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.