CHAPTER XVII.
THROUGH THE HEART OF SPAIN.
Bill Stout concluded that he was not a success as a tourist in Spain; but he was confident that he should succeed better in England. He resolved to be a good boy till the excursionists arrived in Lisbon, and not make any attempt to escape; for it was not likely that he could accomplish his purpose. Besides, he had no taste for any more travelling in Spain. In fact, he had a dread of being cast upon his own resources in the interior, where he could not speak the language.
“Do you know what country you are in?” asked Dr. Winstock, who sat opposite his pupils, as he had come to call them.
“I reckon you’d know if you had seen it as I have,” interposed Bill Stout, who had a seat next to Murray, with a broad grin at the absurdity of the question. “It is Spain,—the meanest country on the face of the earth.”
“So you think, Stout; but you have had a rather hard experience of it,” replied the doctor. “We have had a very good time since we left Barcelona.”
“I suppose you know the lingo; and that makes all the difference in the world,” added Bill.
“When I spoke of country, I referred to a province,” continued Dr. Winstock.
“This is La Mancha,” answered Sheridan.
“The country of Don Quixote,” added the doctor.
“I saw a statue of Cervantes at Madrid, and I heard one of the fellows say he was the author of ‘Don Juan,’” laughed Murray.
“Cervantes wrote the first part at Valladolid, and it produced a tremendous sensation. I suppose you have read it.”
“I never did,” replied Bill Stout, who counted himself in as one of the party. “Is it a good story?”
“It is so considered by those who are competent judges.”
“I read it years ago,” added Sheridan.
“It is said to be a take-off on the knights of Spain,” said Murray. “Is that so?”
“I don’t think that was his sole idea in writing the book; or, if it was, he enlarged upon his plan. He was a literary man, with some reputation, before he wrote Don Quixote; and he probably selected the most popular subject he could find, and it grew upon him as he proceeded. Sancho Panza is a representative of homely common-sense, unaided by any imagination, while his master is full of it. He is used, in the first part of the story, to act as a contrast to the extravagant Don; and in this part of the work he does not use any of the proverbs which is the staple of the typical Spaniard’s talk. The introduction of this feature of Sancho’s talk was a new idea to the author.”
“I suppose Cervantes was born and lived in La Mancha,” said Murray.
“Not at all: he was born near Madrid, at Alcala de Henares. He was a soldier in the early years of his life. He fought in the battle of Lepanto, under Don John. At one time he was a sort of custom-house officer in Seville; but he got into debt, and was imprisoned for three months, during which time he is said to have been engaged in his great work. He was also a prisoner in Algiers five years; and ten times he risked his life in attempts to escape. He finally died in neglect, poverty, and want.”
“Then this is where Don Quixote tilted at windmills,” said Murray, looking out at the window; “and there is one of them.”
“It is not in every province of Spain that the Don could have found a windmill to tilt at,” added the doctor.
About eight o’clock the train stopped for breakfast, which the avant-courier had ordered.
“This is a vine and olive country,” said the doctor, when the train was again in motion.
“Shall we have a chance to see how they make the oil and how they make wine?” asked Sheridan.
“You will have a chance to see how it is done; but you will not be able to see it done at this season of the year. There is an olive-orchard,” continued the doctor, pointing out of the window.
“The trees look like willows; and I should think they were willows.”
“They are not. These trees last a great number of years,—some say, hundreds.”
“There are some which look as though they were planted by Noah after he left the ark. They are ugly-looking trees,” added Murray.
“The people do not plant them for their beauty, but for the fruit they yield. You see they are in regular rows, like an apple-orchard at home. They start the trees from slips, which are cut off in January. The end of the slip is quartered with a knife, and a small stone put into the end to separate the parts, and the slip stuck into the ground. The earth is banked up around the plant, which has to be watered and tenderly cared for during the first two years of its growth. In ten years these trees yield some returns; but they are not at their best estate till they are thirty years old. The olives we eat”—
“I never eat them,” interrupted Murray, shaking his head.
“It is an acquired taste; but those who do like them are usually very fond of them. The olive which comes in jars for table use is picked before it is quite ripe, but when full grown; and it is pickled for a week in a brine made of water, salt, garlic, and some other ingredients. The best come from the neighborhood of Seville.”
“But I don’t see how they make the oil out of the olive. It don’t seem as though there is any grease in it,” said Sheridan.
“The berry is picked for the manufacture of oil when it is ripe, and is then of a purple color. It is gathered in the autumn; and I have seen the peasants beating the trees with sticks, while the women and children were picking up the olives on the ground. The women drive the donkeys to the mill, bearing the berries in the panniers. The olives are crushed on a big stone hollowed out for the purpose, by passing a stone roller over them, which is moved by a mule. The pulp is then placed in a press not unlike that you have seen in a cider-mill. The oil flows out into a reservoir under the press, from which it is bailed into jars big enough to contain a man: these jars are sunk in the ground to keep them cool. The mass left in the press after the oil is extracted is used to feed the hogs, or for fuel.”
