Chapter LVIII: Act V: ――The curtain rises on a prison chamber in the Tower, where (1)

Northumberland, jubilant over his certain liberation, calls upon Jane and Guilford to rejoice at their renascent fortunes. The pure-souled Jane refuses the crown once for all, and endeavors to lead her husband and his father to proper gratitude for the reprieve. But in the midst of Dudley’s “merry mood” Fakenham enters with a warrant――and not the document so confidently looked for. It is now Northumberland’s turn to despair; and the struggles of his soul, at the prospect of speedy death, are depicted with great force. Hitherto, during his imprisonment, he has been pretending to let Fakenham convert him. Now he sees the necessity of conversion indeed, yet clings to the hope of respite as the gain of professing the true Faith.

At the scaffold Pembroke meanly stings him into rage; but this obnoxious person being removed, the arch-rebel seems to turn his attention in earnest to the salvation of his soul, and after a prayer, which sounds perfectly sincere, kneels to Fakenham for absolution, then hurriedly ascends the scaffold. The scene closes, and a cannon is heard――the appointed signal that the head has fallen.

The fate of Lady Jane Grey is next determined. Mary is strongly inclined to spare her. Gardiner is to blame for the adverse decision. Fakenham, however, obtains a promise that she shall be spared if she abjure her heresy. But Mary, in the fifth scene, shows a sudden tenderness for her doomed cousin, and, after a fit of raving melancholy, sends Fakenham in all haste to bring her. It is too late. Guilford has just been executed, and his widow is being led forth even while the queen demands her presence. The sixth scene gives us the parting of Jane and her mother, and closes as the victim of another’s ambition heroically ascends the scaffold. In the last scene Mary reaches Jane’s prison to find her gone, and rushes to the window in the hope of signalling the executioner, but only in time to see him hold up the severed head.

* * * * *

We shall now introduce our readers to some of the best passages from this play. Our only difficulty will be to restrict their number within necessary limits, for there is not a page but invites quotation. Here is a fine bit of description to begin with. It is from the opening scene. Sir Thomas Wyatt is amazed to learn that the king is “sick to death.”

“WYATT. How can it be? But one short month it seems
Since I beheld him on his jennet’s back,
With hawk on wrist, his bounding hounds beside,
Charge up the hillside through the golden gorse,
Swallowing the west wind, till his cheeks glowed out
Like ripened pears. The whirring pheasant sprang
From the hedged bank; and, with a shout, in air
The bright boy tossed his falcon; then, with spur
Pressed to his jennet’s flank, and head thrown back,
And all the spirit of life within his eye
And voice, he drew not rein, till the spent quarry
Lay cowering ’neath the hawk’s expanded wings.”

To us, this dash into description, at the very beginning of the play, shows how thoroughly our author feels himself at home. Had he not been a conscious master of his art, he would scarcely have made such a venture, for fear of exciting the suspicion that his talent lay in the direction of descriptive rather than of dramatic poetry. As it is, Wyatt’s burst of eloquence lends much to the easy strength of this first scene.

We are little prepared, however, for the daring feat of two heroines: each heroine enough to have the play to herself, yet neither overshadowing the other. So lovely is the character of Lady Jane Grey, and so keenly are our sympathies enlisted on her side, that we are astonished to find any room left in our hearts for Mary Tudor; whereas, in fact, so royal the latter’s bearing, so truly is she “every inch a” queen, so indisputable are her rights, so outrageous her wrongs, that we end by seeing only her noble qualities, and even forgive her Jane Grey’s death.

The poet introduces Lady Jane at that post where woman is always “a ministering angel”――by the death-bed of her cousin, King Edward. She has been reading him to sleep, and he has just awaked.

“JANE. How fares your Highness now?

EDWARD. Thy sweet voice, Jane,
Soothes every pain. A film grew o’er mine eyes:
A murmur, as of breezes on the shore,
Or waters lapping in some gelid cave,
Coiled round my temples, and I slept.”

This gives our author an opportunity of bringing out Jane’s modesty and humility――the very un-Protestant virtues with which he has chosen to adorn his favorite heroine conspicuously.

