“By my troth,
I would not be a queen!
Verily,
I swear, ’tis better to be lowly born,
And range with humble livers in content,
Than to be perk’d up in a glistering grief,
And wear a golden sorrow.”—SHAKESPEARE.
BEAUTIFUL Granada rose like an enchanted city in the midst of the
blooming plain, where flourished the citron and the pomegranate, the
latter of which gave to the city its euphonious name. Olive groves
and vineyards clustered around it and fig-trees hung heavy with their
purplish fruit; while orange and lemon groves bent ’neath the rich
burden of golden spheres of luscious nectar, intermingled with the
snowy blossoms which, half hidden amongst the dark green foliage,
filled the air with such exquisite perfume as to make one dream of the
ambrosial fields of Paradise. To the north, towered mountains whose
lofty, snow-crowned summits seemed to pierce the blue heavens above,
and other ranges guarded it on the east and south, while the blue
waters of the Mediterranean washed its western shores, and brought
trade and commerce to this fair Eden of sunny Spain.
And as picturesque as was this lovely setting, equally picturesque
was the quaint and fascinating city, with its gorgeous Alhambra,
whose shining turrets loomed high above the surrounding buildings
and its spacious courts, adorned by graceful columns and spanned by
arched ceilings glowing with varied colors and ornate with quaint
design, while through its many corridors Moorish cavaliers and
dark-eyed beauties, attired in their picturesque costumes, passed in a
fascinating procession and lent the charm of life to this weird scene.
But war had invaded this fair realm. For long years it had been
besieged by hostile hosts, who strove to drive the Moors from their
enchanting dominions. Already the city of Santa Fé had arisen, as
though by magic, around the besieged city of Granada, and Ferdinand
and Isabella of Spain at length entered the gorgeous Alhambra as
conquerors, and the last sigh of the departing Moors echoed amid the
fragrant orange groves, in a ghostly wail of hopeless despair.
It was on the 6th of January, 1492, that Isabella and Ferdinand made
their triumphal entry into the conquered city, and the standard of the
Cross and the banner of Castile were seen floating together on the
lofty watch-tower of the glorious palace of the Alhambra. Upon this
momentous occasion, the little Catharine of Aragon, then seven years of
age, accompanied her parents and sister in the imposing procession.
This pretty Spanish princess had first opened her eyes upon this world
at the small town called Alcala des Henares, while Isabella, her
mother, was journeying to spend Christmas at Toledo, then the capital
of Spain.
Her infant days were spent in camps of war, for the illustrious
Isabella accompanied her husband Ferdinand upon all his expeditions,
and by her presence and counsel inspired the Christian soldiers to
those deeds of valor which gained the victory over the Moors.
[Illustration: QUEEN CATHARINE.]
It was this same Isabella of Castile, who first instituted regular
military surgeons, to attend the sick in the armies and be at hand
on the field of battle to care for the wounded. These surgeons were
paid out of her own revenues; and she also provided spacious tents,
furnished with beds and all things requisite for the sick and wounded,
which were called the “Queen’s Hospital.”
Thus, to the compassionate heart of the famous Isabella of Castile, the
world is indebted for the first army hospital, which institution has
since proved such a blessing to mankind, in the saving of innumerable
lives, and in some slight measure alleviating a part of the frightful
evils of war.
After the fall of Granada, Ferdinand and Isabella took up their
residence in the magnificent Alhambra, and it was in this fascinating
place that the childhood of Catharine of Aragon was passed.
It was from Granada, this fairy-land of her youthful memories, that
Catharine derived her device of the pomegranate. The pomegranate was
the royal insignia of the Moorish kings. The motto afterwards adopted
by Queen Catharine, “_Not for my crown_,” was also derived from the
same source; for the crown of the pomegranate is worthless and is
always thrown away.
What strange contrast in the two pictures portrayed in the life of
Catharine by the unforeseen vicissitudes of fortune. The blooming
maiden, filled with ecstatic pleasure by the alluring fascinations of
the matchless scenes around her, now wandering with childish curiosity
through the glowing courts of the glorious Alhambra, or enjoying the
sylvan retreats amidst the orange and citron groves, or seeking the
cool shade of the pomegranate trees, presents a very different picture
to the neglected queen of England, cruelly banished by her atrocious
husband, to die in loneliness and even penury.
When the Princess Catharine was nine years of age, she was betrothed to
Arthur, Prince of Wales, eldest son of Elizabeth of York and Henry VII.
The correspondence of these youthful lovers was carried on in Latin,
that they might improve themselves in that language.
In 1501, Catharine embarked with her Spanish governess and four young
court ladies, attended by a train of lords and ecclesiastics, to go to
England to be united in marriage to Prince Arthur. The marriage was
celebrated Nov. 14, 1501.
Catharine’s bridal costume was a great surprise to the English ladies.
The Spanish princess and her ladies had previously astonished the
English populace, when, according to an English fashion, they made
their equestrian public entry into London. The large round hats worn by
Catharine and her _donnas_ upon that occasion had created much comment.
“At her bridal Catharine wore upon her head a coif of white silk, with
a scarf bordered with gold and pearls and precious stones, five inches
and a half broad, which veiled the greater part of her visage and her
person. This was the celebrated Spanish mantilla. Her gown was very
large; both the sleeves and also the body had many plaits, and beneath
the waist certain round hoops, bearing out the gown from the waist
downward. Such was the first arrival of the farthingale in England,
revived at times as hoop petticoats and crinolines. In the elaborate
pageantry the princely pair were very prettily allegorized, she as ‘My
Lady Hesperus,’ and he as ‘The Star Arcturus,’ from which the Celtic
name of Arthur is derived.”