_The Last Period of Toledo's Story_
The start of Spanish rule in Toledo was clouded and stormy. The Cid was
named the first Alcalde, and the Castillians expressed their
dissatisfaction with Mozarabe law, which was the Gothic law of Toledo.
They clamoured for Castillian Judges and the Castillian _fueros_ or
privileges. The King granted their request in all civil cases, but in
criminal cases decided that every citizen should be subject to the
Mozarabe Alcalde, and in case of death the first application for burial
had to be made to the Mozarabe authorities, who gave permission to the
Castillians to consult their own. But slowly the word Castillian came to
be employed in Toledo in place of the more picturesque designation
Mozarabe.
After the conquest, Alfonso left his French wife, Constance and the
French archbishop, Bernard of Cluny, as regents in Toledo, and hurried
off on the usual business of war to Leon. Now one of the conditions on
Yahya's surrender of the city was that the Mezquita, formerly the
Christian Cathedral, should remain in the hands of the Moors, as their
place of worship. But neither the queen nor the archbishop approved of
this clause, and could not conceive that a promise given to the
reprobate Moslem should be held as binding. So the King once gone, the
queen gave orders, and the archbishop headed his followers, and took
the mosque by force. Great, naturally, were Moorish outcries against
Christian perfidy, and word of the atrocious deed was instantly conveyed
to Alfonso, who hurried back from Leon, sending word before him that his
intention was nothing less than to burn alive the queen and the
archbishop. For a King who had scandalously broken the laws of
hospitality, and who had no intention of helping to maintain Yahya on
his throne in Valencia, according to his solemn engagement, this was
making a mighty mountain of a smaller offence, and placing a
disproportionate price on so fragile and fugitive a thing as his honour.
The Moors were so dismayed by this assurance, that their indignation
evaporated and gave way to pity and terror for the delinquents. The
Alfaqui went out beyond the city walls to meet the irate monarch, and
plead their cause. Seeing him from afar, Alfonso, misinterpreting his
purpose, cried out: "Friends, this injury is not done to you but to me,
since my word is compromised, which I have ever guarded with all my
power. But I will so act that neither she nor others will again dare to
commit such audacities." The Alfaqui, kneeling to the Spaniard,
exclaimed in the name of his co-religionists: "My lord, we well know
that the queen is your wife, and if she should die for our cause, we
should be abhorred of all men. And the same should the archbishop die,
who is the prince of your law. We of our will beseech you to forgive
them both, and we freely relieve you of the oath by which we hold you,
so that in all things else you are true to it." Thanks to Moorish
generosity, neither the queen nor the French archbishop was burnt alive,
and the Mezquita became the Christian Cathedral we may see to-day. As a
mark of gratitude, "the good Alfaqui's" statue was ordered to be placed
in the _Capilla Major_, an honour
[Illustration: THE CATHEDRAL]
shared with the mysterious pastor _de las Navas_, a shepherd, supposed
to be the instrument of that victory. The Church was solemnly
consecrated in 1087, and then it was that Toledo had the misfortune to
fall completely under French influence. To Bernard of Cluny's ill-judged
introduction of the Roman liturgy may be traced the Inquisition. The
quaint old Gothic rite was ordered to be abolished in favour of the
Roman Breviary. Aragon and Navarre yielded at once, but Castille held
out for the Isidorian ritual, and excitement ran high in Toledo, the
very heart and head of the Gothic rite. Nothing could make her willingly
faithless to the severe and simple Mozarabe service, inherited from the
early Christians. Hers was the primitive form of worship of Christians
when Christianity was still fresh and unformed, before Rome had
introduced its dazzling magnificences of ceremony. Both the clergy and
the people ignored the decree forbidding the Mozarabe ritual, and
steadily rejected the Latin. Then the French archbishop resolved to put
the matter to the test of the sword, and if that did not settle it, to
that of fire. He called these tests "the Judgment of God." A duel was
fought consequently, under the eyes of all Toledo, which left the
Judgment of God on the side of the Mozarabe ritual. This did not satisfy
the archbishop, who found that the Almighty had erred, so he lit a big
fire on the public place, the precursor of the terrible fires that were
to follow, in which Spain was to burn out all her glory and greatness.
The historians do not agree in their reports. The Archbishop Rodrigo
says, "_exustus ibi fuit liber Gallicus; rumansitque ibi toletanus
illæsus_." Alfonso the learned says: "both books were cast into the
flames, and the French office struggled with the fire that endeavoured
to devour it, and then gave a leap over all the flames, and jumped out
of the bonfire, seeing which, all gave praise to God for the great
miracle He had deigned to work; and the Toledan office fell into the
flames without any harm, so that no part of it was touched by the
flames, and no injury was done to any part of it." This appears to have
settled the dispute: the Toledans were allowed to preserve their ritual
in six parishes reduced now to two. Cisneros, a century later, founded
the Mozarabe Chapel of the Cathedral, and ordered the printing of the
ancient office with its queer primitive chaunt, and in the eighteenth
century, Cardinal Lorenzana had another edition of the text printed. The
traveller curious to know how the old Goths prayed in the days of
Recesvinthus and Wamba, of St Isidor and St Ildefonso, may hear the old
service any morning in the Mozarabe Chapel. The rite was probably more
impressive in the days of the great councils of Toledo than in ours.
Though first Castillian Alcalde of Toledo, the Cid is not associated
with the town by any picturesque or splendid deed. His great
achievements belong to the story of other towns. Here is only recorded
of him a sordid domestic quarrel. Alfonso convened the Cortes to
consider the Challenger's differences with his miserable sons-in-law,
the infantes of Carrion, and the meeting took place in the beautiful
palace of Galiana--
"La mora mas celebrada
De toda la moreria."
The Cid came with his kinsmen, Alvar Fañez, and twelve hundred
cavaliers. The king rode two leagues beyond the city gates to meet him,
and when the Cid had kissed his hand, embraced him. When informed that
he was to dwell in the royal palace, the Cid protested against the
excessive honour, and asked for himself and his suite the castle of San
Servando. The king and the Cid together rested at the posada, and then
rode on to the palace. Here carpets and gold brocade lay along the
walls, and in the middle of the great chamber the splendid and
richly-wrought throne; close by it was the Cid's celebrated marble bench
brought from Valencia, and round it a hundred shields of hidalgos. Day
and night, while the case lasted, this bench was guarded, and in the
_Cronica del Cid_, it is described as "a very noble and subtle work."
