CHAPTER IX.

EXCURSION TO TOLEDO.

Illescas--The Puerta del Sol--Toledo--The Alcazar--The

Cathedral--The Gregorian and Mozarabic Ritual--Our Lady of

Toledo--San Juan de los Reyes--The Synagogue--Galiana, Karl, and

Bradamant--The Bath of Florinda--The Grotto of Hercules--The

Cardinal's Hospital--Toledo Blades.

We had exhausted the curiosities of Madrid; we had seen the Palace,

the _Armeria_, and the _Buen Retiro_, the Museum and the Academy

of Painting, the _Teatro del Principe_, and the _Plaza de Toros_;

we had promenaded on the Prado from the fountain of Cybele to the

fountain of Neptune, and we began to find the time hang somewhat

heavily on our hands. Consequently, in spite of a heat of thirty

degrees,[8] and all sorts of stories, sufficient to make our hair

stand on end, about the insurgents and the _rateros_, we set out

bravely for Toledo, the city of beautiful swords and romantic

poniards.

Toledo is one of the most ancient cities not merely in Spain,

but in the whole world, if the chroniclers are to be believed.

The most moderate of them fix the period of its foundation prior

to the Deluge; why not in the time of the Pre-Adamite kings, a

few years before the creation of the world? Some attribute the

honour of laying the first stone to Tubal; some to the Greeks;

some, again, to the Roman consuls Telmon and Brutus; while others,

supporting their opinion on the etymology of the word Toledo, which

is derived from _Toledoth_, meaning, in Hebrew, generations,

assert that the Jews who came to Spain with Nebuchadnezzar, were

the original founders, because the twelve tribes all helped to

build and people it. However this may be, Toledo is certainly a

fine old city, situated some dozen leagues from Madrid,--Spanish

leagues, by the way, which are longer than a _feuilleton_ of a

dozen columns, or a day without money--the longest things I know.

You can go there either in a _calessin_ or a small diligence which

leaves twice a week. The latter conveyance is preferred as being

the safer of the two; for on the other side of the Pyrenees, as

was formerly the case in France, a person makes his will before

undertaking the shortest journey. The terrible reports about

brigands must, however, be exaggerated; for, in the course of a

very long pilgrimage through those provinces which are considered

the most dangerous, we never saw anything which could justify this

universal panic. Nevertheless, the continual state of dread adds

a great deal to the pleasure of the traveller, for it keeps you

continually on the alert, and hinders the time from hanging heavily

on your hands; you do some heroic actions, you display a superhuman

amount of valour, and the troubled and scared looks of those who

are spared raises you in your own estimation. A journey in the

diligence, which we are accustomed to look on as the most ordinary

thing in the world, becomes an adventure, an expedition; you set

out, it is true, but it is not so certain that you will reach your

destination, or return from whence you started. After all, this is

something, in such an advanced state of civilization as that of

modern times, in the prosaic and common-place year, 1840.

You leave Madrid by the gate and bridge of Toledo, which, is

adorned with pots, volutes, statues, and pot-grenados of a very

ordinary description, but which yet produce rather a majestic

effect. You leave on your right the village of Caramanchel, whither

Ruy Blas went to procure, for Marie de Neubourg, _la petite fleur

bleue d'Allemagne_ (Ruy Blas, now-a-days, would not find the

smallest _Vergissmeinnicht_ in this hamlet built of cork on a

basement of pumice-stone), and then enter, by a most detestable

road, an interminable plain of dust, covered with crops of wheat

and rye, whose pale yellow tints increase still more the monotony

of the landscape. The only objects which serve to relieve it,

in the least, are a few crosses, of evil augury, here and there

stretching their skinny arms to the sky, the ends of a few spires

in the distance marking the sites of small villages concealed from

view, and the dried-up bed of some ravine traversed by a stone

arch. From time to time you meet a peasant on his mule, with his

carbine slung at his side; a _muchacho_ driving before him two or

three asses loaded with jars or chopped straw, secured by small

cords, or else some poor tawny, sunburnt woman, dragging along a

fierce-looking child, and that is all.

The further we advanced, the more arid and deserted did the country

become; and it was not without a secret feeling of satisfaction

that we perceived, on a bridge of uncemented stones, the five green

dragoons who were to escort us; for it is necessary to have an

escort from Madrid to Toledo. Would not a person be almost inclined

to believe that he was in the very heart of Algeria, and that

Madrid was surrounded by a Mitidja peopled by Bedouins?

We stopped to breakfast at Illescas, a city, or village, I am

not certain which, where there are still some remains of the

ancient Moorish buildings, and where the windows of the houses are

protected by intricate specimens of iron-work and surmounted by a

cross.

Our breakfast consisted of soup composed of garlic and eggs, of

the inevitable _tomata tortilla_, and of roasted almonds and

oranges, washed down with Val-de-Peñas, which was tolerably good,

although thick enough to be cut with a knife, smelling horribly

of pitch, and of the colour of mulberry syrup. Spain is certainly

not peculiarly brilliant in its cookery, and the hostelries have

not been sensibly ameliorated since the time of Don Quixote; the

pictures of omelettes full of feathers, of tough cakes, rancid oil,

and hard peas that might serve as bullets, are still strictly true,

but, on the other hand, I should be rather puzzled to say where you

would find, now-a-days, the splendid hens and monstrous geese that

graced the marriage-feast of Gamacho.

Beyond Illescas the ground becomes more broken, and the consequence

is that the road becomes more abominable, being a mere succession

of pits and bogs. This does not prevent you, however, from going

along at a furious rate; for Spanish postilions are like Morlachian

coachmen, they care very little for what takes place behind them,

and provided that they reach their destination, if it is only

with the pole and the forewheels, they are satisfied. We arrived,

however, without any accident, in the midst of a cloud of dust,

raised by our mules and the horses of the dragoons, and made our

entry into Toledo, panting with curiosity and thirst, through a

most magnificent Arabian gateway, with its elegantly sweeping arch,

and granite pillars surmounted by balls, and covered with verses

from the Koran. It is called the _Puerta del Sol_, and is of a rich

reddish colour, like a Portugal orange, while the outline stands

out admirably from the limpid and azure sky behind. In our foggy

climate we can really and truly form no conception of this violence

of colour and this sharpness of outline; any paintings that may

ever be brought back will always be looked on as exaggerated.

After passing the _Puerta del Sol_, we found ourselves on a kind of

terrace, whence we enjoyed a very extensive view. We saw the Vega,

streaked and dappled with trees and crops, which owe their verdure

to the system of irrigation introduced by the Moors. The Tagus,

which is crossed by the bridge of San Martin and that of Alcantara,

rolls its yellowish waters rapidly along, and almost surrounds the

town in one of its windings. At the foot of the terrace, the brown,

glittering housetops sparkle in the sun, as do also the spires of

the convents and churches, with their squares of green and white

porcelain arranged like those on a chessboard; beyond these, rise

the red hills and bare precipices which form the horizon around

Toledo. The great peculiarity of this view is the entire absence

of atmosphere and that species of hazy fog which, in our climate,

always envelop the prospect; the transparency of the air is such

that the lines of the various objects retain all their sharpness,

and the slightest detail can be discerned at a very considerable

distance.

As soon as our luggage had been examined, our first care was to

find some _fonda_ or _parador_, for it was a long time since we

had eaten our eggs at Illescas. We were conducted, through a

number of streets so narrow that two loaded asses could not pass

abreast, to the _fonda del Caballero_, one of the most comfortable

establishments in the town. Calling to our aid the little Spanish

we knew, and indulging in the most pathetic kind of pantomime, we

succeeded in explaining to our hostess, who was a most gentle and

charming woman, of a highly interesting and lady-like appearance,

that we were dying of hunger, a fact which always seems greatly to

astonish the natives of the country, who live upon sunshine and

air, after the very economical fashion of the chameleon.

The whole tribe of cooks and scullions were immediately in a

state of commotion. The innumerable little saucepans in which the

highly-spiced ragouts of the Spanish kitchen are distilled and

concocted were placed on the fire, and we were promised dinner

in an hour's time. We took advantage of this hour to examine the

_fonda_ more minutely.

It was a fine building, which had, no doubt, formerly been the

residence of some nobleman. The inner courtyard was paved with

coloured marble mosaic, and ornamented with wells of white marble

and large troughs lined with porcelain for washing the glasses and

crockery. This courtyard is called the _patio_, and is generally

surrounded by columns and galleries, with a fountain in the middle.

A cloth _tendido_, which is rolled up in the evening in order to

leave a free passage for the cool night-air, serves as a ceiling

to this kind of drawing-room. On the first story, all around,

there runs an elegantly-worked iron balcony, on which the windows

and doors of the apartments open, which apartments you only enter

when you wish to dress, dine, or take your siesta. The rest of the

time you sit in the courtyard-drawing-room aforesaid, in which the

pictures, chairs, sofas, and piano are placed, and which is decked

out with flower-pots and boxes containing orange-trees.