“JANE. Ah, cousin!
Not in my voice the charm. Within this volume
A sanatory virtue lives enshrined,
As in Bethesda’s pool.

EDWARD. By an angel stirred.”

An answer no less just than felicitous.

Again, in the same scene, the guilelessness of her soul shines out in her protest against being made heir to the crown. The pretext put forth by Northumberland and Cranmer for persuading Edward to sign away the throne from his sisters is the safety of the Protestant cause――what Anglicans impudently call “the true church.” Jane, though an earnest adherent of the new religion, will have nothing to do with evil measures in its behalf.

“JANE. O no! not me! This remediless wrong
I have no part in. Edward, you have sisters.
Great Harry’s daughters, England’s manifest heirs.
Leave right its way, and God will guard his own.”

But now it is Mary’s turn to win our admiration. She comes upon the scene the moment after the weak Edward has signed away the kingdom to Jane. Unaware of the injury that has been done her, she greets her “dear lost brother” with true sisterly affection, but, in another minute, shows the Tudor in her veins by the courage with which she confronts Dudley and tells the traitor she knows him at his worth. Then, discovering the plot against her, she rises――suddenly but with calmest dignity――to the attitude of queen, as though the crown had just been placed upon her head instead of stolen for another’s.

“EDWARD. It is now too late――too late!
I have done what it were well had ne’er been done.

JANE. O would to God that act might be recalled!

MARY. What act?

JANE. That makes me queen.

MARY. Thou queen! O never
Shall regal crown clasp that unwrinkled brow!
Thou queen? Go, girl――betake thee to thy mappets!
Call Ascham back――philosophize――but never
Presume to parley with gray counsellors,
Nor ride forth in the front of harnessed knights!
_Leave that to me, the daughter of a king._”

Equally worthy is her reply to the insolent Dudley when he dares to offer her the crown on condition of her “renouncing her errors”:

“MARY. Sir, have you done? Simply I thus reply.
Not to drag England from this slough of treason――
Nor save this lady’s head――nor yours, archbishop――
Not even my brother’s life――would I abjure
My faith, and forfeit heaven!”

But sublimer even than this avowal of her faith is the act of charity she presently makes after her brother’s spirit has departed; and in nothing has the poet done her so much justice:

“MARY. And thou art gone! hast left me unforgiven!
O brother! was this righteous? Gloomier now
This dreary world frowns on me, and its cares
Womanly dreams, farewell! Stern truths of life
Stamp on my heart all that becomes a queen.
Dudley, you have dared much: yet, standing here
By my poor brother’s clay, _I can forgive_.
Will you kneel, Dudley?”

After this, let the poet depict Jane in the most attractive colors he can find, he has shown his Catholic heroine the greater woman. But, in fact, we are convinced this is his aim. For although, as a Protestant, he makes Jane become a saint (according to his idea of saintship), her “path a shining light that goeth forward and increaseth to perfect day”――while Mary’s way is over-clouded to the end, and cruel wrongs goad her into rage which rouses all the Tudor and all the Spaniard in her nature, and deepens her melancholy into madness――still, even in her most painful moments, the daughter of Catherine is _great_. Her enemies do homage to her greatness. Northumberland himself is forced to say of her, in the scene we have quoted from above:

“The eighth Harry’s soul lives in her voice and eye.”

But the spell of her majestic bearing is best portrayed in the scene where she meets the rebel leaders Wyatt and Brett with their followers. Sir Thomas Wyatt, true to his character as indicated in the first scene, indulges again in fine rhetoric, declaring that he and his men have decided to stand for Mary, but putting in the condition that “all things which touch the Church” shall “rest as King Edward left them.” The queen answers this appeal by another to the consciences of “English gentlemen,” demanding for her own the liberty she willingly extends to theirs; but when, presently, Wyatt insults her by raving, like a modern fanatic, about “the dogs of persecution, insatiate brood of Rome,” and Brett sullenly refuses to march with her to London, she passes on, leaving the two insurrectionists to pay her tribute each in his own fashion.

