BURGOS--_continued_.
The Cloisters; Paintings and Sculptures--The Cid's House; the
Casa del Cordon; the Puerta de Santa Maria--The Theatre and the
Actors--La Cartuja de Miraflores--General Thibaut and the Cid's
bones.
On leaving the room of Juan Cuchiller, you enter another which
is decorated in a very picturesque manner. The walls are
wainscoted with oak and hung with red tapestry, while the ceiling
is _artesonado_, and produces a most pleasing effect. There is
a "Nativity" by Murillo, a "Conception," and a figure of "Our
Saviour" in flowing robes, all exceedingly well painted.
The cloisters are filled with tombs, most of which are enclosed by
strong iron railings placed very close together. These tombs, all
of them belonging to various illustrious personages, are placed
in recesses hollowed out in the thickness of the wall; they are
covered with armorial bearings and decorated with sculpture. On one
of them I observed an excessively beautiful group of the Virgin
Mary and Our Saviour holding a book in his hand, as well as a most
strange and surprising production of the imagination, representing
a fanciful monster, half animal, half arabesque. On all these tombs
are stretched statues the size of life, of knights in armour, or
bishops in full episcopal costume; so truthful are the attitudes
in which they are lying, and so minute are the details, that any
one looking at them through the iron railings might almost mistake
these statues for the persons they represent.
On the jamb of a door, I remarked as I passed along, a charming
little statue of the Virgin, executed in the most delicious manner
and conceived with extraordinary boldness. Instead of the contrite
and modest air that is generally given to the statues and paintings
of the Blessed Virgin, the sculptor has represented her with a
mixed expression of voluptuousness and ecstasy, and intoxicated
with all the pleasure of a woman in the act of conceiving a God.
She is standing up with her head thrown backwards, and seems to
be inhaling with her whole soul and body, and also with the most
original union of passion and purity, the ray of flame which is
breathed upon her by the symbolical dove. It was a difficult task
to produce any novelty in the treatment of a subject that had been
so often used, but for genius nothing is too common.
A detailed description of these cloisters would require a whole
chapter to itself; but, on account of my limited space and the
short time that was at my disposal, the reader will excuse me for
merely mentioning them in this cursory manner, and re-entering the
church, where we will take at hazard, without choice or preference,
the first _chefs-d'œuvre_ we may happen to see on our right and
left; for they are all beautiful and all admirable, and those which
we do not mention are at the least quite as valuable as the rest.
We will first stop before this "Passion of our Lord," carved
in stone by Philip of Burgundy, who, unfortunately, was not a
French artist, as his name or rather his nickname might lead us
to suppose. This bas-relief is one of the largest in the world.
According to the usual custom in Gothic art, it is divided into
several compartments,--namely, the Mount of Olives, the Bearing
of the Cross, and the Crucifixion of the Saviour between the two
Thieves; an immense composition which, for the fineness of the
heads, and the minute accuracy of the details, is equal to the most
delicate and lovely things that Albert Dürer, Hemlinck, or Holbein
ever produced with their miniature-painters' pencils. This stone
epic is terminated by a magnificent "Descent to the Tomb." The
groups of sleeping apostles which occupy the lower compartments of
the Garden of Olives possess almost the same beauty and purity of
style as the prophets and saints of Fra Bartholomew; the heads of
the women at the foot of the cross are remarkable for that pathetic
and mournful look which Gothic art alone could convey, and which
in this instance is united to an uncommon beauty of outline. The
soldiers attract attention by the singularity and savage style of
their apparel, which is that usually employed during the middle
ages in all representations of the Ancients, the Orientals, or the
Jews, whose true costume was then not known; the various postures
in which they are placed are stamped with a bold swaggering air,
which contrasts most happily with the ideality and melancholy of
the other figures. The whole is surrounded by carving as delicate
as the finest jewellery, and of the most incredible good taste
and lightness. This splendid production of the sculptor's art was
finished in 1536.