We had hardly finished our inspection when Celestina (a fantastic

and strange-looking servant-girl) came to inform us, humming a tune

all the while, that dinner was ready. It was very respectable,

consisting of cutlets, eggs with tomatoes, fowls fried in oil, and

trout from the Tagus, to which was added a bottle of Peralta, a

warm, liqueur-like wine, with a certain slight perfume of muscat,

not at all disagreeable.

When we had finished our repast we strolled through the city,

preceded by a guide, who was a barber by profession, but exercised

his talents in showing about tourists during his leisure moments.

The streets of Toledo are exceedingly narrow; a person leaning out

of a window on one side may shake hands with a person leaning out

of a window on the other; and nothing would be more easy than to

get over the balconies, if propriety was not preserved and aerial

familiarities prevented by very handsome rails and charming iron

bars, worked with that artistic richness of which they are so

prodigal on the other side of the Pyrenees. This want of breadth

would cause all the partisans of civilization among us to cry out

in a frightful manner. These good people dream of nothing but

immense places, vast squares, inordinately broad streets, and other

embellishments more or less progressive. Nothing, however, can

be more sensible than narrow streets in a very hot climate; and

the architects who are making such large gaps in the buildings at

Algiers will find this out very shortly. At the bottom of these

narrow divisions so appropriately made between the blocks and

masses of houses, you enjoy the most delicious shade and coolness:

you walk about, completely protected, in the human polypier called

a city; the spoonfuls of molten lead that Phœbus pours down from

the sky at the hour of noon never fall upon you; the projecting

roofs serve all the purposes of parasols.

If, for your misfortune, you are obliged to traverse any _plazuela_

or _calle ancha_, exposed to the canicular sunbeams, you will

soon appreciate the wisdom of people of former days, who were

not accustomed to sacrifice everything to a notion of stupid

regularity; the flagstones are as hot as the iron plates by means

of which mountebanks make geese and turkeys dance the Cracovienne;

the wretched dogs, who possess neither shoes nor _alpagartas_,

gallop over these stones howling most piteously. If you raise the

knocker of a door, it burns your fingers; you feel your brains

boiling inside your skull like a saucepan full of water on the

fire; your nose becomes the colour of a cardinal's hat; your hands

are so sunburnt that you seem to have a pair of gloves on; and you

evaporate in perspiration. Such is the advantage to be obtained

by having spacious squares and broad streets. Every one who has

walked along the _Calle d'Alcala_ at Madrid, between twelve and

two o'clock in the day, will be of my opinion. Besides, in order

to have broad streets, you are obliged to reduce the size of the

houses, and the opposite process strikes me as being the more

sensible one of the two. Of course, these observations only apply

to warm countries, where it never rains, where mud is a chimera,

and where carriages are extremely uncommon. Narrow streets in

our showery climate would be nothing more or less than so many

abominable sewers. In Spain, the women go out on foot in black

satin shoes; and, shod in this manner, walk considerable distances;

I admire them for this, especially at Toledo, where the pavement

is formed of small polished stones, shining and pointed, and which

seem to have been carefully placed with the sharpest end upwards;

but the women's little arched and nervous feet are as hard as a

gazelle's hoof, and they skip along in the most good-humoured

manner imaginable, over this pavement resembling the edge of a

diamond, which causes the traveller, who is accustomed to the soft

luxury of the _Asphalte Seyssel_, and the elasticity of the _Bitume

Polonceau_, to cry out with pain.

[Illustration: STREET IN TOLEDO.]

The appearance of the houses of Toledo is imposing and severe;

they have very few windows looking out upon the street, and those

they do have are generally secured by iron bars. The doors,

ornamented by pillars of bluish granite, and surmounted by balls,

a kind of decoration which is very common, have an air of solidity

and thickness which is increased still more by constellations of

enormous nails. They seem to partake, at the same time, of the

nature of convents, prisons, and fortresses, and also somewhat of

harems, for the Moors used once to be there. Some of these houses,

by a strange contradiction, are painted and decorated on the

outside, either in fresco or water-colours, with false bas-reliefs,

cameos, flowers, rockwork, and garlands, with incense-urns,

medallions, Cupids, and all the mythological rubbish of the last

century. The _Trumeau_ and _Pompadour_ style of these houses

produces the strangest and most comical effect in the midst of

their scowling sisters of feudal or Moorish origin.

We were conducted through an inextricable labyrinth of small

lanes, in which my companion and myself marched in Indian file,

like the geese in the fable, because there was not sufficient room

for us to walk arm-in-arm, until we reached the Alcazar, which is

situated like an Acropolis on the most elevated piece of ground in

the city. We succeeded in entering after some slight discussion;

for the first impulse of people of whom you ask anything is to

refuse, whatever your request may be. "Come again this evening, or

to-morrow--the keeper is taking his siesta--the keys are lost--you

must have a pass from the governor." Such are the answers you

obtain at first: but, by exhibiting the all-powerful tiny piece of

silver, or, in extreme cases, the glittering _duro_, you always end

by effecting an entrance.

The Alcazar, which was built upon the ruins of the old Moorish

palace, is now a perfect ruin itself. It might be mistaken for one

of those marvellous architectural dreams which Piranese used to

embody in his magnificent etchings; it is the work of Covarubias,

an artist little known, but far superior to the heavy, dull

Herrera, who enjoys a far higher reputation than he deserves.

The façade, which is ornamented with florid arabesques in the

purest style of the Renaissance, is a masterpiece of elegance and

nobleness. The burning sun of Spain, which reddens the marble and

dyes the stone with a tint of saffron, has clothed it in a robe of

rich, strong colour, very different from the black leprosy with

which past centuries have encrusted our old edifices. According

to the expression of a great poet; Time, who is so intelligent,

has passed his thumb over the angles of the marble and its too

rigid outlines, and given the finishing touch, the last degree

of polish, to this sculpture, already so soft and so supple. I

particularly remember a staircase of the most fairy-like elegance,

with marble columns, balustrades and steps, already half-crumbled

away, conducting to a door which looks out upon an abyss, for this

portion of the edifice has fallen down. This admirable staircase on

which a king might be content to live, and which leads to nothing,

possesses a certain indefinite air of singularity and grandeur.

The Alcazar is erected upon an esplanade, surrounded by battlements

in the Moorish style, from which you enjoy an immense view, a truly

magical panorama. Here the cathedral pierces the sky with its

extraordinarily lofty spire; further on, in the sunshine, sparkles

the church of _San Juan de los Reyes_; the bridge of Alcantara,

with its tower-like gateway, throws its bold arches across the

Tagus; the _Artificio de Juanello_ obstructs the stream with

its arcades of red brick, which might be taken for the ruins of

some Roman edifice, while the massive towers of the _Castillo_

of Cervantes (a Cervantes who has nothing in common with the

author of Don Quixote) perched upon the rugged, misshapen rocks

that run along the sides of the river, add one denticulation more

to the horizon already so profusely indented by the vertebrated

mountain-crests.

An admirable sunset completed the picture: the sky, by the most

imperceptible gradations, passed from the brightest red to an

orange colour, and then to a pale lemon tint in order to become of

a strange blue, like a greenish turquoise, which last tint subsided

in the west into the lilac-colour of night, whose shadow already

cast a coolness over the place where I stood.

As I leant over one of the embrasures, taking a bird's-eye view of

this town where I knew no one and where my own name was completely

unknown, I had fallen into a deep train of thought. In the presence

of all these forms and all these objects that I beheld at that

moment, and which, in all probability, I was destined never to

behold again, I began to entertain doubts of my own identity; I

felt so absent, as it were, from myself, transported so far from my

own sphere, that everything appeared an hallucination of my mind,

a strange dream, from which I should be suddenly awakened by the

sharp squeaking music of some vaudeville, as I was looking out of

a box at the theatre. By one of those leaps which our imagination

often takes when we are buried in reverie, I tried to picture to

myself what my friends might be doing at that moment; I asked

myself whether they noticed my absence, and whether at the time I

was leaning over the battlements of the Alcazar of Toledo, my name

was hovering on the lips of some well-loved and faithful friend at

Paris. Apparently the answer that my thoughts gave me was not an

affirmative one, for in spite of the scene I felt an indescribable

feeling of sadness come over me, though the dream of my whole life

was being accomplished; I knew that one of my fondest ideas was

being fulfilled; in my youthful, happy years of romanticism, I had

spoken enough of my good Toledo blade to feel some curiosity to see

the place where these same blades were manufactured.