“BRETT. Now, by all saints and martyrs calendared!
I could half worship such a tameless woman,
All shrewish though she be. With what a spirit,
Like thunder-riven cloud, her wrath poured forth,
And keen words flared! Ugly and old?――to that
I shall say nay hereafter. Autumn moons
Portend good harvests. Yet, that glance at parting
Flashed fierce as sunset through a blasted tree!
But hey! look yonder, Wyatt: half your men
Are scampering after her.

WYATT. I marked, and blame not.
I mar no fortune, and coerce no conscience.
_There is a fascination――all have felt it――
When Royalty and Woman join in one:
Austere allegiance softening into love;
And new-born fealty clinging to the heart,
Like a young babe that front its mother’s bosom
Looks up and smiles._”

(Here let us ask, if these lines we have italicized were quoted anonymously, who would not take them for Shakspere’s?)

“BRETT. Trust me, I am much minded
To join her even yet.

WYATT. It cannot be.
I feel as you do: but I look beyond
The tempting present. _She goes forth to conquer:
So strong a heart must conquer._”

Mary’s affection for her sister Elizabeth is sincere and tender; while Elizabeth’s for her, on the other hand, has a dubious quality. It is strange that Sir Aubrey shows no enthusiasm over Elizabeth. He appears to have learnt too much truth about her. Mary’s first inquiry, after reaching Framlingham in her flight from Dudley’s machinations, is for her sister:

“Why is Elizabeth not here to greet me?
Command her to the presence.”

And when the princess enters, and, kneeling, says, “Queen, sister!” Mary’s joy at seeing her is very touching.

“To my arms! Pardie, sweet Bess,
You daily grow more stately. _Your great brows
Like our cathedral porches, double-arched,
Seem made for passage of high thought._”

A part of this scene is particularly fine.

“MARY. Never was kind counsel needed more
By aching heart. Little you know my trials.
The fleetness of my horse scarce saved my life;
And I am queen in nothing but the name!
O sister, canst thou love me? Thou her child――
Beautiful Boleyn’s daughter――who destroyed
My mother――hapless queen, dishonored wife!
Thou too, my brother――spurned from thy throne, thy death-bed!
O no! I shall go down into my earth
Desolate, unbeloved!――I wound thee, sister!
Pardon! I rave――I rave――

ELIZABETH. Abate this passion!
In very truth I love you――fondly pity――

MARY. Pity! not pity――give me love or nothing.
_I hope not happiness: I kneel for peace._
But no: this crown traitors would rive from me――
Which our great father Harry hath bequeathed
Undimmed to us――a righteous heritage――
This crown which we, my sister, must maintain
Or die: this crown, true safeguard of our people,
Their charter’s seal――crushes our peace for ever.
_All crowns, since Christ wore His, are lined with thorns._”

And again, as the melancholy gains upon her:

“MARY. Am I mad?
Think you I’m mad? I have been used to scorn,
Neglect, oppression, self-abasement, aye――
_My mother’s scorching heritage of woe!_
Ha! as I speak, behold, she visits me,
With that fair choir of angels trooping round her,
And cherub faces, with expanded wings
Upbearing her! O blessed Saint, depart not!
_Breathe on my cold lips those still cherished kisses
Which thine in death impressed! Sigh in mine ear
Those half-articulate blessings, unforgotten,
Which made my childhood less than martyrdom!_
I’ll clasp thee――mother!
[_Totters forward and falls._]”

Surely this, too, is worthy of Shakspere. And so is Northumberland’s soliloquy with which the third Act opens; so much so, indeed, that we can with difficulty persuade ourselves we are not reading Shakspere.

“I have plunged too deep. The current of the times
Hath been ill-sounded. _Frosty discontent
Breathes chilly in the face of our attempt_:
And, like the dry leaves in November winds,
_These summer-suited friends fly my nipped branches_.
What’s to be done? Time like a ruthless hunter,
Tramples my flying footsteps! Banned and baited
By my own pack, dogs fed from mine own hand
Gnash fangs and snarl on me.”

