After coming down we reviewed the picture gallery of the Generalife, though hardly a "gallery," made up as it is of a series of daubs representing the kings and queens of Spain, with other members of the royal family, of some possible historic interest, but otherwise not worth the canvas on which they are painted. The guide was well supplied with legends about the Generalife as to the Sultana Zoraya and her guilty Abencerrage lover, and so forth; but we had listened to one about the tower not far away, and had so much occupation for the eyes that the ears were permitted to rest. All show places, and especially royal palaces, have their romantic legends: what would guides and guide-books otherwise amount to? But without exception let it be understood, these stories are a tissue of nonsense, founded on a modicum of truth. Take as a fair example the universally accepted Byronic legends of the Bridge of Sighs at Venice, which Mr. Howells so quietly but thoroughly explodes by adducing the simplest historical facts.

Between the Alhambra and the Generalife, but not in a direct line, were located the headquarters of the gypsies of Spain, some four or five thousand of whom live in the rock caves adjoining the city, where the valley of the Darro affords a warm, sunny shelter. Holes excavated in the sloping mountain side form the homes of this singular and strongly individualized people, where they have had a recognized habitation for centuries. They are just the same renegade race that are found in other parts of Europe and the British Isles: picturesque in their rags, lawless in the extreme, and living almost entirely in the open air. In the faces of the men, who are as coarse and uncultured as men can possibly be, there was expressed much of the same savage instinct that marked the features of those captured tigers exhibited at Jeypore. They are lazy and reckless, but fiery if roused to anger. Terrible domestic tragedies sometimes occur among them, as the guide explained to us. They observe certain principles of what has been termed "wild justice," having their king or queen as the case may be, and to such self-elected control only do they yield obedience. The men, like the women, affect gaudy colors, and both toss their loose, ragged garments about them after a graceful style all their own. The bronzed features, profuse black hair, and very dark eyes of these gypsies, often render them strikingly handsome; and when this dangerous heritage falls to the share of the young women, it often leads to experiences too tragic to record. Many of the men wear embroidered velvet jackets, with hanging silver buttons, like a Basque postilion, and add a scarlet sash about the waist, the legs being bound up in sheep's skins with fancy-colored ribbons, and the feet covered with crude sandals,—altogether quite a theatrical costume.

Gypsies worship high colors and cheap jewelry, and would spend their last farthing for either, though the question of whence the next meal was to come from might be an unsolved problem. They roam idly about the grounds of the Alhambra, but are not permitted to enter its walls, and no exterior picture of the structure would be true which did not introduce one or more of them in the foreground. Strangers generally visit their quarters in the valley, and for their entertainment they dance, tell fortunes, play tricks, and, if possible, steal from them. Indeed it is hardly safe, without an experienced guide, to go among them. Their domestic life is represented to be of so objectionable a character that it will not bear discussing. Gypsies will not work unless driven to do so by absolute want, but necessity sometimes compels them; and so occasionally they may be found manipulating the waters of the swift-running Darro for gold, which is often found in paying quantities. There is a local jeweler within the precincts of the Alhambra who makes the gold from this stream into mementos, which are a favorite investment with visitors, in the form of pins and brooches. The river Darro rises in a rocky gorge of the neighboring mountains, and comes tumbling down the valley within a stone's-throw of the gypsies' cave-dwellings, thence flows through the town, and is joined by the Xenil on the plain of Granada.

Close by the Alhambra, indeed almost within the walls, we visited the delightful villa of Madame Calderon de la Barca, who was once a resident of Boston, and who was well known and highly esteemed by our best people. This fine estate was presented to her, for valuable services, by the Spanish government. It is remarkable for its spacious and beautifully arranged grounds, combining ornamentation and usefulness in a striking degree, and extending over some twenty acres of ground. Here are vineyards, fruit orchards, choice flower gardens, trees of various tropical species, among which we saw dates, cocoanuts, and figs, in thrifty condition, besides orchards of pears, plums, peaches, and apricots. Miniature waterfalls, lakes, and rivers, shaded walks, aviaries, and many other attractions showed a lavish expenditure in beautifying the place. The villa itself was closed, Madame Calderon being absent in England. At the keeper's lodge we found a Spanish family who carried on a large dairy, the cattle on the estate being of the choicest breed, and their management a favorite idea with the mistress of the estate. Butter of good quality is scarce in Spain. That which was here produced found a ready market at the Washington Irving Hotel.

In strolling about the town many spacious squares were seen, old palaces, houses in ruins, and deserted convents, all in apparent keeping with the general aspect of this faded and fading old city. We were taken by our intelligent guide to several notable localities, and among them to the humble dwelling-house where the ex-empress Eugenie was born, and where her childhood was passed. A conspicuous tablet set in the facade of the house makes formal mention of the circumstance, observing which it was natural to recall, in one comprehensive thought, the strange, romantic, and tragic story of the now childless mother and unhonored widow of Chiselhurst. There would have been no Franco-Prussian War but for her reckless machinations; the Prince Imperial would not, in consequence of reverses thereby induced, have gone to Zululand to throw away his life; the map of Europe would not have been changed by the division of Alsace-Lorraine; and there would probably have been no Republic in France to-day.

There are some very odd and very ancient stone fountains in the city, supported by grotesque animals and impossible fishes, erected far back in the regal days of Ferdinand and Isabella. The sort of fancy which could have induced these unartistic designs it is difficult to conceive of; they only require a dragon's head on a human body to make them quite Chinese. The little, narrow, winding streets recalled the older portions of Genoa and Marseilles; yet people live in them, do business there, go shopping, and generally transact the usual affairs of town life, though the space between the buildings which line these passages is not sufficient to allow two donkeys to pass each other with loads on their backs. Now one comes upon a broken stone bridge spanning the Darro on a single broad arch of great sweep, under which the noisy river rushes tumultuously down hill, and wonders how long the toppling houses, which overhang the rapids, will maintain their equilibrium. The ruthless finger of Time seems to have touched everything, neglect being only too manifest everywhere; and yet no facade is so crumbled as not to sustain a flower-bedecked balcony. If the houses are inhabited, they bristle all over their whitewashed fronts with clusters of green and blossoming flowers, strongly relieved by the snowy background. The cloth doors of the Catholic churches swing invitingly at the touch, and over the door you are informed in good plain Spanish that plenary indulgences are retailed within. Shovel-hatted priests in goodly numbers dodge out and in, but there seem to be few customers from among the people. Persons, whom by their dress and appearance one would suppose to be in comfortable circumstances, come boldly up to tourists and ask for a few cents, seeming to have no feelings of pride or delicacy. Travelers are looked upon as fair game in Spain; and still one is rather nonplused to be importuned for coppers by well-dressed strangers, and is apt to conclude that sturdy beggars can bear stout denials. Now we come upon the ruins of a square stone tower, which anciently formed a portion of the public baths; and here an old Arabian gate, arch and battlement still standing. Near the Alameda another is seen, and gardens, once connected by a subterranean passage with the distant Alhambra, away on the hill. Here an arch and there a crumbling column, all souvenirs of the exiled Moor.

We visited the Royal Chapel which adjoins the Cathedral, where the magnificent tomb of Ferdinand and Isabella is the chief object of interest. The effigies of the two lie side by side, hewn from the marble in life-like proportions, and rest upon a lofty sarcophagus in front of the great altar. Close by these is a similar tomb in white marble, representing, in the same position and style, Joanna and her husband, Philip of Burgundy. In the vault below were seen the four coffins containing the several bodies of the royal dead, the leaden covering to one of which had been pried off by French bayonets in search of treasures supposed to have been buried with the body. But this sacrilegious injury to the casket has been carefully repaired. Close at hand, in a corner of this vault, was seen the metallic coffin which contains the remains of Prince Miguel of Portugal,—the little fellow who was thrown from his pony while riding in the streets of Granada and killed. Had this boy lived to grow to man's estate, he would doubtless have united and reigned over both Spain and Portugal. The cathedral, which adjoins the chapel, is one of the glories of Spain, so to speak, and is a very grand and noble structure, full of superb workmanship, art treasures in oil paintings, and sculpture; among which are examples from Alonzo Cano and Torrigiano. The architectural effect of the interior is harmonious and beautiful, and was the work, or rather design, of Diego de Siloe, whose father was a famous sculptor, and, if we mistake not, was the author of that marvelous alabaster tomb at the convent of Miraflores, in Burgos. This cathedral was finished three hundred and sixty odd years ago, a year after the death of Ferdinand, who survived Isabella some twelve years.

