The eastern front of this court is formed by the west front of the church and the Escorial—undoubtedly the noblest part of the pile. It is rightly considered Herrera’s masterpiece. The shape is said to be that of a Greek cross, but seemed to me to be square. The west front is flanked by square towers considerably over 200 feet high, and terminating like those of the enceinte in pinnacles. Over the crossing rises a stately dome, supporting a graceful pyramid, above which rises an iron cross. These towers are the most ornamental features of the whole vast pile.

The interior of the church, truly observes Mr Lomas, “conveys exactly the idea which English people attach to the word ‘temple,’ a place wherein the majesty of the invisible dwarfs everything human.” It is constructed on the model of the first plan of St Peter’s. The lantern is carried on four enormous piers, from which to eight pilasters in the walls spring twenty-four mighty arches, forming three naves. Giants would seem to have been at work here. On entering we find ourselves in the dark Lower Choir, which is separated from the rest of the church by three bronze railings and to which were confined the lay worshippers. Above it is the choir, which it is unusual to find in Spain raised in a gallery at the west end of the church, instead of blocking up the nave. Here Philip often joined the monks in their devotions, his seat being the one nearest the door in the south-east angle. He was absorbed in prayer when on November 8th, 1571, during Vespers, a messenger entered and announced to those assembled the glorious victory obtained by Don John of Austria over the Ottoman fleet. The King gave no sign that he was elated, or that he had even heard the intelligence, but at the conclusion of the office he ordered a Te Deum to be intoned. He was a man never elated by success or cast down by failure. The evil tidings of the Armada found him as unperturbed as the good news of Lepanto. From the same seat he assisted at the solemn requiem Mass chanted by night for the repose of the soul of Mary, Queen of Scots. It is not without a certain emotion that we gaze around in this gallery. The stalls are elegantly and chastely carved in precious woods, after the designs of Herrera. The lectern and crystal chandelier are hardly so good. The eye turns at once to the marble crucifix signed by Benvenuto Cellini, who placed it among his finest works. Philip, one day, covered the loins of the figure with his handkerchief, a precedent which we see still followed in many churches in Spain and in convent chapels in France.

In the adjoining chambers, called the Antecoros, may be seen a statue converted into the “likeness” of St. Lawrence, and two pictures by Navarrete “el mudo.” That artist is said to have fallen foul of certain ecclesiastics by representing angels with beards, and an additional rule was laid down that neither cats and dogs nor any unbecoming figures were to be introduced into religious pictures, but only such things as incited to devotion. The frescoes are by Luca Giordano, as are also those which decorate the eight vaults of the church itself. In the choir library you may see the splendid antiphoners, beautifully bound and illuminated, and over a yard high by two yards broad.

In the church is the simple tomb of Queen Mercedes, first wife of his late Majesty, Don Alfonso XII. The plain gold cross at her feet was the offering of the British community of Madrid, by whom, as indeed by the whole world, her untimely death was profoundly deplored. She is buried here and not in the mausoleum below, as she was not the mother of a king.

The dome of the Pantheon is covered by the steep flight of steps leading to the chancel, so that Mass is literally celebrated above the bodies of the kings. The altar, which cost about £(?)40,000, is isolated, and is made of marble and jasper, a single slab of the latter stone forming the table. According to the inscription on a bronze plate let into the back of the altar, it contains relics of Saints Peter and Paul, Lawrence and Vincent, and a multitude of other saints, and was consecrated in presence of Philip by the Papal Nuncio, Camillo Caietano, Patriarch of Alexandria, on August 30th, 1595. The beauty of the reredos or retablo is obscured by the dark hue of the stone employed, and by the sombre colour assumed by the paintings in course of the years. The light also is very bad. The three stages into which the retablo is divided correspond to the three Grecian orders of architecture. The columns are of dark red and green jasper, with capitals and pedestals of bronze gilt. The statues represent (looking upwards) the Four Doctors of the Church, the Four Evangelists, St James and St Andrew, St Peter and St Paul. The paintings depict the Nativity and Adoration of the Magi, the Saviour bearing the Cross, the Scourging at the Pillar, the Martyrdom of Saint Lawrence, the Resurrection, the Descent of the Holy Ghost and the Assumption. The cross surmounting the whole was made from the wood of the Portuguese warship, “the Five Wounds.” The architect of this fine work was the Milanese Giacomo Trezzo, the painters Tibaldi and Zuccaro, the sculptors Leone and Pompeio Leoni. The sanctuary to the east contains the superb tabernacle, designed by Herrera and executed by Trezzo, with instruments invented by him for the purpose. It was restored in 1827 by “the pious and august” Ferdinand VII. after it had been rifled and damaged by the French. The reliquaries in the sanctuary contain ten entire bodies of saints, 144 heads, and 306 entire arms and legs. Among these relics is the thigh of Saint Lawrence, showing the roasted flesh and the holes made by the skewers.

The sceptical foreigner will probably be more interested by the statues above the oratorios or royal tribunes surrounding the altar. We see Charles V. with his wife, daughters and sisters, Philip II. with all his wives, except Mary Tudor, and his son, the miserable Infante Carlos. It was not altogether a happy idea to represent a Christian prince attended at the same time by his three wives. All these statues are faithful portraits. The oratorio on the Epistle side adjoins the bare, narrow chamber in which the devout king breathed his last, quitting without regret a world with which he had no sympathy and in which he moved as a melancholy exile.