What is peculiarly Shaksperian here is the profusion of metaphors. It is a sign of a great poet to deal freely with metaphors. We know how Byron heaps them up in _Childe Harold_, and Tennyson in _In Memoriam_.

Another proof of high genius――especially dramatic――is the ready use of wit and sarcasm. We have a passage of arms between Dudley and Courtenaye which is very masterly.

Dudley, having lost his way in the Tower, gets the headsman to show him to Courtenaye’s cell.

“EXETER. Ha! I should know that face; and lackeyed thus
By yon grim doomster, guess my coming fate.

NORTHUMBERLAND. I greet you well, Marquis of Exeter,
Noble Plantagenet!

EXETER. Hey, what means this?
The half-forgotten name, and fatal heritage!
Sir John of Dudley――bear and ragged staff――
Or memory fails me.

NORTHUMBERLAND. Now Northumberland.

EXETER. Indeed? Excuse me. _Prisoners limp behind
The vaulting world._ You are welcome.

NORTHUMBERLAND. I would greet you
With tidings of content.

EXETER. Long strangers here.

NORTHUMBERLAND. I take your hand: nor coldly, thus, hereafter
Will you, perchance, vouchsafe it. I have power
(In Edward’s time I only had the will)
To serve you.

EXETER. Ha! how well I guessed the truth!
One king the more is dead. Who now rules England?
_Chaste Boleyn’s babe, or the Arragonian whelp?_
No beauty, I’ll be sworn, unless time makes one.

NORTHUMBERLAND. The house of Grey is of the royal lineage.
To that King Edward’s will bequeathes the crown.

EXETER. My lady duchess queen? Now, God forbid!

NORTHUMBERLAND. All cry amen to that. Her Grace of Suffolk
Yields to her wiser daughter――Lady Jane――
My son, Lord Guilford’s wife: now Queen of England.

EXETER. _O, now I do begin to read the stars,
And note what constellation climbs._ My lord,
Excuse the stiffness of imprisoned knees.
The obsolete posterity of kings
Lowly should bend to kings’ progenitors.
Sir Headsman, art thou married?

HEADSMAN. Nay, my lord.

EXETER. Get thee a wife, then, in good haste: get sons!
_Full-bosomed honor, like a plant in the sun,
Plays harlot to the hour. Lo, thistles burgeon
Even through the Red Rose’ cradle!_

NORTHUMBERLAND. My good lord,
_Unseasonable wit hath a warped edge,
Whereby the unskilful take unlooked for scars._
Good-night. May fancy tickle you in dreams
In which nor Boleyn’s babe (I quote your phrase)
Nor whelp of Arragon――kind heaven forefend!――
Nor our grim friend here, with uncivil axe,
Dare mingle. Good-night, Courtenaye.”

To pass to the trial scene, in the fourth Act, a speech is put into the mouth of Gardiner――who, as chancellor conducts the prosecution――which reminds us of the unanswered arguments from Pole and other Catholic characters in _Queen Mary_:

“GARDINER. My lords, religion was the plea for this.
Religion, a wide cloak for godless knaves.
What! knew they not the Apostolic rule
That men are bound to obey even sinful princes?
Who dares insinuate that our queen’s right rule
Shall be a snare for conscience? Hypocrites!
_Why claim ye toleration, yet refuse it?
Faith your perpetual cry, yet would ye stifle
That faith which is the trust of other hearts._
Your Bible is your idol: _all must bow
Before your exposition of its sense_,
Or forfeit all――the very throne!”

Had our author been a Catholic, he could not have stated the case better.

Jane Grey pleads guilty so nobly, and prays so generously that her own life may be taken and her husband’s spared, that Fakenham truly says of her:

“She rises from the sea of her great trouble
Like a pure infant glowing from the bath.”

Here are some of her words:

“_I wake from the vain dream of a blind sleep_:
Nothing to hide, nothing extenuate.
My lords, reverse to me this good hath brought;
That I who dimly saw now plainly see,
And seeing loathe my fault, and loathing leave it.
_The bolts of heaven have split the aspiring tower
Of my false grandeur; and through every rent
The light of heaven streams in._

* * * * *

In time to come it shall be known, ambition
Was not my nature, though it makes my crime.”