In the sacristy we were shown portraits of Philip and Joanna, and, in one of the chapels, admirable pictures of Ferdinand and Isabella. The relics in the sacristy are of special interest. Here we saw the golden crown of Isabella, and, above all in interest, the precious box of pure gold from which she sold her jewels, to purchase an outfit to enable Columbus to sail on his first voyage to the new world. The box is exquisitely engraved, and has a few precious stones inlaid upon it: we see no such engraving nowadays. It was very heavy, as pure ore always is, and was some twelve inches long, half as wide, and about five inches in depth. It was impossible not to feel a thrill of emotion upon taking in one's hand this sacred relic. We were also shown the state sword of Ferdinand, and the royal sceptre carried by Isabella. Everything relating to this "queen of earthly queens" is of vital interest, and especially so to Americans. It was she whom Bacon described as "an honor to her sex and the corner-stone of the greatness of Spain." We were reminded, while looking upon these precious objects belonging to the king and queen, of the Bridge of Pinos, which was pointed out to us on the previous day as the spot from whence Columbus, quite discouraged and brokenhearted, was recalled by Isabella, after having been denied and dismissed, as both supposed, for the last time. It was at this bridge that the messenger of the relenting queen overtook the great Pilot, and brought him back to arrange the expedition which resulted in the discovery of America. We had previously seen in the Alhambra the Hall of the Ambassadors, where the queen gave audience to Columbus, and now the jewel-box served more strongly to emphasize the historical association.

A visit in the environs of the city to a place bearing the Moorish name of Hinadamar should not be forgotten, nor should any traveler who finds himself in Granada neglect to go there. Here we were shown through the convent known as the Cartuja, which has been virtually abandoned since monastic rule in Spain was deposed. It is now in charge of civil officers of the government, and one service is held each week in the chapel. It is really wonderful in the minuteness and splendid finish of its ornamentation. Here is seen an endless amount of jasper, marble, ivory, ebony, and tortoise-shell, in the form of carved and inlaid work, curious beyond description. Most of theses ornamentations, as well as the paintings, were the work of brothers of the order, who must have spent half a life-time in their consummation. The cloisters are surrounded by a wretched series of life-size paintings in fresco of the mystic type, also the work of brothers attached to the convent, representing Carthusians tormented by the English in the time of Henry VIII. But here and there was seen the work of an artistic hand shining out conspicuously above its surroundings. Apparently hanging high up on the bare wall of the sacristy is a large wooden cross, of such statuesque effect, so perfectly foreshortened and shaded, that it was difficult to believe it to be a painting, however carefully examined from the floor. The old sacristan told us that it was painted by a brother of the order named Juan Sanchez Cotan, who certainly had a painter's genius and a master's skill with the brush. Alonzo Cano has here one or two remarkable statuettes in marble, though we think of him rather as a painter than a sculptor. Some of the large pieces of variegated marble which form the base work, fonts, and tables of the chapel, are beautiful examples of the natural stone as quarried in the neighboring mountains. Indeed, larger, or finer agates cannot be found in Europe than those which ornament the Cartuja. In the natural veins of the large marbles the guide takes pleasure in suggesting likenesses to various objects, which, when once mentioned, easily form themselves to the imagination, as a wayward fancy sometimes depicts forms in the fleeting clouds at twilight.

There is a dearth of song-birds in Granada. We heard of, but not from, the nightingales in the sacred precincts of the Alhambra. Perhaps it was not the favored season, however, for this purpose. The people themselves are naturally musical and music-loving. Even the street-cries uttered by youthful and middle-aged vendors are rendered in such harmonious notes as to strike the ear agreeably. This was noticed in Malaga, and also claimed our attention here. On the road one not infrequently meets some roughly-dressed muleteer at the head of his string of heavily-laden animals, caroling forth luscious notes in a fine tenor voice which a Brignoli might envy. A taste for music is born in the people, few of whom are too poor to own and play upon a guitar or some musical instrument. The only difference between Spain and Italy in this respect is that here one does not recognize the music, while in Italy we usually hear the strains of some familiar opera.



CHAPTER XII.

Granada to Cordova.—An Antique City.—The Guadalquivir.—Old Roman Bridge.—The Grand Mosque-Cathedral of Cordova.—Court of Orange-Trees.—Army of Beggars.—From Cordova to Madrid.—Local Characteristics of the Capital.—The Gate of the Sun.—The King and Queen in Public.—The Royal Palace.—Spanish Ladies and Gentlemen.—The Fan.—The Picture-Gallery of Madrid.—National Sport of the Bull-Fight.—Cowardice!—Interesting Visit to the City of Toledo.—The Escurial.

The journey from Granada to Cordova covers a distance of about a hundred and twenty-five miles, and passes through a comparatively well-cultivated and interesting country, where the vine, the orange, and the lemon, together with the universal olive, are abundant and thrifty. The oil extracted from the latter product forms a large source of profit to the southern and middle provinces of Spain. The road, soon after starting, lay through a succession of valleys and lofty hills, rendering the construction of many tunnels and viaducts necessary. Occasionally we came out of one of these tunnels upon a broad prairie-like plain, where flocks of goats, sheep, and horned cattle, tended by herdsmen, were struggling to get a scanty subsistence from very unpromising fields. Not infrequently there came into view a pretty white hamlet of a score of dwellings, dominated by a rude castellated structure, and a square-towered church surmounted by a cross. Here and there were crumbling strongholds, monuments of the days when the Moors held sway over the land.

At last we reached Cordova, where it seemed that something untoward must surely happen, as we were driven through the narrow, deserted, cobble-stoned streets in a hotel omnibus, the hubs of the wheels scraping the stone buildings on either side alternately. Nobody but Moors would have constructed such lanes and called them streets, though doubtless they aimed to exclude the intense heat of the sun's rays. The neatly white-washed houses, like those in Havana, have the lower windows all barred with iron, as if they were so many prisons, and fitted to keep people in or out, as the occupants might desire. Looking about us curiously it was natural to recall the slumber of Rip Van Winkle, and to wonder seriously if the place was destined ever to wake up. How any shops afford their proprietors a subsistence here is a marvel. The few to be seen had but one shutter down, the rest being rusty with disuse. There were a plenty of broad-brimmed hats with priests under them, a sure crop in Spain, but scarcely a citizen was to be seen, or aught else to be noticed, except a few rusty towers and antique fountains. Everything seemed impregnated with decay, more desolate than an actual ruin, because of its moth-eaten vitality, which left nothing to hope for. Plainly the only life in Cordova is that imported by curious travelers from abroad, who make pilgrimages hither to see its few historic monuments, and to behold a Herculaneum above ground.

We looked about us for specimens of the famous breed of Cordova horses, of whom poets have sung and kings were covetous. There were a few animals to be seen with fine manes and tails, with arching necks and lustrous coats, but their forms would not compare with some neglected creatures whose blood showed through dirt and hard usage, at the Slave Market in Tangier. There may have been noble ancestors to these Cordova animals a thousand years ago, but they must have been crossed with mongrel races too many times to show good traces to-day.

This is one of the most ancient cities in the country, having been the capital of Moorish Spain a thousand years ago. The walls which still surround it are flanked by octagonal and square towers of Saracenic origin. From the ninth to the twelfth century it boasted a million inhabitants, and we read of its public library which contained six hundred thousand volumes. The present population cannot exceed forty or fifty thousand. Is it possible that this was once the largest city in the western world,—once the centre of European civilization? So at least history informs us. Not even one foundation of its three hundred mosques can be found to-day. Seneca and Lucan were born here before the time of Christ, and the guide rehearsed with voluble facility some other high-sounding names of historic fame who were natives of the place, but who were quite unfamiliar to us. When we pointed, however, to the broad, pale-yellow river crossed by the old Roman bridge, and asked its name, he replied: "The Guadalquivir," and the name rang softly on the ear like a strain of half-forgotten music. The old stone bridge, with its broad, irregular arches, was an object of much interest, and is, undoubtedly, with its two flanking towers, the oldest visible object in Cordova, though it was an important city in Caesar's time. The bridge is about the sixteenth of a mile in length, and after two thousand years of battling with the elements is firm and substantial still. Romans, Moors, and Spaniards have fiercely battled at its entrances, the tide of victory and of defeat sweeping again and again across its roadway, which has many times been made slippery with human blood. How often has it witnessed royal pageants, ecclesiastical parades, murderous personal conflicts, and how often been the rendezvous of lovers and of whispering groups of conspirators. Here have been enacted many vivid scenes in the long line of centuries. What a volume might that old bridge furnish of history and of romance! During our brief stay this spot was a favorite resort, usually supplementing our visits to the cathedral, which is near at hand. Leaning over its stone barriers, we watched the rapid stream which doubtless flows on just as it has done for twenty centuries. Palaces temples, towers, and shrines crumble, nations rise and fall, but the Guadalquivir still flows on. Just below the bridge, perhaps fifty yards away, are the ruins of an ancient Moorish grist-mill of stone, forming a strikingly picturesque object, in its shattered condition, amid the foaming rapids.

