  THERE are but three reasons, that I know of, for anyone visiting Madrid. First, that the roads (which are very bad) lead there; second, that the Prado picture gallery (which was closed) is exceeding magnifical; and third, that there is a bicycle repairer—which is an unsatisfactory reason at best. Smart, well-groomed, busy cities with commodious mansions and boulevards may be found (by such as have need of them) within easier distances than this. And for those who seek old streets, historic monuments, and that delightful aroma of medievalism which is the true inward charm of the Peninsula,—are not the little crooked calles of Ávila and SegÓvia and Toledo better than all the carreras of Madrid? To them the “Only Court” is no more than a convenient “jumping-off place”; a head office of “Cooks’”; an entrepÔt of the central roads. The The map showed two roads to Toledo, and already I had sampled one of them. “The Illescas road,” I argued, “was as bad as possible”; and “therefore the ArÁnjuez road is the best.” My premise had been quite unassailable, yet after all my deduction proved fallacious. More just, and equally logical, was “therefore it has necessarily improved.” The ArÁnjuez road, to do it justice, starts off with the most admirable intentions; and as if it were really determined to arrive (as it proposes) at Cadiz. But there is a sad slump in its prospects before it has got far on the journey. It becomes stony and bumpy and hummocky, with ruts like the furrows of a plough; and to steer a bicycle along the narrow ribbon of practicable track at the margin is an operation of some nicety, which is not at all facilitated by a heavy side wind. Presently there is a lucid interval of good smooth surface, which lasts just long enough to put the victim into good humour; and the final stage into ArÁnjuez is like the shingle that is upon the sea-shore. Such are the habits of a Spanish road; and in a I have dwelt at some length on the state of the road, but, indeed, at this stage there is little else to dwell upon. A struggling avenue is pluckily endeavouring to push a line of green pickets across the dun-coloured plain; and here and there are a few miserly olives, each perched upon the little hoard of soil clutched by its hungry roots. But the only things that seem really to flourish are the gigantic six-foot thistles, and I fear that is an ill-omened fertility. It is a greener and leafier world when we descend into the Jarama valley.
Yet those who have heard ArÁnjuez described as a Garden of Eden in the midst of a desolate wilderness are likely to find themselves somewhat disillusioned by the reality. True, a tree is always a welcome object in verdureless Castile; but the English elms which are the boast of King Philip’s oasis, “they grow best at home in the North I had been cheering my flagging spirits by the anticipation of a nice shady road down the Tagus banks to Toledo: but now an old muleteer regretfully mentioned that the road was dead, and truly it was the spectre of a road to which he introduced me. The ox-carts had been wallowing in it axle deep throughout the winter, and the spring sun had baked it into a chaos of seracs and crevasses which might have been practicable for a goat. It was wide and straight indeed, and it boasted a noble avenue; but its sole saving feature, from a practical standpoint, was a grassy footpath at the A sympathetic bandit, who found me hauling my bicycle across a ploughed field, dispassionately suggested that I might find the railroad better. This opinion was loyally endorsed by Second Bandit a mile or so to the rearward; and Third Bandit (ever the most practical of the trio) fairly marched me up the embankment and launched me along the permanent way. They were quite right—it was better; but sleepers and ballast are not a desirable cycle track, and my well-regulated English mind revolted against the scandalous impropriety of the whole proceeding. However, it is sheer waste of one’s scruples to squander them over the infraction of Spanish bye-laws. They are humoured so long as convenient; but for everything there is Meanwhile I had been making fair progress, and my goal was nearly gained. My castellated beacon had dropped out of sight behind me; and in front, at the end of the valley, silhouetted against the western sky, rose the great rocky knoll which is the seat of imperial Toledo. A bend of the river had brought its waters within easy reach, and having washed off the dust of travel, I was indulging in a few minutes’ idleness before resuming the road. Suddenly a herd of cattle plashed down into the river a few yards away from me; and their diminutive Corydon—a little brown wisp of humanity in the costume of a second-hand scarecrow—came pattering happily at their heels. An English yokel