Nothing, however, could rouse me from my philosophical meditations,

until my companion came and proposed that we should bathe in the

Tagus. Bathing is rather a rare peculiarity in a country where,

during the summer, the natives water the beds of the rivers with

water from the wells. Trusting to the assurances of the guide

that the Tagus was a real river, possessing a sufficient amount

of humidity to answer our purpose, we descended as quickly as we

could from the Alcazar, in order to profit by what little daylight

still remained, and directed our steps towards the stream. After

crossing the _Plaza de la Constitucion_, which is surrounded by

houses whose windows, furnished with large spartum blinds rolled

up, or half raised by the projecting balconies, have a sort of

Venetian mediæval look that is highly picturesque, we passed under

a handsome Arabic gateway with its semicircular brick arch, and

following a very steep and abrupt zigzag path, winding along the

rocks and walls which serve Toledo as a girdle, we reached the

bridge of Alcantara, near which we found a place suited for bathing.

During our walk, night, which succeeds the day so rapidly in

southern climates, had set in completely; but this did not hinder

us from wading blindfold into this estimable stream, rendered

famous by the languishing ballad of Queen Hortense, and by the

golden sands which are contained in its crystal waves, according to

the poets, the guides, and the travellers' handbooks.

When we had taken our bath, we hurried back in order to get into

the town before the gates were shut. We enjoyed a glass of _Orchata

de Chufas_ and iced milk, the flavour and perfume of which were

delicious, and then ordered our guide to take us to our _fonda_.

The walls of our room, like those of all the rooms in Spain, were

rough-cast, and covered with those stupid yellow pictures, those

mysterious daubs, like alehouse signs, which you so frequently

meet in the Peninsula, a country that contains more bad pictures

than any other in the world: this observation, of course, does not

detract from the merit of the good ones.

We hastened to sleep as much and as quickly as possible, in order

to be up early the next morning and visit the Cathedral before the

service began.

The Cathedral of Toledo is considered, and justly so, as one of the

finest and richest in Spain. Its origin is lost in the night of

time, but, if the native authors are to be believed, it is to be

traced back to the apostle Santiago, first archbishop of Toledo,

who, according to them, pointed out its site to his disciple and

successor, Elpidius, who was a hermit on Mount Carmel. Elpidius

erected, on the spot pointed out, a church, which he dedicated

to the Virgin during the time she was still living at Jerusalem.

"What a notable piece of happiness! what an illustrious honour for

the Toledans! It is the most excellent trophy of their glory!"

exclaims, in a moment of lyrical inspiration, the author from whom

we have taken these details.

The Holy Virgin was not ungrateful, and, according to the same

legend, descended in person to visit the church of Toledo,

bringing with her own hands, to the blessed San Ildefonso, a

beautiful chasuble _formed of heavenly cloth_. "See how this Queen

pays what she owes!" exclaims our author again. The chasuble still

exists, and, let into the wall, is seen the stone on which the

Virgin placed the sole of her celestial foot, the mark of which

remains. The miracle is attested by the following inscription:--

QUANDO LA REINA DEL CIELO

PUSÓ LOS PIES EN EL SUELO

EN ESTA PIEDRA LOS PUSÓ.

In addition to this, the legend informs us that the Holy Virgin

was so well pleased with her statue, and thought it so well

executed, so well proportioned and so like, that she kissed it,

thus bestowing on it the power of working miracles. If the Queen of

Heaven were to descend into our churches now-a-days, I do not think

that she would be tempted to embrace the statues of herself that

she might see there.

More than two hundred of the gravest and most honourable authors

relate this story, which they consider, at the very least, quite

as well authenticated as the death of Henry IV.; as for myself I

find no difficulty in believing the miracle, and I am perfectly

willing to admit it into the number of established facts. The

church remained in its original state until San Eugene, sixth

bishop of Toledo, enlarged and embellished it as far as his means

would allow, under the title of the Church of our Lady of the

Assumption, which it has preserved up to the present day; but in

the year 302, which was the period when the emperors Diocletian and

Maximinus persecuted the Christians so cruelly, the prefect Dacien

ordered the temple to be pulled down and razed to the ground, so

that the faithful knew no longer where to seek the consolations of

religion. Three years subsequently, when Constans, father of the

great Constantine, had mounted the throne, the persecution ceased,

the prelates returned to their see, and Archbishop Melancius

commenced rebuilding the church, always on the same spot. A

short time afterwards, somewhere about the year 312, the emperor

Constantine having been converted to the true faith, ordered, among

other heroic things to which he was impelled by his Christian zeal,

that the basilical church of Our Lady of the Assumption of Toledo,

which had been destroyed by Dacien's orders, should be rebuilt and

decorated in the most sumptuous manner possible at his expense.

At this period, Marinus, a learned and deeply read man, was

archbishop of Toledo. He enjoyed the privilege of being on

intimate terms of friendship with the emperor, a circumstance

which enabled him to carry out all his plans; consequently he

spared no expense to build a splendid edifice in the most sumptuous

and grandest style. It was this edifice which lasted all the time

of the Goths, which was visited by the Virgin, which was a mosque

during the conquest of Spain, which again became a church when

Toledo was conquered back by the king Don Alonzo VI., and the plan

of which was taken to Oviedo by order of the king Don Alonzo the

Chaste, in order that the church of San Salvador in that city might

be built after the same model, in the year 803. "Those who have

any wish to know what was the form, the grandeur, and the majesty

of the cathedral of Toledo at the time the Queen of Heaven visited

it, have only to go to Oviedo, and they will be satisfied," adds

our author. For our own part, we regret that we could not afford

ourselves this gratification.

At length, under the happy reign of Saint Ferdinand, Don Rodrigo

being archbishop of Toledo, the church assumed that admirable

and magnificent form which it has at the present day, and which,

it is said, is that of the Temple of Diana at Ephesus. O simple

chronicler! allow me to doubt this! The Temple of Ephesus was

never equal to the Cathedral of Toledo! The archbishop Rodrigo,

in presence of the king and all the court, having first said a

pontifical mass, laid the first stone, one Saturday in the year

1227; the works were then carried on with great activity until the

building was completed, and carried to the highest pinnacle of

perfection which human art can attain.

We hope the reader will excuse this slight historical digression,

for it is a thing we do not often indulge in, and we will quickly

resume our humble mission of descriptive tourist and literary

daguerreotype.

The exterior of the Cathedral of Toledo is far less rich than

that of the Cathedral of Burgos; there is no florid profusion of

ornaments, no arabesques, no rows of statues running round the

portals, but simply solid buttresses, sharp bold angles, a thick

facing of large stones, and a sturdy-looking spire that displays

none of the delicate decorations of Gothic art, every portion of

the whole building being covered with a reddish tint like a piece

of toast, a kind of sunburnt skin like that of a pilgrim from the

Holy Land; but to make up for this simplicity on the outside, the

interior is sculptured and carved like a stalactite cavern.

The door by which we entered is formed of bronze, and bears the

following inscription: _Antonio Zurreno del arte de Oro y Plata,

faciebat esta media puerta_. The impression produced upon the mind

of the visitor is one of the most vivid and grandest description.

The church is divided into five naves; the middle one being of

the most unusual height, while the others beside it seem to bow

their heads and kneel down to denote their respect and adoration.

Eighty-eight pillars, each as large as a tower, and composed of

sixteen spindle-shaped columns bound together, sustain the weight

of this enormous edifice; a transept intersects the grand nave

between the choir and the high altar, and forms the arms of the

cross. The style of the entire building is most homogeneous and

perfect, a kind of merit possessed by but few Gothic cathedrals,

which have generally been erected piecemeal. The original plan has

been strictly carried out from beginning to end, with the exception

of a few arrangements in the chapels, which, however, do not in any

way mar the harmony of the whole. Painted windows, glittering with

the splendour of emeralds, sapphires, and rubies, and contained in

stone nervures worked like so much silversmith's work, let in a

mild and mysterious light which inspires you with deep religious

feelings; when the sun is too fierce, spartum blinds let down over

the windows diffuse throughout the building that cool half-state

of obscurity which renders Spanish churches so favourable for

meditation and prayer.

The high altar or _retablo_ alone might be mistaken for a church.

It is an enormous collection of small columns, niches, statues,

foliage, and arabesques, of which the most minute description

would convey but a very faint idea. All this mass of carving and

ornaments, which extends completely up to the roof, is painted and

gilt in the richest imaginable manner. The tawny, warm tones of the

old gilding, cause the thin streaks and patches of light, which

are caught in their passage by the nervures and projections of the

ornaments, to stand out with splendid brightness, producing the

most admirable, picturesque, and rich effect. The paintings, with

their backgrounds of gold, which adorn the panels of the altar,

equal in richness of colouring the most brilliant specimens of the

Venetian school. This union of colour, with the severe and almost

hieratic forms of mediæval art, is met with very rarely; some of

these paintings might be taken for pictures in Giorgione's best

style.