We visited a museum of antiquities, but it was in a dark, inappropriate building, gloomy and cobwebby, smothered in dust and obscurity; so out of the way, indeed, that it was difficult to find, and our guide was obliged to inquire where the institution was! The traveler may conscientiously omit a visit to the blind alley which contains the Museum of Antiquities at Cordova. The guide, by the way, we found much more intent upon selling us Spanish lace than anxious to impart desirable local information. To be a good guide, as Izaak Walton says of anglers and poets, a man must be born so.

The one great and nearly unrivaled interest of Cordova is its cathedral, an architectural wonder, erected some sixteen centuries since, and hallowed by age and historical associations. Beautiful are its still remaining thousand and one interior supporting columns, composed of porphyry, jasper, granite, alabaster, verd-antique, and marble of various colors. Think of that vandal Charles V. destroying two hundred of them: he who was capable of tearing down a portion of the Alhambra to make room for his barrack of a palace! Each of the columns upholds a small pilaster, and between them is a horse-shoe arch, no two columns being precisely alike,—as they came from Greece, Rome, Constantinople, Damascus, Africa, and some are said to have come from the Temple at Jerusalem, as also from Paestum and Cumae. All the then known world was put under contribution to furnish this wonderful temple. The great mosque was changed into a cathedral after the expulsion of the Arabs; but a large portion of the interior is untouched, and remains as it was when the caliphs worshiped here. We felt oppressed by a sensation of gloom wandering amid the dark forest of pillars. It is, and always will be, a mosque, as characteristic and typical as the most marked shrine in the East. The Holy of Holies, as sacred to the Spanish Arabians as Mecca to those of the East, has been preserved intact, and is by far the most interesting portion of the structure. Here all the original lace-like ornamentation is entirely undisturbed, and looks as though it were a hall taken bodily out of the Alhambra. The Moslem pilgrims from far and near came to this spot, and walked seven times round it, the marble pavement being visibly worn by the bare knees of devout Mussulmans.

Just outside of this large alcove, which is very similar to a side chapel in a modern cathedral, there was pointed out to us the finest piece of mosaic in the world. It originally came from Constantinople, and was the gift of the Emperor Romanus II. It contains, in accordance with the Moslem faith, no representation of any living thing; but is perfection in its graceful vines, leaves, and scroll work. The deep glowing colors, crimson and green dominating, are as bright to-day as when it first came, perhaps two thousand years ago, from the artist's hand. It recalled the contemporary productions exhumed at Pompeii, and now to be seen in the Museum at Naples. These latter however, as we remember them, are neither so large nor so choice as this masterpiece in the Cordova Mosque. The cathedral, as a whole, has been pronounced by experienced travelers to be the greatest architectural curiosity in Europe. It is a strange conglomerate and jumble of incongruities, half-Christian, half-Saracenic, reminding one strongly of the Church of St. Mark at Venice,—having, like that remarkable structure, borrowed many of its columns and ornaments from the far East. Inside and out it is gloomy, massive, and frowning, forming the most remarkable link between the remote past and the present existing in Spain. It appears to be nearly as large upon the ground as St. Peter's at Rome, and contains fifty separate chapels within its capacious walls. It has, in its passage through the several dynasties of Roman, Moorish, and Spanish rule, received distinctive architectural marks from each. Its large, cool court of orange-trees, centuries old; its battlemented wall and huge gateway; its famous fountains and its mingled palms and tall cypresses, all combine to perfect a picture suggestive of the dead and buried races connected with its history.

This famous court-yard is of scarcely less interest than the interior of the great Cathedral-Mosque itself. It has at each end a colonnade of marble pillars supporting circular arches, and the grounds are broad and spacious. Here a battalion of professional beggars were drawn up in battle array as we entered, numbering fifty or sixty of both sexes, and of all ages. The poor creatures formed both a pitiable and a picturesque group, composed of the lame, the halt, and the blind. On the greensward just back of them, under the shade of the dark-leaved orange-trees, played troops of careless children, who had been sent here by their parents to beg, but had forgotten their vocation. Sitting on the stone bench, which surrounds the outside walls of the mosque, were little groups of hale and hearty men, playing cards and smoking; while others, stretched at full length upon the ground, slept just where the dancing sunlight pierced the leaves and branches of the trees and mottled their faces with its shimmering rays. Idleness is the general business of Cordova. What a strange, weird aspect the deep shades assumed beneath the graceful palms and slender cypresses. The Babel of pleading tongues from the beggars, the merry voices of the laughing children, the angry dispute of some card players, and the cool business-like aspect of the priests shuffling about the corridors, while a little confusing was still impressive.

The best dwelling-houses in Cordova are built upon the Moorish model; that is, they have a central court or garden, visible from the street entrance, which is adorned with trees, flowers, and fountains, usually guarded by an iron gate and an inner glass door. The domestic life of the family centres here, where in summer a broad canvas is drawn over the top, and the meals are taken underneath in the open air. We saw, late in March, orange and lemon-trees blooming in these areas, as well as Bengal monthly and common white roses, tea-roses, verbenas, tiger-lilies, carnations, and scarlet geraniums. Neither the palm nor the orange will grow without shelter in this part of Spain,—the north winds being too cold and piercing,—except by artificial culture. Spain is almost a treeless country, her immense olive orchards serving but partially to redeem the barren aspect of the southern and middle districts. In the orange court of the Grand Mosque, the lofty old Moorish wall forms a protecting screen. The Alameda of Cordova must be quite denuded of foliage in winter, exposed as it is to the north winds and frosty nights. It is a short but very broad thoroughfare, with a tree-lined promenade through its centre, like that at Malaga, but it seemed singularly out of place in a city so utterly void of life and animation.

Spain is a country of beggars, but in this ancient town one is actually beset by them. Travelers, stopping at the same hotel with us, abbreviated their stay in the city on account of this great annoyance. As far as one can judge, these people have no pressing reason for begging. It has become a habit, and strangers are importuned as a matter of course. Cannot the priests do something to mitigate this great evil? In Spain evidence is not lacking to show that the Roman Catholic faith inspires deep religious sentiment, but without religious principle. The more blindly ignorant the masses of the people are, the greater is the influence of the priesthood. Not one of the famous Spanish cathedrals but has within its vaults so-called sacred treasures of great amount, in gold and silver plate and other material, the intrinsic value of which in each instance large, being aggregated, would furnish a sum nearly large enough to liquidate the national debt. At Toledo, for instance, the mantle called the Robe of the Virgin is covered with precious stones, so large and choice that its value has been estimated at a million of Spanish dollars; and this is but one item of value stored in that rich church. So at Malaga, Seville, Cordova, and Burgos, not to name other places of which we can speak with less personal knowledge, each is a small Golconda of riches, yet the common people starve. A horde of priests, altogether out of proportion to the necessities of the case from any point of view, are kept up, the most useless of non-producers, and whence comes their support but from this very poverty-burdened mass of the common people? When Philip II. was told of the destruction of the great Spanish Armada, which had cost a hundred million ducats, he only said: "I thank God for having given me the means of bearing such a loss without embarrassment, and power to fit out another fleet of equal size!" And yet there were starving millions in Spain at that time as there are to-day.

From Cordova to Madrid is nearly three hundred miles, the first half of which distance we passed over in the daytime, lightening the journey by enjoyment of the pleasing scenery and local peculiarities. Though it was quite early in the spring, still the fields were verdant and full of promise. More than once a gypsy camp was passed by the side of some cross-road, presenting the usual domestic group, mingled with animals, covered carts, lazy men stretched on the greensward, and busy women cooking the evening meal. Long strings of mules, with wide-spread panniers, came winding across the plain, sometimes in charge of a woman clad in gaudy colors, while her lazy husband thrummed a guitar, lying across one of the mules. Towards evening groups of peasants, male and female, with farming tools in their hands, were seen wending their steps towards some hamlet after the day's labor. Arched stone bridges, old and moss-grown, came into view, spanning small water-courses, on their way from the mountains to join more pretentious streams. Elevated spots often showed the ruins of the old stone towers, once a part of some feudal stronghold, but the eye sought in vain for well-wooded slopes or thrifty groves; and yet, strange to say, the song-birds which we had missed further south, in Andalusia and at Granada, put in an appearance as we came north, cheering us with their soft trilling notes in the amber sunshine that radiated about the small railroad stations. Some of these depots were rendered attractive and pretty by nicely arranged flower-beds and a few trees, imparting a home-like appearance. The ever-varying scenery kept mind and eyes busy, until by and by Night dropped her mantle over the face of nature, and with the darkness came a cool and nipping air. Then followed two hundred miles of tedious night travel, with no convenience for sleeping, except such as one could obtain sitting bolt upright, so that when daylight and Madrid arrived together, we were ready to welcome them both.