Since we are on the subject of sculpture, we may as well seize
the opportunity to speak of the stalls in the choir, which, as a
piece of admirable joinery, have not, perhaps, their equals in
the world. The stalls are so many marvels. They represent subjects
in bas-relief from the Old Testament, and are separated from each
other by monsters and fantastic animals shaped like the arms of a
chair. The flat portions are covered with incrustations, the effect
of which is heightened by black hatching, like inlaid enamel-work
on metal. It is impossible for arabesques or caprice to be carried
to a greater length. These stalls contain an inexhaustible mine,
an unheard-of abundance, a never-ending novelty, both of ideas and
forms: they are a new world, a creation of themselves, marvellously
rich and complete; a world in which the plants live, the men bud
forth, a branch ends in a hand, and a leg terminates in foliage;
a world in which the cunning-eyed monster spreads out his taloned
wings, and the monstrous dolphin spouts the water through its
nostrils. They form one inextricable entwining of buds and boughs,
acanthuses, water-lilies, flowers, with chalices ornamented with
tufts and tendrils, of serrated and twisted foliage, fabulous
birds, impossible fish, and extravagant sirens and dragons, of
which no tongue could ever give an idea. The wildest fancy reigns
unrestrained in all these incrustations, whose yellow tone causes
them to stand out from the sombre background of the wood, and
gives them the appearance of the paintings on Etruscan vases; an
appearance which is fully justified by the boldness and primitive
accent of their lines. These designs, from which the pagan spirit
of the Renaissance peeps out, have nothing in common with the
destination of the stalls themselves; in fact, the subject selected
very frequently shows an entire forgetfulness of the sacred
character of the place. They represent either children playing with
masks, women dancing, gladiators wrestling, peasants engaged in the
vintage, young girls teasing or caressing some fanciful monster,
animals playing the harp, or even little boys, in the basin of a
fountain imitating the famous statue at Brussels. Were they but
a little more slender in their proportions, these figures would
be equal to the purest productions of Etruscan art. Unity in the
general appearance, and infinite variety in the details, was the
difficult problem which the artists of the Middle Ages generally
succeeded in solving. Five or six paces farther on, this mass of
woodwork, so remarkable for the wildness of its execution, becomes
grave, solemn, architectural, brown in its tones, and altogether
worthy of serving as a frame to the pale and austere faces of the
canons.
The Chapel of the Constable (_Capilla del Condestable_) forms of
itself a complete church. The tomb of Don Pedro Fernandez Velasco,
Constable of Castile, and that of his wife, occupy the middle
of the building, and are far from being its least attractive
feature: they are of white marble, magnificently sculptured. The
constable is lying in his war armour, enriched with the chastest
arabesques, from which the sacristans take _papier-maché_ casts,
to sell to visitors. The constable's wife has her little dog by
her side, while her gloves, and the brocaded flowers on her gown,
are rendered with the utmost delicacy. Both their heads repose
upon marble cushions, ornamented with their coronets and armorial
bearings. The walls of the chapel are covered with gigantic coats
of arms, while figures placed upon the entablature hold stone
staves for supporting banners and standards. The _retablo_ (which
is the name given to the architectural _façade_ before the altar)
is sculptured, painted, gilt, and covered with a profusion of
arabesques, varied by columns; it represents the Circumcision of
our Saviour, with figures the size of life. To the right, on the
same side as the portrait of Doña Mencia de Mendoza, Countess
of Haro, is a small Gothic altar, coloured, gilt, carved, and
embellished with an infinity of little figures, so light in
appearance, and so graceful in form, that any one might mistake
them for the work of Antonin Moine. On this altar there is a
Christ, carved in jet. The high altar is ornamented with silver
rays and crystal suns, which produce a singularly brilliant
flickering effect. Carved on the roof is a rose of incredible
delicacy.
Enclosed in the wainscoting of the sacristy, near the chapel,
is a Magdalen, said to be by Leonardo da Vinci. The mildness of
the brown half-tints, merging into the light by imperceptible
gradations, the lightness of touch remarkable in the hair, and the
perfect rounding of the arms, render this supposition extremely
probable. In this chapel, also, is preserved the ivory diptych
that the constable used to take with him to the army, and before
which he was accustomed to recite his prayers. The _Capilla del
Condestable_ belongs to the Duke de Frias. Cast a glance, as you
pass, on that statue of Saint Bruno, in coloured wood,--it is by
Pereida, a Portuguese sculptor,--and on that epitaph, which is that
of Villegas, the translator of Dante.
A magnificent and most finely-built staircase, with
splendidly-sculptured monsters, kept us for some minutes riveted
with admiration. I am ignorant whither it leads, or into what
room the small door at its extremity opens, but it is worthy of
the most splendid palace. The high altar in the chapel of the
Duke d'Abrantes is one of the most singular productions of the
imagination which it is possible to behold. It represents the
genealogical tree of Jesus Christ. This strange idea is carried out
in the following manner:--The patriarch Abraham is lying at the
bottom of the composition, and in his fertile breast are placed
the spreading roots of an immense tree, each branch of which bears
an ancestor of Jesus, and is subdivided into as many branches
as that ancestor had descendants. The summit is occupied by the
Virgin Mary on a throne of clouds, while the sun, the moon, and
a multitude of gold and silver stars, shine through the foliage.