The choir or _silleria_ is placed opposite the high altar,

according to the Spanish custom. It is composed of three ranks of

stalls formed of wood, carved, worked, and cut in a marvellous

manner, with historical, allegorical, and sacred bas-reliefs. Never

was anything more pure, more perfect, or better drawn, produced

by Gothic art, already approaching the style of the Renaissance.

This specimen of workmanship, which frightens you by the endless

variety of its details, is attributed to the patient chisels of

Philippe de Bourgogne and Berruguete. The archbishop's stall,

which is higher than the rest, is fashioned like a throne, and

marks the centre of the choir. The whole of this prodigious

piece of wood-work is crowned by brown polished jasper columns,

and on the entablature are alabaster figures, also by Philippe

de Bourgogne and Berruguete, but in an easier and more supple

style, which produce a most admirable and elegant effect. Enormous

reading-desks, sustaining gigantic missals, large spartum carpets,

and two colossal organs opposite each other, one to the right and

the other to the left, complete the decorations.

Behind the _retablo_ is the chapel in which Don Alvar de Luna and

his wife are buried, in two magnificent alabaster tombs, placed

side by side. The walls of this chapel are emblazoned with the arms

of the Constable, and with the shells of the Order of Santiago,

of which he was grand-master. Not far from this, in the arch of

that portion of the nave which is here termed the _trascoro_,

there is a stone with a funereal inscription. It is in memory of

a noble Toledan, whose pride was shocked at the idea of his tomb

being trodden underfoot by people of no consideration and mean

extraction. "I will not have a set of low-bred peasants walk over

me," he exclaimed on his deathbed; and, as he left a great deal to

the church, his strange whim was satisfied by his body being lodged

in the masonry of the vault, where, most assuredly, no one will

ever walk over it.

We will not endeavour to describe in detail the various chapels, we

should fill a whole volume; we will content ourselves by mentioning

the tomb of a cardinal, executed with the utmost delicacy in the

Arabic style; we can compare it to nothing more appropriately

than to lace-work on a grand scale. We now come at once to the

Mozarabic, or Musarabic Chapel (both terms are used), which is one

of the most curious in the cathedral. Before describing it, we will

explain the meaning of the phrase _Mozarabic Chapel_.

At the time of the Moorish invasion, the Toledans were forced to

surrender, after a two years' siege. They endeavoured to capitulate

on the most favourable terms, and among the other conditions

agreed upon, was the following: Six churches were to be reserved

for the use of those Christians who might desire to live with the

barbarians. These churches were those of St. Mark, Saint Luke,

Saint Sebastian, Saint Torcato, Saint Eulalia, and Saint Justa.

By this means the true faith was preserved in the city during the

four hundred years' dominion of the Moors, and for this reason the

faithful Toledans were termed Mozarabians, that is, "mixed with

the Arabs." In the reign of Alonzo VI., when Toledo once more fell

into the hands of the Christians, Richard, the Pope's legate,

wished the Mozarabian ritual to be abandoned for the Gregorian; he

was backed in this by the king and the queen Doña Constanza, who

preferred the rites of Rome. All the clergy revolted, and exclaimed

loudly against the change; the faithful were highly incensed,

and their irritation was nearly causing an open insurrection and

revolt of the people. The king, frightened by the turn that matters

were taking, and fearful that the Toledans would proceed to acts

of violence, tried to calm them in the best manner he could,

and proposed the following singular _mezzo termine_, which was

completely suited to the spirit of the times, and accepted with

enthusiasm by both parties:--The partisans of the Gregorian and of

the Mozarabic ritual were each to choose a champion, and the two

were then to meet in mortal combat, in order to decide which idiom

and which service was most pleasing to Heaven; and certainly, if

the opinion of Heaven is to be taken, it cannot be taken more fitly

than in the choice of a liturgy.

The champion of the Mozarabians was named Don Ruiz de la Matanza; a

day was appointed, and the Vega chosen as the field of battle. For

some time the victory was uncertain, but in the end Don Ruiz gained

the advantage, and left the lists as victor, amidst the cries of

joy of the Toledans, who wept with pleasure, and, throwing their

hats in the air, immediately repaired to their churches, in order

to render up thanks to Heaven. The king and queen were greatly

annoyed at this triumph. Reflecting, somewhat late in the day,

that it was an impious, daring, and cruel act to decide a question

of theology by a sanguinary combat, they said that the only means

of determining the matter was by a miracle, and they therefore

proposed another ordeal, to which the Toledans, confident of the

excellence of their ritual, consented. After a general fast, and

prayers in all the churches, a copy of the Gregorian ritual, as

well as one of the Mozarabian, was to be placed upon a lighted

pile, and that one which remained in the fire without being burnt,

was to be considered as the more acceptable to Heaven.

Everything was executed with the greatest exactitude. A pile of

very dry flaming wood was heaped up on the _Plaza Zocodover_,

which, as long as it has been a _plaza_, never beheld such a

concourse of spectators; the two liturgies were cast into the fire,

each party looking up to Heaven with arms uplifted in prayer. The

Romish ritual was rejected, and its leaves all scattered about

by the violence of the flames, but it came out intact, although

somewhat scorched. The Toledan ritual, on the other hand, remained

majestically in the midst of the flames, on the very spot on which

it had been thrown, without moving, or receiving the least injury.

Some few enthusiastic Mozarabians went so far as to assert that

the Romish ritual was entirely consumed. The king, the queen; the

legate Richard, were but slightly gratified, but they had gone

too far to retract. The Mozarabic ritual was therefore preserved

and followed with ardour, for a long period, by the Mozarabians,

their sons, and grandsons; but at last, the meaning of the ritual

was lost, and there was no one left capable of performing or

understanding the service which had occasioned so much contention.

Don Francisco Ximenes, archbishop of Toledo, being desirous that so

memorable a custom should not be discontinued, founded a Mozarabic

chapel in the cathedral, caused the ritual, which was in Gothic

characters, to be printed in ordinary letters, and ordained priests

whose special duty it was to celebrate the Mozarabic service.

The Mozarabic Chapel, which still exists at the present day, is

ornamented with the most interesting Gothic frescoes, representing

various combats between the Toledans and the Moors. They are in a

perfect state of preservation, the colours being as vivid as if

they had only been applied yesterday. An archæologist could not

fail to gather from them a vast quantity of curious information

concerning the arms, costumes, weapons, and architecture of the

period; for the principal fresco represents a view of Old Toledo,

and was, no doubt, very exact. In the lateral frescoes are painted,

with great attention to all the details, the vessels which brought

the Arabs to Spain; a seaman might glean some very useful hints

from them concerning the history of mediæval naval matters, at

present so obscure. The arms of Toledo--five stars sable on a

field, silver--are repeated in several parts of this low-arched

chapel, which is enclosed, according to the Spanish fashion, by a

gate of magnificent workmanship.

The chapel of the Virgin, which is entirely covered with porphyry,

jasper, and yellow breccia, most admirably polished, surpasses in

richness all the splendour of the "Thousand and One Nights." There

are a great many relics here; among others, a reliquary, presented

by Saint Louis, and containing a piece of the true cross.

We will now wait a little to recover our breath; meanwhile, we

will, if you please, take a turn in the cloisters. They surround

a number of elegant and severe arcades of beautiful masses

of verdure, which, thanks to the shade thrown on them by the

cathedral, remain green in spite of the intense heat at this time

of the year. All the cloister walls are covered with immense

frescoes, in the style of Vanloo, painted by an artist named Bayeu.

The composition of these paintings is easy and their colouring

pleasing, but they do not agree with the style of the building, and

no doubt replace older works that had suffered from the effects

of age, or been considered perhaps too Gothic by the persons "of

taste" at that period. Cloisters are very appropriately situated

near a church; they form a happy transition from the tranquillity

of the sanctuary to the turmoil of the city. You can walk about,

dream and meditate, in them, without being under the necessity of

joining in the prayers and ceremonies of the service: catholics

enter the temple; Christians remain more frequently in the

cloisters. This peculiar state of mind has been well understood

by the catholic church, who is so skilful a psychologist. In

religious countries, the cathedral is always the most ornamented,

richest, most florid, and most profusely gilt, of all the buildings

in a town. In a cathedral, the shade is coolest and the silence

most profound; the music is better than it is in the theatre, and

nothing can be compared to the splendour of the pageants. It is the

central point, the most attractive spot, like the Opera-house in

Paris. We northern catholics, with our Voltairean temples, have no

idea of the luxury, elegance, and comfort of Spanish churches: they

are furnished, they are animated, and have not that icy, deserted

look which ours have: the faithful can live in them in sweet

familiarity with Heaven.