Why Charles V. should have made his capital on the spot now occupied by Madrid it is difficult to understand—though writers suppose a half a dozen reasons—except that it is the geographical centre of Spain. Eight or nine hundred years ago it was a fortified outpost of Toledo, "imperial" Toledo. It is hemmed in on all sides by arid plains, and has an adjacent river, so-called, but which in America would be known as a dry gulch. If there is any special benefit to be derived from a waterless river, we have yet to learn its character. Like the Arno at Florence, it is troubled with a chronic thirst; in short, the Manzanares has the form of a river without the circulation. In the days of Charles II. its dry bed was turned into a sort of race-course and drive-way, but since the completion of the Prado it has been abandoned for even this purpose. Though Madrid is situated between two and three thousand feet above the level of the sea, it does not seem to possess the advantages usually following such a position, the climate being scorchingly hot in summer and piercingly cold in winter. Thus, in point of climate and location, the Spanish capital seems to be a mistake.

As Madrid was built when the age of cathedrals had passed, it has none within its borders, though there is no lack of modern churches; but it is a large and fine city, with some four hundred thousand inhabitants. It is not noticeable, like Genoa, Rome, and Florence, for palaces and ancient monuments; but it is well laid out; the streets are broad and nicely paved; while numerous squares ornament the city, filled with attractive shrubbery, fountains, and statues. Among the latter we recall those of Murillo, Philip III., Cervantes, Lopez de Vega, Philip V., Calderon, and others. The finest statue in the city, to our taste, is that of Philip IV., representing the monarch as on horseback, the animal in a prancing position,—a wonderfully life-like bronze, designed by Velasquez and cast by Pietro Tacca at Florence. It forms the centre of the Plaza del Oriente, directly in front of the royal palace, from which it is separated, however, by a broad thoroughfare. According to history, Galileo showed how the true balance of the horse could be sustained in its remarkable position, the whole weight of rider and animal resting on the hind legs. On the Prado, the grand public drive of the citizens, there are fine marble statues and groups, combined with fountains, representative of Neptune, Apollo, and Cybele.

The Puerto del Sol is the Place del 'Opera of Madrid, always full of sparkle, life, and color, radiating from which there are a dozen large streets with two or three broad boulevards. Here all the lines of tramways meet and diverge, and the congregated fashionable idlers of the town hold high carnival daily and nightly. Our windows overlooked the Puerto del Sol (the Gate of the Sun), where the whirl of carriages, the rush of pedestrians, the passing of military bands with marching regiments, equestrians; priests decked out in church paraphernalia, preceded by smoking incense, burning candles, etc., bound to some death-bed; itinerant peddlers, and news-vendors, each hastening on some individual purpose, made the plaza a scene of incessant movement from early morning until midnight. Like Paris and Vienna, Madrid does not seem to awake until evening, and the tide of life becomes the most active under the glare of gas-lights which are as numerous at midnight as the fireflies that float over a sugar plantation. The fine shops surrounding this brilliant square, which is the real geographical heart of Madrid, are more Parisian than Spanish. The large plate-glass windows present a tempting array of jewelry, laces, silver-ware and rich fancy goods, in a style and of a quality that would do no discredit to the Rue de la Paix or the Boulevard des Italiens. Indeed, it is mostly French people who keep these shops, and there is a manifest tendency of the upper classes to adopt French manners, customs, and language. Paris serves as a model to Madrid in all matters relating to fashionable life. There is a large fountain and mammoth basin of water in the centre of the square, a stream being forced to a height of fifty or sixty feet, in a graceful column, night and day, the effect of which is heightened by the brilliant array of gas-lights. The sidewalks are here at least forty feet wide, upon which, in business hours, many merchants are accustomed to meet for the discussing of affairs, and to gossip before the several hotels which front on the plaza.

Speaking of the fountain in the Puerto del Sol recalls the fact that the citizens owe it to the energy and skill of foreign engineers that they enjoy the luxury of an ample supply of good water; and foreign engineers are doing or have done the same thing for other Spanish cities, though, in fact, only restoring the ancient supplies first constructed by the quick-witted Moors, and wantonly permitted to crumble into ruin by the Spaniards. They are not sufficiently enterprising or progressive to originate any such scheme for the public good. They even dislike the railroads, though they are compelled to use them; dislike them because they force them to observe punctuality, the native instinct being of the Chinese school, retrospective and retrograding. Everything is exotic in Madrid; nothing is produced in or near the city which its daily consumption demands. Strawberries, butter, cheese, fruits, meats, each comes from some special region far away to this human hive located in the desert. The city adds to its other drawbacks that of being very unwholesome as a residence, and would die out from natural causes if its population were not constantly renewed from the several provinces. There is a native proverb to the effect that so subtle is the air of Madrid, it kills a man but does not put out a candle. Why it is so unhealthy a place, especially for strangers, it is impossible to say. The same extreme difference between the sunshine and the shade is here realized which one experiences at Nice, Mentone, and Naples. The air seemed pure and clear enough during our two weeks' stay, but every one admitted its very unwholesome character. When the breeze swept down from the snowy Guadarrama, it cut like a knife, but that was a condition of temperature which one could guard against, not an atmospheric impurity. If Madrid were surrounded by and ornamented with trees, like Wiesbaden or Baden-Baden, it might prove a favorable sanitary measure, besides adding so much to its beauty. In Paris, Rome, or Venice, fires are not common in domestic living rooms, except in extremes of weather; but at Madrid, if the day is cool and damp, the cheerful, warmth-diffusing fire is lighted and regarded as a necessity.

The king and queen of Spain passed through the Puerto del Sol in an open carriage nearly every afternoon during our stay, attended by half a dozen outriders, and drawn by four superb horses; for Alfonso's royal stable, as we can testify, is justly celebrated. The king rides with his hat in his hand in response to the ceaseless recognitions of respect by the people, who, however, never cheer him, and yet he appears to be fairly popular with the masses. He has seemed thus far to follow rather than to lead public sentiment, perhaps realizing the precarious nature of his seat upon the throne; remembering that the nation has a rather erratic manner of changing its rulers when displeased with them. He is quite youthful in appearance. The queen, though by no means handsome, has a pleasing face, and is represented to be of a very amiable character. It will be remembered that his first wife, Mercedes, died while yet a bride, at the age of eighteen, much regretted and much beloved. Alfonso has, in a few public instances, shown a progressive and enlightened spirit; but were he to permit himself to be demonstrative in this direction, he would not be supported either by his councillors or the public, who are imbued with the true Castilian dormancy even in this nineteenth century. He has undertaken, out of his private purse, to restore many decaying monuments of the country, and is noticeably spending money freely for this purpose, not only in Cordova, but also at Toledo, Madrid, and Burgos.

On the occasions when the king and queen drove out, the royal carriage was generally attended by a second, in which was ex-empress Isabella, at the time on a visit to the royal palace, though she makes her home at present in Paris. She is fat, dowdy, and vulgar in appearance, with features indicative of sensuousness and indulgence in coarse appetites. The last time we saw her was in the Puerto del Sol, as she rode in a carriage behind the royal vehicle, with a lady companion by her side, to whom she was talking very earnestly, accompanying her words with the most energetic and emphatic gesticulation of the right forefinger. The more we heard of this woman, the less we could respect her; and yet we were told by intelligent natives that she is to-day very popular in Madrid, much more so than in other parts of the country. If this is true, it is only a reflection upon the moral instincts of the people themselves. The royal palace is located upon a slightly rising site, and is so isolated as to give full effect to its fine architecture and excellent general design. It is the only building of a remarkable character, architecturally, in the city; which, for a European capital, is in this respect very ordinary and plain. The Madrid palace is undoubtedly the largest and finest in Europe, and belongs to the Tuscan style. It cost between five and six millions of dollars a hundred years ago. The base is granite, but the upper portion is built of a fine white stone, closely resembling marble. The royal family being at home, as well as the ex-queen being there, we could not visit the palace, but were told of its interior magnificence, by those familiar with it. It contains a rich chapel, library, and theatre, with a remarkably beautiful collection of tapestries. The throne room is said to be gorgeous and its ornaments of lavish cost. In the absence of the royal occupants, strangers are admitted under proper auspices.

