As the morning broke we were favoured with a glimpse of the sun, which cheered us with its vivifying beams for about one hour, and then the dull leaden clouds once more passed over the face of day, while the cold winds swept down from the bare and dusty hills overlooking the town. However, as one wanders through the quiet old streets, one experiences a feeling of indolence which is soothing after the busy roar of other cities. The various colouring of the quaint Spanish streets, with the picturesque irregularity of the houses, as looked at in perspective, is light and lively. The appearance of the balconies, coloured matting, and painted shutters and blinds, is pleasing to the eye of the stranger from its novelty. There are never too many passengers to mar the repose of the scene; and on such as glide quietly past us we look with no small degree of curiosity. How interesting it is to see the good priest with the shovel hat, long black skirts, and stomach-buckle of "Il Barbiere," politely saluting the olive-coloured young lady with the graceful mantilla as she sweeps along with natural and queen-like dignity!
However offensive may be some of the sights we see in this country, however reluctant may be many of its fair denizens to part with their birthright of dirt, there is grace everywhere—grace innocent of the slightest attempt at effect, or of the smallest appearance of affectation; natural indigenous grace, worn by all, either in manner, dress, or bearing, from the highest to the lowest in the land. Even the vermin-hunting beggar, sunning his idle self beneath the carved church door, can be graceful in his rags; and an old rug flung loosely around his form, with the folds caught up here and there, and falling in an easy and becoming manner from his shoulder to his feet, gives to his figure, as he paces calmly by, an air of dignity rarely to be met with elsewhere; while the worn broad-brimmed velvet sombrero, jauntily poised on the coloured napkin which is bound round the head and falls in a knot on the nape of the neck, completes the well-known picture of the proud but beggarly Don, and places him in propriâ personâ before our eyes.
At every turn the eye may fall upon beautiful old gems of Gothic architecture, quaint and solemn old houses, carved with heraldic blazonry, or with statues of illustrious warriors dead ages ago set in their walls. Column, pillar, and arch are so intertwined and twisted in all directions, that the buildings look as if they had been suddenly paralysed whilst writhing all over in a fit of agony. One may pass under some beautifully fretted arch, and find oneself within a ruined court of the most graceful Saracenic device. No step breaks the sleepy silence of its light arcades; some goats only are quietly cropping the rank grass amongst the broken pavements of its great square; and the clouds are passing on softly above.
In the outskirts of the town we observed some massive yellow walls, with noble Gothic arches and windows, deep and barred, standing all alone amidst the dust of this arid climate, and looking upon the barren hills in the distance; but there was no living soul to attest whether they were convent or prison. Here and there, too, some rich relics of ancient sculpture were seen built up amidst the bricks of a barn or storehouse—the tottering Past nursed in the arms of the strong Present! In and around the city, feudal towers, grand old gateways, and the palaces of ancient nobles, of the old constables of Castile, with their façades ornamented with wonderful devices, armorial bearings, and heraldic monsters, are frequent objects of interest to him who can read a country's history in its antiquarian remains. From the eminence on which is built the convent of La Cartuja, situated about two miles from the city, a general view of Burgos is obtained, with the lace-like pinnacles of the Cathedral spiring to the skies, surrounded on all sides by the desolate hills and far-stretching Sahara-like plains, with scarce a patch of verdure for the aching eye to rest upon in any direction. We, in a weak moment, hired a calèche to convey us to the convent; but as the road thither was over the most harassing ground, now following the track of a water-course strewn with great stones, then across level ground in which we sank up to the axles in white dust, we came to the conclusion that, like the man in the sedan-chair when the bottom came out, if it were not for the honour of the thing, we might just as well walk. Indeed, we might as well have owned to walking at once,—walking ostensibly, for though the carriage of honour was by our side, we really had to walk half the way.