The church contains forty-eight side chapels and altars, adorned by the paintings of Coello, Navarrete, and others of less note. The best pictures are to be seen in the Sacristia. Here there are several works of Titian, Tintoretto, El Greco, Zurbaran, and Ribera. The most interesting canvas is the “Santa Forma” by Claudio Coello. The heads are portraits of Charles II. and his ministers. The incident depicted is the ceremony of the Veneration of the Sacred Wafer, which being trodden upon and defiled by Protestants at Gorinchem in Holland, is said to have exuded blood. It is preserved behind the picture and exhibited twice a year.

Immediately under the high altar is the Pantheon, the last resting-place of the kings and queens of Spain. It is an octagonal chamber, lined with precious marbles, which also in the dreadfully sensible presence of death, seem to be decaying. No such rich chamber was desired by Philip. It dates from 1554.

Twenty-six marble urns placed in niches round the chamber contain all that was mortal of the monarchs of Spain and their consorts from Charles V. to Alfonso XII., Philip V. and Ferdinand VI. excepted. There are tombs, too, awaiting the living. Ascending the steps we pass the sealed door of the Pudridero, where the bodies are kept five years before being placed in the Pantheon, and may visit the burial chambers reserved to the Infantes and Infantas. Several of the vaults are still empty. They are in purer, colder style than the heavier Pantheon of the kings. As one ascends to the living world from these awful chambers, the question suggests itself, what is the object of it all? The Pyramids of Nile ought to have convinced man once for all of the hopelessness of any effort to preserve his body unprofaned and solemnly housed through all the years. No matter how great the dynasty, how strong the tomb, the day must come when the jealously and reverently guarded ashes will form the prey of some ghoulish invader. With Rameses exposed to the gaze of wondering Cockneys, with Alexander’s tomb an object of curiosity to tourists in the museum at Stamboul, with the tombs of the kings of Judah explored on allfours by Cook’s trippers, how can one hope for an eternal immunity from profanation for the Invalides, for Westminster, for the Escorial? Kings ought to have learnt the lesson that in the pages of history alone can they look for an earthly immortality.

The convent occupies the southern part of the building. It was inhabited, as I have said, by the religious known as the Hermits of St Jerome or Hieronymites, an Order established or recognised by Pope Gregory XI. in 1373. If it still exists it counts very few members and has played an insignificant part in ecclesiastical history compared with the spiritual descendants of Benedict, Dominic, Francis, Bruno, and Ignatius. For some reason or other Charles V. held the Hermits in particular esteem, and it was this predilection that determined his son to offer them the new monastery in 1561. The Order is likely to be best remembered by the ecclesiologist for the peculiar plan of its churches—cruciform, with diagonal lines extending from the ends of the cross-piece to the head of the upright limb.

The granite cloisters in the Doric style are, or rather were, decorated with frescoes after designs of Tibaldi, now shockingly “restored.” In the centre of the Patio de los Evangelistas is a little octagonal temple, covering a fountain. It is one of Herrera’s best works, in which granite and marble have been combined with admirable skill. The white statues of the Evangelists at the corners were sculptured by Monegro; the appropriate inscriptions are in Latin, Greek, Hebrew and Syriac.

The three Chapter Rooms of the monastery form a picture gallery of high interest. Titian is represented by a Last Supper—sadly restored; Tintoretto, by “Christ washing His Disciples’ feet,” “Christ at the house of the Pharisee,” and “Queen Esther”—all bought from the Collection of our Charles I. by the Spanish Ambassador—and by an “Ecce Homo,” “Entombment,” “Adoration of the Shepherds,” and “Annunciation”; Velazquez, by “The sons of Jacob”—perhaps the best work in the collection; El Mudo, by the “Martyrdom of St James”; El Greco, by the “Dream of Philip II. (Glory, Purgatory, and Hell)”; Ribera, by several canvasses. There is a good “Martyrdom of St. Lawrence” by Titian in the old chapel, and a few good pictures, especially by El Mudo, in the upper cloisters, reached by a grand staircase. One of the halls is called the Aula de Moral, being reserved for conferences on points of morality.

The Library is decidedly of more interest than the Convent. The books, oddly enough, are arranged with the faces, instead of the backs, outwards. The cases of ebony and cedar were designed by Herrera and harmonise well with the marble pavement and tables. There are several portraits of sovereigns here, and in cases are arranged some of the rarer books, such as the prayer-books of Charles V., Isabel the Catholic, Philip III., etc., a Virgil of the fifteenth century, and an eleventh century Codex, with the four Gospels written in letters of gold. This priceless work was begun by order of Conrad II., Emperor of the Romans. Eighteen pounds’ weight of gold is said to have been employed in the illumination.

The beginning of the collection was Philip’s own library, of 4000 volumes, to which was added in 1614 the valuable library of the Sultan of Morocco. It has of course been increased by other collections from time to time. The Arabic MSS., though not as numerous as might be expected, are extremely valuable. Gayangos, that patient Spanish Orientalist, I am informed, never had the opportunity of inspecting them.

