CHAPTER VIII.
SARAGOSSA AND BURGOS.
The ship’s company of the American Prince departed from Barcelona at three o’clock in the afternoon, for Saragossa, or Zaragoza as the Spaniards spell it. At first the route was through a beautiful and highly cultivated country, and then into the mountains. By five o’clock it was too dark to see the landscape; and the students, tired after the labors of the day, were disposed to settle themselves into the easiest positions they could find, and many of them went to sleep.
At Manresa the train stopped for supper, which was all ready for the students when they arrived, Mr. Lowington had employed four experienced couriers for the double tour across the peninsula. One was to precede each of the two parties to engage accommodations, and make terms with landlords, railroad agents, and others; and one was to attend each party to render such service as might be required of him. The journeys were all arranged beforehand, so that trains were to have extra cars, and meals were to be ready at stations and hotels.
The train arrived at Saragossa just before four o’clock in the morning. The cars, or carriages as they are called in Europe, were precisely like those in use in England. Only six persons were put in each compartment; and the boys contrived various plans to obtain comfortable positions for sleeping. Some of them spread their overcoats on the floor for beds, using their bags for pillows; and others made couches on the seats. Most of them were able to sleep the greater part of the night. But the Fonda del Universo was prepared for their reception, and they were glad enough to turn into the fifty beds ready for them.
At nine o’clock all hands were piped to breakfast. The meal was served in courses, and was essentially French. Some of the waiters spoke French; but there was really no need of saying any thing, for each dish of the bill of fare was presented to every person at the table. After the meal, the students were assembled in the large reading-room,—the hotel had been recently built,—and Professor Mapps was called upon by the principal to say something about Saragossa, in order that the tourists might know a little of the history of the place they were visiting. The instructor took a convenient position, and began his remarks:—
“The old monks used to write history something after the manner of the Knickerbocker’s History of New York; and they put it on record that Saragossa was founded by Tubal, nephew of Noah; but you will not believe this. The city probably originated with the Phoenicians, and was a place of great importance in the time of Julius Cæsar, who saw its military value as commanding the passage of the Ebro, and built a wall around it. It was captured by the Suevi in 452, and taken from them by the Goths fourteen years later. In the eighth century the Moors obtained possession of the city, and held it till the twelfth, when it was conquered by Alfonso of Aragon. It contains many relics of the Roman and Moorish works.
“Saragossa has been the scene of several noted sieges, the most famous of which was that of 1808, when the French captured the place after the most desperate resistance on the part of the Aragonese. The brave defenders of the city had no regular military organization, and were ill-provided with arms and ammunition. The people chose for a leader a young man whose name was Palafox: he was as brave as a lion, but not versed in military science. The siege lasted sixty-two days, and the fighting was almost incessant. It was ‘war to the knife’ on the part of the Aragonese, and they rejected all overtures to surrender. Famine made fearful havoc among them, and every house was a hospital. Even the priests and the women joined in the strife. I dare say you have all heard of the ‘Maid of Saragossa,’ who is represented in pictures as a young woman assisting in working a gun in the battle. Her name was Augustina; and she was a very pretty girl of twenty-two. Her lover was a cannonneer, and she fought by his side. When he was mortally wounded, she worked the gun herself. You will find something about her in ‘Childe Harold.’
“At length the French got into the town; but the conflict was not finished, for the people fought for twenty-one days more in the streets. Fifteen thousand were either dead or dying when the French entered the city. At last the authorities agreed to surrender, but only on the most honorable terms. It has been estimated, that, out of a population of one hundred and fifty thousand, fifty-four thousand perished in battle or by famine and pestilence.”
After these brief remarks, the party separated, and divided up into small squads to see the city as they pleased. As usual, Captain Sheridan and Murray joined themselves to Dr. Winstock, who was as much at home in Saragossa as he was in Paris.
“You will find that this city is thoroughly Spanish; and doubtless you will see some of the native costumes,” said the doctor, as they left the hotel.
“But this hotel is as much French as though it were in France,” added Murray, who desired when in Spain to do as the Spaniards did, so as to learn what they do.