The sacristies and capitular rooms in the Cathedral of Toledo are

of more than royal magnificence. Nothing can be more noble and

picturesque than these vast halls decorated in that solid and

severe style of luxury that the Church alone understands. They

present an endless succession of carved walnut-wood or black oak,

tapestry, or Indian damask curtains hanging down before the doors,

brocade drapery with large massive folds, figured tapestry, Persian

carpets, and fresco paintings. We will not attempt to describe

all these things in detail, we will merely mention one room

ornamented with admirable frescoes representing sacred subjects,

in the German style, of which the Spaniards have produced such

successful imitations. These frescoes are said to have been painted

by Berruguete's nephew, if not by Berruguete himself, for these

prodigious geniuses were great in all three branches of art. We

will also mention an immense ceiling by Luca Giordana, filled

with a countless multitude of angels and allegorical personages

in attitudes that offer the most extraordinary instances of

foreshortening. It is also remarkable for a singular optical

illusion. A ray of light issues from the middle of the roof,

and although painted on a simple flat surface, seems to fall

perpendicularly on your head, whichever way you turn.

Here is kept the treasure, that is to say, the beautiful capes of

brocade, cloth of gold, and silver damask; the marvellous guipures,

the silver-gilt reliquaries, the diamond monstrances, the gigantic

silver candlesticks, the embroidered banners, and, in fact, all the

decorations and accessories used in the representation of the drama

called the mass.

In the cupboards of one of these rooms is kept the wardrobe of

the Holy Virgin, for naked statues of marble or alabaster are

not sufficient for the passionate piety of these natives of the

South. In their devout enthusiasm, they load the object of their

veneration with ornaments of the most extraordinary richness;

nothing is good, or brilliant, or expensive enough; the form of the

figure and the materials of which it is made disappear completely

under this mass of valuables; but the Spaniards trouble themselves

very little about that. The great thing is that it should be a

physical impossibility to hang one pearl more on the ears of the

marble idol, to fix a larger diamond in its golden crown, or form

another pattern of precious stones on its brocade robe.

Never did a queen of ancient times, not even Cleopatra, who used

to drink pearls, never did an empress of the Lower Empire, never

did a duchess in the Middle Ages, never did a Venetian courtesan

in the time of Titian, possess more brilliant jewels or a richer

assortment of clothes than Our Lady of Toledo. We were shown some

of her gowns. There is one of them which defies all your efforts to

say of what material it is composed, so completely is it covered

with flowers and arabesques of fine pearls, among which there are

some of a size beyond all price; there are also several rows of

black pearls which are very rare indeed. Suns and stars of precious

stones also adorn this prodigious gown, which is so brilliant

that the eye can scarcely support its splendour. It is worth some

millions of francs.

We terminated our visit by going up into the spire, the top of

which is reached by a succession of rather steep but not very

enticing ladders placed one above the other. About halfway, in

a kind of store-room that we were obliged to traverse, we saw a

number of gigantic coloured figures, dressed in the style of the

last century and used in some procession or other.

The magnificent view that bursts upon you when you have reached

the summit of the spire, repays you most amply for all the trouble

of clambering up. The whole town is presented to your gaze with

all the sharpness and precision of the cork models exhibited by

Monsieur Pelet, and so greatly admired at the _Exposition_ at

Paris. This comparison will appear, doubtless, very prosaic, and

not at all picturesque; but, in sober truth, I could not hit

upon a better or more appropriate one. The dwarfish, misshapen

rocks of blue granite, which shut in the Tagus on both sides, and

constitute a portion of the horizon of Toledo, add still more to

the singularity of the landscape, which is bathed and inundated by

torrents of crude, pitiless, blinding light, not mitigated by the

least reflection, but on the contrary, increased by a cloudless,

vapourless sky that has become white from the intense heat, like

iron in a furnace.

The heat was, indeed, atrocious, fully equalling that of a

lime-kiln; and nothing but the most insatiable curiosity could have

prevented us from renouncing all sight-seeing in such a Senegambian

temperature; but we were still full of all the savage ardour of

Parisian tourists, overflowing with enthusiasm for local colour.

Nothing disheartened us: we only stopped to drink, for our throats

were more parched than the sands of Africa, and we absorbed water

like a couple of dry sponges. I really do not know how we avoided

becoming dropsical; for, exclusive of wine and ices, we consumed

seven or eight jars of water a day. _Agua! Agua!_ was our unceasing

cry; and a chain of _muchachos_, passing the jars to one another,

from our room to the kitchen, was hardly capable of quenching the

fire that raged within us. Had it not been for this never-ending

inundation, we should have been reduced to dust, like a sculptor's

clay models when he forgets to moisten them.

After having visited the cathedral, we resolved, in spite of our

thirst, to proceed to the church of _San Juan de los Reyes_; but it

was only after a very long parley that we succeeded in obtaining

the keys, for the church itself has been shut for the last seven or

eight years, and the convent, of which it forms part, is abandoned

and falling into ruins.

_San Juan de los Reyes_ is situated on the banks of the Tagus,

close to the bridge of San Martin. Its walls are of that beautiful

orange colour which distinguishes old buildings in countries where

it never rains. A collection of royal statues, of very imposing

appearance and in noble and chivalresque attitudes, decorates the

exterior; but this is not the most remarkable feature about the

church of _San Juan de los Reyes_, for all mediæval churches are

peopled with statues. An immense number of chains suspended on

hooks decorate the walls from top to bottom: they are the fetters

of the Christian captives who were delivered at the conquest of

Granada. These chains, thus hung up in the guise of ornaments and

votive offerings, give the church somewhat of the air of a prison,

which is rather strange and repulsive.

I was told an anecdote connected with this subject, which I will

insert here, as it is both short and characteristic. The dream

of every _jefe politico_ in Spain is to possess an _alameda_, as

that of every prefect in France is to have a Rue de Rivoli in his

town. The dream of the _jefe politico_ of Toledo was, therefore,

to procure the population committed to his government the

pleasures of a public promenade. The site was chosen, and, thanks

to the co-operation of the inmates of the Presidio, the necessary

levellings were soon completed. All the promenade now wanted was

trees, but trees cannot be improvised, and the _jefe politico_

very judiciously resolved to substitute for them short posts,

connected with iron chains. As money, however, is very scarce in

Spain, the ingenious official, who certainly possessed a fertile

imagination, if any one ever did, thought of the historical chains

of _San Juan de los Reyes_, and said to himself, "They are exactly

what I want, and are all ready to my hand!" Accordingly, the chains

of the captives set free by Ferdinand and Isabella the Catholic,

were hung on the posts of the _alameda_, while each of the smiths

who had done the work received a few armfuls of the heroic metal

for his trouble. Certain intelligent persons (you are sure to find

some everywhere) said that it was an act of Vandalism, and the

chains were taken back to the church. As for those which had been

given in payment to the workmen, they had long since been forged

into ploughshares, mules' shoes, and other utensils. This story is

perhaps a piece of calumny, but it has all the air of probability;

I give it as I heard it related. But let us return to our church.

The key turned with difficulty in the rusty lock, but as soon as

this slight obstacle was surmounted, we entered the dilapidated but

most elegant and admirable cloisters. Slender columns supported

on their florid capitals a number of arches adorned with the most

delicate nervures and embellishments, while all along the walls ran

long inscriptions in praise of Ferdinand and Isabella, in Gothic

characters, intertwined with flowers, a Christian imitation of

the sentences and verses from the Koran employed by the Moors as

an architectural ornament. What a pity it is that so precious an

edifice should be thus abandoned!

By giving a few kicks against the doors, which were either

barricaded with worm-eaten planks, or obstructed by rubbish, we

succeeded in forcing our way into the church, which is a charming

building, and, with the exception of a few places where it had

been wantonly mutilated, seemed as if it had only been completed

yesterday. Gothic art never produced anything more suave, more

elegant, or more fine. All round it runs a gallery pierced and

penetrated like a fish-slice, hanging its adventurous balcony on

the clusters of pillars, and following exactly their indentations

and projections; gigantic scroll-work, eagles, monsters, heraldic

animals, coats of arms, banners, and emblematic inscriptions,

similar to those in the cloisters, complete the decorations. The

choir, which is situated opposite the _retablo_, at the other

extremity of the church, is supported by a very bold and handsome

elliptic arch.

The altar, which, without doubt, was a masterpiece of sculpture

and painting, has been pitilessly pulled down. These useless

acts of destruction sadden the heart, and make you doubt the

human understanding: how do old stones impede new ideas? Cannot

a revolution be effected without the Past being demolished?

It strikes me that the _Constitucion_ would have lost nothing

by leaving intact the church of Ferdinand and Isabella the

Catholic--that noble queen, who believed the bare word of Genius,

and endowed mankind with a new world.