The Prado is to Madrid what the Champs Elysees and the Bois de Boulogne are to Paris,—a splendid avenue, through the centre of which runs a continuous walk and garden, with elaborate stone fountains, somewhat similar to the Unter den Linden of Berlin, or Commonwealth Avenue, Boston, save that it is more extensive than either. The Prado nearly joins the Public Garden on the borders of the city, in which there are also fine carriage drives, roadways for equestrians, many delightful shaded walks, and paths lined with flowers, myrtles, groves, and sweet-leaved hedges, intermingled with fountains, lakes, arbors, refreshment houses, etc. On Sundays and fete days these grounds are thronged with citizens and their families for out-door enjoyment, riding, and driving. Here also several military bands are distributed, adding to the accumulated attractions. There is a certain dignity and appearance of refinement observable among the gentlemen one meets on the Prado and in the streets, but we look in vain for the traditional sombrero, which has been superseded by the conventional stove-pipe hat; while the graceful Spanish cloak has given way to the stiff European body overcoat. The Spanish ladies, with their large black eyes and dark olive complexions, are generally quite handsome, but they rouge, and powder, and paint their faces in a lavish manner. Indeed, they seem to go further in this direction than do the Parisians, obviously penciling eyes and eyebrows,—an addition which their brunette complexion requires least of all. With the public actress this resort is admissible, where effects are necessary to be produced for distant spectators in large audiences; but in daily life even custom does not rob it of its inevitable aspect of vulgarity. True, all nations resort to such artifices, more or less, especially in southern Europe. The Chinese ladies carry the practice of painting their faces so far as to amount to caricature; and if the Japanese ladies do not so generally follow the example, they do blacken their teeth, which one must confess is more objectionable still. In these faithful notes it must be admitted that even the Japanese ladies paint cheeks and lips with such a tinge of vermilion as is thought to be becoming, and enamel their faces and necks. This, however, it must be remembered is before marriage. After that relationship has taken place, as has before been intimated, it becomes the ridiculous practice of every Japanese wife to render herself as unattractive as possible, forgetting that she is thus liable to become as disagreeable in the eyes of her husband as in those of other people.

The Spanish lady, like her Japanese sister, is a great devotee to the fan, and neither are ever seen abroad in full dress without this conspicuous accompaniment. The importance of this article of female requirement is fully recognized at Madrid, where many stores are devoted solely to its manufacture and sale; while artists give much time and genius to their elaborate ornamentation, the prices ranging from a few shillings to ten doubloons. The indispensable veil, covering more or less head, neck, and face, would prove but a poor substitute for the dainty French bonnet on the Parisian boulevards; but in Castilian atmosphere it is as appropriate and becoming as the florid-colored plumage of birds in the tropics. There is a certain harmony between the dark, smooth skin, the glossy raven hair, the long, dark lashes, the blue veins of the temples, and the national head-dress of the Spanish ladies, which gratifies the artistic eye. Ah! if the mind in those lovely women were but as noble as their faces! Unfortunately, perhaps, their very beauty makes their defects the more conspicuous. Ermine must be spotless.

In her splendid art collection of the Museo, the city has a treasure only equaled by the Louvre at Paris and the galleries at Florence. To artists, it is the one attraction of Madrid, and is principally composed of works by the Spanish masters, though also containing many other gems. Here we find forty-four examples of Murillo, sixty-four from Velasquez, sixty by Rubens, twenty-five from Paul Veronese, thirty-four from Tintoretto, and many from Andrea del Sarto, Titian, Vandyke, Goya, Ribera, and others of similar artistic fame, in such profusion as to be a constant source of surprise to the stranger. Here one is sure to meet, daily, intelligent Americans, French, Italians, and English, but very rarely Spaniards. It is believed that Murillo appears at his best in this collection. Being a native of Seville, he is in a measure seen at home; and artists declare that his work shows more of light, power, and expression here than anywhere outside of the Museo. So we go to Antwerp to appreciate Rubens, though we find him so ably and fully represented elsewhere. Velasquez cannot be fairly judged outside the Madrid gallery. He also was at home here, and his paintings are not only the most numerous, but are decidedly his best. The arrangement of the pictures of the Museo is severely criticised; some of the best are hung too high, while those one does not care to study, or scarcely to see at all, have been accorded the best lines in the gallery. There seems to be no system observed; the hangings are frequently altered, and the printed catalogue is thus rendered of very little use. The building itself is a large and admirable structure, well adapted to the purpose, quite worthy to contain the choice art treasures beneath its roof. When the French were masters in Spain they proved to be terrible iconoclasts, leaving marks of their devastation nearly everywhere in one form or another. Not content with stealing many unequaled works of art of priceless value, they often wantonly destroyed what it was impossible to carry away. In the tomb of Ferdinand and Isabella, at Granada, it will be remembered they pried open the royal coffins in search of treasure. At Seville they broke open the coffin of Murillo, and scattered his ashes to the wind. Marshal Soult treated the ashes of Cervantes in a similar manner. War desecrates all things, human and divine; but sometimes becomes a Nemesis, dispensing poetical justice, as when Waterloo caused the return to Spain of a portion of her despoiled art-treasures.

The bull-fight is very properly called the national sport of Spain, and, we are sorry to add, is typical of the natural cruelty of her people. It was the opening exhibition of the season which was advertised to take place during the first week of our stay in the city, and it was announced for Sunday afternoon, the day usually selected for these occasions; but as it proved to be rainy it was postponed to the following Thursday. The bull-ring of the capital is said to contain seating capacity for eighteen thousand persons; and yet such was the demand for tickets of admission, that it was a work of some hours to procure them at all, and only consummated finally at a considerable premium. Our seats were near to those of the royal party, consisting of the king, queen, and ex-queen Isabella, with a number of ladies and gentlemen of the household. The easy and graceful manners of the queen were in strong contrast to the arrogant and vulgar style of Isabella, whose character is so dark a stain upon Spanish royalty. Every seat of the large circular theatre was occupied. Open to the sky, it was not unlike what the Coliseum of Rome must have been in its glory, and held an audience, we should judge, of over seventeen thousand. Nearly all classes were represented, for a Spaniard must be poor indeed who cannot find a dollar to pay his way into the bull-ring. The better seats were occupied by ladies and gentlemen, the lower priced ones by the masses,—both sexes being fully represented in each class of seats. Those located on the east and southerly sides are covered to protect the grandees, while the masses sitting in the sun hold fans or paper screens before their eyes.

There was a cold, murderous, business-like aspect to all the arrangements, and everything, however repulsive to strangers, was taken by the audience at large quite as a matter of course. The immense crowd were not very noisy or demonstrative, contenting themselves with smoking and chatting together. It was curious and interesting, while waiting for the commencement of the performance, to study the features of the audience, and watch their earnest gesticulations; for the Spaniards, like the Italians, talk with their whole bodies,—hands, arms, head, trunk, and all. The ladies, as usual, were each supplied with that prime necessity, a fan; and it is astonishing what a weapon of coquetry it becomes in the delicate hands of a Spanish beauty. Its coy archness is beyond comparison, guided by the pliant wrist of the owner, concealing or revealing her eloquent glances and features. With her veil and her fan, a Spanish woman is armed cap-a-pie, and in Cupid's warfare becomes irresistible.

The author had seen the cruelty of the bull-ring exhibited years ago in the Spanish West Indies, yet to visit Madrid, the headquarters of all things Spanish, and not to witness the national sport, would have been a serious omission; and therefore, suppressing a strong sense of distaste, the exhibition was attended. The hateful cruelty of the bull-ring has been too often and too graphically described to require from us the unwelcome task. Suffice it to say we saw six powerful and courageous bulls killed, who, in their brave self-defense, disemboweled and killed thirteen horses. No man was seriously injured, though several were dismounted, and others run over by the enraged bulls in headlong career across the arena. The picadores were mounted on poor hacks, since the fate of the horse that entered the ring was as certain as that of the bull himself. The banderilleros and chulos, who took part in the combat on foot, were fine looking, active young fellows; and the matadores, who performed the final act of killing the bull single-handed, were as a rule older and more experienced men. It must be a practiced hand that gives the last thrust to the many-times wounded and nearly exhausted creature, who will always fight to the very last gasp.

The matadore is regarded as quite a hero by the masses of the people, receiving a princely remuneration for his services. He holds his head very high among his associates. One of these matadores was long the disgraceful favorite of Queen Isabella. We came away from this exhibition more than ever convinced of the cowardly character of the game. The requisite, on the part of the much lauded bull-fighter, is not courage but cunning. He knows full well when the bull is so nearly exhausted as to render his final attack upon him quite safe. A dozen against one, twelve armed men against one animal, who has the protection only of his horns and his stout courage. The death of the bull is sure from the moment he enters the ring, but the professional fighters are rarely hurt, though often very much frightened. Another most shameful part of the game is the introduction of poor, broken-down horses, who have yet strength and spirit enough to faithfully obey their rider, and so rush forward regardless of the horns of the bull, which will surely disembowel and lay them dead upon the field. The matadore who finally faces the bull single-handed, to give him the coup-de-grace with his Toledo blade, does not do so until the animal has struggled with his other tormentors nearly to the last gasp, is weak from the loss of blood, and his strength exhausted by a long and gallant fight, so that he already staggers and is nearly blind with accumulated torments. The poor creature is but a sorry victim for the fresh, well-armed, practiced butcher, who comes to give him the finishing stroke. We would emphasize the remark that the whole game of the bull-ring is, on the part of the chulos, picadores, and matadores, a shameful exhibition not only of the most disgraceful cruelty but also of consummate cowardice.

