The regent of a goodly realm,A sovereign wise and fair,Gazed fondly on her youthful son,And breathed her earnest prayer;The one wish of her loving heart,Her ceaseless, solemn thought,Sole boon her love had craved for him,The only prize she sought.Was it new conquests? blood-bought gemsTo deck his kingly hand?Fair realms by cruel triumphs wedUnto his rightful land?Rich trappings? robes of royal state?A fawning courtier throng?Or minstrels' ringing lays, to pourThe flatteries of song?Nay, nay, no earthly leaven base,No worldly dross could clingUnto that pure, maternal prayerFor France's youthful king.'My precious son! more dear than life,More prized than aught on earth,In all this false and fleeting worldMy only gift of worth!"Oh! loved and treasured as thou art,Far rather would I weepAbove the bier where thou wert laidIn thy last, dreamless sleep,Than live to know this form of thineHeld, foully shrined within,A tarnished gem, a soul defiled,Bye'en one mortal sin.."Well answered was that mother's prayer:No foul, polluting taintE'er marred the white and shining soulOf France's royal saint.His pure baptismal robe of graceUnstained through life he wore;The lily sceptre of the justKing Louis brightly bore.O Christian matron! in thy heartThis lesson fair enshrine;And let the blest, heroic prayerOf holy Blanche be thine.For what are all the gifts of earth,The charms of form and face,If the immortal soul hath lostIts bright, baptismal grace?Ay! what avails the wealth of worlds,If, lured by syren vice,God's heir hath sold his birthright fair,His only "pearl of price"?In vain may proud ambition graspVast realms to tyrants given,If from his guilty hand hath passedThe heritage of heaven.
The regent of a goodly realm,A sovereign wise and fair,Gazed fondly on her youthful son,And breathed her earnest prayer;The one wish of her loving heart,Her ceaseless, solemn thought,Sole boon her love had craved for him,The only prize she sought.Was it new conquests? blood-bought gemsTo deck his kingly hand?Fair realms by cruel triumphs wedUnto his rightful land?Rich trappings? robes of royal state?A fawning courtier throng?Or minstrels' ringing lays, to pourThe flatteries of song?Nay, nay, no earthly leaven base,No worldly dross could clingUnto that pure, maternal prayerFor France's youthful king.'My precious son! more dear than life,More prized than aught on earth,In all this false and fleeting worldMy only gift of worth!"Oh! loved and treasured as thou art,Far rather would I weepAbove the bier where thou wert laidIn thy last, dreamless sleep,Than live to know this form of thineHeld, foully shrined within,A tarnished gem, a soul defiled,Bye'en one mortal sin.."Well answered was that mother's prayer:No foul, polluting taintE'er marred the white and shining soulOf France's royal saint.His pure baptismal robe of graceUnstained through life he wore;The lily sceptre of the justKing Louis brightly bore.O Christian matron! in thy heartThis lesson fair enshrine;And let the blest, heroic prayerOf holy Blanche be thine.For what are all the gifts of earth,The charms of form and face,If the immortal soul hath lostIts bright, baptismal grace?Ay! what avails the wealth of worlds,If, lured by syren vice,God's heir hath sold his birthright fair,His only "pearl of price"?In vain may proud ambition graspVast realms to tyrants given,If from his guilty hand hath passedThe heritage of heaven.
MADRID.
Monday, Oct. 19.
We visit the "Museo" to-day—the richest picture-gallery in the world. Ten Raphaels, forty-six Murillos, sixty-two Rubens, sixty-four Velasquez, forty-three Titians, etc. But even Raphael's "Perla," (that holy family called the Pearl,) even his "Spasmo de Silicia," (Christ falling beneath the cross,) even Guido's exquisite Magdalen and Spagnoletto's "Jacob's Dream," even these great pictures sink to nothingness beside Murillo's "Annunciation," his "Adoration of the Shepherds," "Eleazar at the Well," "The Martyrdom of St. Andrew," the "Divine Shepherd," the Infant Saviour giving St. John to drink from a shell, called "Los Niños de la Concha," the "Vision of St. Bernard," and those wonderful "Conceptions" which embody "all that is most sublime and ecstatic in devotion and in the representation of divine love."