“That is very true; but we shall come to the true Spanish hotel in due time, and I have no doubt you will get enough of it in a very short time,” laughed Dr. Winstock. “There are three classes of hotels in Spain, though at the present time they are all about the same thing. A fonda is a regular hotel; a posada is the tavern of the smaller country towns; and a venta is a still lower grade of inn. A drinking-shop, which we sometimes call a ‘saloon’ in the United States, is a ventorro or a ventorillo; and a taberna is a place where smoking and wine-drinking are the business of their frequenters. A parador is a hotel where the diligences stop for meals, and may also be a fonda.”
“A fonda is a hotel,” said Sheridan; “and we may not be able to remember any more than that.”
“When you see the names I have given you on the signs, you will understand what they mean. But our business now is to see this city. Like Barcelona, it has one principal wide street extending through the middle of it: all the other avenues are nothing more than lanes, very narrow and very dirty. It is on the Ebro, and has a population of some eighty thousand people.”
“How happens it that this place is not colder? It is in about the same latitude as New York City; and now, in the month of December, it is comfortably warm,” said Sheridan.
“These valleys have a mild climate; and the vine and olive are their principal productions. It is not so on the high table-land in the centre of Spain. At Madrid, for instance, the weather will be found to be quite cold at this time. The weather is so bitter there sometimes that the sentinels on guard have to be changed every quarter of an hour, as they are in danger of being frozen to death.”
The party walked first to the great square, in the centre of which is a public fountain. They paused to look at the people. Most of the men wore some kind of a mantle or cloak. This garment was sometimes the Spanish circular cloak, worn with a style and grace that the Spaniard alone can attain. That of the poorer class was often nothing but a striped blanket, which, however, they slung about them with no little of the air of those who wore better garments. They were generally tall, muscular, but rather bony fellows, with an expression as solemn as though they were doing duty at a funeral. Some of them wore the broad-brimmed sombrero; some had handkerchiefs wound around their heads, like turbans; and others sported the ordinary hat or cap.
The party could not help laughing when they saw, for the first time, a priest wearing a hat which extended fore and aft at least three feet, with the sides rolled up close to the body. Everybody was dignified, and moved about at a funeral pace.
At the fountain women and girls were filling the jars of odd shape with water, and bearing them away poised on one of their hips or on the head. Several donkeys were standing near, upon which their owners were loading the sacks of water they had filled.
“Bags of water!” exclaimed Murray.
“They do not call them bags, but skins,” said the doctor. “You can see the legs and neck of the animal, which are very convenient in handling them. These skins are more easily transported on the backs of the donkeys than barrels, kegs, or jars could be. Many kinds of wine are transported in these skins, which could hardly be carried on the back of an animal in any other way. Except a few great highways, Spain is not provided with roads. In some places, when you ride in a carriage, you will take to the open fields; and very rough indeed they are sometimes.”
The party proceeded on their walk, and soon reached the Cathedral of San Salvador, generally called El Seo; a term as applicable to any other cathedral in Aragon as to this one. It is a sombre old structure: a part of it is said to have been built in the year 290; and pious people have been building it till within three hundred and fifty years of the present time. There are some grand monuments in it; among them that of Arbues, who was assassinated for carrying out the decrees of the Inquisition. The people of Aragon did not take kindly to this institution; but the murder was terribly avenged, and the Inquisition established its authority in the midst of the tumult it had excited. Murillo, the great Spanish painter, made the assassination of Arbues the subject of one of his principal pictures.
Saragossa has two cathedrals, the second of which is called El Pilar, because it contains the very pillar on which the Virgin landed when she came down from heaven in one of her visits to Spain. It appears that St. James—Santiago in Spanish—came to Spain after the crucifixion of the Saviour, in the year 40, to preach the gospel to the natives. When he had got as far as Saragossa, he was naturally tired, and went to sleep. In this state the Virgin came to him with a message from the Saviour, requiring him to build a chapel in honor of herself. She stood on a jasper pillar, and was attended by a multitude of angels. St. James obeyed the command of the heavenly visitor, and erected a small chapel, only sixteen feet long and half as wide, where the Virgin often attended public worship in subsequent years. On this spot, and over the original chapel, was built the present church. On the pillar stands a dingy image of the Virgin, which is said to be from the studio of St. Luke, who appears to have been both a painter and a sculptor. It is clothed in the richest velvet, brocade, and satin, and is spangled with gold and diamonds. It cures all diseases to which flesh is heir; for which the grateful persons thus healed have bestowed the most costly presents. It is little less than sacrilege to express any disbelief in this story of the Virgin, or in the miracles achieved by the image.
