THE village in the vicinity of the great palace is called El Escorial from the quantity of scoriÆ of iron which is found strewn about the neighbourhood, the dÉbris of extinct iron mines. The region, from the midst of which rises the enormous mass of the second Philip's convent-palace, is very forlorn and gloomy—a spot over which we may say, figuratively, the sable wing of desolation hangs heavily. The masses of broken masonry once formed the offices of the palace which the French destroyed in war, and they now cover the sides of the barren mountains with their ruins for leagues around. The population of the rotting village, who are seething in squalor, consist almost entirely of poor beggars, crawling through the miserable rock-strewn streets, in rags which scarcely conceal their nakedness. Hungry-eyed dogs prowl, like wolves, amongst the broken walls. The whole landscape is wild and lifeless, and our glance wanders far away over lonely plains to the sad horizon, with nothing to refresh the eye, fatigued by such an expanse of grey stony regions, but forests of mournful pine, and the lofty peaks of shattered mountains in the distance, the grey giant pile of the convent itself looming in the midst like the stupendous landmark of some inexorable fate set up to outwatch the cycle of ages. The place is one of great solemnity, and one cannot approach it without feeling oppressed by its gloom; nor was that painful impression at all alleviated by the squalid and decaying appearance of the more humble human habitations in its neighbourhood, the inmates of which were equally dull, hopeless, and sad in their aspect.

The Escorial itself may be described as an enormous heap of granite formed into a tripartite whole—a church, palace, and convent. To enter into the spirit of the place the mind of the writer should be imbued with those cold and gloomy hues which characterised that of Philip II., its founder. The nature of the man, who was at once a despot and a bigot—in a word, a monarch educated by ecclesiastics—affords a key to the nature of the immense building which he reared. To be able to describe, one should feel. And here, in this vast tomb-like edifice, one does feel an indescribable awe, a sense of veneration in the contemplation of the mighty effort of the human intellect and imagination that must have been exerted in conceiving, planning, and executing a work of such stupendous proportions. Superstition is no doubt a great evil, but it has aided in developing that spirit to which we owe some of the grandest edifices that the past has transmitted to us—some of them, dreary follies, like this, even while we admit them to be magnificent works of art. The Escorial, in fact, is the mind of Philip in stone. It exemplifies no era in art, no national peculiarities. It is the costly caprice of a man—half monarch, half monk—of a proud and bigoted spirit, too superb to forego the haughty functions of royalty, too pious not to desire to perpetuate the fame of his religious devotion to all time and generations, although devoid entirely of that quiet humility and simple piety which are the characteristics of true devotion, and place a brighter diadem on the head of kings than either crowns of gold or a vain display of sanctity.

The Escorial is said to owe its origin to a vow of gratitude made by Philip to his patron saint, St. Lawrence, on the occasion of the victory of St. Quentin, gained by him over the French, and to the constantly expressed desire of his father, the Emperor Charles V., to have a burial-house of suitable Grandeur for himself and his descendants. Approaching the building we were met by a melancholy ecclesiastic, who looked as if a glass of port wine would do him a world of good. This personage was to be our conductor through the extensive pile of buildings. We passed beneath a lofty portal into a long gloomy corridor, which seemed to dwindle away into endless distance. As we looked around and above, at the ponderous blocks composing this mountain of granite, the door closed behind us with a dull, heavy sound, shutting us up amongst the wide labyrinthine maze of innumerable passages and galleries, crossing and recrossing one another in incomprehensible order. [13] We could not help feeling at the moment as if we were bidding adieu to the world, to life, and to hope.

The passages through which we were led were often very draughty; but the vast gloomy halls were magnificent. Grim statues were arranged along the walls, and the ceilings were adorned with beautiful paintings, now fading. The staircases we ascended were so broad and colossal that they might have supported the tread of giants. We entered also some dark damp passages, on either side of which were ranged long rows of gloomy damp cells. As we followed our melancholy guide we asked him many questions, which were answered in sad tones, accompanied by sighs. Some enormous courts, open to the day, were covered with the rank weeds growing between the stones with which they were paved, as they did on the stupendous walls rising like Titan tombs around us.

