BURGOS—THE ESCORIAL.
NOTHING purely Spanish comes in sight till we get to Burgos. This old
city is half-way from the frontier to Madrid, and is just so slow,
sleepy, and sluggish a town as one should see to get a correct
impression of Spain at the start. About a thousand years ago, Diego
Porcelos, a knight of Castile, had a beautiful daughter, Sulla Bella,
who was loved and won by a German, and they founded this city, calling
it from a German _Burg_, a fortified place, Burgos. For many long years
it was independent, governed by a council. Afterwards, Gonzales was made
the governor, as Count of Castile, who and his heirs reigned until,
under Ferdinand I., in 1067, by a happy marriage, the crowns of Leon and
Castile were fused into one.
[Illustration: BRIDGE, GATEWAY, AND CATHEDRAL OF BURGOS.]
The legendary hero of Spain, whose exploits are only less than those of
Hercules, was born in Burgos, and what is more and better, his bones are
here in the Town Hall; and if any doubt is entertained of the fact that
he actually lived and died and was a wonderful man, between the dates of
his birth and death, such doubts ought to be dispelled by a sight which
I had of an old brass-bound, mouldering chest, sacredly preserved in one
of the inner and holy chambers of the cathedral, and called the coffer
of the Cid. Once on a time the Cid had occasion to borrow a large sum of
money of two Jewish bankers in Burgos, and he left with them as security
this trunk, with, _as he said_, all his jewels and gold in it. He did
not pay the money when it was due, and the chest being opened by the
lenders was found full only of sand! It was thought in those days a
merit to cheat a Jew, and the Romanists show their estimate of the trick
to this day by keeping the swindling coffer among their precious relics.
But it is hardly probable that a Jew ever lived who would lend money
without first _seeing_ the security, and the story therefore lacks
probability. However this may be, we are now in the city of the Cid, and
though a Christian knight, he had read the words of the Prophet of the
Moor,—“There are three sorts of lies which will not be taken into
account at the last judgment: 1st, One told to reconcile two persons at
variance. 2d, That which a husband tells when he promises any thing to
his wife; and 3d, A chieftain’s word in time of war.” Such is the
morality of Mahomet, and there is not a little of the same Jesuitism
under other names.
[Illustration: THE CID.]
The city has 25,000 inhabitants, and one of the most splendid cathedrals
of Europe; but not a hotel that is decent. We went to the best, and its
entrance was strong with the smell of the stables. The first flight of
steps inside was littered with dust and straw, and it looked as if we
were to be led to a manger, which word is, indeed, the same with the
French _salle à manger_, a dining-room. Yet this proved to be as fair a
hotel as Spain at present offers to its friends from abroad. They are
all inferior to second-rate hotels in France or Switzerland, and many
that profess to be first-class are execrable. The charges are higher
than in better houses in countries where living is dearer, so that the
business of entertaining strangers in Spain is an organized imposition.
The roads are now free from robbers who formerly infested them and made
travelling dangerous. The robbers have evidently left the highway and
gone to keeping the hotels. They still rob travellers, with less risk
and trouble than in the olden time.
An Englishman by the name of Maurice, being high in the favor of
Ferdinand, the saint and hero, laid the foundation, A. D. 1221, of the
Burgos cathedral, which fairly challenges comparison with any or all of
the finest specimens of ecclesiastical architecture in the world. Having
been built in successive periods, and these at long distances from each
other, there is a want of harmony in the parts, but this is observed
only by the professional eye, while to others, and especially on one who
enters this first of the great edifices of Spain, its interior bursts
with a blaze of grandeur covered with beauty, that fairly dazzles while
it awes and delights him. And after having visited and leisurely studied
half a dozen others, including those of Toledo and Seville, I regard the
cathedral of Burgos as exhibiting a degree of perfection in detail, an
elaborate execution to adorn and embellish a sanctuary, not equalled by
any of its rivals in Spain.
And it is to Spain that we must come to see what the art and consecrated
wealth of princes and priests can do to build temples in honor of God.
Italy has nothing like them. St. Peter’s is the largest Christian church
in the world, and perhaps more labor and money have been expended upon
it. But as a Christian church it is a failure, without and within. Not
so with any of these magnificent monuments of human power and devotion.
