I should have been glad to have prolonged my stay, and to have revisited spots full of historic interest. But I had much before me to see and study in the interior and north of Spain; therefore, though unwillingly, we took the train one night for Madrid, making that a starting point for other explorations.
I may mention that during our stay at Madrid we were entertained in a curious straggling house, occupied by Dr. Fliedner, a minister, who acted as chaplain to the German Embassy. The house, it is said, was occupied by the famous Escovedo, secretary to the still more famous Don Juan of Austria; and one night as he was returning home six ruffians waylaid him, between eight and nine o’clock, and inflicted on him wounds, of which he died in half an hour. Peres, a great villain who hated Don Juan, is said to have obtained the sanction of Philip II. for this abominable deed, prompted by the discovery of an amour between Escovedo and the Princess of Eboli. It is a horrible story of crime and vice, common in the secret annals of Spain.
In Madrid I had the privilege of using the public library, and found there a large collection of English and French, as well as Spanish, literature. I am sorry to say, that on the shelves, many volumes in our language appeared, written by “advanced thinkers,” tending to the diffusion of anti-Christian principles. And, in the windows of booksellers I noticed works for sale of the same description. The Bible Society I found at work within limits marked by law, and I attended one evening a Spanish congregation gathered by Protestant agency, and had the privilege of addressing those present, through the medium of an interpreter. I met with specimens of Spanish superstition which were very degrading. In one case I saw papers, with a figure of the Virgin’s shoe printed upon them, sold to ignorant people as a sacred charm.
The Plaza at Madrid is a magnificent square, encompassed by a line of handsome buildings with a garden, fountains, and an equestrian statue of Philip III. in the middle. Here some of the autos were held in the seventeenth century, and in 1869 excavations were made, where incontestable proofs of burnings appeared in bones, charred wood, chain links, nails and rivets discovered in the soil. Dr. Manning, in his “Spanish Pictures,” wrote soon after the discovery: “I visited the spot, and much as I had heard of the horrors of the Quemadore, I was not prepared for the sight I beheld; layer above layer, like the strata of a geological model, were these silent, but most eloquent witnesses of the murderous cruelty of Rome.”
I may here add that I saw other mementoes of the Spanish Inquisition in underground vaults connected with a house occupied by the Rev. Mr. Jameson, a Presbyterian clergyman at work in Madrid. I found recesses walled up, which it was said had been cells in the days of persecution.
Of course, I visited the immense picture-gallery in Madrid; but the size and number of rooms with multitudes of paintings on the walls, were so bewildering, as to make only a confused impression on my mind. Spanish art has not the charm for me which it has for many. Velasquez and Murillo, of course, are pre-eminent. The latter stands first of all in my estimation. No one, who has seen only the dirty beggar boys at Dulwich, can have any conception of Murillo’s merits. It is in Seville, however, that he must be studied, if any one would see him at his best. I found no Murillo in Madrid which charmed me like those it was my privilege to enjoy in the Capital of the South. There is a good chapter on Velasquez and Murillo in Sir E. Head’s “Handbook of Painting—Spanish School.”
“Velasquez and Murillo are preferred, and preferred with reason, to all the others, as the most original and characteristic of their school. These two great painters are remarkable for having lived in the same time, in the same school, painted for the same people and of the same age, and yet to have formed two styles so different and opposite that the most unlearned can scarcely mistake them, Murillo being all softness, while Velasquez is all sparkle and vivacity.” [329]
A curious story is told of a picture by Velasquez—the portrait of Adrian Pulido Pareja. Philip IV. coming, as usual, to see the artist at work, started when he saw this portrait, and addressing himself to it, exclaimed: “What, art thou still here? Did I not send thee off? How is it thou art not gone?” But seeing the figure did not salute him, the King discovered his mistake, and, turning to Velasquez, said: “I assure you I was deceived.”
We visited the Escorial some distance from Madrid. Philip II. is buried there. Its situation is wild and desolate—a vast expanse of undulations, scarcely to be called mountainous, except in the distance, where snow-streaked sierras send cutting blasts over the slate roofs and against the grey stone walls. The building itself looks like a manufactory, at best like spacious barracks; one may think it something between a prison and a convent, or rather a combination of the two; at any rate its cold, stern, repulsive exterior is a fair type of the builder’s character and influence. The only objects of much interest, and they are in truth most melancholy, one finds in the monkish apartments, the monastic chapel, and the costly sepulchre of the founder and his family. A long and narrow room is shown with brick floor and leathern chairs, where he dined. Next to it is another, only separated by folding doors, from which, when open, the despot borrowed the light by which he wrote his despatches. In this room is a plain oak table, with three brass ink bottles on one side, and a velvet writing-case in the middle; these, with the leather-bottomed chair on which he sat, are carefully preserved. From this room you pass into a third, low and dark, a mere cell, whence through an opening in the wall, the altar of the monastery chapel may be seen; there he spent his last hours, after being, like his prototype Herod, smitten by an angel of the Lord, and eaten up of worms; no death could be more horrible. That chapel is an enormous marble building, most costly, most dreary, and into one corner of the coro he would sometimes steal, to perform his devotions with the Jeronymite brotherhood. The sepulchre under the high altar is reached by a slippery marble staircase; and round the sides of the vault are placed sarcophagi, one above another; Charles V. occupies the topmost position, Philip being placed under his father. The dismalness of the spot is unrelieved by any emblem or suggestion of Christian hope: not even such a ray falls over it as that which lighted up the mind of the heathen Cicero, when he spoke of meeting in the future life an assembly of noble souls.
Toledo is about forty miles from Madrid, and is easily reached by rail. Scenery on the way is uninteresting till you get near the city, when, crossing the bridge over the Tagus, you are reminded of the rocky seat on which sits Durham Cathedral. Winding through narrow streets of the city and past Moorish-looking entrances into courts, called patios, I thought Toledo was a sort of album, with ornamented leaves on one side, and romantic legends on the other. At the foot of St. Martin’s bridge lies a cave, where Roderic, the last of the Goths, saw the lady whose seduction caused the Moorish invasion; which invasion robbed the monarch of his crown. The cathedral is grand indeed. The cloisters are full of rich tracery, elegant pilasters crowned with statuettes, and open windows adorned by elaborate tracery. The interior is worthy of its surroundings and its approach; and I was deeply interested in the Mozarabic chapel. There is preserved a thin folio, bearing the name of the chapel, and containing a Latin service, used there every day. With it is connected an absurd tradition, the story and meaning of which are disputed by archæologists. With the cathedral you have connected the name of Bartolomo Carranza, called the Black Friar, whose long story is entwined round the Council of Trent, and with Philip of Spain, who married the English Queen Mary. He attended Charles V. on his deathbed, and was accused of heresy; and yet the Pope raised for him a monument in commemoration of his virtues. It is said Carranza believed in the doctrine of Justification by Faith; and his history from beginning to end appears to me a hopeless puzzle. [333]