Venturing up a staircase that was half in ruins, we penetrated

into the interior of the convent. The refectory is a tolerably

spacious apartment, presenting nothing peculiarly worthy of notice,

save a frightful picture placed over the door. This picture,

rendered still more hideous by the coat of dust and dirt which

covers it, represents a dead body in a state of decomposition,

with all those horrible details which are treated so complacently

by Spanish artists. A symbolical and funereal inscription, one of

those menacing biblical sentences, which warn human nothingness

in so terrible a manner, is written at the bottom of this

sepulchral painting, which seems a very singular one to select

for a refectory. I do not know whether all the stories of monkish

gluttony are true, but for my own part I should have but a very

delicate appetite in a dining-room decorated in this fashion.

Overhead, on each side of a long corridor, are ranged, like the

cells in a beehive, the deserted cells of the monks, who have long

since disappeared: they are all exactly similar to one another,

and all covered with white stucco. This whiteness diminishes the

poetical effect a great deal, by preventing monsters and other

bugbears of the imagination from hiding themselves in the dark

holes and corners. The interior of the church and cloisters is also

whitewashed; this gives them a sort of new and recent appearance,

which forms a strong contrast with the style of the architecture

and the state of the edifice. The absence of humidity and the great

heat have not allowed any plants or weeds to spring up between the

interstices of the stones or of the rubbish; and these remains are

not enveloped in the green ivy mantle which Time throws over our

northern ruins. We wandered about the abandoned edifice for a long

time, going up and down a succession of break-neck staircases,

exactly like Anne Radcliffe's heroes, except that we saw nothing in

the way of phantoms save two poor lizards, that made their escape

as quickly as they possibly could, being, doubtless, ignorant, in

their character of Spaniards, of the French proverb, "The lizard

is the friend of man." A stroll of this kind through the veins and

limbs of a large building, from which all life has fled, is one of

the most vivid pleasures that can be conceived; you expect, every

moment, to meet at the turn of some gallery or other one of the old

monks, with his glossy forehead and his eyes sunk in shade, walking

gravely along with his arms folded on his breast, as he proceeds to

take part in some mysterious service in the desecrated and deserted

church.

We now left, for we had seen everything that was worth seeing,

even the kitchens, down to which our guide conducted us with

a Voltairean smile that a subscriber to the _Constitutionnel_

would not have disowned. The church and cloisters are uncommonly

magnificent; the rest of the place displays the strictest

simplicity; everything was for the soul, nothing for the body.

At a short distance from San Juan de los Reyes, you observe, or

rather, you do not observe, the celebrated mosque-like synagogue;

for, unless you have a guide, you might pass by it twenty times

without once suspecting that such a building existed. Our

_keeper_ knocked at a door cut in a wall formed of reddish clay,

and presenting the most insignificant appearance. After waiting

some time--for Spaniards are never in a hurry--the door was

opened, and we were asked if we came to see the synagogue. On

our answering in the affirmative, we were introduced into a kind

of courtyard, filled with wild vegetation, in the midst of which

stood a mangrove-tree, with its deeply serrated leaves, of a deep

green, and as shining as if they had been varnished. At the back

was a sort of wretched hovel, without the least pretension to any

peculiar character, and looking more like a barn than anything

else. We were shown into this hovel. Never was any one more

surprised than we were: we found ourselves suddenly transplanted

to the East, and beheld slender columns with spreading capitals

like turbans, Turkish arches, verses of the Koran, a flat ceiling

divided into compartments of cedar-wood, the day streaming in from

above--in a word, nothing was wanting to sustain the illusion. The

remains of old illuminated subjects, almost effaced, covered the

walls with their strange hues, and increased the singular effect of

the whole. This synagogue, which the Arabs turned into a mosque,

and the Christians into a church, serves, at present, as the

residence and workshop of a joiner. The joiner's bench now occupies

the place of the altar. This act of profanation is of recent date.

Vestiges of the _retablo_ are still remaining, as well as the

inscription, in black marble, commemorating the consecration of the

edifice for Roman Catholic worship.

Talking of synagogues, I will here relate the following curious

anecdote. The Jews of Toledo, probably with a view of diminishing

the feeling of horror entertained for them by the Christians,

asserted that they had not consented to the death of our

Saviour; and made the following statement in support of their

assertion:--When our Saviour was brought up for judgment, the

council of priests, of which Caiaphas was president, sent round

to each of the tribes to know whether our Saviour should be set

free or put to death. The question was put to the Jews of Spain,

and the synagogue of Toledo pronounced in favour of his acquittal.

This particular tribe, therefore, according to them, is not

covered with the blood of the Redeemer, and does not deserve the

execration incurred by those Jews who voted against the Son of

God. The original copy of the answer given by the Jews of Toledo,

with a Latin translation of the Hebrew text, is--so says the

report--preserved in the archives of the Vatican. In consideration

of their conduct, they were allowed to erect this synagogue, which

is, I believe, the only one ever tolerated in Spain.

We had heard of the ruins of an ancient Moorish country-house,

called Galiana's Palace. On leaving the synagogue, we ordered our

guide to conduct us thither, in spite of our fatigue, for our time

was precious, as we had to set out again the next day for Madrid.

Galiana's Palace is situated outside the town, in the plain of

the Vega; and in order to reach it, you have to cross the bridge

of Alcantara. After a quarter of an hour's walk through fields

irrigated by a thousand little canals, we came to a cluster of

extraordinarily green trees, at the foot of which a water-wheel of

the most antique and Egyptian simplicity was at work. Earthen jars,

fixed to the spokes of the wheel by means of cords made of reeds,

first drew up the water from the stream, and then emptied it into

a canal of concave tiles, conducting to a reservoir, whence it was

directed without difficulty, through small trenches, to whatever

point had to be watered.

The dilapidated outline of a mass of reddish bricks rose up behind

the foliage of the trees: this was Galiana's Palace. We made our

way, through a low doorway, into this heap of ruins, that was

inhabited by a family of peasants. It is impossible to conceive

anything more black, more smoky, more sepulchral, or more dirty.

The Troglodytes were lodged like princes in comparison; and yet

the charming Galiana, the Moorish maiden with her long eyelashes

tinged with henna, and her brocade jacket, covered with pearls, had

once pressed the uneven floor with her little slippers, and once

leant out at that window to look at the Moorish cavaliers who were

exercising themselves in throwing the djerrid, at some distance

away in the plain of the Vega.

We valiantly continued our researches, ascending to the upper parts

of the building by means of crazy old ladders, and grasping hold

of the tufts of dry weeds, which hung like a beard to the crabbed

chin of the ancient walls. When we had arrived at the summit, we

became aware of a strange phenomenon. We had entered the place with

white trousers, and we left it with black ones; but the black tint

was no ordinary black, it was alive, moving, skipping about; we

were covered with imperceptible little fleas, who had precipitated

themselves upon us in compact masses, attracted by the coldness of

our northern blood. I never should have thought that there were so

many fleas in the whole world.

A few pipes for conveying water into the hot baths are the only

vestiges of magnificence which time has spared: the glass and

enamelled porcelain mosaics; the slender marble columns with their

gilt capitals, ornamented with carving and verses from the Koran;

the alabaster basins; the stones pierced in a thousand different

places in order to allow the perfumes to filter through;--all, all

had disappeared. All that is left is the carcass of the principal

walls, and heaps of bricks rapidly crumbling to dust; for these

marvellous edifices, which remind the spectator of the fairy

palaces in the "Arabian Nights," are unfortunately only built

of bricks or clay, crusted over with stucco or plaster. All the

lacework, all the arabesques, are not, as is generally believed,

carved in marble or stone, but merely moulded in plaster, by which

method they can be reproduced without end and without any great

cost. Had it not been for the extraordinarily conservative quality

of the climate of Spain, all these edifices erected of such slight

materials would never have remained standing at the present day.

The legend of Galiana is more successfully preserved than her

palace. She was the daughter of king Galafre, who loved her more

than aught else in the world, and had built for her in the plain

of the Vega a country-house, with delicious gardens, kiosks,

baths, fountains, and cascades, which rose and fell exactly as

the moon increased or waned, either by means of magic, or by one

of those hydraulic artifices so familiar to the Arabs. Idolized

by her father, Galiana lived in this charming retreat in the most

agreeable manner, amusing herself with music, poetry, and dancing.

Her hardest task was to escape the importunities of her admirers.

The most troublesome and the most determined of them all was a

certain petty king of Guadalajara, called Bradamant, a gigantic,

valiant, and ferocious Moor. Galiana could not bear him, and, as

the chronicler says, "What avails it that the cavalier be all fire,

if the lady be all ice?" The Moor, however, was not to be rebuffed,

and his delight at seeing and speaking to Galiana was so intense

that he caused a subterranean passage to be dug from Guadalajara to

Toledo, and through this passage he came to visit her every day.

