The library is small but very handsome. From this we go to the interesting artillery museum, and then to see the coach-houses and stables of the palace, begun by Charles III. and finished by Ferdinand VII. One felt more than ever sorry for the poor fugitive queen, at sight of all this majesty. Beautiful Arabian and Andalusian horses and mules, over a hundred carriages of every hue and shape, from the black, cumbrous thing in which poor Jeanne la Folle carried about the coffin of her handsome husband, to the beautiful modern carriage in which the lovely Infanta went so lately to her bridal! All had a personal sort of interest; but most touching of all was the sight of the little carriages and perambulators which bore evidence of having been long used by the royal children.
The state carriages are very grand, many of them gifts from crowned heads: one from the first Napoleon; another from the present emperor to Queen Isabella; and a handsome plain English coach from Queen Victoria to her majesty. But even more than the carriages do the saddles and embroidered housings, the plumes, and harness, and trappings, and liveries, give one an idea of this splendor-loving court, especially those belonging to the days of Charles III. and Philip V. Above all these stood the crowned lion, with his feet on two worlds, significant of the greatness of Spain. And where is she, so lately the mistress of all this grandeur? The people told us that there had been thirteen thousand people dependent upon the queen's privy purse; that she had a school in the palace for all the children of her servants; and that there was no end to her generosity and kindness; and that, had she not been away, the revolution would never have occurred.
And just here we meet a long line of troops, horse, foot, and artillery, who proved to be the men who had fought so bravely for their queen at Alcolea, and at such fearful odds. The men of Novaliches!
And no man cried, "God bless them!" as they passed, weary and dispirited, through the streets; their enemies would not do them honor, and their friends dared not.
When we reached the hotel, General Prim was making a speech to a ragged, dirty mob, who were shouting for "Libertad." He told them it was his saint's day—that they need not work, he would give them money. So, after distributing some coppers, he got into a fine carriage and drove off. While we struggled to get in, one of our party heard some of the poor women exclaim softly, "Our poor queen!" and then the usual piteous exclamation, "Ay Dios mios!" "Ay Dios mios!"
Wednesday, Oct. 21.
Go this morning to "finish" the pictures in the Museo—if such a thing could be done—but the more one looks, the more one feels it impossible ever to finish with them.
The sculpture-gallery (gallery of Isabella II.) is very handsome, but contains only a few antiques of interest and a beautiful modern statue of St. John of God carrying a sick man out of his burning hospital. Next we go to the gallery of the Belli Arti, where, among other good pictures, are four of Murillo's, and first of these "St. Elizabeth of Hungary washing the Lepers," one of the greatest pictures in the world—by some considered Murillo's very best. It was painted for the "Caritad" of Seville, for which its subject made it peculiarly appropriate. The beautiful saint is the centre of a group of nine persons plainly dressed in black, an apron before her, the crown upon her head, and above and around a soft luminous halo seems to beam from her whole person. Her white hands are washing the head of a ragged boy who leans over the basin, and writhes with pain. A lovely young girl holds a pitcher, another the ointments, and an old woman with spectacles peers between them. In front of the picture, a beggar-man is taking off the dirty bandage from his leg, ready for his turn to be washed. On the other side, a withered old crone, with stick in hand, gazes eagerly on the saint, who speaks with her. A lame beggar on crutches is behind, and in the distance is the palace and a dinner-table upon the terrace, surrounded by beggars, upon whom the queen waits, showing her charity in another form. An artist who was copying the picture made us remark the wonderful variety and harmony in the figure, the tender pity of the saint's expression, the natural and graceful grouping, and the soft light over all. Many critics find the sores too truly painted to be agreeable to look upon; but (as some Protestant traveller says of it) "her saint-like charity ennobles these horrors, on which her woman's eye dares not look; but her royal hand does not refuse to heal, and how gently! The service of love knows no degradation."
In another room are two semicircular pictures, taken also from Seville, (from the church of St. Maria de la Blanca,) representing the legend of the founding of the great church of St. Maria Maggiore in Rome, in the year 360.