The towers of this, at Burgos, with their graceful, open-worked
pinnacles, spring up as if seeking the sky. The gates are grand, and
surrounded and crowned with _bas reliefs_. Around the towers are seventy
statues, of prophets and apostles, and over the transept are twenty-four
life-size statues of female saints, each covered with a canopy, as
guardian angels on this house of prayer. Moses and Aaron, in stone,
stand by one of the doors, with Peter and Paul, and in the vestibule is
the Saviour, and around him the four evangelists are writing the holy
gospels, while at least fifty statues, apostles, angels with
candlesticks, seraphs, and cherubs, add to the ornament of this one
gate.
It is quite impracticable to convey by words, and it is a fact that
drawings or photographs of interiors fail to convey an idea of the view
which one meets on entering a vast cathedral. The impression is on a
devout mind, whether of the same faith with that professed by the
ministers at these altars or not, the impression is one of solemnity and
sublimity. When the enlightened stranger comes near to study the
wretched additions which superstition has made to the simplicity of
Christian worship as established by its founder, his taste and
principles may be shocked and revolted by what he sees and hears in
gorgeous and glorious cathedrals. But these are abuses that have crept
in: _fungi_ on the trunks of grand old forest trees, under whose
branches it is a delight to sit and think of him who dwells in a nobler
temple not made with hands. Three hundred feet long, and two hundred
feet and more wide within, and chapels yet beyond, each one large enough
for a church, and two hundred feet to the roof, which is supported by
vast pillars of stone, and each one of them wrought elaborately with
garlands, and fruits, and images of angels, and historic scenes and
incidents in Scripture,—such is the first grand view that lies before
us, as we enter the gates of this cathedral in Burgos. It is in the form
of the Latin cross, and at the intersection, the _crucero_, as it is
called in Spanish, the effect of the vaulted dome, and of the whole
minute and elegant workmanship, is so exquisite that the Emperor Charles
V. is reported to have said it should be placed under glass, and Philip
II. pronounced it the work rather of angels than men. I could discern
nothing worthy of such exaggerated eulogy, while admiring the harmonious
proportions and the graceful combinations that enhance the effect of
elaborate sculpture and ingenious decorations.
Four massive columns, embellished with allegorical sculptures, form the
transept, and above them the main arches spring. Angels bear aloft a
banner, inscribed, “I will praise thee in thy temple, and I will glorify
thy name, thou whose works are miracles.”
Just here, for we were coming toward the high altar, Antanazio dropped
upon his knees, on the marble floor. A little bell had been rung, and
all the Catholics in the cathedral bent to the ground as the host was
elevated for their adoration in the celebration of the mass. We stood
before the high altar, resplendent above and about it with wrought
silver and gold and rich carving and sculpture, in which the life and
death of the blessed Saviour are inscribed in mute yet expressive
symbols. In the choir are more than a hundred stalls or seats of carved
walnut, each one of them an elaborate work of art, rich with figures of
men and beasts, the virgin and saints in martyrdom and in glory; and one
of these saints is astride of the devil, in memory of the fact that the
devil did carry this saint from Spain to Rome in one night. That’s
better time than any of the Spanish railroads can make.
We were led by a kind sacristan through the various chapels, all rich in
tombs of costly workmanship, and some containing relics which, to the
believer in their virtue, are of priceless value; one of these precious
treasures being a statue of Christ on the cross, which we were expected
to behold with deep reverence. It is asserted and believed to have been
carved by Nicodemus just after he had buried the Saviour. It is,
therefore, an authentic likeness; and if any doubt existed of its being
a genuine work, it is removed by the facts that the hair, the beard, the
eyelashes even, and the thorns, are all natural, _real_; that it sweats
every Friday; that it sometimes actually bleeds; and that it has
performed many miracles. It would have been more impressive on my
unbelieving mind if it had not been girt about with a red petticoat!
[Illustration: THE ESCORIAL.]
The castle has a history in which the names of all the great warriors of
the last thousand years have a part; it has been the prison of some
kings, and the bridal-chamber of queens, and the birth-place of more. In
modern times Napoleon conquered it. And what is more remarkable,
Wellington tried to drive out the French, and failed. It is now a heap
of ruins; for when the French abandoned it they blew it up, but so
bunglingly that some three hundred of them went up with it. The
explosion destroyed the painted windows of the cathedral, an irreparable
loss.
There is nothing in Burgos to see but the cathedral; and that is worth
going to Spain to see, though you may have to put up _at_ and _with_ a
Burgos tavern.