It was at this epoch, that Charlemagne, the son of Pepin, came to

Toledo, whither he had been sent by his father to assist Galafre

against Abderahaman, king of Cordova. Galafre lodged him in

Galiana's own palace, for the Moors willingly allowed illustrious

and important personages to see their daughters. Charlemagne

possessed a soft heart underneath his steel cuirass, and very soon

became desperately enamoured of the Moorish princess. He at first

endured Bradamant's assiduities, as he was not sure of having

made an impression upon the fair one's heart; but as Galiana,

despite her reserve and modesty, could not conceal from him any

longer the preference she secretly felt for him in her soul, he

began to give signs of jealousy, and required that his sunburnt

rival should be promptly suppressed. Galiana, who was already a

Frenchwoman up to her very eyes, says the chronicler, and who,

besides that, hated the petty king of Guadalajara, gave the prince

to understand that both she and her father were heartily sick of

the Moor's importunities, and that she should be gratified by his

being summarily disposed of. Charlemagne did not require telling

twice; he challenged Bradamant to single combat, and, although

the Moor was a giant, overcame him. He then cut off his head and

presented it to Galiana, who thought the present a remarkable proof

of delicate attention. This little act of politeness advanced the

prince considerably in the good graces of the beautiful Moorish

maiden, and the love of both of them continuing to increase,

Galiana promised to embrace Christianity in order that Charlemagne

might be enabled to marry her. No difficulty was thrown in her way,

as Galafre was delighted at the idea of bestowing his daughter's

hand on so great a prince. Meanwhile Pepin died, and Charlemagne

returned to France, bringing with him Galiana, who was crowned

Queen, and received with great rejoicings. It is thus that a

Moorish maiden succeeded in becoming a Christian queen, "and the

remembrance of this story, although connected with an old building,

is worthy of being preserved in Toledo," adds the chronicler, as a

sort of final moral reflection.

It was now absolutely necessary, before we did anything else,

that we should rid ourselves of the microscopic multitudes, whose

bites had spotted our ex-white trousers with blood. Fortunately,

the Tagus was not far off, and thither did we immediately conduct

the Princess Galiana's fleas, employing the method patronised by

foxes, who plunge up to the nose in water, holding between their

teeth a piece of cork, which they commit to the stream as soon as

they find it is manned by a sufficiently numerous crew, for the

confounded little insects run up and crowd into it as soon as they

feel themselves touched by the water. We trust our fair readers

will pardon us for these animalcular and _picaresque_ details,

which would be more suited, perhaps, to the life of Lazarillo de

Tormes or of Guzman d'Alfarache; but a book of travels in Spain

would not be complete without them, and we hope to be excused in

consideration of the local colouring.

The banks of the Tagus, at this point, are lined with peaked and

almost inaccessible rocks, and it was not without some difficulty

that we succeeded in making our way down to the spot where the

grand sacrifice was to be accomplished. I began swimming out and

displaying the greatest possible amount of artistic precision

in order to prove myself worthy of bathing in so celebrated and

respectable a river as the Tagus, when, after going some few yards

I reached the ruins of some building or other that had fallen down,

and left its shapeless remains of masonry projecting only a foot or

two from the surface of the stream. On the bank exactly opposite,

was an old ruined tower with a semicircular arcade, where some

linen was drying very prosaically in the sun on clotheslines that

had been hung there by the washerwomen.

I was simply in the _baño de la Cava_, which, I may as well say for

the benefit of my readers, means Florinda's Bath, and the tower

opposite me was the tower of King Rodrigo. It was from the balcony

of that window and concealed behind a curtain, that Rodrigo watched

the young maidens as they were bathing, and perceived the lovely

Florinda measuring her leg[9] and those of her companions, in order

to see whose was the roundest and best shaped. From what trifles do

great events spring. Had Florinda possessed an ill-shapen leg or an

ugly knee, the Arabs would never have come to Spain. Unfortunately,

Florinda had a tiny foot, a delicate ankle, and the whitest and

best shaped leg in the world. Rodrigo became enamoured of the

thoughtless bather, and seduced her. Count Juliano, Florinda's

father, furious at this outrage, betrayed his country in order to

obtain revenge, and called in the aid of the Moors. Rodrigo lost

the famous battle so often mentioned in the _romanceros_, and

perished miserably in a coffin filled with vipers, in which he had

placed himself to make atonement for his crime. Poor Florinda,

branded with the ignominious name of _la Cava_, remained bowed down

beneath the execration of all Spain; but then, what a ridiculous

and strange idea it was to place a bathing-place for young maidens

exactly before the tower of a young king.

Since we have begun to talk about Rodrigo, we may as well mention

the legend of the Grotto of Hercules, which is fatally connected

with the history of this unfortunate Gothic prince. The Grotto of

Hercules is a subterranean cave, which, according to the general

report, extends three leagues beyond the city walls: the entrance,

carefully shut and padlocked, is in the church of San Gines, which

stands on the highest ground in the whole city. On this spot there

was formerly a palace founded by Tubal, which Hercules restored

and enlarged. Here, too, he established his laboratory and his

school of magic; for Hercules, of whom the Greeks subsequently made

a god, was at first a powerful cabalist. By means of his art, he

constructed an enchanted tower, with talismans and inscriptions to

the effect, that whenever any one should penetrate the limits of

the magical edifice, a ferocious and barbarous nation should invade

Spain.

Fearful of seeing this fatal prediction accomplished, all the

kings, and especially the Gothic kings, placed more locks and more

padlocks on the mysterious door; not that they actually put faith

in the prophecy, but, like sensible persons as they were, they

had no wish to be mixed up with these magical charms and spells.

Rodrigo, who was more curious or more needy, for his debauched and

prodigal course of life had exhausted all his money, resolved on

venturing into the enchanted cave, in the hopes of finding some

considerable treasures there. He directed his steps towards the

grotto at the head of some few determined followers, provided with

torches, lanterns, and cords, and reached the doorway cut in the

living rock, and closed by an iron door secured by a great number

of padlocks. On the door was a tablet with this inscription in

Greek characters: _The king who shall open this subterranean vault,

and succeed in discovering the marvels which it contains, shall

experience good and evil._ The former kings had been frightened

at the alternative, and had not dared to proceed; but Rodrigo,

chancing the evil to obtain the good, ordered the padlocks to be

broken, the locks to be forced, and the door to be opened. Those

who boasted of possessing most courage went down first, but soon

returned, with their torches extinguished, all trembling, pale,

and terror-stricken; those that could speak said that they had

been frightened by a most horrible vision. This, however, did not

induce Rodrigo to renounce his project of breaking the spell. He

caused the torches to be arranged in such a manner that the wind

which issued from the cavern could not extinguish them; and then,

placing himself at the head of his followers, advanced boldly into

the grotto. He soon reached a square chamber of great architectural

richness, in the middle of which was a tall bronze statue, of

terrible aspect. This statue had its feet placed upon a column

three cubits high, and held in its hand a mace, with which it kept

striking the floor, thereby producing the noise and wind which

had so frightened those who entered first. Rodrigo, as brave as a

Goth, and as determined as a Christian who has confidence in his

religion, and is not astonished by the magic arts of Pagans, went

straight up to the colossus, and asked permission to examine the

marvels which were in the grotto.

The brazen warrior intimated that he assented to the request, by

ceasing to strike the earth with his mace. It was now easy to see

the various objects in the chamber, and, before long, a chest was

found with the following inscription on the lid:--"He who opens

me will behold marvels." Seeing the quietness of the statue, the

king's companions, having recovered from their fright, and being

encouraged by the inscription, which seemed to promise well,

began making ready their pockets and mantles, under the idea that

they should fill them with gold; but all they found in the chest

was a roll of cloth. On it were painted troops of Arabs, some on

horseback and others on foot, with turbans on their heads, and

shields and lances in their hands. There was also an inscription

to the following effect:--"He who penetrates thus far, and opens

the chest, will lose Spain, and be vanquished by nations similar

to this one." King Rodrigo attempted to conceal the disagreeable

impression produced on him, in order not to augment the sadness of

his followers, and continued his search, in the hope of finding

something to compensate him for this disastrous prophecy. On

raising his eyes, Rodrigo perceived on the wall, to the left of

the statue, a cartouche, on which were the words, "Poor king! To

your misfortune is it that you have entered here!" and to the right

there was another, with the words, "You will be ejected from your

possessions by foreign nations, and your people will be heavily

chastised!" Behind the statue there was written, "I invoke the

Arabs," and before it, "I do my duty."

