The view into the double aisles round the choir across the magnificent Capilla Mayor, and down the side aisles of the nave, is superb, whilst the atmosphere of the whole place, so dusky, and twilight always, gives wonderful solemnity to the whole. The windows are large and numerous, but all are filled with beautiful stained glass, so that not a ray falls that is not quite marvellous in beauty of colours. The choir and aisles are arranged in three gradations of height, and the effect of the three tiers of coloured windows is full of charm. It is in the intermediate aisle that the practised eye recognises at a glance the influence of the Moor, for the arcade of the triforium has the unmistakeable horse-shoe arch; and very beautiful is the effect, and testifying to the good sense of the architect who so wisely imitated what was good in foreign art.
Spend hours in wandering from aisle to aisle from chapel to chapel, till you have mastered the grand outline of the architect in all its simplicity and perfection, and then how much yet remains to study! There is the beautiful arrangement of columns, about which Mr. Street writes so enthusiastically, the noble rose-window of the transept, the doorway of St. Catharine with its elaborate mouldings, the screens round the Coro, the chapel of San Ildefonso with its richly-sculptured tombs, all remarkable as specimens of fourteenth century work; then there are the cloister and chapel of San Blas; the chapel of Santiago, great and interesting works of the fifteenth century; the massive brass and iron screens, the grand and gorgeous Retablos, and lastly, the beautiful stained glass medallions of all periods. What treasures of tradition, of thought, of time, are here! Who leaves Toledo without a regret that none can be properly studied in a passing visit?
The cathedrals of Burgos and Toledo were all that we were able to see of Gothic architecture in Spain, but these more than fulfilled any expectations held out to us. Toledo, I presume, equals any church in Europe in the grandeur of its plan and the beauty of every part; and certainly surpasses any I have seen for solemnity. I would fain set out on another pilgrimage at some future time, to see the Cathedrals of Leon, Segovia, Salamanca, and the beautiful old churches of Cataluña. Indeed, so rich is Spain in ecclesiastical architecture, often exotic, but belonging to her by right of possession nevertheless, and so more than rich in church furniture, that such a journey would be unequalled in interest and instruction. Think for a moment of the treasures scattered by the way. There are the magnificent Retablos of Salamanca and Gerona, richly sculptured and covered with gold, with silver and with painting; there are the elaborately carved choir stalls of Toledo and Valencia, the sumptuous monuments of Avila, Miraflores, and Burgos, the exquisite screens or Rejas in metal, so plentiful in all the churches, curious old organs, carved doors and ceilings, regal magnificence and abundant labour manifested everywhere.
What is very curious in the history of Moorish and Christian art in Spain, is their distinction from each other. The two arts ran in parallel lines; and whilst the Moors were building the Mosque at Cordova, the Alcazar and Giralda at Seville, and the Alhambra, the Christians were raising the beautiful Gothic churches so thickly scattered all over the country. To this rule there are, of course, exceptions; such for instance as the triforium of the choir at Toledo, which is decidedly Moorish in design, the Moorish carpentry plentifully found in late Gothic buildings, the Moorish battlement constantly seen on the walls of Spanish towns; and there are other examples, though none on the whole of importance. The Moors and Christians were alternately conquerors and vanquished, and always enemies; so that it was not to be expected that they should have copied each other’s art, however ready they might be to adopt modifications of it. The Moorish builders and architects often worked for and with their Christian masters; and this accounts for the Moorish elements predominant in the streets and buildings of such a city as Toledo. But the arts of the two people remained as separate as their languages.
Toledo is a most bewildering place, and without good Señor Cabezas, the traveller would find himself lost in every sense. The streets are thoroughly Moorish, tortuous, narrow, steep, and ill-paved; and you might fancy yourself in Algiers in any one of these dark alleys, so admirably built for coolness, seclusion, and security. You might fancy yourself in Algiers, or indeed, in any Eastern city, on other accounts, especially the singing,—that monotonous, dreary, interminable singing you hear everywhere among the Arabs. The Spaniard, among other things, has borrowed of the Oriental those dreary “howlings of Tarshish,”[6] which in Toledo, in Cordova, and in Granada, recall the East, if the East has come within your range of travel, and if not, set you wondering whence so lively a people acquired so melancholy a kind of recreation. Anything more depressing than these same “howlings of Tarshish” cannot be conceived. If you are in a thoroughly Spanish inn you hear them incessantly from morning to night. The servants begin hours before you rise, the children of the house take up the strain, master and mistress sing over their cookery and ledger-writing, stable-boy and gardener sing over their work without. Strive as you may, you cannot get away from the sound. It is better to sing yourself, and then you like it.
Again, setting aside the old Moorish houses still remaining, you find that the modern Toledans have built on the same plan, shutting themselves up within four walls like true Orientals, and delighting their eyes with foliage and fountain in sunny courts. But the beautiful precept of cleanliness is not imposed on the Toledans as it was on the Moors, and everywhere one regrets it. The streets are filthy, and so rugged that they make you lame in an hour; and yet there is so much to see that, lame or no, you must keep walking on.
What irritates you beyond endurance is the culpable neglect of everything valuable to both historian and antiquary. Ruin runs riot as she pleases, and not a hand is put forth to stay her progress. Inlaid ceilings of cedar-wood, delicate diapers of plaster-work, pavements of beautiful tiles,—all are allowed to go to ruin; and they go so fast, that my advice to all interested in the wonderful Moorish antiquities of Toledo is, that they should see them at once. A few years hence there will be none to see.
Cabezas, who has a genuine love of what is really good in art and curious in antiquities, bewailed with us this cruel contempt of both on the part of his countrymen. There was something quite touching in the way he lingered over every relic, as if it were a living thing fading before his eyes. It is the same with every kind of artistic or archæological treasure, Roman, Gothic, and Moorish, all share the same fate. I don’t think Spaniards, as a rule, care much for what the Moors left behind them; rather it is cavilled at and despised.
A few years ago a most precious treasure-trove was discovered near Toledo and sold—oh! indifferent Spain!—to the Emperor of the French. It consisted of five or six crowns, with crosses suspended to them, and three smaller ones without crosses,—all of pure gold, beautifully worked and adorned with jewels. These crowns, now exhibited in the Hôtel de Cluny, are relics of the Gothic kings of Spain, and are evidently votive crowns, of the age of Recesvinthus, and the episcopate of San Ildefonso; and, though belonging to a very early period of art, about 650-672, exhibit extraordinary knowledge of the goldsmith’s art. Doubtless, from time to time, other reliquiæ, quite as interesting, will come to light; but what will become of them, Heaven only knows.
I don’t know which phase of Spanish history is most generally interesting—the Mahomedan, the Catholic, or the Aristocratic: the former being typified in the Alhambra, the second in the paintings of Murillo and Zurbaran, and the third in the splendid courts of the Philips. I confess that for me the Mahomedan phase, so graceful, so artistic, so beneficent as it was, surpasses in interest every other. Look a little into the history of Spain, and what do facts tell you? To whom is she indebted for her most sumptuous monuments, her most fertile districts, her most elegant arts, her most picturesque costumes, her most precious products?—To the Moors. Who brought down the cool waters from rocky prisons, turning whole wastes into sunny vineyards and gardens?—The Moors. Who built bridges, fortifications, and watch-towers?—The Moors. Who made the Spanish language what it is now, the most sonorous and picturesque of any in Europe?—The Moors. Who planted the orange-tree and the palm, the fig and the olive?—The Moors.