It is impossible to think without a shudder at the immense amount
of patience which must have been required to cut out all these
leaves, chisel all these folds, and make all these personages stand
out so prominently. This _retablo_, carved in the manner we have
described, is as high as the _façade_ of a house, that is to say,
at least thirty feet, if we include the three stories, the second
of which represents the crowning of the Virgin, and the third the
Crucifixion, with St. John and the Virgin. The sculptor is Rodrigo
del Haya, who lived in the middle of the sixteenth century.
The Chapel of Santa Tecla is the strangest structure imaginable.
The object both of architect and sculptor seems to have been to
crowd as many ornaments as possible into the least space, and
they have completely succeeded; for I defy the greatest advocate
of ornament to find space enough in the whole chapel for a single
rose or a single flower more. It is the most wonderful and most
charming specimen of the richest description of bad taste. It is
one mass of twisted spiral columns, surrounded by vine-shoots, of
endless volutes, of cherubim's heads and shoulders with a pair of
wings sticking out like the ends of a neck-tie, of large masses of
clouds, of flames rising from censers and blown about by the wind,
of rays spread out in the shape of a fan, and of endive-plants
in full bloom and most luxuriant growth, all gilt and painted
in natural colours with the pencil of a miniature-painter. The
flower-work of the drapery is imitated thread for thread, and point
for point, with frightful accuracy. Santa Tecla, who is tied to the
stake with the flames rising around her on all sides, and a number
of Saracens in extravagant costumes exciting them, is represented
as raising towards Heaven her beautiful enamel eyes, and holding
in her flesh-coloured hand a large holly-branch, twisted after the
usual Spanish fashion. The roof is ornamented in the same style.
The rest of the chapel is occupied by other altars, which, although
smaller, are quite as elaborate as that which we have described.
But the whole fabric is deficient in the peculiar delicacy of
Gothic art, as well as in the charming characteristics of the
period of the Renaissance; richness is substituted for purity of
outline; it is still very beautiful, however, like everything
carried to excess, but yet complete in its own peculiar style.
The organs, which are of a formidable size, have rows of pipes laid
transversely, like so many cannon with their muzzles pointed at
you; they look very menacing and warlike. The private chapels have
each an organ, only of a smaller size. In the _retablo_ of one of
these chapels we beheld a painting of such exceeding beauty, that
I am even now at a loss to what master to ascribe it, unless it be
to Michael Angelo. This magnificent work of art possesses, most
undeniably, all the characteristic marks of the Florentine school,
when in its most flourishing state, and would form the principal
attraction in any gallery however rich. Michael Angelo, however,
hardly ever painted in oil colours, and his pictures are fabulously
scarce; I am inclined to think that it was painted by Sebastian del
Piombo, after a cartoon, and on a drawing of this sublime artist.
It is well known that Michael Angelo was jealous of Raphael's
success, and that he sometimes employed Sebastian del Piombo,
in order to unite colouring to drawing, and thus beat his young
rival. However this may be, it is very certain that the picture is
admirable. The Virgin Mary is represented seated, with her drapery
disposed in majestic folds; she is covering with a transparent
scarf the divine form of the infant Jesus, who is standing up
by her side. From out the ultramarine of the sky two angels are
contemplating her in silence, while in the background is seen a
severe landscape, with some rocks and fragments of walls. The head
of the Virgin possesses an amount of majesty, serenity, and force,
of which it is utterly impossible to convey an adequate idea by
mere words. The lines which join the neck to the shoulders are so
pure, so chaste, and so noble, the face breathes such an expression
of sweet maternal satisfaction, the hands are so divinely treated,
and the feet are so remarkable for their elegance and grand style,
that I found it almost impossible to tear myself away. Add to
this marvellous design, simple, solid, well-sustained colouring,
without any claptrap devices, or little tricks of chiaroscuro, but
a certain look of fresco which harmonizes perfectly with the tone
of the architecture around, and you have a _chef-d'œuvre_ such as
is to be found only in the Florentine or Roman school.
