The general effect of its exterior, though marred by the close proximity of surrounding buildings, is exceedingly striking. Like a magnificent jewel showing its great lustre at every turn of its cutting, there is no point of view from which it cannot be seen to advantage. The cupola is a work of great taste, and the open work of the Muzarabic chapel is remarkably elegant. The stately portals, worthy of the fane to which they give admission, are of the most elaborate Gothic, and the grand façade, rich with ornament, is a work of inexhaustible detail and wonderful finish. The open work of the parapet is no less admirable. The three stories of the façade may be said to be densely peopled with magnificent statues, and the solitary belfry tower, from which ascends an elegant spire, rising to the height of 330 feet above the gloomy and silent old streets below, is crowned by a vast tiara encircling with its iron rays the great cross surmounting the whole.
The interior of the cathedral is in every way worthy of the noble aspect of the exterior. If even the idle stranger is struck with sentiments of veneration when he surveys its noble proportions—its lofty vaulted roof and its long aisles—what must be the feeling of the worshipper who comes inspired by faith to pray in such a temple?
The coloured windows are works of high art, in perfect harmony with the spirit and design of this noble cathedral. While we were examining them, the organ suddenly pealed out its solemn tones, and we knew not which most to admire—the thunder-like roll which at one moment filled the building, or the silvery sweetness of the notes by which it was followed. Sic transit gloria mundi; and truly, in such a place as old Toledo, or in the older sepulchres of the past, in Rome or Thebes, the heart of the passing pilgrim feels the weight of ages heavy upon it. Life seems to move with a slower pace, and the reflective mind is carried back to the dim eras of remotest history.
I like old cities; for there is no panorama of such grandeur as that suggested by the sight of their ruins, when the mind can call up as in a series of stately pictures those great events which have left their stamp on all ages. And no country has a history richer than that of Spain in grand and stirring incidents, or a more ample store of those venerated memorials which tell the Spaniards of the present day what their ancestors were.
How delicious it was, at night, to linger at the open casement of the quaint old Toledan fonda, and look down upon the quiet streets of the ancient city, watching the few passengers in them, while the moon shed its silvery rays on the dark old buildings, and over the far plains beyond. It was a beautiful autumn evening, and there came to us, borne along on the soft air, a strain of distant music, wild, strange, and melancholy, like the wailings of some forgotten dirge. It was a fit requiem after the toils of the day, and with the strain in our ears we went to bed and slept.
Now for Valencia and the blue Mediterranean, 306 miles distant. We start an hour before sunset on our sixteen hours' journey. The whistle screams, the train begins to move, everybody lights cigarettes. The windows are all carefully pulled up, and away we glide, wondering how long would be the process of drying, smoking, and curing the human frame into the condition of a preserved Finnan haddock or bloater. Such an atmosphere as that in which we were compelled to breathe sixteen hours, we thought, ought to do it.
Immediately after we left Madrid, our old friends, those dear, flat, uninteresting sandy plains with a few solitary olive-trees here and there, again appeared. By the way, apropos of olives, we may here utter a warning for travellers in this country. There are no half-and-half measures with Spanish olives. They are charming, no doubt, to those who are habitual eaters of them; but to such as are not, we can only say, "God help them!"
We attempted, spite of the smoke, to enjoy a few hours' sleep during the night, and were only awakened from a deep slumber on arriving in the early morning at Almanza, a miserable place with a French buffet, a Moorish castle, an historic reputation, and, thank goodness, some fresh air. We got out and walked on the platform, still rather hazy from our troubled slumbers, and found ourselves in the midst of a crowd of eccentric-looking rusticos dressed in breeches, jackets, carpets, rags, and velvet hats. We approached a magnificent French gentleman at the buffet, and received a cup of Spanish chocolate. By way of civility we asked him, "What was the difference between the Chocolat Menier and the chocolate they gave us here?" We received this answer, "None whatever, monsieur, excepting that ours is much dearer."
Leaving this very recommendatory gentleman, we turned to study the objects of local interest. Here, we thought, as well as everywhere else in Spain, there must be some interesting antiquity, something to remind us of the great men and mighty deeds of the past; and being of an inquiring mind we soon discovered that it was near Almanza that the army of Philip V., commanded by Berwick, gained a victory over the troops of the Archduke of Austria in 1707.