Philip II. came to the throne of Spain in 1556, less than twenty years
before the massacre of St. Bartholomew’s day in France, and in the same
century with the Reformation led on by Luther. His history and his
character are familiar to the world. Cold, cruel, bigoted, intolerant,
morose, gloomy, superstitious, the grandson of a woman who was known by
the name of Crazy Jane, and who earned the title, the son of the great
Emperor of Germany, Charles V., who was also Charles I. of Spain, this
Philip II., thus descended and thus endowed, was less a king than a
monk, and in the cloister or the cell was more at home than on the
throne. He was the husband of Bloody Mary of England, and, like her,
verily thought to please God by persecuting the saints and mortifying
himself. Perhaps his queer grandmother had put the idea of a palace and
a monastery and a tomb into his head. Perhaps his father, in the gloomy
hours when he meditated retirement and abdication of his sovereignty,
inspired the son with this strange purpose. Or, more likely, the
conception with him was original, and as no monarch, before him or
since, had such a heart under the guide of such a head, it is only just
to give him all the credit of devising and achieving one of the most
stupendous follies and gigantic monuments that was ever executed by the
hands of men.
The Spaniards reckon the ESCORIAL as the eighth wonder of the world!
About twenty-five miles north of Madrid, in the midst of the dreariest
wilderness of barren, rocky, all but uninhabitable hills, a region where
no beauty of scenery cheers the eye, no silver river winds along through
fertile vales, no verdant slopes are covered with grazing herds, and no
forests with their cool shades invite the tired traveller or the weary
citizen to seek repose,—here, in the last of all places for such an
edifice, is placed the ESCORIAL, the largest and grandest edifice in
Spain, and the most remarkable building now standing on the earth. What
Egypt had when Karnak and Thebes were in their prime, what Babylon and
Nineveh knew in the days of their now buried glory, we have but faint
knowledge. This house covers a square of five hundred thousand feet! It
is about 750 feet long, and 600 feet wide. It is a royal palace. It is a
monastery. It is the sepulchre of the royal family of Spain. It is a
church; and in that church, the chapel of this strange house, there is
more wealth lavished on the pulpits and altars than on any other that I
have seen, in this or any other country. Yet all this is in a
wilderness, far away from cities and the abodes of men who might be
supposed to admire and enjoy such grandeur,—a temple in a desert, a
palace and a sepulchre.
Passing on by the rail from Burgos, we might stop at Valladolid, once
the most renowned of all the cities of Spain, now so utterly decayed as
to be of interest only to antiquarians. Here Ferdinand and Isabella were
married in 1469. Here Columbus, the worn and weary, died in his own
house in 1506. Here he slept in death six years, and then his bones were
removed to Seville, and again to Cuba, that they might rest in the New
World he found. Philip II., whose ESCORIAL we are going to see, was born
here in Valladolid, and after he grew to manhood had the pleasure of
seeing at one time fourteen Protestants, and thirteen at another, burnt
alive, in the Grand Square of the city: a most edifying spectacle, which
strengthened his faith so much that he afterwards dedicated his mighty
structure to the good St. Lawrence, who was broiled to death on a
gridiron, enduring his torments with so much fortitude that he said to
his executioners, “I am done on this side, perhaps you had better turn
me over,”—whence comes the expression, “done to a turn.”
Philip II. made Madrid the capital of his kingdom, holding his court
there or at the Escorial, at his pleasure, for they were only a few
hours apart.