Black is the almost universal color worn by ladies and gentlemen in public. Parisian fashions as to cut and material are very generally adopted; and, as has been intimated, the French model is paramount in all things. A business resident remarked to us that the French language was becoming so universal that it absolutely threatened to supersede the native tongue. Bonnets are worn in walking and driving; but at the bull-fight, the concert-room, and the theatre the national lace head-dress is still tenaciously and becomingly adhered to. In manners the better class of Spaniards are extremely courteous, and always profuse in their offers of services, though it is hardly to be expected that their generosity will be put to the test. Gentlemen will smoke in the ladies' faces in the street, the corridors, cafes, cars, anywhere, apparently not being able to comprehend that it may be offensive. Even in the dining-rooms of the hotels, the cigar or cigarette is freely lighted, and smoked with the coffee while ladies are present. In short, tobacco seems to be a necessity to the average Spaniard, both sleeping and waking, for they smoke in bed also. Perhaps this apparent obtuseness on the part of gentlemen arises from the well-known fact that many of the ladies themselves indulge in the cigarette, though rarely in public. The writer has more than once seen the practice as exhibited in popular cafes whither both sexes resorted. At the bull-ring many of the common class of women had cigarettes between their lips.

Sunday is an acknowledged gala-day in Madrid, though the attendance upon early mass is very general, especially among the women. It is here, as at Paris and other European capitals, the chosen day for military parades, horse-races, and the bull-fight. Most of the shops are open and realize a profitable business, and especially is this the case with those devoted to the sale of cigars, liquors, fancy goods, and the cafes: with them it is the busiest day of the whole week. The lottery ticket vendor makes a double day's work on this occasion, and the itinerant gamblers, with portable stands, have crowds about their tables wherever they locate. The flower-girls, with dainty little baskets, rich in color and captivating in fragrance, press buttonhole bouquets on the pedestrians, and, shall we whisper it? make appointments with susceptible cavaliers; while men perambulate the streets with bon-bons displayed upon cases hung from their necks; in short, Sunday is made a fete day, when grandees and beggars complacently come forth like marching regiments into the Puerto del Sol. The Prado and public gardens are thronged with gayly-dressed people, children, and nurses,—the costume of the latter got up in the most theatrical style, with broad red or blue ribbons hanging down behind from their snow-white caps, and sweeping the very ground at their heels. No one stays within doors on Sunday in Madrid, and all Europe loves the out-door sunshine.

We have said that the Spanish capital was deficient in buildings of architectural pretension. This is quite true; but the country is rich in the character of her monuments, possessing one order of architecture elsewhere little known. Our guide called it very appropriately the Morisco style, which has grown out of the combination of Moorish and Christian art. The former attained, during the Middle Ages, as great importance in Spain as in the East. This is, perhaps, more clearly manifested in Andalusia than elsewhere; here its harmony is presented in many brilliant examples and combinations. The greatest wealth of the country is to be found in its historic monuments, its well-defined Roman period being especially rich in architectural remains; and, as to cathedrals, nowhere else are they to be found so richly and superbly endowed.

The cars took us to Toledo, a distance of about forty miles, in an hour and a half, landing us in a strange, old place, the very embodiment of antiquity, and the capital of Gothic Spain. Here let us drop a hint gained by experience. If the reader makes the excursion to Toledo from Madrid, he will most probably start early in the morning and get back late at night, as one day in the place will afford all the time absolutely necessary to visit and enjoy its most notable objects. A prepared luncheon basket should be taken from Madrid. This will obviate the necessity of encountering the dirt, unsavory food, and extortion of the fifth-rate hotels of Toledo. It has been said that banditti have been suppressed in Spain; perhaps so, on the public roads. It may be they have gone into the hotel business, as a safer and less conspicuous mode of robbing travelers. At Toledo the rule of the Moor is seen in foot-prints no time can obliterate, and to visit which is like the realization of a mediaeval dream. The sombre streets are strangely winding, irregular, and steep; the reason for constructing them thus was, doubtless, that they might be the more easily defended when attacked by a foreign enemy. In the days of her prime, Toledo saw many battles, both inside and outside of her gates. One can touch the houses of these streets on both sides at the same time, by merely extending the arms.

There are scores of deserted buildings locked up, the heavy gates studded with great, protruding, iron-headed nails, while the lower windows are closely iron-grated. These houses have paved entrances, leading to open areas, or courts, with galleries around them, upon which the various rooms open. The galleries are of carved and latticed wood, generally in good preservation, but the main structure is of stone, most substantially built, everything testifying to their Moorish origin. Some of these houses, once palaces, are now used for storage purposes; some for business warehouses, manufactories, and carpenters' shops. One would suppose, in such a dull, sleepy, dormant place, that the streets would be grass-grown; but there is no grass. Yet between the loosely-fitting slabs of stone pavement, here and there, little fresh flowers, of some unknown species, struggled up into a pale, fragile existence, with stems white in place of green, showing the absence of sunlight, so necessary to both human and vegetable life. They had no fragrance, these stray children from Flora's kingdom, but looked very much like forget-me-nots, reminding one of the little flower which sprung up through the hard pavement of Picciola's prison. Dilapidation is written everywhere in this Oriental atmosphere. The Moors of Morocco still believe that they will yet be restored to the Spanish home of their ancestors, and the keys of these Toledo houses have been handed down from generation to generation as emblems of their rights, tokens which were pointed out to us at Tangier; but not, until we had visited Toledo, was the idea which they involved fully appreciated. One cannot but realize a certain respect for the Moors, while wandering among these scenes of the long-buried past. Whatever may have been their failings, they must have contrasted favorably with the present occupants, who seem strangely out of place. In those ancient days the city contained a quarter of a million of inhabitants; to-day it has barely fifteen thousand. The river Tagus almost surrounds Toledo, and is not, like the Manzanares, merely a dry ditch, but a full, rapid, rushing river.

The cathedral at Toledo is its most prominent object of interest, and has a deservedly high fame; while clustering about it, in the very heart of the old place, are many churches, convents, and palaces,—though a large share of them are untenanted, and as silent as the tomb. But before entering the cathedral we visited the Alcazar, formerly a royal palace of Charles V., and now the West Point of Spain, where her sons are educated for the army. Under the Moors, ten centuries ago, it was a fortress, then a palace, now an academy, capable of accommodating six hundred pupils. The view from the Alcazar, which dominates the entire city, is vast and impressive, the building itself being also the first object seen from a distance when one is approaching Toledo. It is upon a bleak height. As you come out of the broad portals of the Alcazar (Al-casa-zar, the czar's house), you walk to the edge of the precipitous rock upon which it stands, and contemplate the view across the far-reaching plain, gloomy and desolate, while at the base of the rock rushes past the rapid Tagus. This whole valley, now so dead and silent, once teemed with a dense population, and sent forth armies, and fought great battles, in the days of the Goths. The cathedral is visited by architects from all parts of Europe and America, solely as a professional study. It is a remarkably fine sample of the Gothic order, which Coleridge called petrified religion, and exhibits in all its parts that great achievement of the art, entire harmony of design and execution; while the richness of its ornamentation and its artistic wealth, not to mention, in detail, its gold and silver plate, make it the rival of most other cathedrals in the world, with the possible exception of that at Burgos. Its size is vast, with a tower reaching three hundred feet heavenward, and the interior having five great naves, divided by over eighty lofty columns. It is said to contain more stained-glass windows than any other cathedral that was ever built. The effect of the clear morning light, as imparted to the interior through this great surface of delicately-tinted glass, is remarkably beautiful. The high altar, a marvel of splendid workmanship and minute detail, is yet a little confusing, from the myriads of statues, groups, emblems, columns, gilding, and ornaments generally; but it seems to be the purpose of most of these Roman Catholic churches to turn the altars into a species of museum. Guides are always plentifully supplied with marvelous legends for travelers; and ours, on this occasion, simply bristled all over with them as regarded this church. One of these, which he persisted in pouring into our unbelieving ears, was to the effect that, when the cathedral was completed and dedicated, so perfect was it found to be that the Virgin descended bodily to visit it, and to express, by her presence, her entire satisfaction!