The more one sees of Murillo, the more one is convinced that he is the greatest painter of the world. Others may have points of excellence superior to his; but his subjects are so full of piety and tenderness, so fascinating in coloring, and appeal so at once to the heart and the common sense of mankind, that they please at once the learned and the unlearned. The Spaniards say of him that he painted "Con leche y sangre," with milk and blood, so wonderful are his flesh tints.
The "Spasmo de Silicia" is so called from the convent for which it was painted, "St. Maria della Spasima," in Palermo. "The Virgin's Trance on the way to Calvary" is considered by some critics only second to the "Transfiguration."
The "Perla" is so named because Philip IV., beholding it for the first time, exclaimed, "This is the pearl of my pictures." It belonged to the Duke of Mantua, was bought by Charles I., and was sold with his other pictures by the "tasteless puritans and reformers."
Tuesday, Oct. 20.
Spend another hour in the "Museo," looking at the pictures of the Flemish and Dutch schools—fifty-three Teniers, twenty-two Van Eycks, fifty-four Breughels, twenty-three Snyders, ten Wouvermans, etc. A wonderful gallery, so rich in great masters.
We then go to see the "House of the Congress," which is handsomely decorated. The ministers' bench is here blue, while the others are red.
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.
The first picture represents the "Dream" of the Roman patrician and his wife, in which he sees the Blessed Virgin in the heavens, pointing out the spot where the church shall be built—upon which spot the snow will fall in August. In the companion picture, the founder and his wife are kneeling before the pope relating the vision, while in the dim distance is seen a procession advancing to the appointed place.
Coming from the Museo, we go to see the palace of the Duke of Medina Coeli, one of the richest nobles of Spain and one of the highest in rank. A regal establishment, with a greater air of comfort than prevails in most palaces. Gardens and picture-galleries, a theatre, suites of magnificent rooms—one in rose-colored satin, with walls hung in gray silk.
Thursday, Oct. 22.
Set out for Toledo; pass the palace of "Aranjuez," the St. Cloud of Spain, as la Grandja, built by Philip V., is its Versailles. We mistake our way, and are left on the plains of la Mancha in a miserable "posada," or rather a "venta," (the lower grade of inn,) where we remain all day with nothing visible save one of Don Quixote's windmills, which we are sorely tempted to battle with after the fashion of that redoubtable hero. How truly it has been said of this sterile-looking country, the "old Castile of la Mancha," by a witty traveller—" the country is brown, the man is brown, his jacket, his mantle, his wife, hisstew, his mule, his house—all partake of the color of the saffron, which is profusely cultivated, and which enters into the composition of his food as well as his complexion."
At length we are cheered by the arrival of a lovely Spanish woman and her daughter, who are returning from their estate near by, and come, like ourselves, to wait the train for Madrid.
The daughter had been educated in the Sacré Coeur Convent near Madrid. Spoke French well. She told us in her lively way that, though these plains looked so brown and desert-like, they brought good crops and "put money in the pocket," and that back from the roads were fine plantations of olive and vine.
Saturday, Oct. 24.
Some Spanish friends come to show us some of the hospitals and other great charities of Madrid, which numbers forty in all. First, to the general hospital, attended by the Sisters of Charity—a city in itself, where are over eighteen hundred sick poor. It covers an immense extent of ground, and, like all Spanish hospitals, has shady courts, and gardens, and corridors running around the courts. All was clean and comfortable, the sisters tenderly feeding the sick children and old people, and reading or praying beside the beds.
From this we go to the most interesting of all, called the "Maison de la Providence," supported by the ladies of rank in Madrid, and under the care of the French Sisters of Charity, who wear the familiar "cornette." Here, besidesenfants trouvésand orphans, they have (or had) six hundred poor children, taken out of the streets. Many of these are kept for the day, the parents seeking them at night: all of them are taught gratuitously. We were shown a room in which forty of the smallest (not one over two years) had been put to bed for the noonday sleep, perfect little cherubs, side by side, on the tiniest and whitest of beds, with fringed curtains above them. The sister opened the window-shutters to give us a look at this lovely picture; and the light woke many of them, who sat up rubbing their bright eyes, and looking with wonder at the strangers, but not one cried. In one corner were great basins and towels showing why the faces were so clean and rosy.