Dudley’s defence would be manly and admirable were it not for his hypocrisy. But the hour comes when hypocrisy can serve him no longer. It is a powerful scene――the first of the fifth Act――where his confident hopes are dashed to the ground for ever. And then he finds Fakenham――whom he has called “worm” and “dog” before, and for whom his hatred never could contain itself――his best friend and only succor. He seems, indeed (so well is his character sustained throughout), to cling to the hope of saving his bodily life by accepting the Catholic faith, till he stands on the very scaffold; but there he drops simulation.

“The terrible ‘to be’ is come! Time’s past!
Yet all’s to do――_an age crammed to a span!
Time, never garnered till thy last sands ebb,
How shall my sharp need eke thy wasted glass,
Or wit reverse it?_”

Lady Jane meets death like a martyr. Her resignation is shown as early as the third scene of the third Act, while she is in the Tower with her husband awaiting further tidings after learning that their cause is lost.

“JANE. Midnoon, yet silent as midnight! My heart
Flutters and stops――flutters and stops again――
As in the pauses of a thunder-storm,
Or a bird cowering during an eclipse.
Alone through these deserted halls we wander,
Bereft of friends and hope. Speak to me, Guilford.

GUILFORD. Thy heart-strings, Jane, strengthened by discipline,
Endure the strain.

JANE. Say rather, my religion
Has taught this good. _Nor lacks our female nature
Courage to meet inevitable woe
With a beloved one shared._”

And again her generosity comes out:

“We have obscured a dawn. If spared, God grant
We may make bright the queen’s triumphant way
Like clouds that glorify the wake of noon.”

She, too, sees the “true minister of Christ” in Fakenham:

“Fearless of danger in discharge of duty,
And to the mourner prodigally kind.”

Such Protestants as she are never formal heretics: they have too much humility. When Fakenham is pleading her cause with the Tudor, who displays for a season the vindictiveness of woman against woman, Jane disallows his attestation of her innocence:

“Ah, sir, too gently have you judged me!
Usurper of the consecrated crown.
The sacred sceptre, how can I be pure?
_Welcome Adversity, lifter up of veils!_
Before me, _naked as a soul for judgment_,
Stands up my sin. ’Tis well! the worst is o’er.
Suffer I must; but I will sin no longer.”

When, in the fifth Act, she approaches the scaffold, she alone is firm, she alone makes no complaint against the justice of her sentence, but, on the contrary, defends it.

“BEDINGFIELD. Madam,
We fain would linger on the way. Our eyes,
Blind though they be with tears, strain round to catch
Some signal of reprieve.

JANE. O, seek it not!
It cannot be. _My life may not consist
With the realm’s safety._ Innocent am I
In purpose; but the object of great crimes.
Good blood must still flow on till Jane’s be shed.”

So again, in her final address to the spectators:

“My sentence hath been just: _not for aspiring
Unto the crown, but that, with guilty weakness,
When proffered I refused it not._ From me
Let future times be warned that _good intent
Excuseth not misdeeds: all instruments
Of evil must partake its punishment_.”

In the meantime Mary softens somewhat after Dudley’s execution, and is inclined to spare Guilford, as well as Jane. Gardiner argues against the husband’s reprieve, on the ground of certain peril to throne, church, and commonweal; and here he carries his point easily. He is not successful in securing Jane’s doom, even though he tells the queen:

“She is proclaimed
From street to street. The very walls are ciphered
With traitorous scrolls that hail her ‘Jane the Queen.’
Shall such wrong go unchecked?

MARY. That is their folly;
Not hers. The culpable shall smart for this.”

But here Bedingfield enters hastily to announce the escape of Suffolk and his having “joined with Wyatt.”

“MARY. Suffolk fled? Jane’s father?
Henceforth let justice rule. Farewell, weak pity!
We cannot, Jane, both live: why, then, die thou!”

