of rubbish, pompously called villages, which have been burnt and devastated by the various contending factions; and wandering about among their ruins are seen some few inhabitants, looking tattered and miserable. The only picturesque objects are a few petticoats, of a very bright canary colour, enlivened with embroidery of various hues, representing birds and flowers.

Olmedo, where the coach stops for the passengers to dine, is completely in ruins. Whole streets are deserted, and others choked up by fallen houses, while grass grows in the squares. Like the doomed cities mentioned in Holy Writ, Olmedo will soon contain no inhabitants save the flat-headed viper, the blear-eyed owl, and the dragon of the desert, who will drag the scales of his belly over the stones of the altars. A girdle of old dismantled fortifications surrounds the place, and the charitable ivy throws its cloak of verdure over the nudity of the gutted and yawning towers. Nature endeavours to repair as well as she can the ravages committed by Time and War. The depopulation of Spain is frightful: in the time of the Moors she possessed thirty-two millions of inhabitants, and, at present, the numbers, at most, ten or eleven millions. Unless some very fortunate change takes place – a thing that is not excessively probable – or the marriages are blessed with supernatural fecundity, many towns that were once flourishing will be abandoned altogether, and their ruins of brick and clay insensibly become amalgamated with the soil which swallows up all things – cities as well as men.

In the room where we dined, a tall woman, built like a Cybele, kept walking up and down, carrying under her arm an oblong basket, covered with a piece of stuff. From this basket there issued little plaintive cries, rather like those of a very young child. I was somewhat puzzled at this, because the basket was so small that if it had contained a child the latter must have been of the most microscopic and phenomenal proportions – a Lilliputian that ought to be exhibited at fairs. It was not long before the enigma was explained. The nurse – for such she was – drew out from the basket a coffee-coloured puppy, and sitting down, very gravely suckled this new description of baby. She was a pasiega going to Madrid to take a situation, and was afraid that her supply of milk might dry up.

On leaving Olmedo, the country does not offer any great variety of scenery; the only thing worth notice that I remarked, before we reached our quarters for the night, was an admirable effect of sunset. The rays of light illuminated one side of a chain of very distant mountains, all the details of which stood out with the greatest clearness, but the portions that were plunged in shadow were almost invisible; and the sky bore a most saturnine appearance. Were a painter to transfer this effect exactly to canvas, he would be accused of exaggeration and inexactitude. On this occasion the posada was much more Spanish than any we had hitherto seen. It consisted of an immense stable surrounded by chambers with whitewashed walls, containing four or five beds each. The whole place was miserable and naked, but not dirty; the characteristic and proverbial filth did not yet make its appearance. In fact, the dining-room contained an incredible example of sumptuousness in the way of furniture, – namely, a set of engravings representing the Adventures of Telemachus, not the charming vignettes with which Célestin Nanteuil and his friend Baron, have illustrated the history of the wearisome son of Ulysses, but those horrible coloured daubs with which the Rue Saint Jacques inundates the whole world. We set off again at two in the morning, and, as soon as the first streaks of day enabled me to distinguish the different objects, I beheld a sight that I shall never forget as long as I live. We had just changed horses at a village called, I think, Santa Maria de las Nieves, and were toiling up the first ridges of the chain of mountains we had to traverse. I almost imagined I was passing through some city built by the Cyclops. Immense blocks of sandstone, that assumed all sorts of architectural shapes, rose up on all sides, their outlines standing out upon the background of the sky like so many fantastic Towers of Babel. In one place, a flat stone that had fallen across two other rocks bore a most astonishing resemblance to the peulven or dolmen of the Druids; further on, a series of lofty fragments, shaped like the shafts of columns, represented porticoes and propylæa; in another place, you saw nothing but a chaos – an ocean of sandstone suddenly frozen when in a state of the utmost fury. The bluish-grey of these rocks augmented still more the singularity of the view, while, at every moment, from out the interstices of the stone there gushed forth, in the shape of drizzling vapour, or trickled down like tears of crystal, numerous mountain springs. But what particularly enchanted me was the snow which had melted and run into the hollows, forming little lakes, bordered with emerald-coloured grass, or framed in a circle of silver, composed of snow which had resisted the action of the sun. Pillars raised at certain distances, and serving to direct the traveller when the snow throws its perfidious mantle over the right road and the precipices, gave the scene a sort of monumental appearance. The torrents foam and roar in every direction; the road passes over them by means of the bridges of uncemented stone so frequent in Spain, and which you meet at every step you take.