The sister then took us to the playground, where hundreds of little things, from the ages of three to six years, were playing; the boys on one side, the girls on the other; the sisters with them. We were invited to remain and see them go into school, that we might see the system of uniting instruction with amusement, which has been so successfully employed by these charitable teachers. At the sound of an instrument, (something like a castanet,) the little things fell into ranks, one behind the other, the hindmost holding on with both hands to the shoulders of the one who preceded him. In this way, and slowly keeping time with their little feet, they marched into the room, marching and countermarching with admirable precision. Three divisions of eight, headed by a "captain," (a well-drilled soldier,) form, and go to their seats; each captain helps to seat his division, and then counts to see if he has the correct number. The children then rise to say the Lord's Prayer, all in concert, slowly and reverently, preceding it with the "sign of the cross," made with, some, such tiny fingers! The sister next proceeds to give a lesson. Great black letters, on wooden blocks, (so large as to be seen by all,) are one by one laid in grooves upon an inclined plane, the children all (together) calling out the letter as it is placed, spelling the word, then reading (or rather, singing) the sentence. If the sister makes a mistake, a dozen little voices correct it. A child of six is next chosen to spell a sentence, and severe were the little critics when he misplaced a letter. Next came a lesson in Scripture history. A book of colored prints was opened here and there, and the stories were told by the children in their own pretty way, of Adam and Eve, David and Absalom, etc. We were presently shown the children old enough to be taught to work, little things of five and six years, knitting or sewing; and then a class making plain sewing; and then the larger orphan girls, working the finest needlework and embroidery.
And this is one of eight such institutions in Madrid! It is kept up by individual charity; and the fear is, that it must be curtailed if not closed on account of the revolution; the ladies who contributed most to it having been forced to leave with the queen's party, or having absented themselves from fear of getting into trouble. These high-born ladies have had also many schools in different parts of the city, where they taught the poor every Sunday, as in our Sunday-schools. The provisional government has stopped all these, on the pretext that they are "incendiary," as they have also that of the "Conferences of St. Vincent de Paul"!
Our Spanish friends tell us of the closing, yesterday, of the "royal school," (founded many centuries ago by one of the kings of Spain, and supported from the privy purse of the reigning king or queen,) for the daughters of the nobility who have met with reverse of fortune, orphans and others of good birth but of no means. Yesterday these poor girls were turned out, homeless, houseless; and as they passed along, the brutal rabble insulted them with cries of, "Come out, you thieves; you have eaten our bread long enough; come out, and let us have place." To-day, we see them tearing down the building. And this is "progress!"
We hear that the carriage of the Duchess Medina Coeli has been assaulted to-day, the crown upon her carriage pelted, the glasses broken, with the cry of "Down with the aristocrats!"—that fatal cry, which (with many other bad things) they borrow from the French, and which was the signal to spill so much "good" blood.
Toledo.
October 25.
Only three hours' time (by rail) separate Toledo and Madrid, the old and new world of Spain! What a contrast between the two! Toledo towers like an eagle's nest on the steep rock, the "dark, melancholy" Tagus winding below, with walls and Moorish gates and steep crags, with Roman and Gothic and Arabic ruins, with glorious memories of the fierce and warlike Goths, and of its imperial renown under Charles V.; while the modern upstart, Madrid, has nothing of which to boast, save fine houses, and shops, bustle and traffic, noise and dirt, "progress" and revolution!
Toledo is said to have been a Phoenician or Grecian colony, then conquered by the all-absorbing Romans, 146 B.C., and the favorite resort of the Jews who fled from Jerusalem after its fall, and who became here rich and powerful, and exercised an important influence in the history of the country until expelled by Ferdinand and Isabella, in 1492.
In the fifth century, the Goths conquered Spain and founded that splendid and powerful kingdom which, after three hundred years, ended with Roderick in 712, when the Moors, under Taric, overthrew the Goths in the battle of the Guadalete, and overran all Spain. In 1085, it was reconquered by Alonzo V., and Toledo was the seat of the court until removed by Philip II. to Madrid in 1560, and (for a few years) to Valladolid.