“And is that the stuff they put in the casters?” asked Murray, with his nose turned up in disgust.
“That is certainly olive-oil,” replied the doctor. “You look as though you did not like it.”
“I do not: I should as soon think of eating lamp-oil.”
“Every one to his taste, lieutenant; but I have no doubt you have eaten a great deal of it since you came into Spain,” laughed the doctor.
“Not if I knew it!”
“You did not know it; but you have had it on your beefsteaks and mutton-chops, as well as in the various made-dishes you have partaken of. Spanish oil is not so pure and good as the Italian. Lucca oil has the best reputation. A poorer quality of oil is made here, which is used in making soap.”
“Castile soap?”
“Yes; and all kinds of oils are used for soap.”
“How do they fresco it?” asked Murray.
“Fresco it! They give it the marble look by putting coloring matter, mixed with oil, into the mass of soap before it is moulded into bars. What place is this?” said the doctor, as the train stopped.
“Almaden,” replied Sheridan, reading the sign on the station.
“I thought so, for I spent a couple of days here. Do you know what it is famous for?”
“I don’t think I ever heard the name of the place before,” replied Sheridan.
“It contains the greatest mine of quicksilver in the world,” added the doctor. “It was worked in the time of the Romans, and is still deemed inexhaustible. Four thousand men are employed here during the winter, for they cannot labor in the summer because the heat renders it too unhealthy. The men can work only six hours at a time; and many of them are salivated and paralyzed by the vapors of the mercury.”
“Is this the same stuff the doctors use?” asked Murray.
“It is; but it is prepared especially for the purpose. These mines yield the government of Spain a revenue of nearly a million dollars a year.”
The country through which the tourists passed was not highly cultivated, except near the towns. On the way they saw a man ploughing-in his grain, and the implement seemed to be a wooden one. But every thing in the agricultural line was of the most primitive kind. In another place they saw a farmer at work miles from his house, for there was no village within that distance. Though there is not a fence to be seen, every man knows his own boundary-lines. In going to his day’s work, he may have to go several miles, taking his plough and other tools in a cart; and probably he wastes half his day in going to and from his work. But the Spanish peasant is an easy-going fellow, and he does not go very early, or stay very late. Often in the morning and in the middle of the afternoon our travellers saw them going to or coming from their work in this manner.
“Now we are out of La Mancha,” said the doctor, half an hour after the train left Almaden.
“And what are we in now, sir?” asked Murray.
“We are in the province of Cordova, which is a part of Andalusia. But we only go through a corner of Cordova, and then we strike into Estremadura.”
In the afternoon the country looked better, though the people and the houses seemed to be very poor. The country looked better; but it was only better than the region near Madrid, and, compared with France or Italy, it was desolation. The effects of the mesta were clearly visible.
“Medellin,” said Murray, when he had spelled out the word on a station where the train stopped about half-past two.
“Do you know the place?” asked Dr. Winstock.
“Never heard of it.”
“Yet it has some connection with the history of the New World. It is mentioned in Prescott’s ‘Conquest of Mexico.’”
“I have read that, but I do not remember this name.”
“It is the birthplace of Hernando Cortes; and in Trujillo, a town forty miles north of us, was born another adventurer whose name figures on the glowing page of Prescott,” added the doctor.
“That was Pizarro,” said Sheridan. “I remember he was born at—what did you call the place, doctor?”
“Trujillo.”
“But in Prescott it is spelled with an x where you put an h.”
“It is the same thing in Spanish, whether you spell it with an x or j. It is a strong aspirate, like h, but is pronounced with a rougher breathing sound. Loja and Loxa are the same word,” explained the doctor. “So you will find Cordova spelled with a b instead of a v; but the letters have the same power in Spanish.”
“What river is this on the right?” inquired Murray.
“That is the Guadiana.”
“And where are its eyes, of which Professor Mapps spoke in his lecture?”
“We passed them in the night, and also went over the underground river,” replied the doctor. “The region through which we are now passing was more densely peopled in the days when it was a part of the Roman empire than it is now. Without doubt the same is true of the period of the Moorish dominion. After America was discovered, and colonization began, vast numbers of emigrants went from Estremadura. In the time of Philip II. the country began to run down; and one of the reasons was the emigration to America. About four o’clock we shall arrive at Merida,” added the doctor, looking at his watch.
“What is there at Merida?”