Upon arriving at the gloomy portal of the convent, with its yellow walls, grated windows, and strong buttresses, upon which the long weeds were waving in the blast like the wild straws in the head of some melancholy maniac, we lifted a heavy knocker, and with it produced some blows which sounded dismally and preternaturally loud amidst the silence within. In answer to our summons, a cavernous, lean, pale face appeared for a second or so at a grating to inspect the intruders, and our exterior probably attesting the fact that no danger was to be apprehended from us, the heavy door was swung open by a poor dilapidated son of religion, in a long serge gown and sandals, who looked so depressed and shy with life-long dulness and superstition, that it was no wonder he could not lift his eyes higher than the knees of his visitors. We then entered an elegant little church with pointed arches, of the florid Gothic style, beneath a façade emblazoned with the arms of Castile and Leon. In the midst of the subdued light of the holy place, there suddenly broke upon us the magnificent tomb of Juan II. and Queen Isabella of Portugal, formed of white marble. It is truly wonderful that in the recesses of these lonely and decaying walls, in this forlorn spot of earth, inhabited only by five wretched and poverty-stricken monks, are seen objects of interest which, in their marvellous beauty, are unequalled, perhaps, in the world. Executed in pure Carrara marble, octagonal in shape, and raised about six feet from the pavement, with a circumference of nearly thirty-six feet, the tomb of Juan and Isabella perfectly tortures the eye by the amazing intricacy of its detail. Sixteen lions, bearing the royal escutcheons, stand in pairs at each angle; groups of innumerable statuettes, each individual a masterpiece of itself, appear resting under filigree canopies, and within a perfect network of marble lace of infinite delicacy; while festoons and bowers of feathery foliage, fruits and flowers, support birds and insects treading in their marble imagery with the springy touch of life. The statues of the royal pair lie side by side, robed in drapery which might be the finest needlework were it not stone.
In a recess in the wall near by is another wonderful tomb of the same profuse ornament and delicate finish, that of Don Alonzo, son of the above. Over the high altar is a retablo, a mass of gorgeous gilt woodwork representing angels sitting on very solid clouds, while whole coveys of little winged cherubim, with very red cheeks, hover round the great central figure of Christ hanging on the cross, and surmounted by a pelican tearing her breast to feed her young. The entire height of the retablo, from the kneeling figures of the king and queen below to the summit of the topmost clouds amidst which the Assumption of the Virgin is represented, must be nearly forty feet. The gilding with which this magnificent work is profusely adorned, is said to be part of the gold brought by Columbus from America. The finely-carved walnut-wood stalls of the choir are specimens of the wonderful industry and exquisite taste of olden times, and a characteristic of all Spanish churches.
In the central ground of the silent convent cloisters the rank weeds wave over some hundred graves of Carthusian monks. As time rolls on the weeds rise higher and tangle thicker, but the stoneless mound gradually sinks down to the general level of the earth. However worthy the actions or great the deeds of the poor, their graves are ever silent, their names are but writ in water, and the very grass above them withers not so soon as their memory.
After having seen everything that attracted our curiosity, we returned through the deep white dust, and over the stony tracts, with our very useful vehicle jolting behind us, the coachman wrapping more closely round him his ample garment,—a garment with considerably more pretension to hair than to shape, being composed of the skins of many goats. I suppose he rarely, if ever, took it off, night or day; and it is probable, if he ever ventured to dispense with a vestment which had become almost a part of himself, he might have felt the consequences of his rashness.
We fear it is our painful duty to remind the reader that Burgos and the Duke of Wellington were once associated together. Glory is a fine thing, but it is apt after a time to become a bête noire to many excellent readers; however, that is their look-out. In November, 1808, Burgos became the head-quarters of Napoleon. Wellington, fresh from his victory of Salamanca, invested the town; but, in consequence of the insufficient support of the Spanish general, was compelled to raise the siege in order to escape being captured by Marshal Soult, who was approaching with an enormous force. To join Hill was the Duke's necessary object, as his troops were few in number, badly provisioned, and worn out by a continued struggle against great odds and many disadvantages, the little band having with them to carry on the siege but three field-pieces and five howitzers, against twenty-six of the French. After a loss of two thousand men, the retreat of the English was carried out with much hazard; but in June, 1813, the fortune of war was changed, and King Joseph, upon the approach of the Duke of Wellington, evacuated the citadel, after blowing up the fortifications, and with them several hundred Frenchmen.
In the Castle at Burgos, once a sumptuous palace as well as a citadel, the marriage of the Cid took place; also that of Edward the First of England and Eleanor of Castile. Burgos is illustrious among cities, as having given birth to the Cid, who in 1040, first saw the light in a house which stood on the spot where now stands an obelisk, in the Calle Alta, erected by Charles III. in 1784. There are, of course, a large number of people who know all about the Cid, and the derivation of the word. But as we are equally certain there are a fair amount who do not, we may as well mention the following particulars in connection with that semi-mysterious personage, to whom frequent allusions are unavoidable in a book about Spain.