Our first duty is to the cathedral, considered by many persons to be the finest building in the world. It was commenced by St. Ferdinand in 1227, on the site of a mosque, which, in turn, had been built upon a church founded in 587 by St. Eugenius, the friend and disciple of St. Denis, who introduced Christianity into Spain. It employed one hundred and forty-nine of the greatest artists of the world two hundred and sixty-six years to complete and render it the masterpiece it now is. The cathedral of Seville is grander, higher, more impressive from its austere simplicity; but this, from its greater lightness, the mingling of the early Gothic with the later and more florid style, from the Moorish carvings on the white stone of which it is built, is more graceful and beautiful; and from the thousand memories of great men and great deeds with which it is associated, its royal tombs and statues, its Muzurabic chapel, its great relics, its grand treasures, is infinitely more interesting.
We arrived in time to hear the high mass—the glorious organs, and fine voices, while the morning sunlight streamed through seven hundred and fifty stained windows and among eighty-eight colossal pillars. Picturesque groups knelt before the different shrines. We chose the chapel of St. Ildefonso, raised upon the spot where, according to the legend, he received the chasuble from the hands of the Blessed Virgin, which Murillo has made the subject of one of his finest pictures.
Near this chapel is the altar at which Ferdinand and Isabella heard mass after the conquest of Granada. The grand retablo of the main altar extends from the altar to the ceiling, and is considered a marvel of exquisite carving, representing the scenes in the passion of our Lord—the work of twenty-five artists, of whom John of Bologna was one.
On either side of this, (in niches,) are the tombs of Sancho the Brave, Alfonso VII., and Sancho the Wise, and, below these, that of the great Cardinal Mendoza. On each side of the altar are screens, of which the carvings in marble are exquisite, as are the seventy stalls of the choir, which are divided by jasper pillars. The two pulpits are of gilt metal resting on marble columns, and are of the finest workmanship. The chapels are exceedingly rich, especially that of Santiago, built by that worthless favorite of John II. of Castile, Don Alvaro de Luna, as the burial-place of his family. Upon his tomb was originally a statue which was contrived so as to rise and kneel at the time of the "elevation" during mass; but Queen Isabella, the wife of John II., (who was the means of bringing him to justice,) had it changed. He lies quietly enough now, with his sword between his legs, while kneeling figures of knights pray at each corner of the tomb.
The chapter-house contains portraits of all the archbishops of Toledo, many pictures, and a superb carved and inlaid ceiling of alerce wood. Here have been held all the important councils of Spain. There is a chapel filled with interesting relics, and the treasures of the church surpass those of all Spain in value. Among these is the cross which Cardinal Mendoza carried in procession at the surrender of Granada, and planted on the walls of the Alhambra; a custodia of gold and silver, weighing twenty-five arobas—about six hundred pounds—nine feet high, and covered with myriads of statuettes and exquisite ornaments. It was given by Queen Isabella, and made from the first gold sent by Columbus from America. There was one vestment covered with eighty-five thousand pearls; another with as great profusion of coral; a crown, and other ornaments of diamonds and other jewels; a missal, given by St. Louis; some silver plate carved by Benvenuto Cellini; and in the vestuario is the grandest display of vestments in the world. Those at St. Peter's are not so fine. Many of these were given by cardinals Mendoza and Ximenes, by Queen Isabella, and other sovereigns; and most of them many centuries old, yet preserving the brightness of the gold and silver work, and the colors of the embroidery. There were the chairs used by these great dignitaries, and the hangings used to adorn the church on the occasion of the thanksgiving for the victory of Lepanto.
But above all this is the interest felt in the "Muzarabic Chapel," built by Cardinal Ximenes, (Cisneros, as they call him in Spanish,) to preserve the ancient liturgy of the Muzarabes, (Muzarabes—mixed Arabs,) who were the Goths who, after the conquest of Spain by the Moors, agreed to live under the Moslem rule, retaining the Christian worship. This is the oldest ritual in Spain, introduced here by the apostles of this country, St. Torquatus and his companions. It was at first, in most respects, similar to the Roman liturgy; but underwent many changes after the conquest of Spain by the Visi-Goths and Vandals, who were Arians, and brought with them to Spain their liturgy, which was Greco-Arian, written in Latin.