Hitherto the valley has been wide and open; but now the river begins to reveal itself in its true character,—El Tajo, the Gash, It is indeed an ideal situation for a medieval fortress; in plan a rough approximation to the shape of a rather square D. The curved line is formed by the gorge of the Tagus, whose steep, rocky banks would alone be an adequate defence; the straight by the landward face,—also lofty and precipitous, and crowned with the remnants of Wamba’s ancient walls. And at the two corners the grand fortified medieval bridges of San Martin and AlcÁntara throw their lofty arches across the stream. The site is very similar to that of Durham: but the Toledo plateau is larger; and the Tagus is all unwooded, and wilder and grander than the Wear. The founder, of course, was Hercules. All Spanish cities were founded by Hercules, except a few which had been previously founded by Tubal. No doubt a large man with a club was a somewhat recurrent phenomenon; and the tale of his legendary prowess was the sole evidence of identity that an early Phoenician colonist was likely to Neither Christian nor Moslem underrated the catastrophe of that fatal Palm Sunday; and the meagre outline of history has been gaudily coloured by romance. Who has not heard the tale of the enchanted Tower of Hercules, wherein the self-willed Roderic sought and learned the secret of his doom? The fascinating Shahrazad won a full night’s respite from her dangerous lord by her catalogue of the loot of the “City of Labtayt”—the hundred and seventy crowns of
The Tower of Hercules is no longer alive to testify: but an old Moorish ruin down by the water’s edge, under the bridge of San Martin, is still pointed out as the scene of the companion tale. Here the fair Florinda was bathing in the Tagus when her beauty caught the eye of the royal Roderic, and fired the passion which brought unnumbered woes to Spain. It is, indeed, a little hard upon poor Florinda that she should never have been forgiven for her share in the disaster. It was her father, not she, who let loose the Moors to avenge her; and even the legend describes her as more sinned against than sinning. Yet the ballads, which can spare pity for Roderic, have nothing but contumely for her. It is argued, I suppose, that all the trouble arose out of her unbridled passion for bathing. But this is a failing which we northerners regard more leniently. Arletta’s ablutions were under a happier star! During the palmy days of Moslem dominion, Toledo had to yield pride of place to CÓrdova. But after the fall of the western Caliphate it disputed the hegemony with Seville; and it was with considerable equanimity that Mohammed, the Now began the second period of Toledo’s greatness. The city became the seat of the Spanish primate and the favourite residence of the Castilian kings. Some of its importance leaked away southward when CÓrdova and Seville were reconquered by Ferdinand III. in 1248. But the first great Toledo was still important enough to play the leading rÔle in the great revolt of the Communeros at the beginning of the reign of Charles V. It was indeed the last city to succumb; and that resolute lady, Maria Pacheco, the widow of Padilla, held it for many months against the imperial forces before she finally abandoned the struggle and fled from the realm. The thoroughness with which this rising was suppressed is perhaps a matter for regret. The triumph of the crown was too complete; and Spain, once the most democratic of With this last effort Toledo’s prominence upon the stage of history comes practically to an end. Henceforth it retired upon its reputation, and let the busy world go on without it as it chose. It still turns out a few of those famous sword blades, “the ice brook’s temper,” which Othello bore upon his thigh; but, for the rest, it is but a quiet country town, dozing placidly under the Ægis of the great cathedral, which now seems to furnish its only raison d’Être.
