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 Phoebus 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.

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:—

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 Coeur-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.