Dr. Winstock and his young companions went from the churches, to take a walk in the older part of the city. The narrow streets reminded them of Constantinople, while many of the buildings were similar, the upper part projecting out over the street. The balconies were shaded with mats, like the parti-colored draperies that hang from the windows in Naples. Many of the houses were of the Moorish fashion, with the patio, or court-yard, in the centre, with galleries around it, from which admission to the various apartments is obtained. Saragossa has a leaning tower built of brick, which was the campanile, or belfry, of the town.
The party of the surgeon spent the rest of the day in a walk through the surrounding country, crossing the Ebro to the suburb of the city. Near the bridge they met a couple of ladies who wore the mantilla, a kind of veil worn as a head-dress, instead of the bonnet, which is a part of the national costume of Spain. All over Spain this fashion prevails, though of course the modes of Paris are adopted by the most fashionable ladies of the capital and other cities.
At four o’clock the ship’s company dined at the hotel, and then wandered about the city at will till dark. They were advised to retire at an early hour, and most of them did so. They were called at half-past four in the morning, and at six were on the train. At half-past eight they were at Tudela, the head of navigation on the Ebro. At quarter past one they were at Miranda, on the line from Bayonne to Madrid, where dinner was waiting for them. This meal was decidedly Spanish, though it was served in courses. The soup was odorous of garlic, which is the especial vice of Spanish cookery to those who have an aversion to it. Then came the national dish, the olla podrida, a kind of stew made of every kind of meat and every kind of vegetable, not omitting a profusion of garlic. Some of the students declared that it was “first-rate.” A few did not like it at all, and more were willing to tolerate it. We do not consider it “bad to take.” The next dish was calves’ brains fried in batter, which is not national, but is oftener had at the hotels than olla podrida. The next course was mutton chops, followed by roast chicken, with a salad. The dessert was fruit and raisins. On the table was plenty of Val de Peñas wine, which the students were forbidden to taste.
At half-past two the tourists departed, and at twenty minutes to six arrived in the darkness at Burgos. The port watch went to the Fonda del Norte, and the starboard to the Fonda Rafaela. The doctor and the captain were at the latter, and it was more like the inns of Don Quixote’s time than any that Sheridan had seen. It had no public room except the comedor, or dining-room. The hotel seemed to be a number of buildings thrown together around a court-yard, on one side of which was the stable. Sheridan and Murray were shown to a room with six other students, but the apartment contained four beds. It was large enough for four more, being not less than thirty feet long, and half as wide. It was comfortably furnished, and every thing about it was clean and neat. The establishment was not unlike an old-fashioned country tavern in New England.
Dinner, or, as the students called it, supper, was served at six o’clock. The meal was Spanish, being about the same as the one they had taken at Miranda. Instead of the olla podrida was a kind of stew, which in the days of Gil Blas would have been called a ragout.
“This isn’t a bad dinner,” said Murray, when they had finished the third course.
“It is a very good one, I think,” replied Sheridan.
“I have been reading books of travel in Spain for the last two weeks, most of them written by Englishmen; and I had come to the conclusion that we should be starved to death if we left the ship for more than a day or two. The writers found a great deal of fault with their food, and growled about garlic. I rather like garlic.”
“The doctor says the English are very much given to grumbling about every thing,” added Sheridan. “I don’t think we shall starve if we are fed as well as we have been so far.”
“Our room is as good as we have found in most of the hotels in other countries. So far, the trains on the railroads have been on time instead of an hour late, as one writer declared they always were.”
“If one insists upon growling, it is easy enough to find something to growl at.”
In the evening some of the party strolled about town, but it was as quiet as a tomb; for the rule in Spain is, “Early to bed, and late to rise.” But the students were out of bed in good time in the morning, and taking a view of the city. They found a very pretty promenade along the little river Arlanzon, whose waters find their way into the Duero; and at a considerable distance from it obtained a fine view of the great cathedral. It is impossible to obtain any just view of it, except at a distance, on account of the mass of buildings which are huddled around it, and close to it. But the vast church towers above them all, and presents to the eye a forest of spires great and small. Near the river, in an irregular plaza, is an old gateway, which is quite picturesque. The structure looks like a castle, with round towers at the corners, and circular turrets. On the front are a number of figures carved in stone.