This Gothic liturgy was almost exclusively adopted in Spain, after the fourth council of Toledo in 633, when St. Isidore of Seville and other celebrated Spanish bishops of this period, to put a stop to the disorders in the churches, arranged the ritual and obliged all to follow it. Even after the introduction of the Gregorian liturgy, the Spaniards retained their own, and it was universal up to the eighth century, when the Moors conquered Spain. By those Goths who submitted to the Moors, and who were promised freedom of their religion, it was guarded with the utmost vigilance; and even after Spain was conquered by the free Spaniards, (who had meantime adopted the Gregorian rite,) the Muzarabes retained their own Gothic rite, and it was allowed to them in six parishes, just as it had existed during the six hundred years of Moorish domination.
But as the Muzarabic families disappeared or mingled with others, their venerable and ancient liturgy gradually disappeared; and but for cardinals Mendoza and Ximenes, it must have been lost entirely. The first formed the design which Ximenes carried out—gathered up all the manuscripts of their liturgy, had them revised by their own priests, and printed a great number of the missals, and built this chapel in his own cathedral, (called "ad Corpus Christi,") and founded a college of thirteen priests to serve it, confiding to the chapter of the cathedral the protection of this religious foundation. Other bishops followed his example, and in the sixteenth century a chapel was founded in Salamanca, and another in Valladolid; but the one in Toledo seems to be the only one now existing: here the mass is said every day at nine o'clock; but few attend it, and it has become a mere liturgic curiosity.
It commences with a prayer very little different from the Roman liturgy; then the same psalm "Judica me," the introit, the "Gloria in Excelsis," a lesson from the Old Testament, then the gradual and epistle. The prayers of the offertory are almost identical with those of the Roman liturgy; then follow prayers like the Greek and Milanese liturgies; then the preface. But the canon of the mass is different; the trisagion is followed immediately by the consecration, and the credo is said at the "elevation." The host is divided into two parts; the priest then divides one part into five, and the other into four small bits; places them upon the paten, upon which is engraved a cross composed of seven circles, so that seven pieces of the host are placed in the seven circles. He then places (on the right) at the side of the cross upon the paten, the other two parts; each of these nine parts has a name corresponding to a mystery in the life of Christ, and they form, placed upon the paten the following figures,
IncarnationPassionNativityDeathCircumcisionResurrectionEpiphanyAscensionEternal Kingdom
After this division, follows the "Pater," a prayer for the afflicted, for prisoners, the sick and the dead. The priest then takes a particle of the host corresponding to the words, "Eternal Kingdom," and lets it fall into the chalice, pronouncing the appropriate words; then he blesses the people, and communicates; then the particle of the host corresponding to the word "Ascension," recites a prayer for the dead, says the "Domine, non sum dignus," and communicates with the particle of the host just mentioned, and so successively with all the others; empties the chalice, takes the ablutions, says the post-communion, the "Salva Regina," blesses the people, and leaves the altar.
Over the altar of the Muzarabic chapel is a picture of the taking of Oran, (in Africa,) which Ximenes conquered at his own risk and his own expense, and made a gift of it to the crown of Spain.
Opposite the cathedral is the archbishop's palace, where is a library open to the public, and adjoining this is the "Casa del Ayuntamiento," house of the municipality, built by Del Greco, a Greek who came to Toledo in 1577, where he became famous as painter and architect.
We now travel through the narrow, precipitous streets, visiting curious and beautiful architectural remains of the Gothic and Moorish times, found in public and private buildings, strange projecting door-posts, with cannon-ball ornaments; traverse the "Zocodover," the market square, which is most Moorish looking, with irregular windows and balconies, and is as well the fashionable promenade, and lounging place as place of traffic. Among the many churches, two are especially interesting in arabesque remains—St. Maria de la Blanca and El Transitu, built in 1326, which were once synagogues; the latter was afterward given by Queen Isabella to the order of Calatrava.
