was in this house that the terrible Philip II. was born. We may also mention the colossal fragment of an unfinished cathedral, of granite, by Herrara, in the style of St. Peter's at Rome. This edifice was abandoned for the Escurial, that lugubrious and fantastic production of Charles V.'s melancholy son.
In a church that was closed, we were shown a collection of pictures that had been made at the time the convents were suppressed, and taken to Valladolid in obedience to an order of the superior authorities. This collection proves those who pillaged the convents and churches to be excellent artists and admirable connoisseurs, for they left none but the most horrible daubs, the best of which would not fetch fifteen francs in a broker's shop. The Museum contains a few tolerable specimens, but nothing at all first-rate; to make up for this defect, there is a great quantity of wood carving, and a large number of ivory figures of our Saviour, but they are more remarkable for their size and antiquity than for the actual beauty of the execution. Persons who go to Spain for the sake of purchasing curiosities will be greatly disappointed; they will not find a single valuable weapon, a rare book or a manuscript. Such objects are never to be met with.
The Plaza de la Constitucion at Valladolid is very handsome and very large. It is surrounded by houses, which are supported by columns of bluish granite formed of a single block. These columns produce a fine effect. The Palace de la Constitucion is painted russet-green, and ornamented with an inscription in honour of the innocente Isabella, as the little queen is called here; it also possesses a clock which is illuminated at night, like that of the Hôtel de Ville at Paris, an innovation whereat the inhabitants seem greatly to rejoice. Under the pillars are established swarms of tailors, hatters, and shoemakers, whose callings are the three most flourishing ones in Spain. Here, too, are the principal coffee-houses, and the whole life of the population seems to be centered in this one spot. In the other parts of the town you will only meet at rare intervals some straggling individual or other, a criada going to fetch water, or a countryman driving an ass before him. This appearance of solitude is augmented still more by the large extent of ground occupied by the town, in which the squares are more numerous than the streets. The Campo Grande, near the principal gate, is surrounded by fifteen convents and could make room for a great many more.
On the evening of our arrival, the performance at the theatre consisted of a piece by Don Breton de los Herreros, a dramatic author who is greatly esteemed in Spain. This piece bore the strange title of El Pelo de la Desa, which signifies when literally translated, The Hair of the Pasturage, a proverbial expression which it is rather difficult to explain, but which answers to the French saying, "La caque sent toujours le hareng" (what is bred in the bone will never come out of the flesh). The plot of the piece turns upon the fact of an Aragonese peasant being about to marry a young girl of noble birth, but having the good sense to feel that he can never be fitted for polite society. The comicality consists in the perfect imitation of the Aragonese dialect and accent, a kind of merit that is not easily perceived by foreigners. The baile nacional, without resembling the "Dance of Death" quite as much as that at Vittoria, was but a poor affair. The next day they played Victor Hugo's Hernani, ou l'Honneur Castillan, translated by Don Eugenio de Ochoa. We took care not to neglect so fine an opportunity. The piece is rendered verse for verse with scrupulous exactitude, save some few passages and scenes which were necessarily omitted to suit the public taste. The Scene of the Portraits is reduced to nothing, because Spaniards consider it insulting, and imagine that they are indirectly ridiculed in it. There are also some passages omitted in the fifth act. In general, Spaniards feel affronted when they are spoken of in a poetical manner; they assert that they are calumniated by Victor Hugo, Mérimée, and most of the authors who have written on Spain; yes – calumniated by being represented nobler than they are. They most strenuously disavow the Spain of the Romancero and the Orientals; they almost invariably assert that they are neither poetical nor picturesque, and their assertion is, alas! but too well founded. The drama was well played. The Ruy Gomez of Valladolid was most certainly equal to that of the Rue de Richelieu, which is not saying a little. As for the Hernani, that rebelle empoisonné, he would have been highly satisfactory, had he not had the bad taste to dress himself up like the troubadour on a clock. The Doña Sol was almost as young as Mademoiselle Mars, without her talent.
The Theatre at Valladolid is of a very pleasing shape, and although the interior is only decorated with a coat of white paint, ornamented with cameos on a grey ground, it produces a pretty effect. The decorator has hit upon the strange fancy of painting the partitions of the stage-boxes, so as to resemble windows with spotted muslin curtains, exceedingly well imitated. These windows have a very singular appearance. The balcony and the front of the boxes are formed of open-work, which enables the spectator to see whether the women have small feet and well-made shoes; indeed, it also enables him to see whether they possess a neat ankle and well-fitting stocking. This, however, cannot be at all disagreeable to Spanish women, who are nearly always irreproachable in this respect. I perceived by a charming feuilleton written by my literary substitute (for the Presse penetrates even into these barbarous regions), that the boxes of the new Opéra Comique are constructed on the same plan.
Beyond Valladolid the character of the country changes, and the vast heaths recommence. They possess, however, the advantage over those of Bordeaux of being dotted with clusters of green dwarf oaks, and fir-trees that spread out more at the top, and somewhat resemble a parasol in shape. But they are marked by the same aridity, the same solitude, the same look of desolation. Here and there are scattered heaps of rubbish, pompously called villages, which have been burnt and devastated by the various contending factions; and wandering about among their ruins are seen some few inhabitants, looking tattered and miserable. The only picturesque objects are a few petticoats, of a very bright canary colour, enlivened with embroidery of various hues, representing birds and flowers.
Olmedo, where the coach stops for the passengers to dine, is completely in ruins. Whole streets are deserted, and others choked up by fallen houses, while grass grows in the squares. Like the doomed cities mentioned in Holy Writ, Olmedo will soon contain no inhabitants save the flat-headed viper, the blear-eyed owl, and the dragon of the desert, who will drag the scales of his belly over the stones of the altars. A girdle of old dismantled fortifications surrounds the place, and the charitable ivy throws its cloak of verdure over the nudity of the gutted and yawning towers. Nature endeavours to repair as well as she can the ravages committed by Time and War. The depopulation of Spain is frightful: in the time of the Moors she possessed thirty-two millions of inhabitants, and, at present, the numbers, at most, ten or eleven millions. Unless some very fortunate change takes place – a thing that is not excessively probable – or the marriages are blessed with supernatural fecundity, many towns that were once flourishing will be abandoned altogether, and their ruins of brick and clay insensibly become amalgamated with the soil which swallows up all things – cities as well as men.
In the room where we dined, a tall woman, built like a Cybele, kept walking up and down, carrying under her arm an oblong basket, covered with a piece of stuff. From this basket there issued little plaintive cries, rather like those of a very young child. I was somewhat puzzled at this, because the basket was so small that if it had contained a child the latter must have been of the most microscopic and phenomenal proportions – a Lilliputian that ought to be exhibited at fairs. It was not long before the enigma was explained. The nurse – for such she was – drew out from the basket a coffee-coloured puppy, and sitting down, very gravely suckled this new description of baby. She was a pasiega going to Madrid to take a situation, and was afraid that her supply of milk might dry up.
On leaving Olmedo, the country does not offer any great variety of scenery; the only thing worth notice that I remarked, before we reached our quarters for the night, was an admirable effect of sunset. The rays of light illuminated one side of a chain of very distant mountains, all the details of which stood out with the greatest clearness, but the portions that were plunged in shadow were almost invisible; and the sky bore a most saturnine appearance. Were a painter to transfer this effect exactly to canvas, he would be accused of exaggeration and inexactitude. On this occasion the posada was much more Spanish than any we had hitherto seen. It consisted of an immense stable surrounded by chambers with whitewashed