Breakfast was served at half-past ten, and dinner at six, at the Fonda; but special tables were set for the students at more convenient hours. A Spanish meal could not be agreeable to nice and refined American people. The men often sit with their hats on, and between the courses smoke a cigarette, or cigarillo in Spanish. They converse in an energetic tone, but are polite if addressed, though they mind their own business severely, and seem to be devoid of curiosity—or at least are too dignified to stare—in regard to strangers. The food is very odorous of onions and garlic, and in the smaller inns consists largely of stews or ragouts, generally of mutton or kidneys. New cheese, not pressed, is sometimes an item of the bill of fare. Val de Pañas wine is furnished free all over Spain at the table d’hote; but it always tastes of the skins in which it is transported, and most Americans who partake of it think it is poor stuff. Great quantities of it are exported to Bordeaux, where it is manufactured into claret.
After breakfast, the students were assembled to enable Professor Mapps to tell them something about the history of the city, to which he added a very full account of the Cid. Of his remarks we can give only an abstract.
Burgos is one of the most famous cities of Castile, of which it was at one time the capital. The name comes from the same word as “Burg,” and means a fortified eminence; and such it is, being on the watershed between the basins of the Ebro and the Duero. It was founded in 884 by a Castilian knight. It was the birthplace of Ferdinand Gonzales, who first took the title of Count of Castile, shook off the yoke of Leon, and established the kingdom of Castile. The city is on the direct line to Madrid from Paris. The French captured the place in 1808; and it was twice besieged and taken by the Duke of Wellington in the peninsular war.
The Cid is the popular hero of Spain, and especially of the people of Burgos. He was the King Arthur of Spain, and there is about as much romance in his history as in that of the British demigod. The Cid Campeador, “knight champion,” was born about 1040, and died when he was not much over fifty. His name was Rodrigo Ruy Diaz; and his marvellous exploits are set forth in the “Poem of the Cid,” believed to have been written in the twelfth century. It is the oldest poem in the Spanish language. His first great deed was to meet the Count Gomez, who had grossly insulted the Cid’s aged father, in a fair fight in the field, and utterly vanquish him, cutting off his head. The old man was unable to eat from brooding over his wrong; but, when Ruy appeared with the head of the slain count, his appetite was restored. By some he is said to have married Ximena, the daughter of his dead adversary. Great was the fame of the Cid’s prowess after this exploit. Shortly after this event, five Moorish kings, with a powerful force, entered Castile; and the Cid roused the country to oppose their progress, and fell upon the enemy, routing the five kings with great slaughter, and making all of them his prisoners. Then he fought for King Ferdinand against the Aragonese, and won all that was in dispute. When France demanded the homage of his king, he entered that country, and won a victory which settled the question of homage for all time. After this event he did considerable domestic fighting when Castile was divided among the sons of the dead sovereign; and was finally banished by the new king. He departed with his knights and men-at-arms, and took up a strong position in the territory of the Moors, where he made war, right and left, with all the kingdoms of the peninsula except his own country, which he had the grace to except in his conquests. He took Valencia, where he seems to have established himself. His last exploit in the flesh was the capture of Murviedro. Then he died, and was buried in Valencia.
Now that the Cid, who had been the scourge of the Moors, was dead, the Christians could no longer hold out against the infidels, and were in danger of losing what they had gained. In this emergency they clothed the corpse of the dead hero in armor, and fastened it on his war-steed, placing his famous sword in his hand. Thus equipped for battle, the dead Cid was led into the field in the midst of the soldiers. The very sight of him struck terror to the hearts of the Moslems, and the defunct warrior won yet another battle. He was marched through the land, the enemy fleeing before him in every direction, to Burgos. He seems not to have been buried when he got there, but was embalmed and placed in a chair of state, where he went into the business of working miracles. His long white beard fell upon his breast, his sword was at his side, and he seemed to be alive rather than dead. One day a Jew, out of bravado, attempted to take hold of his venerable beard, when the Cid began to draw his sword, whereat the Jew was so frightened that he fainted away. When he recovered he at once became a Christian. The Cid was a fiery man, and did not hesitate to slap the face of a king or the pope, if he was angry. Even after he was dead, and sitting in his chair, he sometimes lost his temper; and Ximine found it expedient to bury him, in order to keep him out of trouble.