The mountains continued to tower higher and higher, and when we had ascended one, another, which we had not before seen, rose up before us. The mules were no longer equal to their task, and we were under the necessity of procuring a team of oxen, which gave us an opportunity of alighting, and performing the rest of the ascent on foot. I was actually intoxicated with the pure bracing air; I felt so light, so joyous, so full of enthusiasm, that I cried out and capered about like a young goat. I experienced a desire to throw myself down all the charming precipices, that looked so azure, so vapoury, and so velvet-like. I wished to be carried away by the cascades, to dip my feet in all the springs, to pluck a leaf from every fir, to roll myself in the glittering snow, to be mixed up with all the objects around, and melt like an atom in the immensity before me.

The lofty mountain crests glistened and sparkled in the sun, like the skirt of a dancing-girl's robe under its shower of silver spangles; others, again, had their peaks surrounded by clouds, and merged imperceptibly into the sky, for nothing resembles a mountain so much as a cloud. The whole view was composed of one succession of precipices and undulations. It is beyond the power of art, whether of the pen or the pencil, to convey an adequate idea of their different colours and forms. Mountains realize all that the imagination can picture of them, and this is no small praise. The only difference between the reality and the idea we form of it, arises from the fact of our fancying mountains look larger than they do. We are only aware of their enormous size by comparison. On gazing attentively, you perceive that what, at a distance, you took for a blade of grass, is a fir-tree sixty feet high.

At the turn of a bridge, admirably adapted for an ambuscade of brigands, we beheld a small column surmounted by a cross. It was erected to the memory of a poor devil who had ended his days in this narrow pass, in consequence of his having fallen a victim to manoairada (violent death). From time to time we met travelling maragatos, in their costume of the sixteenth century, which consists of a tight-fitting leathern doublet, fastened with a buckle, wide breeches, and a broad-brimmed hat. We also met several Valencianos, with their white linen drawers, like the robes of the Klephts, their handkerchief twisted about their head, their white gaiters bordered with blue, and without feet, after the fashion of the antique Knemis, and their long piece of cloth (capa de muestra), crossed diagonally by bright-coloured stripes, and draped over their shoulders in a very elegant manner. All that we could perceive of their flesh was as tawny as Florentine bronze. Then, again, we saw strings of mules, caparisoned in the most charming fashion, with bells and party-coloured fringe and housings, while their arrieros were armed with carbines. We were enchanted, for we had found an abundant supply of the picturesque of which we were in search.

The higher we ascended, the thicker and broader became the strips of snow; but a single sunbeam made the mountains stream with water, like a woman laughing in the midst of her tears; on every side little brooks, scattered about like the dishevelled tresses of some Naïad, and clearer than crystal, forced their way downwards. By dint of climbing, we reached the summit of the range, and seated ourselves on the plinth of a large granite lion, which is situated on the further side of the mountain, and marks the boundary of Old Castile; beyond this lion the province of New Castile commences.

We took a fancy to cull a delicious red flower, whose botanical name I do not know, and which was growing in the fissures of the mountain. This necessitated our clambering up on a rock, which is said to be the place where Philip II. used to sit to see how the works of the Escurial were advancing. Either the tradition is apocryphal, or Philip II. must have possessed most astoundingly good eyes.

The coach, which had been toiling up the precipitous steeps, at last rejoined us once more. The oxen were unyoked, and we descended the declivity in a gallop. We stopped to dine at Guadarrama, a little village crouched at the foot of the mountain. The only ornament of which it can boast is a granite fountain, erected by Philip II. At this place, by a strange reversion of the natural order of dinners, goats' milk soup was served up as dessert.

Madrid, like Rome, is surrounded by a desert; it is impossible to convey an idea of its aridity and desolation. There is not a tree, a drop of water, a green plant, or the least appearance of humidity; nothing but yellow sand and iron-grey rocks; and when you leave the mountain, you do not find even rocks, but large stones. From time to time you perceive a dusty venta, a cork-coloured spire, just showing its nose on the horizon, large melancholy-looking oxen dragging along one of the cars we have already described; a countryman on horseback, or on a mule, with a fierce expression of face, a carbine at his saddle-bow, and a sombrero slouched over his eyes, or long strings of whity-brown asses, carrying chopped straw, which is corded up with a network of small ropes, and that is all. The ass which walks first, the coronel, has always a small feather or rosette, indicating his superiority in the hierarchy of the long-eared tribe.

At the expiration of a few hours, which our impatience to reach our destination caused to appear still longer than they really were, we at last perceived Madrid with tolerable distinctness. A few minutes afterwards we entered the Spanish capital by the Puerta de Hierro, and drove along an avenue planted with dwarf pollards and bordered by small brick towers which serve to raise water. Talking of water, although the transition is not very well timed, I forgot to mention that we crossed the Manzanares by means of a bridge that was worthy of a river of a more serious description; we then passed by the Queen's Palace, one of those edifices which people are pleased to designate as tasty. The immense terraces on which it is raised give it rather a grand appearance.