The palace occupies the northern side of the huge edifice. It forms the least meritorious part of Herrera’s design, and was not improved by the alterations effected by order of Charles IV. The halls are dull, dreary, and altogether in the style of the eighteenth century—a sufficient condemnation. Those were days when every monarch wanted a Versailles: we see the same effort at imitation at Caserta, at the Superga, at Wilhelmshöhe and Philippsruhe. There is, of course, a Hall of Battles, celebrating with the exception of the pictures of the fight at St Quentin, Lepanto, and Higueruela, victories over the Dutch and Flemings. National self-glorification may be carried too far, but in England we are too forgetful of our glorious past. We do not dream of adorning our palaces with pictures of Crecy, Poitiers, Agincourt, Blenheim, Trafalgar, and Waterloo. You may search England in vain for monuments to William the Conqueror, the founder of the monarchy, to Edward, our great justiciar, to the Black Prince, to de Montfort or to Langton, to whom we owe our constitutional liberties. One unacquainted with our history might suppose we sprang into existence a bare century ago. In a generally conservative country like ours, this complete detachment from the past appears strangely contradictory.

This vast, empty palace contains little of interest except the two rooms inhabited by Philip. Within them all is austerity and simplicity—as befitted a king who was a monk at heart. The walls are whitewashed, the flooring of brick. The footstools remind us of the gout from which the sad king suffered—certainly not from over-indulgence in the good things of life. In this room he worked from four in the morning till midnight, his labours interrupted only by his fervent devotions. The adjoining chamber is the oratorio, of which I have already spoken, where he could assist at the celebration of Mass. Here, at the end of a two months’ illness, patiently borne, he died, grasping the very crucifix with which his father had been consoled during his last moments. His death, at any rate, was happier and more dignified than that of his victorious rival, Elizabeth, writhing out her life at Richmond in an ecstasy of remorse and chagrin.

Adjacent to the Escorial are several blocks of buildings, such as the Campaña, containing the domestic offices, and the Casa del Principe, the Petit Trianon of the palace, surrounded by gardens. In these may be seen the cross marking the spot where the baker’s boy was burnt at the stake in Philip’s reign. A queer site for a palace dedicated to the “menus plaisirs”!

The Escorial has been the scene of some important historical events, notably of the arrest and imprisonment of the Infante Ferdinand, on the charge of high treason against his father in 1807. He was afterwards Ferdinand VII. The prince was confined in the Prior’s cell and managed to communicate with his friends by the aid of a fishing line. Charles IV. had no option but to pardon his son, whose intrigues resulted indirectly in the spoliation of the palace which had been his prison, by the French a year or two later.

Not without relief will the visitor leave these interminable halls and corridors over which broods the presence of death, and seek the little Silla del Rey, or King’s Chair, a mile and a half from the pile. It is a natural seat, formed of granite rocks, where Philip used to watch the progress of the building operations. It is worth visiting as affording one of the pretty views to be obtained in the midst of a generally uninviting district.

After a visit to the Escorial, the Palace of La Granja will seem what it was intended to be—the house of life and gaiety. At any other time it would seem a rather dull and depressing imitation of Versailles. It is called the Grange or Farm and appropriately enough is in the midst of charming scenery. Trees afford a shade not too often to be found in barren, scorched Castile. And in the background the snowy Guadarrama lift their heads above the pine forests. On the whole one does not blame Philip V. for his choice of a royal domain, or wonder why the present King’s father and mother spent much of their time here, soon after their marriage. Yet at this height of 4000 feet above the sea, it must be an Arctic spot at all seasons except summer. La Granja—or San Ildefonso, to give it its official name—is the residence of the Court in summer. If the Escorial expresses in stone the character of its founder, the same cannot be said of this palace, for the fifth Philip was of almost as gloomy a temper as the first. He spent very little time at the pleasaunce he had decreed, for he died a few months after its completion in 1746. Here in 1724 he abdicated the throne in favour of his son, Don Luis, on whose death eight months later he was constrained to resume the royal authority.

The palace itself is not a very interesting structure. The principal façade dates from 1737, and is buttressed by columns and pilasters, supporting an entablature and balustrade. Over the middle rises an attic story, also surmounted with a balustrade, supported by four Caryatides representing the seasons, between them being the coat-of-arms of Spain and the Bourbons. This front was designed by Juvarra, and is the most tasteful portion of the building, to which additions have been made at different epochs with little regard to harmony or good taste. The interior, however, reflects the taste of the present august occupants. Much of the heavy rubbish accumulated in preceding centuries has been relegated to the lumber room, and the vast halls and corridors have been refurnished throughout. Rich tapestries cover the walls, and the palace still contains upwards of 300 pictures, though the finest works of art have gone to fill the galleries of Madrid. The chapel is only worth visiting for the tombs of Philip V. and his Italian Queen.

But if the Palace of San Ildefonso hardly rewards the visitor for his journey from Madrid, the park is a thing of beauty and a joy at least during a long day. Here flourish the elm, the lime, the pine, and the chestnut, forming delicious woods. In the ornamental gardens exists the very finest system of fountains the world has seen. Philip V. far surpassed the achievements of the Roi Soleil in this direction. The first visit is naturally to the lake, a beautiful expanse of water on the bank of which is situated the important piscicultural establishment, founded in 1867 by the King-Consort Francisco.