The students went to the cathedral first. It is a vast pile of buildings, and is considered one of the finest churches in Europe. There is an immense amount of fine and delicate work about it, which cannot be described. The dome is so beautiful that Philip II. said it was the work of angels rather than men. The choir is quite a lofty enclosure, which obstructs the view from the pavement. The archbishop’s palace, and the cloister, on one side, seem to be a part of the church. It contains, as usual, a great many chapels, each of which has its own treasures of art or antiquity. In one of them is the famous Christ of Burgos, which is said to have been made by Nicodemus after he and Joseph of Arimathea had buried the Saviour. As usual, it was found in a box floating in the sea. The hair, beard, eyelashes, and the thorns, are all real; and a French writer says the skin of the figure is human. The image works miracles without number, sweats on Friday, and even bleeds at times; and is held in the highest veneration by the people.
In another chapel is the coffer of the Cid, an old worm-eaten chest bound with iron. When the champion was banished by the king, as he wanted to go off with flying colors, and was in need of a large sum of money, he filled this chest with sand and stones, and, without allowing them to look into it, assured a couple of rich Jews that it was full of gold and jewels. They took his word for it (strange as such a transaction would be in modern times), and loaned the money he needed. When he had captured Valencia, he paid the loan, and exposed the cheat he had put upon them. Of course they were willing to forgive him after he had paid the money.
The next point of interest with the students was the town hall, where they were permitted to look upon the bones of the Cid and his wife, which are kept in a box, with a wire screen over them to prevent any heathen from stealing them. The bones are all mixed up, and no one can tell which belong to the Cid and which to his wife.
At noon Dr. Winstock procured an antiquated carriage at the hotel stable, and took Sheridan and Murray out into the country. After a ride of a couple of miles they reached Miraflores, which is a convent founded by John II., and finished by Isabella I. Its church contains the royal tomb in which John II. is buried, and is one of the finest things of the kind in the world, the sculpture being of the most delicate character. Several other Castilian kings are buried in this place.
The little party took the carriage again, intending to visit the Monastery of San Pedro de Cardeña. There was no road, only an ill-defined track across the fields; and very rough fields they were, covered with rocks so thick that the vehicle often had to pass over many of them. The passengers were terribly shaken up. On the way they occasionally met a peasant riding on or leading a mule or donkey loaded with various commodities carried in panniers. They were interesting as a study.
San Pedro is nothing but a ruin. It was established in the fifth century; and in the ninth the Moors destroyed the edifice, and killed two hundred monks who lived in it. It was rebuilt; and, being the favorite convent of the Cid, he requested that he might be buried in it. The monument is in a side chapel, and looks as though it had been whitewashed at no very remote period. The doctor read the inscription on the empty tomb. A dirty peasant who joined the party as soon as they got out the carriage followed them at every step, almost looking into their mouths when they spoke.
When the party started to return, things began to be very lively with them. First Sheridan rubbed his legs; then Murray did so; and before long the doctor joined in the recreation.
“What’s the matter?” asked the surgeon, laughing.
“I don’t know; but my legs feel as though I had an attack of the seven-years’ itch,” replied the captain with a vigorous attempt to reach and conquer the difficulty.
“That’s just my case,” added Murray, with an equally violent demonstration.
“I don’t understand it,” continued the captain.
“I do,” answered the surgeon, vigorously rubbing one of his legs.
“What is it?” asked Sheridan, suspecting that they all had some strange disease.
“Cosas de España,” laughed the doctor.
“But that is Spanish; and I don’t understand the lingo.”
“A cosa de España is a ‘thing of Spain;’ fleas are things of Spain; and that is what is the matter with you and me. The lining of this carriage has been repaired by covering it in part with cloth with a long nap, which is alive with fleas.”
“The wicked flea!” exclaimed Murray.
“He goeth about in Spain, seeking whom he may devour,” added the doctor.
When they reached the hotel, supper was ready; but they did not want any just then, for no one feels hungry while a myriad of fleas are picking his bones. Garments were taken off, and brushed on the inside; the skin was washed with cologne-water; and the party were happy till they took in a new supply.
At about eleven at night, the ship’s company took the train south, and at quarter past eight the next morning were at El Escorial.