It was covered with the richest of gold cloth. When the king, followed
by the Infantes of Carrion, and all the court, entered the palace
chamber, the uncle of the Infantes began to cast ridicule upon the Cid's
famous bench, whereupon the king sternly rebuked him: "You who are
jeering, when have you ever sent me such a present?" Instead of wasting
their time in jealousy of the Challenger, why did not the rest of his
subjects accomplish such noble deeds as his, he wondered. The Cid was
then called, and when he entered the chamber, the king rose up and
welcomed him. Amidst profound attention, the Cid solemnly pleaded his
case. He demanded that the Infantes should give up to him their
dishonoured swords, Tolada and Tizona. This the Infantas haughtily
refused to do, upon which the king ordered the swords to be taken from
them, and given to the Cid. The Cid kissed the king's hand, and both sat
down, the king on his throne, and the Cid on his marble bench. The Cid
then, a passionate father, eloquently told the roll of his wrongs and
his daughters' injuries. He reminded the king that he it was who had
made these lamentable marriages. "It was you, señor, who married my
daughters, and not I, because I could not say you nay. But you did it
for their good, not for their doom." He demanded the return of his money
from the Infantes and an explanation of their evil conduct to his
daughters. He became so violent from grief and indignation that the king
thought fit to interfere, and while recognising the justice of his most
bitter complaints, urged him to respect his children in their husbands,
and, in a word, be less personal in public. He then commanded the
Infantes to salute their father-in-law, and the court to pronounce
sentence. The Infantes, worthless scamps, stood and insolently
proclaimed themselves the social superiors of their wives, whom the
choice of princes had inordinately honoured. "Then why," sensibly asks
the king, "did you press me to obtain for you their hands in marriage?"
and proceeds to give the ladies' pedigree to the affronted Cid's
delight. The wretched Infantes were very properly disgraced, when their
discomfort was accentuated by the appropriate arrival of hot messengers
from the kings of Aragon and Navarre, begging in marriage Doña Elvira
and Doña Sol for their sons, Don Sancho and Don Ramiro. In those odd and
delightful times, divorce seems to have been a matter of royal judgment
or caprice. Spanish sovereigns, unlike Henry VIII., never had any
difficulty in arranging those little affairs without scandal, or war, or
revolution, either in their own case or in that of their vassals.
Alfonso stoutly advised the Cid to accept proposals that gave his
outraged and forsaken daughters kingdoms instead of obscure retreats,
and bestowed the last affront on the miscreants who had offended him and
them. So the scandal terminated, and the chronicler tells us that "the
Infantes left the palace very sorrowful, and hastened with all speed
back to Carrion."
Alfonso's reign was no quiet one. He had to contend with the fierce
Yussuf and his son, and grief pierced him through his young son, Sancho,
whom he sent to war with Count Garcia of Cabra, when only eleven. Twenty
thousand Christians, along with the brave little prince, lay dead on the
battlefield, and the king's anguish, when the news reached Toledo, was
overpowering. He died soon afterwards, and his body was exposed for
twenty days, for the towns-people to come and gaze upon the remains of
the Christian monarch.
Toledo still remained the centre of Castillian rule. Here the Cortes
was held; here was each Christian monarch proclaimed in a quaint
ceremony that merits description, said to have been transmitted to the
Castillians by the Goths. As soon as the municipality received the new
king's letter, they announced that the royal standard would be raised,
and opened all the rooms of the town hall. Soon the building was crowded
with magistrates, jurors, pleaders, cavaliers and citizens. The streets
and the plazas overflowed with the people in holiday array, all laughing
and excited. The buildings were decorated, hung with beautiful silks and
stuffs, and illuminated pretty much as in our own days. Balconies were
covered with brocade, and from each window fell pieces of rare tapestry.
At eight o'clock in the morning the town was gathered near the
Ayuntamiento to hear the chief scriviner read the deposition, and watch
the lifting of the royal Standard and the new king's banner. The city
then named four commissioners, two officers and two juries, and
despatched them to the Ensign's house, telling him to bring instantly
the royal standard to the town hall. The Ensign took the standard and
went forth, followed by a large crowd of cavaliers, of archers and of
troops, all in full uniform, while the bells rang, and music played, and
the populace shouted. A joyous moment hugely enjoyed by this fierce,
excitable race of Toledans. At the town hall the standard was placed on
an altar, and the commissioners and jurors took their places. Then the
order of the day was read, and all swore allegiance to the new king as
loyal and faithful vassals, and in the kingdom's name the banners were
lifted. The magistrate then kissed the paper and put it on his head,
likewise the rest present, and all shouted response in a single voice.
The bells rang anew, the trumpets blew, and deafening roars of applause
rent the air. Then the chief magistrate thus addressed the citizens:
"Imperial and most illustrious city, kingdom of Toledo, seated at the
head of the monarchy of Spain, would that my brief eloquence could match
my desire--not to repeat your obligations to the king, our lord, since
you are better aware of them than I, which compels us to recognise in
him his most high father and grandfather, of eternal memory, most worthy
kings and our lords, whom your highness always canonised with your
tongue, and forced the remotest nations to obey, fearing your sword of
iron, which is the head of this spotless city, whose arts and letters
are of the first class, and whose cathedral is above all others. But to
be able to weigh and tell your highness on this occasion, that as thus,
by direct succession come to and remain with the king our lord, these
kingdoms and seigneuries, so by the same are due to him, and constitute
part of his heritage, obedience for being as he is, a prince of the best
promise any kingdom has ever had; affable, benign, generous, upright,
Catholic, and gifted with many other virtues. That all this your
highness deserves, and that you may enjoy much happiness, with all
prosperity. Such a king deserves such a kingdom, and such a city
deserves such a king. May his majesty live a thousand years and may your
highness live them with exceeding multiplication." When one remembers
such amiable sovereigns of Castille as Pedro the Cruel, who happily died
in the thirties, this hope of Toledo's chief magistrate seems a
peculiarly grim one. A thousand years of Pedro's reign would have
decimated the entire Spanish kingdom, and left none to-day to tell the
tale. The Alferez (ensign) then replied in the name of Toledo, and the
standard was lifted and carried to the Alferez, who received it
standing, while every head was uncovered. Then the Alferez carried the
standard, followed by a group of officers, and swung it flying from the
balcony, crying in a loud voice: "Hear, hear, hear! Know, know, know;
that this pendant and royal is raised for the king, Don ----, whom God
preserve many and happy years. Amen. Spain, Spain, Spain; Toledo,
Toledo, Toledo, for the king, Don ----, our lord, whom God keep many and
happy years. Amen." The populace shouted 'Amen'; the trumpets blew, and
shrill rough music rent the air. Three times was this address repeated,
the citizens each time shrieking 'Amen' with intervals of triumphant
music, and the banners remained waving until sunset, the Alferez and the
municipality all those long hours mounted guard over the royal and civic
colours. At sunset the standard was solemnly carried to the cathedral to
be blessed, and the entire city walked behind the Alferez and the
magistrates. Trumpeters, minstrels and archers went before, and awaited
the colours at the gate of Pardon, where all the dignitaries of the
church were gathered to receive them. The archbishop, the canons, the
dean, the chaplains and priests, in their richest brocades and lace
surplices, and all the representatives of the town parishes, were there
in state. The dean advanced outside the cathedral gates, surrounded by
deacons, and in a circle behind stood the chaplains and canons with
precious relics. After ceremonious salutations exchanged, the Alferez
followed the dean into the church, and then began the procession of the
chapter and the parishes up the immense central nave to the chapel of
Our Lady of the Star, while the organs rolled their thunderous sound and
the choir solemnly chanted. At the High Altar the dignitaries passed
inside, and Toledo, with the chief magistrate, remained in the wide
space between the altar and the choir, only the standard-bearer entering
the choir with the prelates. Here a chaplain offered him a brocaded
cushion, on which he knelt, while the choir chanted the psalm _Deus
Judicium tuum Regi da_. The standard was blessed, and then the Te Deum
was sung. With the same brilliancy and impressiveness of ceremony, the
standard was afterwards borne down to the brightly hung and festive
Zocodover, and then up the narrow hilly street to the imposing Alcazar.