“There is a great deal for the antiquarian and the student of history. You must be on the lookout for it, for there are many things to be seen from the window of the car,” continued the doctor. “It was the capital of Lusitania, and was called Emerita Augusta, from the first word of which title comes the present name. The river there is crossed by a Roman bridge twenty-five hundred and seventy-five feet long, twenty-five wide, and thirty-three above the stream. The city was surrounded by six leagues of walls, having eighty-four gates, and had a garrison of eighty thousand foot and ten thousand horsemen. The ruins of aqueducts, temples, forum, circus, and other structures, are still to be seen; some of them, as I said, from the train.”
Unfortunately the train passed the portion of the ruins of the ancient city to be seen from the window, so rapidly that only a glance at them could be obtained; but perhaps most of the students saw all they desired of them. An hour and a half later the train arrived at Badajos, where they were to spend the night, and thence proceed to Lisbon the next morning. Each individual of the ship’s company had been provided with a ticket; and it was called for in the station before he was permitted to pass out of the building. As soon as they appeared in the open air, they were assailed by a small army of omnibus-drivers; but fortunately, as the town was nearly two miles from the station, there were enough for all of them. These men actually fought together for the passengers, and behaved as badly as New York hackmen. Though all the vehicles at the station were loaded as full as they could be stowed, there was not room for more than half of the party.
The doctor and his pupils preferred to walk. In Madrid, the principal had received a letter from the avant-courier; informing him how many persons could be accommodated in each of the hotels; and all the excursionists had been assigned to their quarters.
“We go to the Fonda las Tres Naciones,” said the doctor as they left the station. “I went there when I was here before. Those drivers fought for me as they did to-day; and with some reason, for I was the only passenger. I selected one, and told him to take me to the Fonda de las cuatro Naciones; and he laughed as though I had made a good joke. I made it ‘Four Nations’ instead of ‘Three.’ Here is the bridge over the Guadiana, built by the same architect as the Escurial.”
“What is there in this place to see?” asked Sheridan.
“Nothing at all; but it is an out-of-the-way old Spanish town seldom mentioned by tourists.”
“I have not found it in a single book I have read, except the guide-books; and all these have to say about it is concerning the battles fought here,” added Sheridan.
“Mr. Lowington has us stop here by my advice; and we are simply to spend the night here. You were on the train last night, and it would have been too much to add the long and tedious journey to Lisbon to that from Madrid without a night’s rest. Besides, you should see what you can of Portugal by daylight; for we are to visit only Lisbon and some of the places near it.”
The party entered the town, and climbed up the steep streets to the hotel. The place was certainly very primitive. It had been a Roman town, and did not seem to have changed much since the time of the Cæsars. A peculiarly Spanish supper was served at the Three Nations, which was the best hotel in the place, but poor enough at that. Those who were fond of garlic had enough of it. The room in which the captain and first lieutenant were lodged had no window, and the ceiling was composed of poles on which hay was placed; and the apartment above them may have been a stable, or at least a hay-loft. Some of the students took an evening walk about the town, but most of them “turned in” at eight o’clock.
The party were called at four o’clock in the morning; and after a light breakfast of coffee, eggs, and bread, they proceeded to the station. The train provided for them consisted of second-class carriages, at the head of which were several freight-cars. This is the regular day train, all of the first-class cars being used on the night train.
“Now you can see something of Badajos,” said the doctor, as they walked down the hill. “It is a frontier town, and the capital of the province. It is more of a fortress than a city. Marshal Soult captured it in 1811; and it is said that it was taken only through the treachery of the commander of the Spaniards. The Duke of Wellington captured it in 1812. I suppose you have seen pictures by the Spanish artist Morales, for there are some in the Museo at Madrid. He was born here; and, when Philip II. stopped at Badajos on his way to Lisbon, he sent for the artist. The king remarked, ‘You are very old, Morales.’—‘And very poor,’ replied the painter; and Philip gave him a pension of three hundred ducats a year till he died. Manuel Godoy, the villanous minister of Charles IV., called the ‘Prince of Peace,’ was born also here.”
The train started at six o’clock, while it was still dark. Badajos is five miles from the boundary-line of Portugal; and in about an hour the train stopped at Elvas. The Portuguese police were on hand in full force, as well as a squad of custom-house officers. The former asked each of the adult members of the party his name, age, nationality, occupation, and a score of other questions, and would have done the same with the students if the doctor had not protested; and the officers contented themselves with merely taking their names, on the assurance that they were all Americans, were students, and had passports. Every bag and valise was opened by the custom-house officers; and all the freight and baggage cars were locked and sealed, so that they should not be opened till they arrived at Lisbon. Elvas has been the seat of an extensive smuggling trade, and the officers take every precaution to break up the business.
The train was detained over an hour; and some of the students, after they had been “overhauled” as they called it, ran up into the town. Like Badajos, it is a strongly fortified place; but, unlike that, it has never been captured, though often besieged. The students caught a view of the ancient aqueduct, having three stories of arches.