There is also in the cathedral at Burgos a "Holy Family," without
the painter's name. I strongly suspect it to be the production of
Andrea del Sarto. There are likewise some Gothic paintings on wood,
by Cornelis van Eyck; the fellows to them are in the gallery at
Dresden. The works of the German school are not uncommon in Spain
and some of them are exceedingly fine. We will seize the present
opportunity to mention some pictures by Fra Diego de Leyva, who
became a Carthusian friar in the _Cartuja_ of Miraflores when
he had already reached his fifty-fourth year. Among his other
compositions we may notice the Martyrdom of Santa Casilda. The
executioner has cut off both her breasts, and the blood is gushing
forth from the two large red places which mark the spot whence
the flesh has been removed; the two breasts are lying at the
Saint's side, while she herself is looking with an expression of
feverish and convulsive ecstasy at a tall angel, with a thoughtful,
melancholy face, who has brought her a palm-branch. These frightful
pictures of martyrdom are very frequently to be met with in Spain,
where the love of the real and the true in art is carried to the
greatest lengths. The artist will not spare you one single drop of
blood; you must see the severed nerves shrinking back, you must see
the quivering of the living flesh, whose dark purple hue contrasts
strongly with the bluish, bloodless whiteness of the skin, you
must be shown the vertebræ cut through by the executioner's blade,
and the gaping wounds that vomit forth water and blood from their
livid mouths; every detail is rendered with horrible truthfulness.
Ribera has painted some things in this style, sufficient to make
El Verdugo[4] himself start back with affright. In sober truth,
we require all the dreadful beauty and diabolical energy which
characterize this great master, to enable us to support this
flaying and slaughtering school of painting, which seems to have
been invented by some hangman's assistant for the amusement of
cannibals. We actually lose all desire to suffer martyrdom; and the
angel, with his palm-branch, strikes us as a very poor compensation
for such atrocious torments. But sometimes Ribera denies even this
consolation to his victims, and allows them to writhe about in
agony, like so many serpents, in the dull, menacing shade, that is
not illuminated by a single ray from heaven.
The craving for the true, however revolting, is a characteristic
feature of Spanish art. Idealism and conventionality are foreign
to the genius of this people, who are altogether deficient in
everything like æsthetic feeling. For them sculpture is not
sufficient; they require their statues to be coloured, and their
Virgins to be painted and clothed in real clothes. To please
them, the material illusion can never be carried too far; and
their unbridled passion for the real causes them sometimes to
overstep the line which separates the sculptor's studio from the
boiling-room of the wax-work exhibitor.
The celebrated "Christ of Burgos," which is held in such
veneration, and which must not be shown until the tapers are
lighted, is a striking example of this strange taste. It is not
formed of coloured stone or wood, but actually consists of a human
skin (at least, so they say), stuffed in the most artistic manner.
The hair is real hair; the eyes are furnished with eye-lashes,
the crown of thorns is really composed of thorns, and, in a word,
not one detail is omitted. Nothing can be more lugubrious, or
more disagreeable to behold than this crucified phantom, with its
ghastly life-like look and its death-like stillness. The skin, of a
brownish, rusty tinge, is streaked with long lines of blood, which
are so well imitated that you might almost think they were actually
trickling down. It requires no very great effort of the imagination
to believe the legend which affirms that this miraculous figure
bleeds every Friday.
Instead of flying drapery twisted round the body, the Burgalise
Christ has got on a white tunic, embroidered with gold, and
descending from the waist to the knees. This style of dress
produces a strange effect, especially upon us who are not used to
it. There are three ostrich-eggs encased in the foot of the cross
as a sort of symbolical ornament, the meaning of which I have
forgotten, however, unless they are intended to convey an allusion
to the Trinity, which is the principle and germ of all things.
On leaving the cathedral we felt dazzled and crushed with
_chefs-d'œuvre_: we were intoxicated with them; we could not
admire any longer: it was only by the greatest effort that we were
enabled to cast a careless glance on the arch erected to Fernan
Gonzalez: it is an experiment made in the classical style, at the
commencement of the Renaissance period, by Philip of Burgundy. We
were also shown the Cid's house; when I say the Cid's house, I
express myself badly; I mean the place where his house may have
been, and which is a square place enclosed by posts. There is not
the least vestige left which can authorize the general belief; but
then, on the other hand, nothing absolutely proves the contrary;
and, such being the case, there is no harm in our trusting the
tradition. The _Casa del Cordon_, so called from the rope which
winds round the doors, borders the windows, and serpentines through
the various ornaments, is worth examining. It is the residence
of the political chief of the province, and we met there sundry
alcades of the environs, with features that would have struck
us as rather suspicious had we happened to come across them in
some lonely spot, and who would have done well to ask themselves
for their papers before allowing themselves to proceed without
molestation on their road.