We entered a huge vaulted gallery or saloon, with arched roof, and walls all ablaze with the rich coloured fancies of old painter-poets, supported by fluted columns of marble with gilded capitals, and surrounded with splendid cabinets set with jewels. These latter contain the far-famed illuminated missals and manuscripts of the Escorial. Through corridor and passage, through cloister and portal, through long suites of apartments hung with tapestry, lace, and silk, and commanding from their windows wide-spread views of the desolate plains and rugged mountains, we followed our dejected guide, ever and anon meeting his earnest glance. Passing through a low stone doorway we came suddenly into a lofty, superb, and solemn temple, supported by great granite piers, massy and solid enough in appearance to sustain the fabric of a world. When one contemplated the height of the stately walls, he could not but regard with wonder the amount of labour that must have been expended in the erection of a building of such amazing dimensions.

One of the great ends which these noble temples serve is the production of that feeling of veneration with which one cannot but be inspired when he enters their precincts. Devotion is readily kindled at such altars; and those who covered the face of Europe with these Christian fanes, knew well how they might best gather into one flock all who desired to make open profession of their Christian faith.

We next ascended a broad flight of red-stained steps, and saw before us the high altar, formed of a variety of precious marbles, and inlaid with jasper. Above it rises the retablo, which is supported to the height of ninety-three feet by noble columns of the four orders of architecture, and composed of red granite, precious jaspers, and gilded bronze; while beneath the broad marble platform on which we stand is the Panteon—the burial-chamber of the kings of Spain.

High up to the right is the window of the cell in which Philip died, and through which his last gaze fell upon the altar beneath, as he took a farewell glance at the marvellous church which owed its origin to him. We now approached a heavy door, guarded by the statues of Nature and Hope, the former with the inscription, "Natura occidit," and the latter, "Exaltat spes." As our monkish guide preceded us with his melancholy mien, there was something in his glance which, as if to prepare us for what we were to see next, seemed to say:—

The passage through which he led us was so dark and gloomy that we could follow him only by the flaring light of the torch which he carried.

We descended a long series of steps, which, as we could see by the occasional glare of the torch falling upon them, were composed of rare and precious marbles, as were also the walls of the passage itself. No gleam of daylight ever finds its way to these subterranean chambers and galleries, and it was only by the uncertain flame of the torch that we could distinguish the objects around us.

As we approached an arched gallery, we were met by a cold damp breath of air which fell icily on the brow, and told us that we were close to the Royal Mausoleum. We felt awed by the thought that we were now in the presence of all that earth contains of men who were once the mightiest monarchs of the world. The mortal remains of the kings of Spain repose in an octagonal vault, in niches rising one above another to the roof, which terminates in a sort of cupola. There are, including the queens, twenty-six bodies here inurned; and two empty urns await the present (or rather recent) queen and her mother, to whom fate will probably now deny the privilege of finding their last resting-place in the tomb of their ancestors. Two years ago Queen Isabella had the lids of all the sarcophagi removed. Profound interest was naturally felt in approaching that of Charles V., and when the form and features of the most powerful monarch of his time were found nearly intact, all who were present gazed upon his remains with mingled feelings of curiosity and awe. So little altered were the lineaments that, though nearly three hundred years had passed, they could be easily identified by those who had seen the portrait of the king by Titian. The face of his son Philip II. had shrunk greatly; but all were reported to be in good condition.

The urns are all of marble, beautifully sculptured; and the sanguine glow of the flame played on the gilded ornaments with which they were decorated. The kings are on the right of the altar, with its great gaunt crucifix, and the queens on the left, all of royal descent, in their day reigning monarchs, but now sharing the common fate of humanity. In that niche, and within that shining casket, lies what remains of him whom once the nations feared, el CÉsar and "Master of the World," the Emperor Charles V. Beneath, is Philip II., his son, founder of the Escorial. Within this mournful chamber the spirit of the past speaks to us, telling us how little different from that of the poorest slave is the destiny of the mightiest potentate. For the rest—"Pallida mors Æquo pulsat pede," &c. Kings whose power has shaken the earth must perish, although their great influence may still throb through the globe. Subject to the common lot, their ashes are scattered on the wind, and their bodies have mouldered back into clay.

The evening shades were falling as we emerged from the Escorial; the wild pine forests covering the mountain sides, seemed like a deep pall spread upon the land; and we looked lingeringly back on the great mass of the prodigious edifice rearing all its domes and pinnacles against the last melancholy glory of the sunset.

