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'oeuvre 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'oeuvre 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'oeuvre: 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.

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.