We next ascended a broad flight of red-stained steps, and saw before us the high altar, formed of a variety of precious marbles, and inlaid with jasper. Above it rises the retablo, which is supported to the height of ninety-three feet by noble columns of the four orders of architecture, and composed of red granite, precious jaspers, and gilded bronze; while beneath the broad marble platform on which we stand is the Panteon—the burial-chamber of the kings of Spain.
High up to the right is the window of the cell in which Philip died, and through which his last gaze fell upon the altar beneath, as he took a farewell glance at the marvellous church which owed its origin to him. We now approached a heavy door, guarded by the statues of Nature and Hope, the former with the inscription, "Natura occidit," and the latter, "Exaltat spes." As our monkish guide preceded us with his melancholy mien, there was something in his glance which, as if to prepare us for what we were to see next, seemed to say:—
"Keep silence, child of frivolity, for death is in those chambers.
Startle not with echoing sound the strangely solemn peace;
Death is here in spirit, watcher of the silent tomb."
The passage through which he led us was so dark and gloomy that we could follow him only by the flaring light of the torch which he carried.
We descended a long series of steps, which, as we could see by the occasional glare of the torch falling upon them, were composed of rare and precious marbles, as were also the walls of the passage itself. No gleam of daylight ever finds its way to these subterranean chambers and galleries, and it was only by the uncertain flame of the torch that we could distinguish the objects around us.
As we approached an arched gallery, we were met by a cold damp breath of air which fell icily on the brow, and told us that we were close to the Royal Mausoleum. We felt awed by the thought that we were now in the presence of all that earth contains of men who were once the mightiest monarchs of the world. The mortal remains of the kings of Spain repose in an octagonal vault, in niches rising one above another to the roof, which terminates in a sort of cupola. There are, including the queens, twenty-six bodies here inurned; and two empty urns await the present (or rather recent) queen and her mother, to whom fate will probably now deny the privilege of finding their last resting-place in the tomb of their ancestors. Two years ago Queen Isabella had the lids of all the sarcophagi removed. Profound interest was naturally felt in approaching that of Charles V., and when the form and features of the most powerful monarch of his time were found nearly intact, all who were present gazed upon his remains with mingled feelings of curiosity and awe. So little altered were the lineaments that, though nearly three hundred years had passed, they could be easily identified by those who had seen the portrait of the king by Titian. The face of his son Philip II. had shrunk greatly; but all were reported to be in good condition.
The urns are all of marble, beautifully sculptured; and the sanguine glow of the flame played on the gilded ornaments with which they were decorated. The kings are on the right of the altar, with its great gaunt crucifix, and the queens on the left, all of royal descent, in their day reigning monarchs, but now sharing the common fate of humanity. In that niche, and within that shining casket, lies what remains of him whom once the nations feared, el César and "Master of the World," the Emperor Charles V. Beneath, is Philip II., his son, founder of the Escorial. Within this mournful chamber the spirit of the past speaks to us, telling us how little different from that of the poorest slave is the destiny of the mightiest potentate. For the rest—"Pallida mors æquo pulsat pede," &c. Kings whose power has shaken the earth must perish, although their great influence may still throb through the globe. Subject to the common lot, their ashes are scattered on the wind, and their bodies have mouldered back into clay.