The Plaza Mayor in Madrid is a fine remnant of mediÆval architecture, with its lofty ornamented faÇades, and its low dark arcades running round the square. These arcades, unfortunately, are now filled with musty slop shops, and stalls where the worst Birmingham jewellery is sold. In this immense plaza, in the year 1623, Charles I. of England—then Prince of Wales—witnessed a bull-fight in honour of his betrothal with the Infanta Maria, surrounded by all the grandees and beauty of Spain, and attended by "the profligate minister Buckingham," as good history books would call him. However, as we all know, the matrimonial engagement came to nothing, and Henrietta Maria of France was reserved for the professional attentions of the widow-maker Cromwell.

From all the country around, the square white mass of the royal palace of Madrid is seen dominating over the entire city, the immense building appearing, in comparison with the smaller houses around it, like a whale among minnows. From its terraces it commands a superb view of wide plains, stretching like a yellow sea to the Guadarrama mountains on the far horizon. It was built by Philip V., the ambitious imitator of the magnificence of the grand monarque, who aspired to possess a residence which should render Versailles insignificant. The building is, in some sort, a bad and most limited imitation of the Escorial, inasmuch as it covers a space of only four hundred and seventy-one feet square, and is no more than a hundred feet in height—a mere kernel for the shell of an Escorial. It possesses a chapel, courts, patios, no end of entrances, a perfect village of offices, and some dried-up leafless plots of ground, called by courtesy gardens. The situation is lofty, and consequently it is a veritable temple of the winds, as Her Majesty's soldiers have often experienced during the winter nights, when it was their duty to be on guard. A great patio, one hundred and forty feet square, surrounded by an open portico formed of thirty-six arches, and adorned with statues of various Roman Emperors,—and, we are bound to say, of some of the best of those magnates,—occupies the central part of the palace. Of course in this, as in most other overgrown domiciles of royalty, there is a grand staircase, spacious, costly, and magnificent, as described by enthusiastic sight-seers. It is constructed of black and white marble, and adorned with sculptured lions of the same beautiful stone. Upon one of these Napoleon is reported to have placed his hand, saying, "Je la tiens enfin cette Espagne si desirÉe." Having performed this little imitation of CÆsar's first action on landing upon the shores of Britain, he is also said to have observed to his brother Joseph—the puppet he had set up, "Mon frÈre, vous serez mieux logÉ que moi;" and then, in the character of invader, he began to contemplate with a fellow-feeling a portrait of Philip II., the husband of Bloody Mary of England, the builder of the Escorial and the projector of the Armada. Napoleon, in fact, is one of those inevitables who have left the impress of their name on almost all the cities of Europe. Thanks to history, legend, and tradition, there is nothing about the Cid at Madrid. The chapel royal, which is pseudo-classical in style, is adorned with Corinthian marble columns, and with frescoes. In our desire to see everything interesting, we visited even the coach-houses and harness-rooms, with the horse-trappings embroidered in the time of Charles V., &c., finishing with the splendid Armeria before mentioned.

We had the happiness of beholding Queen Isabella at the opera, through an atmosphere tolerably free from tobacco smoke. Her Majesty wore a wreath of diamonds, and a dress of white moirÉ silk, overlaid with tulle, &c.; and, although it is not very courtier-like to say so, we may add that the lady in question was remarkably stout, and of the middle age;—

She might, in fact, be compared to the arbutus loaded with scarlet fruit, mentioned by the poet Ovid [15]—a description which ought to be very gratifying, for does not the proverb tell us that "a blush is the complexion of virtue?" The queen wore a profusion of beautiful blue-black hair, and the expression of her countenance indicated that it was possible for her, now and then, to entertain strong opinions of her own. She was, in fact, or rather is, what vulgar people would call "a lusty woman."

The opera-house is internally pretty, and very French in appearance. The presence of so many bright uniforms, profusely adorned with various orders of knighthood, contributed much to the brilliancy of the scene. Of the performance we have little or nothing to say. The same old operas which are in vogue on the fashionable stage of other European capitals are repeated here, and no new flight is attempted. Here also a curious operatic problem, which we had previously endeavoured to solve at London and Paris, suggested itself to us, wherefore, namely, a married man or father on the stage should invariably have a bass voice, a villain a baritone, and a lover or batelier a tenor? I am not aware that in ordinary life, when we enter the holy state of matrimony, our voices as a rule descend from tenor to bass, or that gentlemen who have to leave England on urgent business for a few years, come back with their tones perceptibly deepened. No doubt, however, such profound students of real life as operatic managers must have a good reason for all they do.