“Like Philip, as Professor Mapps said.”
“It took him two years to find a suitable spot for the building,” said the doctor.
“I don’t think he could have found a worse one,” laughed Murray.
“But he found just the one he wanted; and he did not select it to suit you and me. Look off at those mountains on the north,—the Guadarramas. They tower above Philip’s mausoleum, but they do not belittle it. The region is rough but grand: it is desolate; but that makes it more solemn and impressive. It is a monastery and a tomb that he built, not a pleasure-house.”
“But he made a royal residence of it,” suggested Murray.
“For the same reason that his father chose to end his days in a monastery. Philip would be a wild fanatic in our day; but he is to be judged by his own time. He was really a king and a monk, as much one as the other. When we go into the room where he died, and where he spent the last days of his life, and recall some of his history there, we shall understand him better. I don’t admire his character, but I am disposed to do justice to him.”
The party entered the church, called in Spanish templo: it is three hundred and twenty feet long, and it is the same to the top of the cupola.
“The interior is so well proportioned that you do not get an adequate idea of the size of it,” said the doctor. “Consider that you could put almost any church in our own country into this one, and have plenty of room for its spire under that dome. It is severely plain; but I think it is grand and impressive. The high altar, which I believe the professor did not make as large as it really is, is very rich in marbles and precious stones, and cost about two hundred thousand dollars.”
“That’s enough to build twenty comfortable country churches at home,” added Murray. “And this whole building cost money enough to build fifteen thousand handsome churches in any country. Of course there are plenty of beggars in Spain.”