The gardens are filled with statues of mythological characters, grouped with great skill among the foliage. Those most admired are the Lucretia, Daphne, Phœbus, and America. Especially beautiful is the group of Diana and her nymphs surprised by Actæon, in the centre of a magnificent fountain. Contemplating the play of the waters Philip V. is said to have exclaimed “This has amused me three minutes and cost me three millions.” A still finer and taller column of water issues from the Trumpet of Fame, breaking in a shower of crystalline drops 130 feet above the water level; while miniature rainbows interlace and form an aureole round the head of the figure. In the centre of another lake, Latona is seen, embracing her children, while her enemies, transformed into frogs, vomit forth jets of water in impotent rage, which cross and recross, forming arches in bewildering variety.

There is nothing equal to this to be seen elsewhere. The achievements of the immortal Mr Brock with fire have been eclipsed by Renato Firmin with the conflicting element. Spain can boast the finest display of hydrotechnics in the world.

Before we leave this favourite home of His Catholic Majesty it is worth while to recall a few of the events of which it has been the theatre. On the 17th September 1832, Ferdinand VII. lay here dying. All those round him—his family, his ministers, even the garrison—were devoted to the interests of Don Carlos, and even his confessor ceased not to importune the dying king to revoke the Pragmatic Sanction and to decree the exclusion of his own infant daughter from the throne. Queen Cristina, in the face of such pressure, remained inactive and despairing. With his hand guided, it is said, by the Bishop of Leon, Ferdinand at last traced his feeble signature to the decree which disinherited his child. The triumph of the Carlist faction seemed complete. Suddenly at the doors of the palace appeared the Queen’s sister, Doña Luisa Carlota, a woman of such spirit that no one there—minister or officer or prelate—dared bar her way to the King’s bedside. The court presently resounded with her shrill denunciations of the Queen’s want of courage, of the King’s weakness. She summoned to her presence the trembling minister, Calomarde, and when he offered his hand, struck him on the face. “White hands do not wound” stammered the statesman and fled from the presence of the royal mænad. Before such a tempest of righteous indignation, intriguers and schemers retired. Force at the last can always break through the meshes of treachery. Many of those who witnessed the memorable scene must have thought of the furious bull at Madrid which bore down before it the most dexterous of banderilleros, the bravest of espadas, and breaking over the barriers, dispersed a whole population. Before nightfall the decree was revoked and the succession of the Infanta Isabella confirmed anew by royal decree. Bravo Luisa Carlota!

Four years later, Cristina, now regent, had to face alone and unprotected, a mob headed by the palace guard, which broke into her room, loudly demanding the re-establishment of the Constitution of 1812. The Queen, unmoved and tactful, asked the deputation if they knew what the constitution was. According to the Honourable John Hay (see his “Castilian Days”) they replied, “No, but we hear it is a good thing, and will make salt cheaper.” The story like most good ones, is certainly untrue, and may be classed with the legend that in 1893 when there was an agitation in Belgium for an extended franchise, some peasant women presented themselves at the Town Hall with buckets to carry away their share of the “Suffrage!”

The only other royal residence which can form the goal of an excursion from Madrid is El Pardo, a shooting-box on a large scale, six miles from the capital. The hunting seat built here by Enrique III. was replaced by a palace in 1543. The building is very simple, and contains but a single court. The walls in the interior are hung with tapestries after the designs of Goya (made in Madrid) and Teniers (made at Les Gobelins). Students of Spanish art should visit this palace for a sight of the best of the very few remaining works of Gaspar Becerra—the Legend of Perseus and Andromeda. The chapel contains a copy of Ribalta’s altar-piece in Magdalen Chapel, Oxford. Over the staircase is a fine equestrian portrait of Don John of Austria, attributed to Ribera. These works of art having been inspected, there is little to detain you at El Pardo. The shooting in the adjacent covers is excellent, but few of my readers will have the time or opportunity to prove this for themselves.

VII

ALCALÁ DE HENARES

Until the University, founded here by Cardinal Ximenez, was removed to Madrid, Alcalá de Henares was a town of note, populated by over ten thousand students. As early as the thirteenth century the Court frequently sat here to administer the fueros, and Alcalá was one of the first bishoprics founded in Spain. Cervantes speaks of the town of his birth as “the famous Complutum”; and Erasmus, in a letter to Vives, relates that “the cultivation of languages and polite letters has given celebrity to the University of Alcalá, whose principal ornament is that illustrious and truly worthy old man, Anthony de Nebrija, who has outstripped many Nestors.”

The students of the Alcalá University were a very merry community. Many are the tales repeated of their frolics, their escapades, and their Bohemianism. They prided themselves upon the carelessness of their dress, and at holiday time sang to the guitar for chance coppers thrown from the windows. Yet there were many serious students in the colleges, which numbered about twenty, and many youths sat at the feet of the sage teachers and learned lecturers who were retained by Cardinal Ximenez for the instruction of the pupils. Cervantes was among the students of Alcalá before he went to Madrid; but we read that he was not much inclined to follow the academic course, preferring poetry and romance to the dry tomes of theology and philosophy.

The ancient University was first established on the site of the present Colegio de San Ildefonso, which was built in 1583. Two celebrated architects, Gumiel and Gil de Hontañon, designed the building, and showed great taste in planning the front and the patios. The amphitheatre, in which the honours of the college were bestowed upon diligent students, and the chapel, are fairly preserved, and contain some interesting memorials of the days of prosperity and culture at Alcalá. In design the chapel is a curious mixture of the Renaissance and Morisco styles of architecture.