Toledo stands there upon the boldest promontory of the Tagus,—a dead and virtually deserted city. Coveted by various conquerors, she has been besieged more than twenty times; so that the river beneath the walls has often flowed red with human gore, where it is spanned by the graceful bridge of Alcantara. Phoenicians, Romans, Goths, Moors, and Christians, all have fought for and have possessed, for a greater or less period, the castle-crowned city. Its story is written in letters scarlet with blood and dark with misery; illustrating Irving's idea that history is but a kind of Newgate calendar, a register of the crimes and miseries that man has inflicted on his fellow-man. Only the skeleton of a once great and thriving capital remains. It has no commerce and but one industry,—the manufacture of arms and sword-blades,—which gives occupation to a couple of hundred souls, hardly more. The coming and going of visitors from other lands gives it a little flutter of daily life, like a fitful candle blazing up for a moment and then dying down in the socket, making darkness only the more visible by contrast. The once celebrated sword factory was found to be of little interest, though we were told that better blades are manufactured here to-day than in olden time, when it won such repute in this special line. So well are these blades tempered, that it is possible to bend them like a watch spring without breaking them. In looking at the present condition of this once famous seat of industry and power, recalling her arts, manufactures, and commerce, it must be remembered that outside of the immediate walls, which form the citadel, as it were, of a large and extended population, were over forty thriving towns and villages, located in the valley of the Tagus, under the shadow of her wing. These communities and their homes have all disappeared,—pastures and fields of grain covering their dust from the eyes of the curious traveler. The narrow, silent, doleful streets of the old city, with its overhanging roofs and yawning arches, leave a sad memory on the brain, as we turn away from its crumbling walls and antique Moorish gates.

An excursion of thirty-five miles, to a station of the same name, took us from Madrid to the Escurial, which the Spaniards in their egotism call the eighth wonder of the world. This vast pile of buildings, composed entirely of granite, and as uniform as a military barrack, is nearly a mile in circumference,—tomb, palace, cathedral, monastery, one and all combined. The wilderness selected as the site of the structure shows about as little reason as does that of the locality of Madrid; utter barrenness and want of human or vegetable life are its most prominent characteristics. Here, however, are congregated a vast number of curious and interesting objects, while the place is redolent of vivid historical associations. One of the first objects shown us here was the tomb of Mercedes, the child-wife of the present king; also, in a deep octagonal vault, the sepulchres of some thirty royal individuals, kings and mothers of kings. Among them were Philip II., Philip V., Ferdinand VI., Charles V., etc. The niche occupied by Philip IV. attracted special notice from the fact that the eccentric monarch, during his life-time, often seated himself here to listen to mass, an idea more singular than reverential. The coffin of Charles V. was opened so late as 1871, during the visit of the Emperor of Brazil, when the face of the corpse was found to be entire,—eyebrows, hair, and all, though black and shriveled. The last burial here was that of Ferdinand VII. This octagon vault is called the Pantheon of the Escurial; but it is nothing more than a theatrical show room: nothing could be more inappropriate. While we were in Madrid, ex-queen Isabella visited the vault,—her own last resting-place being already designated herein,—and caused mass to be performed while she kneeled among the coffins, as Philip IV. was accustomed to do. She does this once a year, at the hour of midnight, but why that period is chosen we do not know.

A room adjoining the church, close beside the altar, is shown to the visitor, where that prince of bigots, Philip II., passed the last days and hours of his life. It is a scantily furnished apartment, with no upholstery, hard chairs, and bare wooden tables; with a globe, scales, compasses, and a few rude domestic articles, writing material, half a dozen maps, and three or four small cabinet pictures on the walls, forming the entire inventory. A large chair in which he sat, and the coarse hard bed on which he slept and died, are also seen in a little adjoining room scarcely ten feet square. It was here that he received with such apparent indifference the intelligence of the destruction of the Spanish Armada, which had cost over a hundred million ducats and twenty years of useless labor. Everything is left as it was at the time of his death. A sliding panel was so arranged in the little sleeping-room that the king could sit or lie there, when too ill to do otherwise, and yet attend upon the performance of public mass. With this door put aside, the king lay here on that September Sabbath day, in the year of our Lord, 1598,—after having just ordered a white satin lining for his bronze coffin,—grasping the crucifix which his father, Charles V., held when dying, and with eyes fixed upon the high altar, attended by his confessor and children, the worn-out monarch breathed his last. Little as we sympathized with the character of the royal occupant, there was yet something touching in the stern simplicity with which he surrounded his own domestic life. Self-abnegation must have been with him a ruling principle. The cell of a Franciscan monk could not have been more severely simple and plain than that small living and sleeping apartment.

A few statistics, as rattled off by our guide, will give the reader some idea of the vastness of the Escurial. There are sixteen open courts within its outer walls, eighty staircases, twelve thousand doors (?), and some three thousand windows. There are over forty altars. The main church is as large as most European cathedrals, being three hundred feet long, over two hundred wide, and three hundred and twenty feet high. We know of no cathedral in Italy so elaborately and beautifully finished, and yet this was only a part of the princely household of Philip II. The Escurial is now only a show place, so to speak, of no present use except as a historical link and a tomb. There are a few, very few, fine paintings left within its walls, most of those which originally hung here having been very properly removed to the Museo at Madrid. In the refectory will be noticed a choice painting by Titian, of which we are a little surprised that no more has been said, for it is a remarkable painting. On the same wall are two or three canvases by Velasquez, but none by other artists of repute. On the walls of a large hall, called by the guide the Hall of Battles, is painted a most crude and inartistic series of pictures, only worthy of a Chinese artist, representing a series of battles supposed to depict Spanish conquests.

We were also shown, preserved here, a large and useless library, kept in a noble hall over two hundred feet long and fifty or sixty wide, the books being all arranged with their backs to the wall, so that even the titles cannot be read,—a plan which one would say must be the device of some madman. The bookcases are made of ebony, cedar, orange, and other choice woods, and contain some sixty thousand volumes. What possible historic wealth may here lie concealed,—what noble thoughts and minds embalmed! In the domestic or dwelling portion of the Escurial the apartments are very finely inlaid with various woods on the doors, dado, and on the floors; besides which they contain some delicate antique furniture of great beauty, finished mostly in various patterns of inlaid woods. A few cabinet pictures are seen upon the walls, and one or two large hall-like apartments are hung with tapestry, which, although centuries old, is perfect in texture and the freshness of the colors. It might have come from the Gobelins' factory during this present year of our Lord, and it could not be brighter or more perfect.

The grounds surrounding the structure are laid out, on the south side, in pleasant gardens, where fountains, flowers, and a few inferior marble statues serve for external finish. On the outside, high up above the dome, is seen the famous plate of gold, an inch thick, containing some ten square feet of surface, and forming a monument of the bravado and extravagance of Philip II., who put it there in reply to the assertion of his enemies that he had financially ruined himself in building so costly a palace. We may expect one of these days to hear of its having been taken down and coined into shining doubloons.



CHAPTER XIII.

From Madrid to Burgos.—Through a Barren Country.—The Cathedral of Burgos.—Monastery of Miraflores.—Local Pictures.—A Spanish Inn.—Convent of Las Huelgas.—From Burgos to San Sebastian.—Northern Spain.—A Spanish Watering Place.—Bayonne.—Lower Pyrenees.—Biarritz.—A Basque Postilion.—A Pleasant Drive.—On Leaving Spain.—Sunday and Balloons at Bordeaux.—On to Paris.—Antwerp and its Art Treasures.—Embarking for America.—End of the Long Journey.

From Madrid northward to Burgos is a little less than two hundred miles, yet a whole day was consumed in the transit by rail. The general aspect of the country was that of undulating plains, barren and arid, without trees, houses, or signs of animal life, sometimes for long and weary distances. Now and then a small herd of goats, and here and there a hut, or a group of miserable hovels, worthy of India, came into view, followed by a hilly, half-mountainous district, but yet solitary as a desert. Regarding natural beauty of scenery, Spain, as a whole, offers less attraction than any other European country. Its vegetation, except in the southern provinces, is of the sterile class; its trees, sparse, of poor development, and circumscribed in variety. Even the grass is stunted and yellow. Such a condition of vegetable life accounts for the absence of singing-birds, or, indeed, of any birds at all, in whole districts of the country. The traveler must be content with historical monuments, which are numerous and striking, and with the strange records attached to many of them. Antiquity consecrates many things which in their prime must have been intolerable. The sight of old sleepy cities, ancient churches, cathedrals, and deserted convents, must often compensate for an indifferent supper and a hard bed.

Since the days of Ferdinand and Isabella, Spain has emulated China in her stand-still policy. Perhaps these facts are very generally realized, and hence so few people, comparatively, visit the country, but it is a serious mistake for those who can afford the time and money not to do so. There is quite enough legitimate attraction to repay any intelligent person for all the annoyances and trouble which are necessarily encountered. It was past midnight when we arrived at the railroad station at Burgos, where, having telegraphed from Madrid, a very dirty omnibus was in waiting to take us to the hotel. How that vehicle did smell of garlic, stale tobacco, and accumulated filth, to which the odor of an ill-trimmed kerosene lamp added its pungent flavor. But we were soon set down before the hotel, where there was not a light to be seen, every one, servants and all, being sound asleep. An entrance being finally achieved, the baggage was passed in, and rooms assigned to us. As hunger is the best sauce for supper, so fatigue makes even indifferent lodgings acceptable; and we were soon half-dreaming of the familiar legends and history of Burgos,—how centuries ago a knight of Castile, Diego Porcelos, had a lovely daughter, named Sulla Bella, whom he gave as a bride to a German cavalier, and together they founded this place and fortified it. They called it Burg, a fortified place, hence Burgos. We thought of the Cid and his gallant war-horse, Baveica; of Edward I., of the richly endowed cathedral, and the old monastery where rest Juan II. and Isabella of Portugal, in their alabaster tomb. But gradually these visions faded, growing less and less distinct, until entire forgetfulness settled over our roving thoughts.