It is a long but pleasant walk from the station to the palace, and it is
better to stroll along the shaded avenues, resting at times on the solid
stone seats, looking upward at the solitary pile ahead, and musing on
the wonderful dead past; the pomp and pageantry, the vast processions of
priests and kings and countless armies of Spain, of France, of England,
that have marched up this same street, in triumph, in penitential grief,
or in funeral array. Away from the world, the world has often come
hither, under the many garbs the world wears, according as it is in
glory or in shame. Entering the grand quadrangle by the chief gate, the
colossal edifice presents its central front and the two lateral
projections in one view; the main façade is adorned with statues of the
principal personages in Old Testament history. Crossing the court, paved
with great granite blocks, we enter, and the massive walls, the cold
damp halls, gloomy in their naked, solid grandeur, make us feel that we
are entering a fortress, and not a palace. It would be impossible to
find your way without a guide. There are sixteen courts within, and out
of each of them long passages lead to eighty staircases, and up these we
may go, if we have time, to twelve thousand doors, and look out of two
thousand six hundred windows, and worship at forty altars!! You wish to
be excused from such climbing and kneeling. Come, then, with me at once
into the church. It is more than 300 feet long, and 230 feet wide, and
320 feet high: of granite all; its columns are majestic in their
proportions, severe in Doric simplicity, supporting twenty-four arches,
so beautifully sprung that, wherever you stand, the eye takes in the
whole at a glance. The pulpits surpass, in the splendor of their finish,
any thing in Italy. The richest, variegated, and most precious marbles,
used as freely as though they were common wood, are adorned with gold
and silver, strangely in contrast with the severity of the church
itself. The altar is reached by a flight of several steps, and on the
right, as we stand in front of it, a window opens into a little chamber,
which we sought with more interest than any other apartment of this
remarkable structure. We went out of the church and into the room. It
was scarcely ten feet by six in dimensions; but it was the favorite
closet, the study and the bedchamber of the monarch who built the whole.
This was all he wanted for himself. It was in sight and hearing of the
service at the high altar. At midnight and before daybreak he could rise
from his couch, and join in the service of the church. I sat down in the
plain old chair, by the table, the same that he used, and put up my feet
on the camp-stool that often held his diseased and agonized limbs, and
looked down from the little window on the priests and people in the
church below. And here in this room death came and called for Philip II.
For long months he had suffered anguish not less than that he had
inflicted on better men than he. Let us leave it for others to say if
like Herod he was smitten for his sins, and destroyed with the same
disease. But when he saw that his end was near, at his order his
servants bore him on a couch through the palace, and the monastery and
the church, that his poor dying eyes might rest once more on all that he
had done, and then they brought him back to his lonely, comfortless
cell, and left him to die. It was on a September Sabbath morning, in
1598, while listening to the service at this altar, and holding in his
hand the same crucifix that fixed the dying eyes of the Emperor his
father, that Philip yielded his spirit into the hands of a just as well
as merciful God!
We left this sad chamber, and descending a flight of steps made of
precious stones, the walls lined with beautiful, polished marbles, we
stood in a subterranean chapel, a mausoleum, shelves on each of the
eight sides, and on each shelf a bronze sarcophagus, and in each coffin
a dead king or queen. The name of each occupant is inscribed on the
outer shell. One of the queens scratched her name on her coffin with a
pair of scissors before she was put in. She could not have well done it
after. There is an altar in this dungeon, and here the late queen of
Spain, who is very devout in her way, came once a year and had a service
at midnight. It adds nothing to the solemnity to have mass here in the
night, for at noonday we had to hold candles in our hands to see our way
in and out.
The _Sagrario_ was a more interesting apartment than this. It has some
fine paintings. I valued them more than the 7,400 relics which are here
preserved with pious care, including the entire bodies of eight or ten
saints, twelve dozen whole heads, and three hundred legs and arms. It
once had—but the fortunes of war have deprived the house of the
treasure—one of the bars on which St. Lawrence was burnt, and one of his
feet, with a piece of coal still sticking between its toes! but the coal
and the toes are lost _in toto_.
One of the priests, who was leading a company of strangers visiting the
place, overheard me asking for the Cellini crucifix, and immediately
took us to the choir, and opened the door of a closet in which this
remarkable work is carefully preserved. It is a Carrara marble statue of
Christ on the cross, and marked by the great Benvenuto himself with his
name and the date, 1562. He was the first who made a crucifix in marble,
and the patient toil and great genius expended on this work have made it
justly esteemed as his master-piece of sculpture.
Yet have I alluded to but one or two out of a thousand things that fix
the attention, and impress one rather with astonishment than delight. I
have not even mentioned the library, which is the crown of the whole,
designed to be the repository of all learning, and in spite of all its
sufferings by violence, it is still rich in rare and valuable books and
manuscripts. The cases are of ebony and cedar. Jasper and porphyry
tables stand through the hall, about 200 feet long, and allegorical
paintings adorn the ceilings.
It was refreshing to get out of it, after walking through the palace and
the cloisters, and to enjoy the warm sunshine beyond the gloomy walls.
Two or three cottages have been built among the groves planted here, and
it seems a mercy to children to provide a more cheery home for them than
a sepulchral palace could be, though of wrought gold.