All the balconies and windows were filled with lace-wreathed women's
heads, and the excitement and enthusiasm were intense. At the gates of
the Alcazar the standard-bearer knocked thrice loudly, and called out:
"Alcalde, Alcalde, Alcalde! are you there? Hear, hear, hear!" Within a
voice as loudly demanded: "Who calls without the gates of the royal
Alcazar?" To which the standard-bearer haughtily replied: "The king."
The gates were opened, revealing an immense and picturesque concourse of
splendidly apparelled knights and men in gleaming armour, a blaze of
brocade and damascene. The standard-bearer cried again: "Alcalde,
Alcalde, Alcalde; hear, hear, hear; Toledo to-day has lifted this royal
pennon for the king, Don ----, our lord, whom God preserve for many and
happy years. And, accompanied by its municipality, it has sent me, its
standard-bearer, to bring it to you as the Alcalde of those royal
palaces, that you may receive it in his majesty's name, and place it in
the tower, which is called the tower of the Atambor." The palace doors
were then closed, and as soon as the pennon floated above the high tower
wall, the Alcalde shouted thrice the same formula as that of the
standard-bearer when he raised the standard above the balcony of the
town hall, and the people below each time responded 'Amen.' The
procession returned to the town hall, and this ended the picturesque
ceremony.
The greatest Toledan figure of this period is the mitred figure of the
conqueror of the battle that virtually demolished the Moor in Spain, Las
Navas de la Tolosa. Rodrigo Jimenez de Rada was more than an
illustrious archbishop at a time when archbishops were rulers of men,
and when the archbishop of Toledo might be said to be the practical
sovereign of Spain. He was a valiant soldier, a commander of genius on
the battlefield, a zealous prelate and an erudite man of letters and
historian. Conqueror of _Las Navas de Tolosa_, no mean victory, since
the Moors were in tremendous excess, conqueror of Quezada, of Cazuola
and Cordova, the honoured friend and adviser of two kings, first of his
day in all things by right of genius, industry and merit, Toledo owes
him something more than Christian victory over the Moor, something far
more immortal and magnificent than that dull and prejudiced monument his
history, so often quoted--La Historia de España--which he wrote in 1215.
It owes him her great, her unique, her matchless cathedral. To have won
the most glorious of Spanish battles--a victory so stupendous,
considering the odds and the results that the great archbishop himself
insisted it was nothing less than due to the intervention of heaven--and
to have built the cathedral of Toledo! What epitaph needs a man who
accomplished two such deeds in a single life? His epitaph, as befits so
illustrious a personage, is simplicity itself:
_Mater Navarra, metrix Castilla Tolatum_
_Sedes Parisius studium, mons Rhodams Horta,_
_Mausoleum, coelum requies, nomen Rodericus._
What a dazzling achievement the lives of these Toledan archbishops,
martial, learned, literary, eloquent, and artistic; every facet of
multiple genius. Now they build ships, then cathedrals, colleges or
palaces. They print rare editions, collect rare MSS., debate in
councils, rule the land, vociferate magnificently from the pulpit,
decide on all questions of education and civil law, advise their
sovereign, guide foreign politics, voyage in foreign lands, win
glorious battles, and write histories and verse! What modern life can
match theirs? Even Mr Gladstone has neither built a great cathedral nor
won a great battle! This Archbishop of Toledo, a mighty chancellor of
Castille, was as charitable a pastor as Victor Hugo's bishop. Indeed,
nothing remains to his discredit as a great and simple nature, but the
unavoidable bigotry and injustice of his history. He died on his last
voyage back from Rome, and was buried, as his quoted epitaph indicates,
in the monastery of Huesta, June 10th, 1247.
Alfonso's crusade against the Moors was followed by dreadful dearth, by
famine and sickness, and the entire ruin of villages and farms. Public
misfortune habitually forges fresh unexpected miseries for man, and
bands of armed robbers and assassins, called _golfines_, descended in
hordes from the mountains of Toledo, of Ciudad Real and Talavera. They
pitched their tents in the outlying woods, and in self-defence the
Toledans formed their celebrated _Hermandad_, a brotherhood of citizens
sworn to persecute robbers and assassins. This brotherhood was so
successful that in 1223 it was qualified as "holy," and was conceded as
a right one head of every flock and cattle that crossed the mountains.
The Society held its feast on St Pedro Advinada's day, 1st August, and
consisted of sixty Toledan proprietors and hidalgoes, whose sons
inherited their office; two governors, a squadron, archers and minor
subalterns elected by the two alcaldes. The uniform was green, with
collar and cuffs of vivid scarlet trimmed with gold, and pointed caps.