The first impression of Burgos upon the stranger is that of quaintness. It is a damp, cold, dead-and-alive place, with but three monuments really worthy of note; namely, the unrivaled cathedral, its Cartujan monastery, and its convent of Huelgas; and yet there is a tinge of the Gotho-Castilian period about its musty old streets and archways scarcely equaled elsewhere in Spain, and which one would not like to have missed. The most amusing experience possible, on arriving in such a place, is to start off in the early morning without any fixed purpose as to destination, and wander through unknown streets, lanes, and archways, coming out upon a broad square—the Plaza Mayor, for instance—containing a poor bronze statue of Charles III.; thence to another with a tall stone fountain in the centre, where a motley group of women and young girls are filling their jars with water; and again through a dull dark lane, coming upon the lofty gate of Santa Maria, erected by Charles V., and ornamented with statues of the Cid, Fernando Gonzales, and the Emperor; thence on once more to some other square, which proves to be full of busy groups of men, women, and donkeys, gathered about piles of produce. Ah! this is the vegetable market, always a favorite morning resort in every new locality. How animated are the eager sellers and buyers, expending marvelous force over transactions involving half a dozen onions or a few knock-kneed turnips. What a study do their bright expressive faces afford, how gay the varied colors of dress and vegetation, how ringing the Babel of tongues, the braying of donkeys, the cackle of ducks and hens in their coops. All ways are new, and many local peculiarities strike the eye, until presently, by some instinct, one comes out again at the starting-point.

Our stopping place at Burgos was the Fonda de Rafaela, a hotel with a good name, but with regard to the food supplied to the guests the less said the better. There was one peculiarity of this Spanish inn which was too constantly present not to impress us, namely, the extraordinary character and variety of "smells," which were quite overpowering. The principal stench arose from bad drainage, besides which there was a universal mustiness. But one should not be too fastidious. Comfort is best promoted by avoiding a spirit of captiousness in traveling, not only in Spain, but upon life's entire journey. Opposite the Fonda de Rafaela was a long line of infantry barracks, and, consequently, we had plenty of the sort of music—fife and drum—which naturally accompanies military drill and company movements. There seems to be, not only here but all through the southern cities, an effort made to keep up the discipline and standard of the army, as well as its numbers; but it was observable that most of the private soldiers, especially in Madrid, were merely boys of sixteen or seventeen years of age. Burgos, like Cordova, is overrun with priests and beggars, who go as naturally together as cause and effect.

The cathedral, which the Emperor Charles V. said ought to be placed under a glass, would alone be sufficient to render the town famous, in spite of its dullness and desolation, being one of the largest, finest, and most richly endowed of all the Spanish churches. Neither that of Toledo or Granada will compare with it in splendor or elaborate finish; and when we remember how much Spain surpasses Italy, as regards her cathedrals, the force of this remark will be realized. The lofty structure, like that at Antwerp, is packed behind a cluster of inferior buildings, so as to seriously detract from its external effect; though on the opposite side of the river Arlanzon a favorable view is obtained of its graceful, open-worked spires, so light and symmetrical, "spires whose silent fingers point to heaven," and its lofty, corrugated roof. The columns and high arches of the interior are a maze of architectural beauty, in pure Gothic. In all these Spanish cathedrals the choir completely blocks up the centre of the interior, so that no comprehensive general view can be had; an incongruous architectural arrangement which is found nowhere else, and which as nearly ruins the effect of the Toledo, Cordova, and Granada cathedrals as it is possible to do. Above the space between the altar and the choir rises a cupola, which, in elaborate ornamentation of bas-reliefs, statues, small columns, arches, and sculpture, exceeds anything of the sort we can recall elsewhere. The hundred and more carved stalls of the choir are in choice walnut, and are a great curiosity as an example of wood-carving, presenting human figures, vines, fantastic animals, and foliage, exquisitely delineated. The several chapels are as large as ordinary churches, while in the centre of each lies buried a bishop or a prince. The great number of statues and paintings, scattered through the interior of the cathedral, are almost as confusing as the pinnacled roof of that at Milan, whose beauty disappears amid accumulation, and one is liable to come away more wearied than satisfied. In the sacristy the attendant showed us many curious relics of great intrinsic value, but which were priceless, in his estimation, from their presumed associations. The well-known carving of Christ on the Cross was shown to us, which devout believers are told was carved by Nicodemus just after he had buried the Saviour. The credulous sacristan, unless his face deceived us, believed that this effigy perspires every Friday; that it actually bleeds at certain times; and that it has performed miracles. The beard and hair are the natural article, and so are the brows and eyelashes, giving a disagreeable effect to the image.

The monastery of Miraflores, a rich and prosperous establishment before the suppression of religious communities in Spain, is now quite deserted, but of considerable interest as containing the famous tomb of Juan II. and Isabella of Portugal. The old Gothic chapel has, in the singularly elaborate and minutely sculptured sarcophagus standing before the altar, a grand example of delicate and artistic workmanship in alabaster. The two representative figures are raised about six feet above the floor of the chapel, on a pedestal of the same substance,—pure white alabaster,—the whole being ornamented with figures of saints, angels, birds, fruits, and graceful vines. The supports of the corners of the octagon base are sixteen lions, two at each angle, all executed with infinite perfection of detail. The remarkable imitation of embroidered lace upon the reclining figures, with the indented cushions and robes, are admirable. We were glad to learn the sculptor's name, Gil de Siloe. Sad and solemn was the atmosphere surrounding the old monastery, now in charge of two or three aged brothers of the Carthusian order, who pointed out, as we passed into the open air, among the rank weeds, shaded by sombre cypresses, the graves of some four hundred of their departed brothers, whose bodies lay there without a stone or name to mark their last resting-place. Thus these men had lived humble and forgotten, and so they sleep, "after life's fitful fever," among the weeds.

From this interesting spot we drove to the convent known as Las Huelgas, founded by the wife of Alonzo VIII., daughter of Henry II., and sister of Richard Coeur de Lion. This large establishment, situated on the other side of the Arlanzon, and nearer to the city than Miraflores, is reached by a pleasant avenue of trees, and is surrounded by well-laid out gardens. Though it is a nunnery, and has its body of completely isolated, self-immolated nuns, still there is not the dead and forgotten aspect about it which so characterized the old monastery we had just left. To gain entrance here, the devotee must bring with her a dowry, and also be born of noble blood. It was within these walls that Eugenie, after losing husband and son, at first contemplated a lasting seclusion; but she was not quite prepared, it seems, to give up the allurements of the outside world. The church attached to the convent is of more than ordinary interest, and contains some relics highly prized by the devout and credulous. The visitor, on being shown about the church, will be likely to observe an image of Christ in a petticoat, which is rather a caricature. The sacristan stopped us before a small grated opening, exhibiting the altar of the nunnery, where one of the devotees, in her nun's dress, was to be seen kneeling before the shrine, apparently engaged in prayer. Presently the kneeling figure rose slowly to her feet, walked across the dimly-lighted chapel, and disappeared. The exhibition was so timely, and the visitors to the church were brought to the spot in such a business-like fashion, to say nothing of the pose and manner of the nun, that one could not but feel that the little tableau was gotten up for the special effect it might have upon strangers.

In the small railroad depot of Burgos, while the slow purgatory of being served with tickets was endured, a traveler found fault in good Saxon English as to the stupidity of such delay about trifles, and also complained of having been robbed of some small article of luggage. Another Englishman, particularly disposed to palliate matters, said there must be some mistake about it; he had been here before, and the people of Burgos were proverbially honest. By and by a great excitement was apparent on the platform, when it came to light that the apologist and indorser of the good people here was declaring that a leather strap had been purloined from his trunk, between the hotel and the depot, and the contents of his hat-box abstracted. What was to be done? The engine was screeching forth the starting signal with unwonted vigor, and there was no time to be lost. He who had spoken so favorably of the local population a few moments before, was now red in the face with anger and improper language. He had barely time to get into his seat before the train moved onward, and doubtless left his trust in humanity behind him with the stolen property. It was only an instance of misplaced confidence; and thus we bid farewell to the sleepy but picturesque old city.