Ximenez, more correctly called Cisneros, is one of the most impressive figures in Spanish history. He was a shrewd politician, a profound pietist, a promoter of learning, an ascetic, and an exemplar in works of charity. He was, however, tainted with fanaticism, and at his direction many hundreds of ancient Arabic books were burned, a step the wisdom of which is still a matter of controversy. From 1516 till his death in 1518, the Cardinal held the regency of Castile, an office which provoked the resentment of many old and noble houses in the kingdom, for, though Ximenez was of high birth, he came of an impoverished family. Upon being challenged by the grandees for his authority, the Cardinal led a deputation to the window of his palace, and pointing to a body of armed men in the courtyard, said: “By these powers I govern Castile until Prince Carlos shall arrive or shall supersede me.”

The worsting of the French invaders in Navarre was due to the militant Cardinal’s tactics. He dismantled the forts, except Pamplona, which he rendered almost unassailable, and having garrisoned the capital of the kingdom, he defied the troops of France. To him also Spain owed the establishment of a militia, or citizen army, though the institution found little favour with the populace. Although Ximenez undoubtedly checked the study of Hebrew and Arabic in Spain, it must be remembered that his energy and his zeal secured the University of Alcalá de Henares, and that he produced here the great Polyglot Bible hence called the Complutensian. The books which this censor permitted to be used were “Catechisms, solid and simple explanations of Christian doctrine, and other writings calculated to enlighten the minds of the people.”

A noteworthy figure connected with the history of Alcalá de Henares was the learned and liberal-minded Nebrija, a reformer of a very different cast of intellect from that of Cardinal Ximenez who proved, however, his generous protector. Antonio de Nebrija was the Erasmus of Spain. He spent ten years of study in Italy, and returned to lecture at the University of Alcalá and to encourage learning among his countrymen. Although Nebrija encountered strong opposition in certain quarters, he strove till his old age to improve education in Spain, and contrived to gain the countenance of many persons of high position. Queen Isabella the Catholic was herself amongst his pupils.

The surroundings of Alcalá de Henares are austere and bleak; and if it were not for the hills that screen the town from the north, it would be considerably colder and more wind-swept than it is. A stream meanders by the town, and elms and poplars grow on this green upland of the sierras; but the environs of Alcalá cannot be called sylvan. Towards Meco, at one time a Moorish settlement, the country is of a softer and more pastoral character, enlivened by numerous mountain rivulets. This village is about four miles from Alcalá.

The Archbishop’s Palace is one of the monuments of the place, and it is now used as a repository for historical archives. Berruguete and other celebrated architects planned the building, which has some interesting patios and a fine staircase, showing the ornate tendency of the age in which the palace was designed.

The Colegiata has been restored. Its chief object of interest is the beautiful monument to Cardinal Ximenez, by Fancelli, an Italian sculptor. Juan Francés executed the reja, or screen, of the chapel in this edifice, and the saints Justo and Pastor, to whom the Colegiata is dedicated, were buried in the vault.

In Santa Maria, an unimposing church, Cervantes was christened; and upon the house where he was born we shall find an inscription containing a tribute to his genius. Several towns in Spain claim to be the birthplace of the author of “Don Quixote,” and it is not absolutely proved that he was born at Alcalá de Henares. There is, however, scarcely any doubt that he was baptised here, for the registers contain an entry of his baptism, and, as children in Spain were christened almost immediately after their birth, there is perhaps the strongest claim to be set forth by the townspeople, who aver that Alcalá is “the real birthplace of the immortal Cervantes.”

Still following the windings of the river Henares, we may reach Guadalajara in a rail journey of about fourteen miles from Alcalá. Here the Castilian landscape is of a less severe aspect, and the Roman and Moorish associations of the town tempt the traveller to linger for a while. The situation of Guadalajara is elevated, and the Romans made it a fortified place, and built an aqueduct from the hills.

The Palace of the Duke del Infantado is the most interesting building in the town. It is in the blended styles of the Goths and the reconciled Moors, and the patios are beautifully decorated, though much of the ornamentation of the interior has suffered the impairment of age and neglect.

On our way from Madrid to these fascinating towns of Castile we gain a glimpse of the stern order of the natural surroundings amongst which Cervantes was reared. This is not “the sunny Spain” of the south, but the Spain of the hardy Castilians, and the country of wind-searched highlands, where vegetation is thin, and whole districts are without foliage and shade. The towns and villages are often in green oases of the dreary table-land, but some of them are among the rocks of this sterile region, and exposed to snowstorms and hurricanes. Were it not for the system of irrigation which the Spaniards learned from the Moors, the plight of the farmer upon these table-lands would be melancholy indeed; but even in the bleakest territory the system of artificially watering the parched, sun-baked soil works wonders, and grain crops smile here and there among the savage hill-slopes of the despoblados or wastes, and almost everywhere flocks gain pasturage in the summer.