The inferior officers wore a loose green garment suitable for the road,
and capes and bonnets of green, without the bright touch of scarlet and
gold, and their uniform may still be seen on a stone station above a
sixteenth century porch in a laneway opposite the Calle de la Tripería,
where the ancient prison of the Hermandad is. They rode in procession,
preceded by timbrals and clarinets, and carried a green banner with the
arms of Castille. It was this brotherhood that Philip II. presented with
a magnificent camp of green cloth which to-day may be seen in the Museum
of Artillery in Madrid, and here the Hermandad received their sovereigns
when they visited Toledo. The success of this brotherhood provoked the
creation of minor fraternities and another Toledan order was started
against robbers, _San Martin de la Montiña_, with similar privileges
granted by royal decree as those of the more famous _Hermandad_. Later,
the Catholic kings instituted the _Hermandad nueva_, of disastrous
memory, formed of one thousand horse and foot with a captain, general,
and a supreme council, whose duties and functions were multiplied and
extended beyond the province all over the unhappy Peninsula. This
brotherhood we know, alas! played a terrible part in the terrible
Inquisition, and hunted down bigger and more historic game than mere
robbers and assassins.
The hum of the Moorish wars ever accompanied the interior war of discord
and turbulent dissensions. When St Fernando entered Toledo as the new
sovereign, he found the town groaning under the tyranny of the wicked
governor, Fernandez Gonzalo. Two girls, one a young lady and the other a
girl of the people, flung themselves before the saintly young monarch to
complain of seduction under promise of marriage. San Fernando, who did
not trifle in these matters, expressed his horror and demanded the name
of the seducer. The instant the governor, Fernandez Gonzalo, was
mentioned, he turned furiously to his men and cried, "Cut me off that
rascal's head this very moment." Within an hour the gallant governor's
livid features were fixed above the Puerta del Sol. Here was a man
without any of the freemasonry of his sex. Death itself was the penalty
he unhesitatingly meted out without debate for wrong done to women. Not
a word of blame for the girls, no compliance to the conventional theory
of gallantry. The man who betrays a woman is a blackguard; then off with
his head, and space for cleaner souls. A little drastic, perhaps, but
conceive our civilised world in the eyes of a San Fernando. Conceive him
presiding over one of our Courts of Justice for the settlement of
breaches of promises! So wise his judgment in the esteem of Toledo that
to-day the historic scene is in relief on the glorious Puerta del Sol.
Under Castillian rule Toledo's supremacy could not continue without
rivalry. First, Santiago had disputed her right to hold her celebrated
councils, and a furious quarrel raged between the Pope, Calixtus, and
the King, Alfonso, as to whether the councils should be held at Toledo
or at Santiago in the north. The pope took the part of Diego the
Galician archbishop, and, for a while, Santiago was regarded as the
primacy of Spain. But, under Honorius, Toledo and her archbishop,
Raymond, recovered their prestige with this time the king against them.
In 1129 a council was held at Palencia. Here Toledo sat at the feet of
Compostella. Charlemagne, himself, is said to have broken a lance in
favour of Santiago which, one knows not by what right, he proclaimed the
head of Spain. Beside the question of the primacy, Burgos put in her
claim for the Cortes, which she held should meet within her walls, and
not on the banks of the Tagus. Here the king was the stout defender of
Toledo. At the great meeting convened to discuss this rivalry, the king
entered the Council Chamber, and haughtily cried: "Let Burgos speak, I
will reply for Toledo." The rivalry of the great families of the Castros
and Laras nearly became a civil war, Toledo fighting on the side of the
Laras, whose chief, Don Manrique, was a character after her heart:
intrepid, dominating and fierce, unequalled in war, untameable in peace.
The little king's uncle settled the dispute by killing Don Manrique de
Lara, and to avenge him Toledo violently conspired through her great
citizen, Stephen Illan, a descendant of the illustrious Byzantine
family, the Paleologos. These animosities were quieted for a while by
the terrible plague and famine that followed quick upon the heels of
victory, and avenged the defeated Moors of Las Navas de Tolosa. Misery
implacably stalked Castille. Seeds bore no fruit for one entire year;
trees were dead and leafless, the land was sterile and the people, wild
with hunger, forsook their dead, their orchards and meadowland.
Of Toledo's private story we get no glimpse. The thunder of battle and
strife roars ever down the pages of her history in the succeeding
centuries, and we continually hear of new breaches in her magnificent
walls, while the trumpets blow their noisy defiance from her mutinous
ramparts. That Toledo was no comfortable place to dwell in then (or now)
we gather from the acrid description of the streets, rivers of mud in
winter, and in summer, waves of dust, full of filth, evil odours, foul
sights and breathing mortal disease. Alfonso the Learned in 1278 ordered
the streets to be cleansed and the plazas to be kept free of dead
beasts. The chapter gave ten thousand ducats for paving the street, but
this was not done until Fernando the Catholic ordered the work in 1502.
Alas! these sanitary improvements heralded the hour of her decline. She
bartered her prestige for improved paths down to the river, and lost the
greater part of her greatness along with her rugged incivility. And for
all her progress she never shook off the old sway of Goth and Moor. She
built churches, but persistently gave them a quaint Moorish aspect, and
when she adopted printing, it was to print the Isidorian office. True,
she exhaled her martial contempt of women in her first profane print,
_El Tratado contra las mujeres_, by Alfonso Martinez de Toledo in 1499.
[Illustration: PUENTO S. MARTINO]
Nobody contributed more than the magnificent Cardinal Tenorio,
Commendador and Master of Santiago, to beautify the town. He built the
cathedral cloisters, and the chapel of St Blas, liberally endowed the
church, built the bridge of St Martin and the castle of San Servando as
well as several convents, the archbishop's bridge, the Hospital of St
Catherine, and a splendid palace at Talavera, which he gave to the monks
of St Hieronymo. He constructed several fortresses along the Moorish
frontiers. Of him is told the legend that once at Burgos he gave such a
princely feast to the nobles of that town, that when the king returned
from the chase there was nothing to be had to eat but a few quail and
bread and wine. The great Tenorio had cleared Burgos of all its
provisions for his banquet.