The king and his courtiers withdrew, filled with anxiety and gloomy

presentiments. The very same night there was a furious tempest, and

the ruins of the Tower of Hercules fell to the ground with the most

awful noise. It was not long before the prophecies of the magic

grotto were borne out by circumstances; the Arabs painted on the

roll of cloth in the chest really did show their strange-shaped

turbans, shields, and lances, on the unhappy soil of Spain, and

all because Rodrigo looked at Florinda's leg, and went down into a

cavern.

But night is setting in; we must return to the _fonda_, sup, and

retire to bed, for we leave to-morrow evening, and have yet to

visit the Hospital of the Cardinal Don Pedro Gonzales de Mendoza,

the Manufactory of Arms, the remains of the Roman Amphitheatre,

and a thousand other curiosities. As for myself, I am so fatigued

by the diamond-edged pavement, that I feel inclined to reverse my

position, and walk about a little upon my hands, like the clowns,

in order to rest my aching feet. O hackney-coaches of civilization!

omnibuses of progress! I called upon you with a sinking heart--but

then of what use would you have been in the streets of Toledo?

The cardinal's Hospital is a large building, of broad and severe

proportions, which would take too long for me to describe here. We

will cross rapidly over the courtyard, surrounded by columns and

arcades, and containing nothing remarkable save two air-shafts,

with white marble kerbs, and at once enter the church, to examine

the cardinal's tomb, executed in alabaster by that prodigy,

Berruguete, who lived more than eighty years, covering his country

with masterpieces in various styles, but all equally perfect. The

cardinal is stretched out upon his tomb in his pontifical habits.

Death has pinched his nose with its skinny fingers, and the last

contraction of the muscles, in their endeavour to retain the soul

about to leave the body for ever, puckers up the corners of the

mouth, and lengthens the chin: never was there a cast taken after

death more horribly true; and yet the beauty of the work is such,

that you forget any amount of repulsiveness that the subject may

possess. Little children in attitudes of grief support the plinth

and the cardinal's coat of arms. The most supple and softest clay

could not be more easy, or more pliant; it is not carved, it is

kneaded!

There are also in this church two pictures by Domenico

Theotocopouli, called El Greco, an extraordinary and strange

artist, who is scarcely known, save in Spain. He was absurdly

afraid, as you are aware, of being accused of imitating Titian,

whose pupil he had been; this fear of his caused him to have

recourse to the strangest expedients and caprices.

One of these pictures, that which represents the "Holy Family,"

must have made the poor Greco very miserable, for, at first sight,

it would be taken for a genuine Titian. The ardent colouring, the

vivid tone of the drapery, and that beautiful reflex of yellow

amber, which imparts warmth even to the coolest shades of the

Venetian artist, all concur to deceive the most practised eye; the

touch alone is less bold and less broad. The little reason that El

Greco still possessed must have been altogether swallowed up in the

sombre ocean of madness, after he had completed this masterpiece.

There are not many artists, now-a-days, capable of going mad for a

similar reason.

The other picture, the subject of which is, the "Baptism of our

Saviour," belongs entirely to El Greco's second style. It is

remarkable for the abuse of black and white in it, for its violent

contrasts, singular tints, laboured attitudes, and abrupt, sharp

disposition of the drapery, but there is a certain air of depraved

energy, a sort of morbid power about it, which reveals the great

artist and the madman of genius. Very few paintings interest me so

much as those of El Greco, for his very worst have always something

unexpected, something that exceeds the bounds of possibility, that

causes astonishment, and affords matter for reflection.

From the Hospital, we proceeded to the Manufactory of Arms, which

is a vast, symmetrical, and pleasing edifice, founded by Charles

III., whose name is to be found on all buildings of public utility.

It is erected close to the Tagus, the water of that stream being

used to temper the sword-blades and move the machinery. The

workshops run along a large courtyard, surrounded by porticoes

and arcades, like almost all the courtyards in Spain. In one room

the iron is heated, in another it is submitted to the hammer,

while farther on it is tempered. In one place are the stones for

sharpening and grinding, in another are made the sheaths and

handles. We will not extend the investigation further, as it would

not teach our readers anything peculiarly new; we will only state

that these blades, so justly celebrated, are partly manufactured

out of the old shoes of horses and mules, that are carefully

collected for the purpose.

To convince us that the Toledo blades were still worthy of their

ancient reputation, we were conducted to the proving-room, where

a workman, of commanding stature and colossal strength, took a

weapon of the most ordinary kind, a straight cavalry sabre, fixed

the point in a pig of lead fastened to the wall, and made the

blade bend about in every possible way, like a switch, so that the

handle almost touched the hilt; the elasticity and suppleness of

the steel were such that it was able to stand this test without

snapping. The man then placed himself opposite an anvil, and gave

so vigorous a blow that the blade entered about half an inch; this

feat of strength made me think of the scene in one of Sir Walter

Scott's novels, where Richard Cœur-de-Lion and king Saladin amuse

themselves by cutting pillows and iron bars.

The Toledo blades of the present day are therefore quite equal to

those of former times; the secret of tempering them is not lost,

but merely the secret of their form; this little thing, so despised

by Progress people, is all that is wanting to enable modern works

to sustain a comparison with those of antiquity. A modern sword is

merely an instrument; a sword of the sixteenth century is at once

an instrument and a gem.

We thought that we should find at Toledo a few old weapons, such

as daggers, poniards, rapiers, and other curiosities, to be hung

up as trophies on the wall, or laid out upon a shelf; and we had

learnt by heart, for this purpose, the names and marks of the

sixty armourers of Toledo, collected by Achille Jubinal; but we

had not an opportunity of putting our knowledge to the test, for

there are no more swords at Toledo than leather at Cordova, lace at

Mechlin, oysters at Ostend, or _Pâtés de Foie Gras_ at Strasburg;

all curiosities are confined to Paris, and if you happen to meet a

few abroad they are sure to have come from the shop of Mademoiselle

Delaunay, on the Quai Voltaire.

We were likewise shown the remains of the Roman Amphitheatre

and of the Naumachia, which look exactly like a ploughed field,

as do all Roman ruins. I am not imaginative enough to go into

ecstasies at the sight of such problematical nonentities; this is

an amusement that I leave to antiquaries; for my own part, I prefer

talking of the walls of Toledo, which are visible to the naked eye

and admirably picturesque. They accord extremely well with the

undulating surface of the ground, and it is often very difficult to

say where the rock ends and where the rampart begins. Each epoch

of civilization has had a hand in the work; that piece of wall is

Roman, that tower is Gothic, those battlements are Arabic. All the

portion which extends from the Puerta Cambron to the Puerta Visagra

(_via sacra_) was built by the Gothic king Wamba. There is a story

attached to each of these stones, and if we wished to relate them

all we should require a whole volume instead of a single chapter.

But there is one thing we can do which is strictly in accordance

with our character of travellers, and that is, to mention once more

the noble effect produced on the horizon by Toledo seated on her

rocky throne, with her girdle of towers and her diadem of churches.

It is impossible to conceive a bolder or severer outline, clothed

in a richer colour, or one in which the physiognomy of the Middle

Ages is more faithfully preserved. I remained for more than an hour

plunged in contemplation, trying to satiate my eyes, and engrave on

my memory the recollection of this admirable view. Night closed in,

alas! too soon, and we were obliged to think of retiring to rest,

for we were to set off at one o'clock in the morning in order to

avoid the midday heat.

At midnight our calesero arrived, punctual to his time, and we

clambered up, in a state of unmistakable somnambulism, on to the

meagre cushions of our vehicle. The horrible jolting caused by the

abominable pavement of Toledo soon woke us sufficiently to enable

us to enjoy the fantastic appearance of our caravan. The carriage,

with its scarlet wheels and extravagant body, seemed--so close

together were the walls--to divide the houses, which closed again

like waves after it had passed! A bare-legged _sereno_, with the

flowing drawers and variegated handkerchief of the Valencians,

walked before us, bearing at the end of his lance a lantern, whose

flickering light produced all kinds of singular effects of light

and shade, such as Rembrandt would not have disdained to introduce

into some of his fine etchings of night-watches and patroles. The

only noise we heard was the silver tinkling of the bells on the

neck of our mule and the creaking of the axletrees. The inhabitants

were buried in as deep a sleep as the statues in the chapel of _los

Reyes Nuevos_. From time to time, our _sereno_ poked his lantern

under the nose of some vagabond who lay slumbering across the

street, and pushed him on one side with the handle of his lance;

for whenever any one feels sleepy in Spain, he stretches out his

cloak upon the ground and lies down with the most perfect and

philosophical calmness. Before the gate, which was not yet open,

and where we were kept waiting two hours, the ground was strewed

with sleepers, who were snoring away in every possible variety of

tone; for the street is the only bedroom which is not infected with

insects; to enter an alcove, you must possess all the resignation

of an Indian Fakir. At last the confounded gate swung back upon its

hinges, and we returned by the same road we had come.