VIII

THE BULL-FIGHT

The taurilia of the Romans resembled the fights with bulls that may be witnessed to-day in every large town of Spain. Whatever may have been the origin of these contests, it is certain that, since the days of the Moors, the bull-fight has endured as the chief recreation of all classes of the population. There is in no other country any sport that can be compared with it in importance and in the sway of its fascination upon the public. The passion for horse-racing in England is not general, and the diversion owes its popularity in a large degree to the chances of gambling which it offers. Eliminate betting from the turf, and you will find that those who “follow racing” simply from an enthusiasm for rearing and running horses, and those who enjoy the amusement from the mere pleasure of watching competitions in speed between horses form an almost insignificant minority. In this country where horse-racing is regarded as a national pastime, the proportion of the populace that takes any interest in the breeding of the horses, the technique of riding, and racing per se is greatly restricted. But this is not the case with bull-fighting in Spain. Here every one from the noble to the mule-driver is learned in all the rules of the game, keenly critical of the exploits of the performers in the ring, and ever ready to talk with fervour upon the absorbing topic.

The hold which this pastime has upon the Spanish imagination is so strong that it is a part of the national character, as deep-seated as the sentiments of piety and loyalty, and as powerful as the feeling of patriotism. King or peasant, man or woman, every native of Spain is a lover of the corrida; every child plays at bull-fighting as soon as he can walk; and every youth, who would be thought manly and a true son of Spain, yearns to emulate the courage and the dexterity of the espada.

Hundreds of volumes have been written in Spain upon the art of bull-fighting, the history of the ring, the lives of eminent toreros, and the records of famous arenas. Bull-fighting has produced an array of ardent chroniclers, poets, and hosts of journalists, and it has quickened the brush or pencil of artists from before the time of Goya down to Zuloaga.

The breeding of bulls for the ring may be described as one of the national industries of Spain. Noblemen endeavour to keep up the breed and the fighting qualities of bulls, and the rearing of bulls is the proper occupation of a gentleman. The beautiful Duchess of Alba, the friend of Goya, was an enthusiastic admirer of the sport, and a breeder of bulls. The vacadas or breeding establishments of Andalusia produce the finest fighting bulls. They are considered fit for the combat, or warrantable, at the age of five years, when their value averages about £50 each. Over a thousand of these highly-bred animals are killed in the bull-rings of Spain annually, while the number of horses gored to death is very much larger.

In the old days bull-fights were mimic representations of warfare, in which the true caballero aspired to take part and to distinguish himself. The toreros were amateurs belonging to high families, and several of the kings of Spain were expert exponents of the art of the espada. Accidents and deaths in the arena were of common occurrence, sometimes several knights were killed during a single performance. At all royal fêtes a bull-fight was part of the amusement provided. If a prince was born, or married, the event was celebrated by a grand display of bull-fighting, while the coronation of a sovereign was always made the occasion for a brilliant spectacle in the ring. In Madrid these fights were held in the Plaza Mayor, a big quadrangle in the centre of the city. The plaza is surrounded by houses of several storeys high, having balconies and an arcade. The Panaderia, or Royal Bakery, served as a royal stand, and here the Court assembled in the balconies to witness the feats of the grandees, who engaged the fierce bulls with lances. No one of vulgar rank was permitted to take part in the contest.

In the early days the torero sometimes encountered the bull with a spear, on foot, as may be seen in old bull-fighting prints. The use of horses in the ring came later. Dogs were often set upon the bulls, to incense them, and up to the year 1840 bears and other animals were introduced into the ring. These combats have been abandoned. In the old bull-fighting bills we read of “a grand fight between a big elephant and two big bulls.” The dogs were of proven courage, and bred for strength and endurance. They often succeeded in pinning the bull by the nose, and holding his head down; but frequently they lost their lives on the points of his horns. Théophile Gautier, in “Wanderings in Spain,” describes this bull-baiting by dogs.

Despite the passion which the Spaniard has always exhibited for the bull-fight, the amusement has been more than once condemned by the Church and State. But such edicts and acts have been withdrawn, and the crowd has once more thronged the amphitheatre. Pope Pius V. issued a proclamation against bull-fighting in the year 1567, but in 1576 Pope Clement VIII. revoked the measure. At a much later date the corrida was interdicted by Godoy, but the sport was again revived, and continues to flourish at the present time. The opponents of the ring to-day are in a minority, but their number is slowly increasing, and there seems to be something in the nature of a humanitarian crusade against the sport. One or two publicists are certainly opposed to the pastime.

Nevertheless, tauromachy will die very slowly in Spain. Bull-fighting holds the popular imagination as by a powerful spell, and it is a deep-rooted institution of the country, revered by high and low. Only at the Plaza de Toros does the Spaniard lose his restraint and gravity, and shout and cheer until he is hoarse. The poorest mendicant in Madrid will go without food for a day, to get a seat at the fight. And what can diminish the admiration of the populace for the torero? Is he not the idol of the aristocracy, the hero of the people? He earns more than a Minister of State, and infinitely more than a great writer. When he kills a bull with a clever thrust, or smilingly receives the furious onslaught of the beast upon his dangling capa, the Plaza de Toros shakes with the vociferations of the multitude. Flattered by hidalgos, courted by handsome doñas, applauded by the crowd—the popular espada is the greatest man in Spain. Crowds assemble around his hotel, to acclaim him as he comes forth clad for the fray, in his glitter of tinsel, and glory of silk, plush and diamonds.