Toledan laws, which were stringent, were based upon the _fueros_, a
Castillian modification of the Gothic code. Nothing could be more
precise, more minute, more searching in detail of offence and
punishment of all that relates to private and civic life. The very dress
of women, Mozarabe and Castillian, was regulated according to their
social status, the expenses of marriages, baptisms, and funerals
regulated; the expenses of fathers and husbands limited by their income
to prevent injury to the family. The Moors and Jews had their own judges
unless Christian interests were at stake, when they were judged before
Mozarabe tribunals. The Mayor's jury consisted of five nobles and five
citizens. Each court had its magistrate and official staff, and the
municipality met twice a week, Tuesday and Friday, to judge the
decisions in block. The people might assist, but could not vote or
question. The magistrates were salaried, and could not leave the city
unless sent for by royal command. The municipal constitution was
composed of two bodies: _cabildo de regidores_, cavaliers and citizens,
to deliberate; the other, _cabildo de jurados_, sworn to observe the
_fueros_, and to administer justice. The privileges of nobles and
plebeians were distinctly defined and maintained. The _regidores_ were
paid annually 1000 maravedis, and the _jurados_ 1500. Assistance at the
councils was voluntary for the former, obligatory for the latter; a fine
of 20 maravedis being imposed in case of absence, which fines were at
the end of the year divided between the rest of the jurados who had not
once been fined. A juror could not be imprisoned for debt, nor forced to
lend his mules for public service, and his widow and children partook of
his privileges if he died in office. Toledo was always strongly
garrisoned, but its military decline began with the reign of Pedro the
Cruel.
The inexplicable and monstrous tale of Pedro's cruelties need not be
told here. He has become one of the legends of universal history, one of
the nursery terrors of civilisation. That such a monster ever lived out
of a fairy tale, where giants for pure pleasure spend their days
consuming human flesh and marrying wives for the gratification of
decorating secret chambers with hanging corpses, seems incredible. His
palace at Toledo is now a miserable ruin, near the ruin of the
Trastamare palace, of which now only remains the door with the huge
Toledan iron nails, so charming and distinctive a feature along the city
streets. Here was the theatre of many of his stupefying iniquities, as
well as of the single redeeming sentiment of a senseless life, his love
for the unfortunate and beautiful Maria de Padilla, the one pale flower
of romance in a stony and stormy period. Kings' mistresses are not
usually admirable or sympathetic figures, and their mission is not
infrequently fraught with direst results. But this pale little Maria,
with lovely hands and large sad eyes, is the one ray of light and
sweetness amidst violence, cruelty, and perfidy. Such good as love could
work amidst such elements she wrought. When she could she interposed
between Pedro and his victims, and even the outraged wife reveals no
traces of vindictiveness towards her. At the other side of the town, in
the big Alcázar, was imprisoned Blanche of Bourbon, under the care of
Maria's uncle, Juan Fernandez de Hinestrosa, and all that now remains of
her high chamber is the window overlooking a superb landscape. It is to
the credit of Toledo that the citizens were the first to rise up against
Pedro's iniquities. The queen, accompanied by Hinestrosa, entered the
cathedral to pray, and to the dismay of everyone called out "Sanctuary,"
and refused to leave it. Word flew round the town, and all the ladies
and women of the people gathered round the unhappy woman. The knights
and hidalgoes could do no less than follow the lead of their courageous
women folk. They drew their swords, made a circle round her, and walking
thus escorted the queen to the palace gates. The flag of revolt was
instantly raised, and the people called the infante, Don Fadique, to
come and take command. He came with 700 men, and Doña Blanca was
proclaimed free and sovereign. Toledo then sent a commission to the
king, bearing the town's orders: that Maria de Padilla and her relatives
should be banished, and the queen occupy her rightful place. The king
made short work of the commission, and laughed in the face of his
rebellious town. His morals were his own affair, and if they did not
suit his people they must hold their tongues until he had time to cut
off their heads. Meanwhile Henry of Trastamare and Don Fadique had taken
the town by the bridge of St Martin. They sacked and pillaged, robbed
Samuel Levi, Pedro's great and wealthy treasurer, and murdered 1200
Jews. Then came Pedro, and the Trastamares fled, leaving what remained
of the town to the mercies of the ruthless royal troops. Toledo paid a
heavy price for her chivalrous defence of the discarded queen. The
unhappy woman was again locked up in the Alcázar, and like the wicked
ogre of story, Pedro, entertained himself by hacking off the heads of
those around him. Twenty men were decapitated in a single day by this
mild monarch, whom Philip II. called _El justiciero_, and of whom the
_Cronica_ writes:
"El gran rey, Don Pedro, que el vulgo reprueva,
Pos serle enemigo quien hizo su historia,
Fue digno de clara y muy digna memoria."
These verses quotes the prelate of Jaen, Juan of Castro, who
rehabilitated Pedro, by asserting that he only "wrought justice upon
rebels," and who laments the baseness of his assassination at the hand
of the worthless Trastamare, a vile termination of a vile life, in
which one regrets to see as accomplice one of the old heroes of our
youth, Du Guesclin. The list of Pedro's cruelties and assassinations is
stupendous. He married women and cast them aside at will, without even
the troubles of our English Henry. Shortly after his marriage with the
unfortunate Blanche of France, he married Juana de Castro, sister of the
Portuguese King, yet neither France nor Portugal went to war, and the
Church did not interfere. He instantly abandoned Juana, and returned to
Maria de Padilla, whom he always acknowledged as his sole wife, and
whose children he named his heirs. There can be no doubt that he
passionately loved these little girls of Maria, taking them with him as
his most precious treasure when he travelled, and leaving in their
behalf a will, so tender and precise, so burthened with anxiety for
their welfare, that his life becomes a greater enigma than ever after
reading it. Beatrice he named queen, to the detriment of his legitimate
son by Juana de Castro. His love for Maria de Padilla was no less deep
and lasting. She was buried with royal honours, and at the Cortes
convened after her death, he publicly, and it must be admitted with a
manly devotion and courage that does him credit, acknowledged her as his
wife. Here his wilfulness becomes a virtue, and we are touched by his
unswerving love for the woman, of whom the churchman, Lozano, writes,
"in her little body heaven had placed great qualities and merits of the
highest order." His real love for Maria is all the more extraordinary,
since he was one of the vilest libertines, who burnt women alive for
refusing his addresses, and in his conduct to his unfortunate French
wife, he showed himself nothing less than insane. The hero of Mr
Meredith's modern novel, "The Amazing Marriage," is a model of
conventional behaviour to a bride beside Don Pedro the Cruel. After
torturing her he murdered her, which explains the attitude of France
towards him, and the sorry figure of the great Du Guesclin at the
tragedy of Montiel.
Toledo only roused herself out of stupor in the first gaieties of Juan
II.'s reign. This prince preferred song and dance to bloodshed. He heard
of the people of Toledo as insupportable, haughty and rebellious, and
came to conquer them by luth and feast. Never was Toledo so gay before.