Nearly a thousand years have elapsed since Toledo was recovered by the Christians; and, though but few of its monuments are of genuine Moresco workmanship, The great AlcÁzar, But the moment we pass the portal all cavilling is awed to silence. Out of the blaze of the southern sunshine we step into a vast, mysterious twilight, lit only by the jewelled pictures in the clerestory overhead. The air is heavy with the odour of incense; and the chant of the canons thunders down the aisles. The style of this great temple is the purest and most solemn of thirteenth-century Gothic. Built by the canonized king, St Ferdinand, out of the spoils of Seville, it is equal to Rheims in majesty, and ranks next to Cologne in point of size. But noble as is the edifice itself, this is but the casket for its nobler treasures. No other Cathedrals in the world can compete with the Spanish in the richness of their furniture; and here, for more than three centuries, the richest of all the great Chapters The great masterpieces of the cathedral are concentrated in bewildering profusion about the Coro and Capilla Mayor; but each and all of the score of chapels that surround it, is stored with relics of history and gems of ancient art. Here lies Alvaro de Luna, the Cardinal Wolsey of Spanish history. The great Constable died on the scaffold in the Plaza at Valladolid, and his vindictive enemies would not spare even his tomb; but his beautiful marble monument shows that his daughter’s piety was respected in a later reign. Here lies the Grand Cardinal Mendoza, tertius rex to the wedded “kings” who made Spain a nation; and his tomb is worthy of a king. Here lie the early monarchs of Castile,—their sarcophagi caught up in the tangle of intricate tracery which encloses the Capilla Mayor. And here, among all these
One of the chapels is specially reserved for the performance of the Mozarabic In later years, however, the Mozarabic ritual fell into disuse, and was only rescued from oblivion by One might readily fill a volume with a list of the glories of Toledo, and not a tithe of its attractions can be mentioned in these meagre notes. Its proximity to Madrid renders it somewhat better known than the majority of Castilian cities, yet most visitors appear to imagine that they can “do” it adequately in a day. A cheerful American whom I met there had come over from Madrid in the morning, and was returning the same afternoon. He was seeing Toledo in three hours, and was spending one of them in dining! A month might well prove insufficient; but a month was not to be spared. One further visit, however, is incumbent on every Englishman. A pilgrimage down the Tagus to the battlefield of Talavera is a duty that he may not ignore. The Tagus valley becomes more tame and domesticated below the grim defiles of Toledo; The roads from Madrid and Toledo unite at the castle of Magueda; and it was at the brook beneath it that I made the acquaintance of El Maestre Pedro and his wife and family, a couple of Pyrenean bears and a Barbary ape. What an ungainly group they looked as they came scrambling down the road towards me! But they were all true Castilians (at least all the human section), and offered me a share of their food when they stopped to lunch at the water side, as all well-bred wayfarers should:—Would my honour please to eat? “Many thanks! a good meal to your honours!” is the correct reply to this courtesy: and therewith I went my way. And now the military tourist will begin to recognise that he is approaching a classic neighbourhood. His ear is caught by the names of the Now, too, the landscape is pervaded by an additional feature, which was likewise important enough to win historical mention on the battlefield.
Talavera de la Reyna lies upon low ground on the right bank of the Tagus, which here is comparatively wide and shallow, and is crossed by a All the main fighting in the battle took place upon the higher ground to the northward. The town itself, with its enclosures and orchards, was occupied by the Spaniards under their obstinate old Captain-General Cuesta. They had nearly come to grief two days before in retreating across the Alberche, but were now entrenched in a position too strong for assault; and Jourdan and Victor directed all their efforts against the left and centre where the English were drawn up. Here the ground is more open and more elevated, sloping up from the flats by the river till it culminates in the hill of Medellin. The position (as in most other battlefields) does not seem very formidable to a layman. But then any position that did would probably never be attacked. The battle was one of the bloodiest in the Peninsula; for the British were heavily outnumbered, and their raw militia battalions lacked three years’ tempering of the Ironsides of Albuera One of the minor incidents of the battle was an extraordinary piece of marching. The Light Division, under General Craufurd, was far in the rear at the commencement of the fighting, and were eager to get up before the close. The task was too great, but the attempt was something Homeric. They covered sixty-two miles in twenty-six hours, all in full marching order: and lost but seventeen stragglers by the way! This was probably a record for the Peninsula; though Wellington himself thought that it might be paralleled in India; and some of Marmont’s marches previous to Salamanca were not far behind. What manner of men were they who could achieve such feats in July under a Spanish sun? |
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