From six to eight bulls are baited and killed at each entertainment. Gautier says that, when he attended a bull-fight in Madrid, eight bulls and fourteen horses were done to death, and a chulo slightly wounded. On feast days, in the eighteenth century, as many as six bulls were killed in the morning and twelve in the afternoon.

The training place or “university” of bull-fighters is at Seville, and the most daring of the schools of toreros are of the South of Spain. Madrid is the scene of the espada’s triumph, or of his defeat, for though the spectators at the corrida are ever ready to lavish applause upon the clever performer with the lance or sword, they are cruelly critical, and show little mercy towards the timorous or bungling artist. Even the famous Bombita, the Madrid favourite, has known that ominous stillness that succeeds an ill-rendered thrust at a bull of unusual agility. The public will load Fuentes with their gold, and cheer him to the echo when he displays his coolness and dexterity, but the same public will not hesitate to hiss the best espada who ever stepped into the ring, when he commits an impropriety or misses the opportunity of an instant to deliver a thrust of the blade.

As in the old days of the tournament, fair ladies smile upon and favour the bold torero. There are instances of the exactions of these high-born patronesses of the sport, which have resulted in death for the espada who courted their approbation. It is recorded that a royal lady was so fascinated by an exceptionally agile feat performed by a torero that she wished to see it repeated. The desire was conveyed to the performer. “It is more than my life is worth,” he said. “It is the wish of the lady,” returned the messenger. Bowing low, the torero said: “I dedicate my life to Her Royal Highness.” Again the bull charged; but this time the unlucky athlete was caught on the horns of the beast, whence he was removed—a corpse.

It is the custom in England to speak of the espada and of bull-fighters collectively as “matadors.” The word is altogether inappropriate to the sport. We hear of young gentlemen attending fancy dress balls in London, attired as “a Spanish matador,” or as a “toreador.” A bull-fighter in Spain is a torero in the general sense, though the word really means one who engages the bull on foot. The performer with the sword, the most important functionary in the ring, is known as the espada; and the man who charges the animal on horseback, with a spear or lance as a weapon, is called a picador. Throwers of the darts are termed banderilleros; wavers of the gaudy cloaks, and the assistants of the espadas, are called chulos. These are the grades of toreros in their order of precedence.

IX

THE ART OF THE BULL-FIGHTER

The sight of the Plaza de Toros on the day of a great corrida leaves an impression that will not quickly fade from the memory. In the palcos are the rank, beauty, and wealth of Madrid, while packed in the humbler seats is a vast mass of the people. The ladies wear mantillas, and carry fans, which flutter the whole time; and animation, devoid of any trace of rough behaviour, characterises the immense crowd. A tense hush falls on the throng when the first bull of the day bounds in from the dark toril, and confronts his gaily-attired persecutors in the big arena. During the fight the spectators grow excited almost to the verge of frenzy. There is a roar of voices, and the sound of canes struck upon the benches, an indescribable din, which reaches its height when a popular espada delivers a dexterous thrust of the blade into the neck of the baffled and infuriated toro. While the combat proceeds, there are alternating comments of “Bravo toro,” as the bull shows courage, and groans and hisses when the animal displays cowardice or apathy. Both the bull and the men must act their parts with zeal, energy and bravery, or the crowd is disappointed, and wont to express disapprobation in an unqualified manner.

On the day of a corrida Madrid is roused into a mood of joyous expectancy. The town is en fête; the streets are thronged, and every kind of vehicle is seen in the procession to the Plaza de Toros. For an hour the carriages stream in, and the crowd on foot files along to the tiers of seats. Overhead is the vivid sky and a burning sun, which brightens all that it shines upon. Thousands of fans are waving; thousands of dark eyes gleam from the palcos. Presently the music begins, from the large orchestra a stirring air thrills the arena, and almost drowns the voices of the crowd. One is reminded of a scene in the amphitheatre in the days of the grandeur of Rome, when gladiatorial contests attracted a vast concourse of all classes of the population, for the same love of daring and agility still sways the passion of the people, and the same indifference is evinced when blood flows.

The tournament opens with an imposing procession of the bull-fighters, arrayed in all the glory of their gala costumes, in which there is a plentiful glitter of tinsel, and spangles, and gold braid. Two alguaciles, or mounted men in a bygone garb of the police, ride in front of the troop of toreros. The two espadas, who are taking the leading part in the corrida to-day, come next, and they are followed by the picadores, or spearmen, who are well protected with pads and leg-guards. Next come the banderilleros or dart-throwers, a nimble company, in bright silk and velvet, and the rear of the procession is made up of muleteros, with the gaily trapped mules that are used to drag the corpses of the bulls from the ring.

A bugle note rings out like a challenge, and the key of the toril, or bulls’ den, is thrown by the President into the arena. The ring is now cleared of all the combatants except a trio of picadores, who, sitting astride their wretched nags, await the entry of the bull. Amid the hush, toro rushes into the arena, a huge black beast, with elongated horns, a thick, brawny neck, a sleek, shining coat, and a pair of flashing, angry eyes. He paws the ground, and snorts, and catching sight of the gaudy colours of the picadores, lowers his head, and charges them. His assault is received on the blunt point of the garrocha, or spear; and, incensed by the pain, he pauses, lashing his tail, and deliberating a second attack. Perchance the bull is not especially fierce or courageous. He has led a placid life on the plains, and has followed the herd-boy as sheep follow a shepherd. But to-day he must fight and die, and if he is indifferent at the sight of his assailants, means must be employed to anger him.