The great Alvaro de Luna, the Constable of Castille, was beside him, and
the city danced and sang, and feasted itself into oblivion of terror and
disaster. Even a war with the Moors was an added and pleasurable
excitement. King John prayed and watched in the cathedral all night like
a knight, and there was a solemn ceremony next day, when Vasco de
Guzman, before the magnificently apparelled king and constable, kissed
the royal standard and banners. Still grander feasts on their return
fresh from conquests at Granada and Cordova; there was the great Te Deum
in the cathedral, and the bullfights by torchlight on the Zocodover, and
by day feasts and tourneys in the brilliant Vega. Here begins the
rivalry of the celebrated Toledan families, the Ayalas and the Silvas,
and the quarrels of the Constable of Castille and Pedro Sarmiento, in
which the meaner figure wins. The Jews, too, were persecuted in a
monstrous crusade provoked by the bigoted and atrociously unchristian
eloquence of that most unsympathetic of saints, Vicente Ferrer. Under
his lead, the Christians seized the beautiful little synagogue, Santa
Maria La Blanca, an act of injustice it would be difficult to explain by
any pronouncement of Christ, himself a Jew. But all was not black at
this period, despite perfidy, cowardice, betrayal and persecution. Juan
II. was fond of rivalry and bright apparel, and his splendid victim,
Alvaro de Luna, remains one of the finest figures of Castillian
history. John himself dabbled in poetry, and patronised letters. He
instituted a kind of Provençal Court, and one of his contemporaries was
the celebrated Marquis of Villena, Henry, the man in advance of his
time, man of science and scholar, mathematician and reader of the stars.
Later, alas, his valuable library and his writings, treasures of
erudition and memory, were publicly burnt at Madrid, by order of Fray
Lope Barriento, a Dominican, who accused him of witchcraft, and Juan de
Mena wrote his famous "Coplas" to the memory of the great and learned
marquis:
"Aquel que te ves estar contemplando
En el movimiento de tantas estrellas,
La fuerza, la bra, el orden de aquellas,
Que mide los cursos de cómo y de cuando,
Y ovo noticia filosofando
Del movedos, y de los comovidos
De fuego, de razos, de son de tronidos,
Y supo las causas del mundo velando:
Aquel claro padre, aquel dulce fuente,
Aquel que en el Cástalo monte resuena.
Es Don Enrique, Señor de Villena,
Honra de España y del siglo presente.
O inclito sabio, autor muy sciente!
Otra y aun otra vegado te lloro,
Porque Castillo perdio tal tesoro
No conveido delante la gente
Perdio los tus libros sin sea conveidos
Y como en exequias te fueron ya luego
Unos metidos al avido fuego,
Y otros sin orden no bien repartidos.
Cierto en Atenas los libros fingidos
Que de Protagoras se reprobaron
Con armenia mejor se quemaron
Cuando al senado le fueron leidos."
Here as elsewhere the nobles and people of Toledo were constantly at
loggerheads, though it would be difficult to say on which side reason
preponderated. Now it was the Silvas who sided with the rebels, then
the Ayalas who opened the city gates to them. One Ayala, mayor of the
town, rode to meet an invading infante; the infante reproached him
insolently, on which Ayala flung back his words, and turning rode into
Toledo to shut the gates in his face. They were not to be trifled with,
these haughty Toledans. In a measure their prince was their valet, and
was subject to insult upon provocation.
The same may be said of the artisans. There exists a Toledan proverb:
"Soplaré el odrero alborazarse ha Toledo." Let the ironmonger (or
pot-maker) blow and Toledo will rise up. This proverb dates from the
time of John II., who begged the Toledans to supply him with a certain
amount of maravedis towards the expenses of his wars with Aragon and
Navarre. The people indignantly refused, and the first to hiss the
Toledan note of revolt was a maker of iron pots. Previously someone had
discovered a Gothic inscription which proved that the ironmongers of
Gothic days were the centre of urban revolution, hence the proverb
proving their traditional contumelious disposition.
King John's love of poetry produced two Toledan poets, praised by Dr
Pisa, Antonio de Heredia, a poet who "added rare glory to the Castillian
muse" (probably an ancestor of the French academician, Jose Maria de
Heredia) and a woman, Aloysia de Sigea, whose portrait may be seen in
the Biblioteca provincial de Toledo. The fame of her erudition travelled
to Portugal, and she is said to have written fluently in Latin, Greek,
Hebrew, Syriac, and Arabian, though with so inconceivable a lack of
decency that her muse to-day is not translateable in modern tongue. Doña
Luisa Sigea of Toledo, and her witty daughter Doña Angela, were called
"women philosophers," and their depraved works are supposed to be
founded on the traditions of a mysterious association discovered under
John II. at Sevilla, "a bizarre school whose immorality is understood by
the terms of the law that prescribes it."[11]
Alvaro de Luna found the Toledans no easy subjects to deal with. Pedro
Sarmiento constituted himself chief of the revolution against the mighty
Constable, and instead of a great lord the people had to do with a mean
and avaricious hound. Don Alvaro appointed captains his sons, Pedro de
Luna and Fernando de Rivadeneira, and ordered them to cross the river
and besiege the town by the Puente de Alcantara. Sarmiento sent 50
horses and 500 foot out by the Puerta del Cambron under his son to
surprise the Constable's forces near the river. A fierce battle ensued,
and the King himself had to make conditions for the Constable with the
violent and haughty citizens. Sarmiento demanded that the Constable
should be given up or the King resign, and roundly accused his sovereign
of weakness and favouritism. The King demurred, upon which Sarmiento
invited his son to come and reign, but Henry soon found that he was only
a tool in Sarmiento's hands, and left the city in dudgeon, to return
speedily at the head of an army to crush the too powerful Sarmiento.
Ordered to leave Toledo, Sarmiento loaded two hundred beasts with gold,
silver, jewels, carpets, brocade, silk, and linen he had robbed of the
citizens he oppressed, and to the prince's shame the impudent thief was
permitted to carry off his treasure unmolested. The execution of the
great Constable, infamously abandoned by his friend and sovereign, did
not secure peace and content to rebel Toledo.
The state of the town in the succeeding years was so terrible that the
citizens sent the Bachelor Fernan Sanchez Calderon to supplicate the
king's interference, and enable them to possess in security their goods
and products of those who had beaten, robbed, and ruined the town. The
King declined to interfere himself, and expressed surprise that a man of
such marvellous learning and science as the bachelor should come on such
an errand. To the King's rebuke, the bachelor replied: "God forfend,
illustrious lord, that I should hold as worthy of your majesty's
attention such things, but I accepted this embassy to make manifest to
your excellency the evil things that are being done." The King retorted:
"It is my duty to punish evil, not to reward it."