Next to the cathedral in interest is the church of St. Juan de los Reyes, (St. John of the Kings,) St. John being the special patron of the kings of Spain. This was built by Ferdinand and Isabella in 1496, in thanksgiving for the victory of Toro, where they defeated the king of Portugal, who had set up a rival to the throne of Castile, in the person of Jeanne Beltranea, the natural daughter of Jeanne of Portugal, wife of Henry II., the elder brother of Isabella. Upon the outside walls of this church hang the chains taken off the Christians found in captivity in Granada. The interior has been much changed; but there still remain the high tribunes used by the royal family, and much of the curious and elaborate carving, whose richness was once past all description. The cloisters of the adjoining convent of Franciscans, now in ruins, were once one of the most splendid specimens of florid Gothic art in the world. The fine pointed arches and delicate arabesque carvings are now half covered by passion-vine and ivy, and the pretty garden is a desert wild. In this convent the great Cardinal Ximenes made his novitiate as a Franciscan monk, from which retirement he was called, by Cardinal Mendoza, to be the confessor of Queen Isabella; and this wonderful woman, who had the discernment to know and choose men who could aid her in her great designs, when Mendoza died, named as successor to the "great cardinal" the poor monk Francis Ximenes, who became at one time bishop of Toledo, primate of Spain, and grand chancellor of Castile; and though, in this position, the first personage of the court, and the greatest grandee of the kingdom, he still retained the simple habits of the Franciscan; and it was necessary to have an order from the pope to induce him to assume the appendages belonging to his rank.Indeed, it is said that under his robes of silk and velvet he wore the "cilice" and the coarse brown habit of his order; and after his death was found the little box with the needles and thread with which the great primate of Spain mended his own garments. He concluded the treaties which made Spain at this time the greatest power of the world; and it is wonderful how this man, already old—for he was sixty when he assumed the primacy—how he could at once attend to the various and multiplied duties of which he is said never to have neglected anything. He lived in the age of great men, of Mendoza, (el gran cardinal,) of Gonzales de Cordova, (el gran capitan,) of Christopher Columbus, and many others, and took part in all the great events of this great age. Immediately upon the invention of printing, he had printed the celebrated polyglot Bible of Alcala, which cost him 500,000 francs of our money, and was in itself enough to immortalize him. He founded universities, built colleges, endowed professorships and scholarships, and built convents and schools for the education of poor children. Raumer, in hisHistory of Europe, says of him, "His sagacity and his activity were equal to his sanctity. Embracing all the branches of administration, nourishing the grandest plans and projects, he neglected for these neither piety nor science. As a warrior, he commanded in 1509 the crusade which made a descent in Africa, and conquered Oran. He founded, upon principles which do honor to his intelligence, the university of Alcala, and directed the printing of the celebrated Bible to which this city gives its name. He is the only man admired by his contemporaries as a politician, a warrior, and a saint at the same time."
From the esplanade in front of the church of St. Juan de los Reyes is a fine view. The great manufactory of the "Toledo blades" lies below upon the wild and melancholy Tagus, which winds through the plain; beyond are the mountains. The bridge of St. Martin spans the Tagus on one side, with its Moorish towers at either end. The tower of Cambron, one of the great Moorish towers, is in front, in which is a lovely statue of St. Leocadia, and near the bridge of St. Martin, on the city side, is the site of the palace of the Gothic kings. Here are some arches of a ruin called "Los Vaños de Florinda"—she who was the daughter of the apostate Don Julian, and with whose unhappy fate is involved that of the last of the Gothic kings.
The Alcazar, which overlooks the whole city, was a Moorish palace, then a fortress, with additions made by Alonzo VI., in 1085. Improved by Don Alvarado de Luna, and then by Charles V. in 1548, and by Philip II.'s great architect, Herara, there only remains the great patio, with its fine columns and the magnificent staircase for which Philip sent directions from England. Burned in the war of the succession, it was repaired by Cardinal Lorenzana, a munificent patron of arts, and whose whole life was devoted to good works, who made it a silk factory for poor girls. The French injured it again in 1809, and it has been a ruin until now, when some repairs seem to be going on by order of the queen.
The esplanade in front commands a fine view. Just below is the military college, formerly the great hospital of Santa Cruz, founded by Cardinal Mendoza. On a height near are the ruins of the castle of Cervantes, not the author Cervantes, but one which belonged to the Knights Templars. We pass through the Puerta del Sol, one of the great Moorish gates, follow the steep and winding way by the remains of an old Roman bridge and fortress, cross the bridge of Alcantara, and so—leave Toledo.
There is a mystery, an evangel, in suffering; and this fiery evangel, God's message to our immortality, prepares and perfects the soul for the long hereafter.
In a humble room sat Sir Ralph de Mohun and the Lady Beatrice. The soft sunlight of Provence was fading, and athwart the rose leaves the dying flush rested on this fairest type of girlish loveliness. Absorbed in her rosary, she sat at the open window; while, bending near, Sir Ralph watched the gorgeous heavens, gazing with no thought of the surroundings, and thinking—thinking as we so often do in the hours that fate allows us for decision.
Glimpses of his proud English home stole upon the old man's vision; of the shadowy oak-lined halls and stately corridors where, as a boy, he had looked with childish pride upon portraits of a brave line that had passed their own childhood there; the cross of the old chapel glittered in his dreams, for beneath it the mother of his children slept. But now, homeless and an alien, he would never again see the white cliffs of the land his heart loved best.
The battle of the Boyne had crushed the lingering hopes of the Cavaliers who had forsaken home and kindred to follow the last Stuart king. If James had only possessed average tact, he might have retained the affection of his subjects; but strong-willed without discrimination, zealous without wisdom, his whole reign was a succession of errors which could not but alienate the middle classes, all ways practical and struggling against the encroachments of the aristocracy. Nobly did the Cavaliers rally to the rescue of this last Catholic king, when, forsaken even by those of his blood, he stood alone, held at bay by the same subjects who had sworn him fealty. All through the darkness of his mistaken flight, through the changeful, disastrous campaign, and, so trying to their haughty spirit, even unto the court of Louis, where sneering courtiers dared to greet them with slights and contumely, they neither swerved nor varied. All this had tested their loyalty, tried their faith; yet they neither changed nor forsook him: and of this band none had suffered more than gallant Sir Ralph de Mohun.
A very pleasant life was that of the Catholic gentry in England; they hunted, they were jovial at their meetings, but devout in the chapel; and no class of the English subjects were more orderly and refined. But when the old crown rested on other than the brow of a Stuart, they left the broad moors and sunny downs, and fled with the monarch who represented not only their government, but their faith, in old England.
Stripped of the wealth that had given him comfort, despoiled of all that makes a man's position a blessing, the brave knight steadily, defiantly met an adverse fate. "Noblesse oblige!" spoke in every phase of his stormy life; he would suffer, ay, die, as a gentleman, with no murmur to the world of the sorrow and strife within. But an uncontrolled, unsubdued feeling warred with the iron resolve which supported him, and this was his devotion to the last bairn left him by his fair Scottish wife.
Twenty summers had deepened her girlhood into that rare womanhood, refined through suffering, strengthened by discipline; and the sweet eyes shone with a softer light, a more earnest loveliness, as they gazed from under the long, dark lashes; while the gentle, low voice owned a subdued tone, very different from the lightsome carol that had gladdened bluff Sir Ralph at the gay meet in old Suffolk. But times were different now, and the table was becoming scantier, while the silver grew very low; and the soldier who had rallied the dragoons at the Boyne, had stood unmoved when advancing squadrons of the English, his own blood in the front ranks, swept on to attack him, felt his eyes dim as he watched his frail, last blossom, and knew that soon she would be in a strange land all alone.
The afternoon faded into night, and the scanty fire could not warm the chill and bare chamber in which the old man lay. He was dozing in the great arm-chair, and Beatrice was crouched on a low cushion near, when softly the door opened. Was the young girl dreaming, as with her large eyes larger still, she rose instinctively, rose as though swayed by an unseen spirit, and walked out upon the terrace?
"Beatrice, I have risked life, almost honor for this."
"Philip Stratherne, life belongs to honor, and honor should never be risked."
The speech cost her an effort, for her voice was faint and very low.
"I have come to offer peace and comfort, my darling, and—dare I whisper the story which you used to listen to, under the elms at home?"
"Sir Philip Stratherne, you forget the past; you will not remember the blood that lies between us."
"My darling! my darling! we have no past save what you gave to me. Life belongs to honor, your own sweet voice has told me, and we are commanded to 'love without dissimulation;' therefore the logic of courts and battle-fields shall claim no power here."
"Philip! Philip!" was all the maiden could find speech to answer, uttered in a tone meant to be reproachful.
Two years of sorrow had passed since the fatal battle of the Boyne, and the heart of the maiden was very sore, very lonely, very hungry for the one love that made her life.
"Beatrice!" called from the room, and she entered.
"Come and sing to me, little one; for I have been dreaming sad dreams of the old home." And so she sat on her cushion at his feet, and sang in her soft alto:
"It was a' for our rightful king,We left fair Scotia's strand;It was a' for our rightful king,We e'er saw Irish land,We e'er saw Irish land!"The sodger frae the war returns,The sailor frae the main;But I hae' parted frae my love,Never to meet again,Never to meet again."When day is done, and night is come,And a' things wrapt in sleep;I think o' one who's far away,The lee lang night, an' weep,The lee lang night, an' weep."
"It was a' for our rightful king,We left fair Scotia's strand;It was a' for our rightful king,We e'er saw Irish land,We e'er saw Irish land!"The sodger frae the war returns,The sailor frae the main;But I hae' parted frae my love,Never to meet again,Never to meet again."When day is done, and night is come,And a' things wrapt in sleep;I think o' one who's far away,The lee lang night, an' weep,The lee lang night, an' weep."
"Will Sir Ralph Mohun welcome the son of an old friend?"
The old man turned hastily, and Philip Stratherne stood before him.
"The time was, Sir Philip, when I should have grasped your hand with all the feeling which my love for the boy inspired. Now, you are under the roof of what is left me, and therefore I am silent."
There was a stately courtesy in all this which embarrassed and wounded the young man.
"This, certainly, is not my former welcome; but the times have changed the manners, Sir Ralph, and we must accept the change."
"True, Sir Philip. There is little that I can offer you now; yet methinks there is a seat for you."
The young man hesitated, and then sat down.
"I have not learned diplomacy on battle-fields, Sir Ralph, therefore I will without preamble tell you what is heavy on my heart. First, to be selfishly eager, I have come to ask you for what you promised years ago—your daughter. Sir Ralph de Mohun, you were once young, and blood coursed as fiery then as now. Can you find it in your heart to separate us? Then, secondly, your old friends at court offer entire restitution and pardon, if you will accept the newrégime, with England's faith."
"If I have been true to my country, then must I still be true to my God! Philip Stratherne, if I had not loved you from your boyhood, the words that would come to my lips would tell you what my heart wills to speak toallwho have proved false! For the rest, my daughter has the Mohun blood, and she knows what her church teaches."
And Beatrice sat silent, crushed as a lily powerless from the storm. She knew her duty, she felt her love. Reason—honor told her that even love could not span the chasm through which the blood of her gallant brothers flowed. They, too, had followed the fortunes of the Stuart king, and one lay dead before the bastions of Londonderry, while another gave up his young life with the war-shout on his fearless lips, in the van of his father's regiment at Newtown-butler.
It was Philip Stratherne who led the detachment of Enniskillen horse that rode down the mere handful of Irish dragoons, inspired by Guy Mohun's ringing cry; and Sir Ralph had listened to Philip Stratherne's voice, as, clear and steady, it rallied the Enniskilleners to the charge that had snatched that last son from him. Not only for the Stuart had he yielded his glorious life, but for the cross, for the faith, in the defence of which centuries had borne brave testimony for the Mohuns, not only in bonnie England, but on every battle-field in Christendom.
A stern self-control subdued the old man; but the girl, the woman was suffering; honor commanded, duty pleaded, but a wilder, stronger, stormier feeling fought within her now. The color crimsoned the fair face, and the sweet eyes turned, rested for one moment on the young man with all the girl's tenderness, all the woman's passion—a mute appeal, a dying cry for help; then with the delicate hands clasped tightly over her breast, as though to keep down the heart's mad struggling, she spoke so low that the words seemed almost inarticulate, yet to the man listening with such painful eagerness each sound knelled the death which knows no "resurgam!" Only the simple words came faltering forth, came sobbing as the wind soughs the prelude to destruction, ere the lightning scathes its fiery death; and so in this whisper he heard,
"Were I a false Mohun, I could not be a true Stratherne."