Mysterious cabinets.--Relics of Martyrs.--A feather from the
Archangel Gabriel’s wing.--Labyrinth of gloomy
cloisters.--Sepulchral cave.--River of death.--The regal
sarcophagi.
My lord the prior, not favouring a prolonged survey, I reluctantly left
this beautiful court, and was led into a low gallery, roofed and
wainscoted with cedar, lined on both sides by ranges of small doors of
different-coloured Brazil-wood, looking in appearance, at least, as
solid as marble. Four sacristans, and as many lay-brothers, with large
lighted flambeaux of yellow wax in their hands, and who, by the by,
never quitted us more the remainder of our peregrinations, stood silent
as death, ready to unlock those mysterious entrances.
The first they opened exhibited a buffet, or _credence_, three stories
high, set out with many a row of grinning skulls, looking as pretty as
gold and diamonds could make them; the second, every possible and
impossible variety of odds and ends, culled from the carcasses of
martyrs; the third, enormous ebony presses, the secrets of which I
begged for pity’s sake might not be intruded upon for my recreation, as
I began to be heartily wearied of sightseeing; but when my conductors
opened the fourth mysterious door, I absolutely shrank back, almost
sickened by a perfume of musk and ambergris.
A spacious vault was now disclosed to me--one noble arch, richly
panelled: had the pavement of this strange-looking chamber been strewn
with saffron, I should have thought myself transported to the enchanted
courser’s forbidden stable we read of in the tale of the Three
Calenders.
The prior, who is not easily pleased, seemed to have suspicions that the
seriousness of my demeanour was not entirely orthodox; I overheard him
saying to Roxas, “Shall I show him the Angel’s feather? you know we do
not display this our most-valued, incomparable relic to everybody, nor
unless upon special occasions.”--“The occasion is sufficiently
special,” answered my partial friend; “the letters I brought to you are
your warrant, and I beseech your reverence to let us look at this gift
of heaven, which I am extremely anxious myself to adore and venerate.”
Forth stalked the prior, and drawing out from a remarkably large cabinet
an equally capacious sliding shelf--(the source, I conjecture, of the
potent odour I complained of)--displayed lying stretched out upon a
quilted silken mattress, the most glorious specimen of plumage ever
beheld in terrestrial regions--a feather from the wing of the Archangel
Gabriel, full three feet long, and of a blushing hue more soft and
delicate than that of the loveliest rose. I longed to ask at what
precise moment this treasure beyond price had been dropped--whether from
the air--on the open ground, or within the walls of the humble tenement
at Nazareth; but I repressed all questions of an indiscreet
tendency--the why and wherefore, the when and how, for what and to whom
such a palpable manifestation of archangelic beauty and wingedness had
been vouchsafed.
We all knelt in silence, and when we rose up after the holy feather had
been again deposited in its perfumed lurking-place, I fancied the prior
looked doubly suspicious, and uttered a sort of _humph_ very doggedly;
nor did his ill-humour evaporate upon my desiring to be conducted to the
library. “It is too late for you to see the precious books and
miniatures by daylight,” replied the crusty old monk, “and you would not
surely have me run the risk of dropping wax upon them. No, no, another
time, another time, when you come earlier. For the present, let us visit
the tomb of the catholic kings; there, our flambeaux will be of service
without doing injury.”
He led the way through a labyrinth of cloisters, gloomy as the grave;
till ordering a grated door to be thrown open, the light of our
flambeaux fell upon a flight of most beautiful marble steps, polished as
a mirror, leading down between walls of the rarest jaspers to a portal
of no great size, but enriched with balusters of rich bronze, sculptured
architraves, and tablets of inscriptions, in a style of the greatest
magnificence.
As I descended the steps, a gurgling sound, like that of a rivulet,
caught my ear. “What means this?” said I. “It means,” answered the monk,
“that the sepulchral cave on the left of the stairs, where repose the
bodies of many of our queens and infantas, is properly ventilated,
running water being excellent for that purpose.” I went on, not lulled
by these rippling murmurs, but chilled when I reflected through what
precincts flows this river of death.
Arrived at the bottom of the stairs, we passed through the portal just
mentioned, and entered a circular saloon, not more than five-and-thirty
feet in diameter, characterized by extreme elegance, not stern
solemnity. The regal sarcophagi, rich in golden ornaments, ranged one
above the other, forming panels of the most decorative kind; the lustre
of exquisitely sculptured bronze, the pavement of mottled alabaster; in
short, this graceful dome, covered with scrolls of the most delicate
foliage, appeared to the eye of my imagination more like a subterranean
boudoir, prepared by some gallant young magician for the reception of an
enchanted and enchanting princess, than a temple consecrated to the
king of terrors.
My conductor’s visage growing longer and longer every minute, and
looking pretty nearly as grim as that of the last-mentioned sovereign, I
whispered Roxas it was full time to take our leave; which we did
immediately after my intimating that express desire, to the no small
satisfaction, I am perfectly convinced, of my lord the prior.
Cold and hungry, for we had not been offered a morsel of refreshment, we
repaired to a warm opulent-looking habitation belonging to one of my
kind companion’s most particular friends, a much favoured attendant of
his catholic Majesty’s; here we were received with open arms and
generous hospitality; and it grew pitch dark before we quitted this
comfortable shelter from the piercing winds, which blow almost
perpetually over the Escurial, and returned to Madrid.