[Illustration: PUERTA DE SANTA MARIA.]
The _Puerta de Santa Maria_, erected in honour of Charles V., is a
remarkable piece of architecture. Although the statues placed in
the niches are short and squat, they have an appearance of force
and vigour which amply compensates for any defect in gracefulness
of form. It is a great pity that this superb triumphal arch should
be obstructed and disfigured by a number of plaster walls, which
are placed there under the pretence of their being fortifications;
they should immediately be pulled down. Near this gate is the
public promenade on the banks of the Arlanzon, a very respectable
river at least two feet deep, which is a great depth for Spain.
The promenade is ornamented with four very tolerable statues,
representing four kings or counts of Castile--namely, Don Fernan
Gonzalez, Don Alonzo, Don Enrique II., and Don Fernando I. I have
now mentioned almost everything worth seeing at Burgos. The theatre
is even more primitive than the one at Vittoria. The evening I was
there, the performance consisted of a piece in verse, entitled "El
Zapatero y el Rey" (the Cobbler and the King), by Zorilla, a young
and very talented author, who is very popular in Madrid, and who
has already published seven volumes of poetry much extolled for
its harmony and style. All the places, however, had been taken
beforehand, so that we were obliged to renounce the pleasure we had
promised ourselves, and wait until the next night for the "Three
Sultanas," which, we were informed, was a piece interspersed with
singing and Turkish dances of the most transcendent comicality. The
actors did not know a word of their parts, and the prompter spoke
so loudly that he completely drowned their voices. I may mention
that the prompter is protected by a sort of tin shell, arched
like the roof of an oven, to shield him against the _patatas_,
_manzanas_, and _cascaras de naranja_--potatoes, apples, and
orange-peel--with which the Spanish public, as impatient a public
as ever existed, never fails to bombard those actors who displease
them. Each person brings his store of projectiles in his pocket: if
the actors play well, the various vegetables return to the saucepan
and serve to augment the _puchero_.
For one moment, we thought we had at length discovered the true
type of a Spanish beauty in one of the three sultanas--large,
arched, black eyebrows, sharp nose, a long oval face, and red lips;
but an obliging neighbour informed us that she was a young French
girl.
Before leaving Burgos, we paid a visit to the Cartuja de
Miraflores, situated at half a league from the town. A few poor
old decrepit monks have been allowed to await their death there.
Spain has lost a great deal of its romantic character by the
suppression of the monks, and I do not see that it has gained much
in other respects. A number of magnificent edifices, which can
never be replaced, and which were formerly preserved in all their
integrity, will fall into a state of dilapidation, and crumble
to the ground, adding their ruins to those which are already so
common in this unhappy country; and thus unheard-of treasures in
the way of statues, pictures, and objects of art of all kinds, will
be lost, without any one deriving the least advantage. It strikes
me that our Revolution might be imitated in other things than its
stupid Vandalism. Murder each other if you will, for the ideas you
imagine that you possess; fatten with your bodies the meagre plains
ravaged by war--that is all very well; but the stone, the marble
and the bronze touched by genius, are sacred--at least spare them.
In two thousand years your civil dissensions will all be forgotten,
and the future will only know that you were once a great people by
some marvellous fragments dug from out a heap of ruins.
The Cartuja is situated upon a hill. Its exterior is austere and
simple, consisting of grey stones and a tile roof, that says
nothing to the eyes, but everything to the imagination. In the
interior are long, cool, silent cloisters, with whitewashed walls,
and a number of doors leading to the various cells, and windows
with leaden casements, containing different religious subjects on
stained glass, especially a remarkable composition representing the
Ascension. The body of our Saviour has already disappeared; there
is nothing left but his feet, the marks of which are seen on a rock
which is surrounded by pious personages lost in admiration.
The prior's garden is situated within a little courtyard, in the
midst of which is a fountain, from which the water, clear as
crystal, runs out drop by drop. A few stray sprigs of the vine
somewhat enliven the melancholy aspect of the walls, while a
few tufts of flowers and clusters of plants are seen springing
up here and there, in picturesque disorder, pretty much as they
were sown by the hand of Chance. The prior, an old man, with a
noble, venerable face, and dressed in a garment resembling as
much as possible a gown (for monks are not allowed to preserve
their costume), received us very politely, and, as it was not very
warm, made us sit around the brazero, and offered us cigarettes
and _azucarillos_, with cool spring water. An open book was lying
on the table: I took the liberty to glance into it. It was the
"Bibliotheca Cartuxiana," a collection of all the passages of the
various authors who have written in praise of the order and lives
of the Carthusian monks. The margin was covered with annotations,
written in that stiff, formal, priest-like hand, rather large,
which appeals so strongly to the imagination, but says nothing to
the hasty and offhand man of the world. This poor old monk, left
thus, out of pity, in a deserted convent, the vaults of which will
soon fall over his unknown grave, was still dreaming of the glory
of his order, and inscribing with a trembling hand, in the blank
spaces of the book, some passage or other that had either been
forgotten, or recently been found.