Temporary peace came with the union of the two powerful houses of Ayala
and Silva, in the marriage of Doña Maria de Silva and Pero Lopez de
Ayala. But King Henry's entry into Toledo aroused the old lion. The
alarm bells rung, and the citizens rushed armed to the bishop's palace,
where the King was. Fearing bloodshed, a squadron of cavaliers rode hot
haste to the palace and begged the King to leave the city, and he went
forth surrounded by the reconciled Ayalas and Silvas. To all the
troubles that followed between Isabel and Henry, Toledo added more than
her share. One moment the nobles held the town, and then the people,
both parties ever opposed in interests, allegiance, and both in reality
caring greatly more for their own archbishop, their real sovereign, than
the throned king who ruled all Castille. With two parties contending for
the crown of Castille, Isabel and the _Beltranaje_, Henry's acknowledged
heiress, his wife's but not his own daughter, sympathy ran high in
Toledo on both sides. The Marquis of Villena attempted to capture the
Princess Isabel, but was defeated by the vigilant archbishop, who
collected a body of horse, and carried her off to Valladolid. Never were
betrothal and marriage solemnised under more romantic and thrilling
circumstances than were those of Isabel, Shakespeare's "queen of earthly
queens," the sole majestic and perfect sovereign of Spain, and Ferdinand
her unworthy husband, whose single virtue lay in the admirable way
during her lifetime in which he seconded her rule. In gratitude for
Toledo's sympathy, the great queen visited the town immediately after
her marriage, but the scenes of her triumphs and glory lie elsewhere.
There is but one blot on them, due to her husband and the terrible
Torquemado, the introduction of the Inquisition into Castille. This was
shortly before the great Cortes held at Toledo, 1480, where the salutary
measures of reform instituted by her were such to leave her subjects
awestruck in admiration of her genius. But there were the Portuguese and
the Moors calling her attention, with blare of trumpet and shock of
steel, while Toledo's true sovereign was the great Cardinal, the
Cardinal of Spain, Mendoza. Gallant, learned and liberal, a _grand
seigneur_, he was in every way in contrast with his austere successor,
Cisneros. He was not unfamiliar with illicit love and its complications,
and acknowledged two sons, Iñigo de Mendoza, and Diego, Count of Melito.
His gifts to various cities in the shape of palaces, churches, colleges,
jewels and rich church ornaments, were incredible, while Toledo
possesses his most beautiful Hospital of Santa Cruz. He left all his
wealth to this hospital, appointing Queen Isabel his executor. He it was
who waved the royal standard from the highest tower of the Alhambra
after the taking of Granada, and, better still, counselled Isabel to
lend a friendly and helpful hearing to Columbus. His library was the
most magnificent of mediæval Spain. Philip II. was in treaty to purchase
this rare collection for the Escorial, and a correspondence exists
between his secretary and the vicar of Toledo, Maese Alvar Gomez. It
afterwards fell into the hands of Cardinal Loaysa, and was valued at
twenty thousand ducats. Mendoza employed a staff of writers in copying
and transcribing rare MSS., the chief of whom was a Greek, Calosynas, a
pupil of Darmarius.
We approach the last hours of Toledan history. The great queen's death
revealed the worthlessness of her husband, and the unfortunate Juana
became the victim of the vilest conspiracy between the three men to whom
she should have been most sacred. First her father, not willing to step
down from the throne of Castille to make way for his daughter, decided
to proclaim her mad. Then her husband, won over by promises of Fernando,
consented to accept the situation, but was cut off suddenly, after the
agreement, poisoned it is said, by Fernando's orders. Then the heartless
young prince, her son, resolved to carry on the infamous persecution, in
order to reign in her stead, and kept the poor woman nearly fifty years
in a dark comfortless chamber, ill-treated by her keepers, the Marquis
and Marchioness of Denia, with no communication with the outer world.
The story of Juana _la Loca_, to whose perfect sanity Cisneros and her
confessor, Juan de Avila, testify, is one of the saddest of history.
In 1505, the Marquis of Villena received orders to place Toledo under
Flemish rule. The town murmured rebelliously, and as soon as Philip died
at Burgos, declared itself independent. The nobles, headed by Silva and
Ayala, met and swore that under no consideration should the sword or any
artillery be employed to keep the peace. The Silvas held the gates and
bridges, but the Ayalas, exasperated by the dominance of their old
rivals, talked the townspeople into a rising, and bloodshed ensued. The
Silvas conquered, flung the magistrate and his party out of the city,
and the streets were strewn with wounded and dead. On Fernando's death,
Cisneros became the regent of Castille, with Adriano of Utrecht and
Armestoff. Cisneros filled the town with militia, and the ramparts
glittered with steel. Now Toledo's pet aversion was a uniform. She liked
to fight, but in her own rough, free-lance style. So she rose up against
the cardinals, and after a futile rebellion, in which neighbouring towns
engaged, was speedily quelled. But the insurgents within her gates kept
muttering of treachery on Charles' side and of his unhappy mother. So
Toledo, "the crown of Spain and light of the whole world, ever free
since the high reign of the Goths," decided to fight for the queen, and
depose the tyrannical young Charles. Insolent verses rang round the
town, jeering at Xebres the favourite:--
"Doblon de à dos horabuena estedes,
Que con vos no topó Xebres."
"Señor ducado de à dos
No topó Xebres con vos."
"Salveos Dios, ducado de à dos
Que Monsieur de Xebres no topó con vos."
The favourite had to fly from the city, and when his nephew, William of
Croy, was appointed to the great see of Toledo, there was a frantic
explosion. Everything combined to excite indignation. Austrian fashions
were adopted to please Charles, goods were imported from every foreign
port to the detriment of home productions, and Toledo, that employed
over ten thousand workmen in silk factories, was nearly ruined by the
royal decree limiting the use of silk, and forbidding the use of Spanish
embroideries of gold, and silver, and rich brocade. This tyranny brought
about the famous rising of the _Comuneros_, under Juan de Padilla.