But a valiant bull needs no such incitement to fury. He is angry with every one, indignant at the whole proceedings, and he charges the picadores with terrific vehemence. Sometimes a rider is unhorsed, and, handicapped by his pads and protectors, he is in peril till the attendants divert the attention of toro.

The hapless horses are the worse sufferers, for they cannot escape from the ring. They serve as butts for the bull’s horns; they are frequently ripped open, and sometimes lifted off their feet by the horns of their maddened enemy. To English eyes it is a heartrending spectacle to see a sorry old horse, which has patiently served man all his life, urged up to the sharp horns of the bull, and made to receive his cruel charges. The wounded horses lie quivering and expiring in the ring; a look of supplication and suffering in their eyes fills the unaccustomed spectator with compassion, and the sight of their terrible injuries sickens the sensitive.

The banderilleros now appear, armed with steel barbed darts, adorned with coloured papers, and with coolness and dexterity, they approach toro, and throw their stinging missiles at his neck and shoulders. The bull winces, shakes his head, and turns upon his tormentors. He chases one of them across the ring; the pursued banderillero vaults over the high wooden barrier, and the horns of the bull resound against the wood with a dull crash. Another dart-thrower runs up, and deftly plants his weapons in the bull’s flesh. Again toro turns, and as he runs with lowered horns, a third banderillero stands in his course, leaps aside at the crucial instant, and delivers his darts.

An expert banderillero will sit on a chair and await the rush of toro. The agility and daring of these performers is very extraordinary. If the bull is apathetic, drastic means are used to stir his anger. The banderillas de fuego, or fire darts, are used to arouse his fury. These instruments of irritation are provided with explosives, which startle and infuriate the bull with their noise and their sting. Now and then, a nimble and frenzied bull, when pursuing a banderillero, will even leap over the high barrier of the arena, causing tremendous consternation among the spectators. Sometimes a plucky bull-fighter grows bolder, and dares the bull by every imaginable device until, in a fatal moment, he receives a thrust of the horn, and falls bleeding to the ground.

Before entering the perilous arena, the toreros receive the sacrament from the priest who is always in attendance at bull-fights. During the corrida the padre remains in waiting in the chapel of the Plaza de Toros, ready to minister, if need be, to a fighter borne dying from the scene.

The last great act in the drama is the suerte de matar. It is then that the espada steps into the ring, carrying his red cloth over one arm, while the other arm is engaged with the sword. Bowing to the President, the espada turns around and faces the bull, who is now somewhat fatigued from his exercise in chasing the banderilleros and butting at the horses of the picadores. The bull, whose neck bristles with the darts, stands slowly moving his tail, and staring at his new aggressor in sullen anger. Waving the muleta, or red cloth, the espada advances to toro, and impudently flutters the cloth in his face. The bull charges; the muleta receives his horns, and is tossed in the air, while the espada skips aside. Again and again the bull attempts to impale the man, but only succeeds in striking the muleta. Baffled and exasperated, toro pauses as though in sober reflection. How can he outwit that smiling, calm assailant who fixes him with an insolent stare? The bull walks round and round the motionless espada, trying, as it were, to find a weak point for a charge, but the swordsman follows every movement with a shrewd and practised eye, and even divines what ruse the bull intends to adopt.

It is a wonderful display of coolness and courage. There are moments in the fight between the bull and the espada when a deep hush spreads among the spectators; and, then, as the man swerves aside from the on-rush of the beast, a deafening roar goes up from the crowd. The last act is protracted at the discretion of the espada, who is always delighted to exhibit his cleverness and nimbleness to his thousands of admirers in the palcos and galleries. A master of the art of the espada has an extensive répertoire of tricks and passes of the sword, which he loves to display, and he will risk his life a dozen times in the afternoon in exhibiting his skill and prowess. Often the bull is stupid. He must be made to prove his mettle. But usually toro is already mad with anger when called upon to fight the last duel with the espada. It is curious to note how the muleta enrages the bull, who seems to hate it more than the banderillas or the pike of the picador.

At length the espada determines that toro shall die. There is only one legitimate way to kill him. The thrust must be delivered in the neck, and the point of the sword should reach the heart. Before this death-stroke there is a stillness and tense feeling in the Plaza. Will the espada blunder, or will the blade go home at the first thrust. A rapt excitement is on the faces of the crowd. And now the bull makes his last headlong rush; there is a flash of steel in the sunshine, and the sword pierces the black hide, and the blade disappears up to the hilt. Toro staggers, turns and makes a final assault on the espada, only to receive the muleta on his horns. The bull falls, and blood gushes from his wound. He lies dying amid the thunderous din of applause. An attendant appears with a narrow-bladed dagger. He stoops over the bull and plunges the weapon into the spine, near the head. With a shudder, toro dies. During the babel of voices discussing the fight, the mules are driven into the ring, traces are fixed to the horns of the dead bull, and the corpse is dragged out; and with scarcely an interval, another victim is turned into the arena.

In “Childe Harold,” Lord Byron records his impressions of a bull-fight: