message. The grief, the horror of the message, are expressed in the hands, one of which falls on the breast in despair, while the other inadvertently clutches a fragment of bread on the table, as though it would dare Fate. Sorrow, grief, anger, fear, even remorse, are written on the varying faces, while over all the holy presence falls like a benediction, and you can almost hear the words of hope and resignation from Divine lips. How well this work is done! How the colors glow, as though they had been painted only yesterday! And yet three centuries have passed since they were flushed on the canvas. There is a Jacob and his children, from Velasquez, which shows the character, but not the strength, of that great master. Even as a gallery of art the Escurial would be worth studying, were it not that all galleries in Spain are thrown into the shade by the unrivalled collection in the museum at Madrid. the end awe. But the church! Somehow it disappoints us; and yet we delight to stroll about it; and it grows, and in time the idea of the builder, the idea of space, simple space, becomes impressive. You have something of the feeling with which St. Peter's impresses you— disappointment at first, and in The Escurial church does not compare with St. Peter's in magnitude or in splendor of conception. But it is a noble thought, and grows upon you more and more. The mind is not carried away by decorations and perplexities of moulding and stone carving, as in some of the modern churches. You miss the majesty of the Gothic art, in which every line seems an aspiration for a better life, and where the devotion of generations finds expression in stone. But the simplicity of it, the repose, the subordination of everything to the idea of worship, make the church of the Escurial memorable among religious monuments. We went up into the choir, where the monks sat in monkish days and chanted their prayers. There were the rows of seats, in hard wood, plainly carved, well worn and tawny with generations of devotees. In the corner was the seat of Philip. The King came with his monks and said his prayers. Here he sat chanting his misereres, like a cowled friar. You sit in the royal seat, and look out upon the vast space, and trace the decorations of the altar, and think of the gaudy tomb, where rests so much greatness and ambition, and try to comprehend this Escurial, which falls upon you with a sense of oppression, it is so gloomy and sombre and strange, and to trace out the mind of the unhappy tyrant who vainly sought refuge from himself. All have vanished- the monks with their cowls, the king with his crown, the armies he commanded, the princes who feared him, the majesty that was omnipo tent—all have vanished. The church remains, and priests still recite their offices, and pray that the glory of Philip's days may return to Spain. His sceptre and his crown remain; but, alas! under what conditions. They are but shadows of what he left behind him, and so fickle is the world that any moment a storm may come, and even the shadows will depart. Here for a moment let us pause at an altar, before which lamps are burning, overladen with flowers and immortelles and beads and every form of decoration. This is the resting-place of the young Queen Mercedes-her temporary resting-place before she is gathered into the Pantheon to sleep with her ancestors. In January she was a bride, in June she was a corpse-all in this year. Spain is in mourning for her. She was so young, so beautiful, such a winning little thing. In January she was married in San Autocha, Montpensier leading her to the altar, and never was such a pageant known in Spain. The King, so young, bounding with freshness and ambition; the Queen, all grace, beauty, kindness. Surely no monarchy ever set out under happier auspices. The King a Spaniard, the Queen a Spaniard why not look forward to the longest and happiest of reigns? I was looking at a picture-book the other dayan annual almanac, with illustrations telling the events of the year-a Christmas publication which newsboys hawk around Madrid. There was one full page engraving of the marriage-the King and the Queen making their vows, the Archbishop pouring a plate of coin into the royal hands, lords in waiting sustaining the long train, attending priests following the service, and in the background the beauty, the grandeur, the nobility of Spain. come to smile upon the nuptials. This was the 22d of January. A few pages on and there was another picture. It is a room in the royal palace. The body of the poor Queen is lying in state, her head in a nun's cap, in her hand a cross. Huge torches surround the bier. Men at arms are on guard. In front is a crucifix, life-size; lords in waiting, in full apparel, attend Her Majesty - one of them, his face buried in his handkerchief, weeping. A barrier keeps off the streaming crowd coming to take farewell of the Queen. By the side is a standard bearing the arms of her house. This was on June 27, 1878. this is the end of it all—a corner in the Escurial chapel, overladen with flowers and decorations, a priest kneeling at prayer, and a group of idle travellers who see this among other sights and pass on. And But before we say farewell to the Escurial, let us pay a visit to the home of the great King who founded it. We pass up a stairway and enter a small cell paved with brick. There is a larger room adjoining. In one of the cells Philip lived and died, in the other attendants awaited his will. A window of the cell opens into the church, and the King, as he lay on his pallet, could fix his eyes on the priest at mass, on the Sacred Host as it typified the act of expiation, on the kneeling statue of his father. This is what it all came to this ruler of many continents nothing but this dingy cell, into which no light comes, an old man, in agony and fear and self-reproach, dreading, wondering, trembling, over the brink of his fate, hoping that prayer and song and sorrow and priestly intercessions may save his soul. The rooms are as Philip left them, if we except the necessary cleaning and scrubbing. There is a faded tapestry on the wall, in which you trace the royal arms of Austria-his father's arms. There is a monk's chair on which Philip sat to receive ambassadors and ministers; two plain, stuffed, wooden chairs, where they could sit in his royal presence if he so willed. The floors are of plain brick, trampled and worn. Here was the end of his royalty and pomp. Here he died in misery, and with him the greatness of Spain, if it can be called greatness, which I much question. Philip was the last of the Spanish kings. In him was embodied all that went to make a king-divine right, absolute power, indifference to human suffering, fanaticism, bigotry, subserviency to the darkest forms of medieval superstition. He was the last of the kings, and it seems poetic in its justice that he should die as he did that he should leave behind him this stupendous trophy of his character and his name. Grateful is the sunshine, grateful the growing elms under which we walk back to our stopping-place. It is like coming out of the seventeenth into the nineteenth century. And as the train tugs back to Madrid - and we cast a last look at the Escurial through the gray, deepening shadows of the coming night—the wonder that we have felt at a work so unique and stupendous gives place to gratitude that the age which made it possible has passed awaythat the power which it embodied has gone into the depths, with the crimes and follies of antecedent generations, and that its only value now is as the monument of a dreary, cruel, and degrading age. CHAPTER XXV. GENERAL GRANT AT TOLEDO THE CITY OF THE ROMAN, CATH HEBREW MEMORIES THE TREASURES OF CATHEDRAL-FAREWELL TO TOLEDO A VISIT TO PAU-A GRAND HUNTING-GROUND — A MEET ON A FROSTY DAY-THE FINISH-A SHORT HUNT HAPPY OCCASION. A During their sojourn in Spain, General Grant and his party visited Toledo. A correspondent thus describes the place and the visit:- Toledo is a graveyard, where are funeral monuments of all the civilizations of Spain. You walk through its streets with the melancholy interest which death inspires. All is so still and dead and hushed. Clinging to its rocky steep, looking out over the stripped hills of Castile, its turrets seen from afar, it seems to have been forgotton by the world, to be a decoration or a gem fastened to the world's bosom, and not a tangible, living part of earth. It is on the banks of a river whose waters might carry merchandise to the sea. It has an outlook upon a noble valley, and the view from its castle-turrets is one of the finest in Spain. It is the centre of a rich district. But Madrid on the one side, and Seville on the other, have drained the currents of its prosperity, and it lies stranded, interesting only because of the memorable events that have occurred within its walls. If you seek out its history, you must go back to the time of the Hebrews, and learn that, when the Jews were driven out of Jerusalem by Nebuchadnezzar, they came to Toledo. I do not vouch for this |