Padilla is the greatest figure of mediæval Toledo. Historians delight
in him as a true hero, brave, gallant, honourable, wise, a perfect
hidalgo, as romance paints him, punctillious, unaffected and pious. The
worst his bitterest enemies ever said of him was, that he played second
fiddle to his heroic wife, Maria de Pacheco, and coveted the mantle of
Master of Santiago. His influence over the citizens and people was
immense. For a single word of his, 20,000 workmen armed themselves, and
stood round him. They named him captain-general of the combined forces
of the _Comuneros_, with Francisco Maldonado in command at Salamanca,
and Juan Bravo in command at Segovia. Toledo seized all the outlying
towns and villages, and her voice of command reached to the Portuguese
frontier and as far north as Valladolid. The cruelty and treachery
practised by the Imperial army, with the prince of perfidy at its head,
were such to send all Castille vigorously marching behind the heroic
Padilla. War once set a-going, Padilla went down to Tordesillas to see
the queen. Toledo remembered that the outraged sovereign had been born
within her walls, and despatched her gallantest son with words of
sympathy and allegiance. At a sign from Juana, he was ready to translate
the junta from Toledo to Tordesillas, and make a rampart of his men for
her protection. He forced the gates, and learnt the miserable tale of
the queen's compulsory detention and sufferings, and found that "she was
in her right senses, and quite as capable of governing as her mother,
Isabel." To every urgent prayer to sign the decree proclaiming her
inviolable rights, and her son's base usurpation, she answered "that all
that she has is her son's." "The queen," wrote Hurtado de Mendoza to
Charles, "spoke nobly to the rebels," and adds that he regards her as
"perfectly sane."
While Padilla was being worshipped as a popular idol at Valladolid,
jealousy and disunion were working against him at Toledo. Great men had
joined the people and Padilla, the Duke of Infantado, the Marquis of
Villena, Juan de Avila, and many prelates and knights. They had
imprisoned the King's messengers and ministers in the Chapel of St Blas,
and forced the governor to swear fealty to the _Commindad_. The mayor
defending the Bridge of St Martin had fallen, and the Silvas, guarding
the Alcázar against 4000 men, were forced to evacuate when the
insurgents burnt down the gates and walls, and were masters of all the
fortifications. They made canons of the church bells, stopped up every
entrance by the river, and defied the Imperial army. Such a proud and
congenial hour for Toledo. All the citizens went about puffed up with
glory and addressed one another as "Brutus," swaggering abroad, and
ready to ring the bells as soon as word came from Tordesillas that the
queen had signed.[12] Padilla hurried back, hearing his wife was ill,
and in his absence the Imperial army sacked Tordesillas. Jealousy as
usual had weakened the force of the Comuneros, though Padilla's gallant
presence impelled them to some brilliant skirmishing. But their fate was
sealed at Villalar, where the Conde de Haro defeated them, and took
prisoners to the Castle of Villalar, the infamous Ulloa's property,
three noble gentlemen of old Castille, Padilla, Maldonado and Bravo,
whose names are writ upon the walls of the parliament house of Madrid,
and printed large upon the hideous page of Charles Quint's early reign.
Padilla's noble letters of farewell to his wife, Maria de Pacheco, and
to Toledo, may be seen in the archives of Simancas, letters full of
stately sentiment, of dignified tenderness and virile pathos. History
proudly records his rebuke to Bravo's last lament as they walked to the
gallows: "Señor Juan Bravo, yesterday it befitted us to fight like
cavaliers; to-day it befits us to die like Christians." Their heads were
exposed over the gates of Toledo, and then flung into the river.
Maria de Pacheco, "the great widow," as a Spanish poet calls her, still
held the town against the Imperial army. She was found praying at the
foot of the cross when her servants brought her the news of Padilla's
defeat and death. She rose, robed herself in black, and walked to the
Alcázar between her husband's lieutenants, Davalos and Acuña, who bore a
standard representing Padilla's execution. They named her captain of the
insurgents, and found her implacable and violent, but still a sovereign
commander. She took gold from the churches without any compunction,
ordered the massacre of her enemies and their bodies to be flung over
the castle walls, but could liberally admire gallantry in an enemy too.
Pedro de Guzman, wounded, was carried into her presence. He had fought
magnificently, and she ordered him to be treated well. When cured, she
offered him the command of the _Comuneros_ which he indignantly refused,
whereupon she gave him freedom and paid for his carriage, only asking
him to free any Toledan who should fall into his hands. A generous if a
ruthless enemy! Her influence over the town was extraordinary. The
Imperialists and _Comuneros_ met in a violent clash upon the Zocodover.
On one side shouts of _Viva el rey_; on the other, _Padilla y
Commindad_. Too ill to walk, Maria was carried out in a chair into the
midst of the conflict, and cried out loudly, "Peace! Peace!" Her cry was
enough. There was no need of eloquence, of menace, of adjuration. One
single word and a look, and swords were sheathed as by magic, and both
parties, in pacific rivalry, enthusiastically escorted her back to the
Alcázar where she was throned a queen. She it was who interposed between
Charles and Toledo, and obtained the town's pardon. But the dead
remained unforgiven, and Padilla's palace, by royal decree, was levelled
to the ground, and the place is now an ugly little square planted with
acacias, without even the tablet that used to mark the spot where the
house stood. The great widow died in exile in Portugal. Her flight from
Toledo was worthy of her romantic career. Dressed as a villager, by dead
of night, she stole out of the town to join her knights in the silent
Vega. Here a horse awaited her, and the little band, gallantly guarding
a brave woman and the baby son she clasped in her arms, Padilla's
proscribed heir, made for the Portuguese frontier. With this heroic
figure vanishes the last gleam of Toledo's greatness.
Charles V. came here, and had some liking for the town, since he rebuilt
the Alcázar with its magnificent staircase, but did not live to enjoy
it, and his wife, Doña Isabel, died here. To him Toledo owed the great
water works of Juanelo Turriano, the wonder of the times, a machine
composed of tin cases pinned together and rising in file from the river
to the castle. The water entering the first case was pushed into the
second by wheels, and thus up to the castle, where it fell into a
reservoir. This _artificio_ is written of in Paris in 1615 in
"L'Inventaire général des plus curieuses recherches des Royaumes
d'Espayne": "Là tu verras le grand, fort et mémorable Alcázar, où l'eau
monte en grande abondance par un artifice admirable, qui rejaillit de la
rivière du Tage. A ceste invention est semblable celle que fit faire
Henry le Grand d'heureu mémoire sur le Pont Neuf de cette bonne ville de
Paris où il y a deux belles figures de bronze, l'une de Jésus Christ, et
l'autre de la Samaritáine. Il n'y a que cette différence que l'eau de
Tolède monte deux fois plus haut que l'autre, et jette aussi gros que le
corps d'un boeuf."
But henceforth Toledo is an effaced figure among Spanish towns. She is
no longer the Imperial city or the Royal town, and is only a great
historic memory.