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,[31] yet to all outward appearance it remains a Moorish city still. The trade-mark of the East is stamped indelibly upon it;—steep, narrow, crooked streets; and square, sombre palaces, whose grim façades give no hint of the lovely patios within. Its mazy network of calles is spread all over the surface of the great domed rock upon which it stands; and the fact that the{205} Calle del Comércio is the widest, longest and straightest of any, may serve as some indication of the character of the rest. Street frankly admits that it is one of the few cities where he could not find his way without a guide; and but that I found all ways equally fascinating, it is highly probable that I should have been in the same predicament myself. Every corner of the stage seems still set exactly as it was quitted by the heroes and heroines of Lope de Vega and Calderon. Lazarillo de Tormes might still be town crier. It might be but yesterday that the horrified Gil Blas recognised the comrades of his early escapades walking among the condemned in the procession of the Auto-da-fé. One little alley that I discovered in the course of my wanderings bore the remarkable title of “Calle del Diablo pertinece al Ayuntamiento,” “The-Devil-belongs-to-the-Corporation Street.” He does!—to many Corporations! But few are ingenuous enough to proclaim the fact at the street corners! And few have such slight cause to lament it;—he is generally a Devil of Unrest.
The great Alcázar,[32] which is the most prominent object in the city, is too uncompromisingly cubical to be strictly picturesque; and the cathedral, which is its chief glory, is singularly unobtrusive{206} in a general view. The houses shoulder up against it as though anxious to keep it hidden; and when, after much circumnavigation, we do manage at last to unmask it, behold! it is bare and featureless, only redeemed from meanness by its noble western tower.
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[33] lavished their wealth upon the adornment of their shrine. The{207} skilfulest craftsmen of the Renaissance,—Copin and Rodrigo, de Arfe and Villalpando, Borgoña and Berruguete,—spent the best years of their lives upon its stalls and rejas and custodias.[34] They were furnished with gold and silver, jasper and alabaster, with a prodigality worthy of Solomon himself; and we may well apply to them all the boast that is recorded of two of them,—that no one can ever determine who best deserves the palm.
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{208} kings and princes, are the monuments of two others;—Abu Walid the Moslem, “the good Alfaqui” who pled for his persecutors against the wrath of Alfonso VI.; and the humble shepherd of the Morena, who led Alfonso VIII. by the secret pass across the mountains, and died on the plains of Tolosa in the great victory which his guidance gained.[35] “They buried them in the city of David among the kings, because they had done good in Israel.” The men of the thirteenth century were no respecters of persons, and could understand an honourable reward.