The train started at last; and all day it jogged along at a snail’s pace through Portugal. The scenery was about the same as in Spain, and with about the same variety one finds in New England. Dr. Winstock called the attention of his pupils to the cork-trees, and described the process of removing the bark, which forms the valuable article of commerce. They saw piles of it at the railroad stations, waiting to be shipped.
There were very few stations on the way, and hardly a town was seen before four in the afternoon, when the train crossed the Tagus. The students were almost in a state of rebellion at this time, because they had had nothing to eat since their early breakfast. They had come one hundred and ten miles in ten hours; and eleven miles an hour was slow locomotion on a railroad. The courier wrote that he had made an arrangement by which the train was to go to the junction with the road to Oporto in seven hours, which was not hurrying the locomotive very much; but the conductor said he had no orders to this effect.
“This is Entroncamiento,” said the doctor, as the train stopped at a station. “We dine here.”
“Glory!” replied Murray. “But we might starve if we had to pronounce that name before dinner.”
The students astonished the keeper of the restaurant by the quantity of soup, chicken, and chops they devoured; but they all gave him the credit of providing an excellent dinner. The excursionists had to wait a long time for the train from Oporto, for it was more than an hour late; and they did not arrive at Lisbon till half-past nine. The doctor and his pupils were sent to the Hotel Braganza, after they had gone through another ordeal with the custom-house officers. Bill Stout was taken to the Hotel Central on the quay by the river. The runaway had been as tractable as one of the lambs, till he came to the hotel. While the party were waiting for the rooms to be assigned to them, and Mr. Lowington was very busy, he slipped out into the street. He walked along the river, looking out at the vessels anchored in the stream. He made out the outline of several steamers. While he was looking at them, a couple of sailors, “half seas over,”, passed him. They were talking in English, and Bill hailed them.
“Do you know whether there is a steamer in port bound to England?” he asked, after he had passed the time of night with them.
“Yes, my lad: there is the Princess Royal, and she sails for London early in the morning,” replied the more sober of the two sailors. “Are you bound to London?”
“I am. Which is the Princess Royal?”
The man pointed the steamer out to him, and insisted that he should take a drink with them. Bill did not object. But he never took any thing stronger than wine, and his new friends insisted that he should join them with some brandy. He took very little; but then he felt obliged to treat his new friends in turn for their civility, and he repeated the dose. He then inquired where he could find a boat to take him on board of the steamer. They went out with him, and soon found a boat, in which he embarked. The boatman spoke a little English; and as soon as he was clear of the shore he asked which steamer his passenger wished to go to. By this time the brandy was beginning to have its effect upon Bill’s head; but he answered the man by pointing to the one the sailor had indicated, as he supposed.
In a few moments the boat was alongside the steamer; and Bill’s head was flying around like a top. He paid the boatman his price, and then with an uneasy step walked up the accommodation-ladder. A man was standing on the platform at the head of the ladder, who asked him what he wanted.
“I want to go to England,” replied the runaway, tossing his bag over the rail upon the deck.
“This vessel don’t go to England; you have boarded the wrong steamer,” replied the man.
Bill hailed the boatman, who was pulling for the shore.
“Anchor watch!” called the man on the platform. “Bring a lantern here!”
“Here is one,” said a young man, wearing an overcoat and a uniform cap, as he handed up a lantern to the first speaker.
“Hand me my bag, please, gen’l’men,” said Bill.
At this moment the man on the platform held the lantern up to Bill’s face.
“I thought I knew that voice,” added Mr. Pelham, for it was he. “Don’t give him the bag, Scott.”
“That’s my bag, and I want it,” muttered Bill.
“I am afraid you have been drinking, Stout,” continued the vice-principal, taking Bill by the collar, and conducting him down the steps to the deck of the American Prince.
“It is Stout, as sure as I live!” exclaimed Scott.
“No doubt of that, though he has changed his rig. Pass the word for Mr. Peaks.”
Bill was not so far gone but that he understood the situation. He had boarded the American Prince, instead of the Princess Royal. The big boatswain of the steamer soon appeared, and laid his great paw on the culprit.
“Where did you come from, Stout?” asked the vice-principal.
“I came down with Mr. Lowington and the rest of them,” answered Bill; and his tongue seemed to be twice too big for his mouth.
Mr. Pelham sent for Mr. Fluxion, and they got out of the tipsy runaway all they could. They learned that the ship’s company of the Prince had just arrived. Bill Stout was caged; and the two vice-principals went on shore in the boat that was waiting for the “passenger for England.” They found Mr. Lowington at the Hotel Central. He was engaged just then in looking up Bill Stout; and he was glad to know that he was in a safe place.