The cemetery is shaded by two or three large yew-trees, like those
in the Turkish cemeteries. It contains four hundred and nineteen
monks, who have died since the foundation of the convent. The
ground is covered by thick luxuriant grass, and neither tomb,
cross, nor inscription, is to be seen. There do the good monks
all lie together, as humble in death as they were in life. This
cemetery, without a single name, has something calm and silent
about it that is refreshing to the soul. A fountain situated in the
midst of it sheds a stream of limpid tears, as bright as silver,
for these poor creatures, all dead and forgotten. I took a draught
of the water, filtered through the ashes of so many holy persons;
it was pure, and icy as death.
But though the dwelling of man is poor, that of God is rich. In
the middle of the nave are placed the tombs of Don Juan II. and
Queen Isabella, his wife. The spectator is lost in astonishment
at the fact of human patience ever having completed such a work.
Sixteen lions, two at each angle, support eight shields with the
royal arms, and serve as base to the structure. Add to these a
proportionate number of virtues, allegorical figures, apostles,
and evangelists, imagine a countless number of branches, birds,
animals, scrolls of arabesque and foliage, twisting and twining
in every direction, and you will yet have but a feeble notion of
this prodigious masterpiece. The crowned statues of the king and
queen are lying at full length on the top of the tomb. The king is
holding his sceptre in his hand, and is enveloped in a long robe,
guilloched and figured with the most incredible delicacy.
The tomb of the Infante Alonzo is on the left-hand side of the
altar. The Infante is represented kneeling before a fall-stool. A
vine, with open spaces, in which little children gathering grapes
are suspended, creeps, in festoons of the most capricious and
endless variety around the Gothic arch that serves as a framework
to the composition, half buried in the thickness of the wall. These
marvellous monuments are in alabaster, and are due to the chisel of
Gil de Siloe, who also executed the sculptures for the high altar.
To the right and left of the latter, which is a most beautiful
work of art, are two open doors, through which you perceive two
Carthusian friars in the white robe of their order, standing
motionless before you. At first sight you are inclined to take
these two figures, which are probably by Diego de Leyva, for living
beings. The general decoration of the building is completed by
stalls in the Berruguete style, and it is a matter of astonishment
for the visitor to find all these wonders in so deserted a spot.
From the top of the hill we were shown, in the distance, San Pedro
de Cardeña, which contains the tomb of the Cid and of his wife,
Doña Ximena. By the way, in connexion with this tomb there is a
strange anecdote told, which I will here relate, without, however,
answering for the truth of it.
During the French invasion, General Thibaut conceived the idea
of having the Cid's bones removed from San Pedro de Cardeña to
Burgos. His intention was to place them in a sarcophagus on the
public promenade, in order that the presence of these illustrious
remains might inspire the people with sentiments of heroism and
chivalry. It is added, that the gallant general, in a fit of
warlike enthusiasm, placed the hero's bones in his own bed, in
order that he might elevate his courage by this glorious proximity,
a precaution of which he had no need. The project was not put into
execution, and the Cid returned to Doña Ximena's side, at San Pedro
de Cardeña, where he has since remained; but one of his teeth,
which had fallen out, and which had been put away in a drawer,
had disappeared, without any one being able to find out what had
become of it. The only thing that was wanting to complete the Cid's
glory, was that he should be canonized, which he would have been,
had he not, before his death, expressed the Arabo-heretical and
suspicious wish that his famous steed, Barbieca, should be buried
with him. This caused his orthodoxy to be doubted. Talking of the
Cid, I must remark to Monsieur Casimir Delavigne that the name of
the hero's sword is Tizona, and not Tizonade, which rhymes rather
too closely with lemonade. I say this, however, without any desire
of damaging the Cid's fame, who, to his merit as a hero, added that
of inspiring so poetically the unknown author of the Romancero, as
well as Guilhen de Castro, Diamante, and Pierre Corneille.