Yet, even after this, her good genius, Fakenham, obtains from Mary a promise that Jane shall live “if she abjure her heresy.” It does not appear, however, that Fakenham had any further interview with Jane. It would have been useless, if he had; for when, just before her execution, Bedingfield says:

“At least, we may delay till the dean comes
To whisper spiritual comfort,”

Jane replies:

“Infinite
Is the Almighty’s goodness. In that only
I put my trust. My time, sir is too short
For controversy: and that good man’s duty
Compels him to dispute my creed. I thank him:
Pray you, sir, say I thank him, from my heart,
For all his charities. In privacy
My prayers――not unacceptable, I trust,
To God my Saviour――have been offered up.
So must they to the end.”

But in the scene before the execution――one of singular power――the unhappy queen evinces a yearning for sympathy which triumphs over rigor, and, in spite of Gardiner’s presence, makes her relent, though too late.

First we see her alone. She is vindicating herself to her conscience:

“I have no thirst for blood; nor yet would shrink
From shortening earthly life: for what is life
That we should court its stay? A pearl of price
In festal days, but mockery to mourners.
What’s life to thee, thy loved one dead, poor Jane?
What’s life to me, by him I loved betrayed?
I take from thee what is no loss to thee
And much infects the realm. Gladly would I
My life on such conditions sacrifice.
_The time for thy short widowhood is come:
But ye shall reunite above. For me
The heart’s blank widowhood must be for ever.
Jane! on thy block the throned queen envies thee!_”

She is full of her own betrayal by Courtenaye――a wrong which has left a more cruel wound than all the plots of treason have effected.

Here Gardiner and Fakenham enter to announce that Brett and Wyatt are taken. Presently, after a burst of fevered excitement, she says:

“I want
To see Jane Grey-after her widowhood.

FAKENHAM [_aside_]. After?――She then shall live.

GARDINER [_aside_]. Observe, she raves.

MARY. We’ll sit together in some forest nook,
_Or sunless cavern by the moaning sea_,
And talk of sorrow and vicissitudes
Of hapless love, and luckless constancy;
And hearts that death or treachery divides.”

She then goes off into a fit of raving, and declares that “the spirit of the fatal Sisterhood riots in her veins,” and “the snakes of the Eumenides brandish their horrent tresses round her head.” Fakenham suggests music as the remedy for her “sick mind”; and Gardiner bids him throw aside the gallery doors that open on the chapel. It being the hour for service, the choir is heard.

“[_As the music proceeds, the queen’s stupor relaxes, and her
sensibility gradually revives. The music ceases._]

MARY. Airs fresh from heaven breathe round me!
Sing on, bright angels! tears relieve my heart――
My brain is calmed. Sing on and let me weep.
[_A pause._
Would they were saved! Alas, poor widowed one!
Can it not still be done? No, no――too late!”

Then she describes the “dark procession” of Guilford to the scaffold, as seen in a vision. The signal gun is heard. The head has fallen.

“MARY. He is no more! Great God,
Have mercy upon both!

GARDINER. Her thoughts are changed:
Her brain relieved.

FAKENHAM. Now plead for Jane!

GARDINER. Too late!
Hear yonder bell.

MARY. What’s that? Again the death-bell?
Hark you! I would have speech with Jane. Fly, Fakenham!
My foot is weak and slow. Gardiner, attend me.
Fly, Fakenham, fly!

FAKENHAM. Too late! too late! too late!”

The scene of Jane’s execution intervenes; and then comes the last scene, brief and terrible.

“_Jane Grey’s prison in the Tower. An open window
in the rear._

_Enter hurriedly_ MARY _followed by_ GARDINER.

MARY. She’s gone――I come too late――forgive me, God!
Myself I never, never shall forgive.
Ha! from yon casement they may mark a signal!
[_She leans from the window._
Hold! Hold! [_She draws back with a shriek._
Great God! it is――it is――her head
That demon lifts and brandishes before me!

[_She rushes from the window, rubbing her eyes wildly._

Pah! I am choked-my mouth is choked with blood!
My eyes, my nostrils, swim in blood――my hair
Stiffens with blood――the floor is slippery
With blood――all――blood! Mother and unborn babe
Both slain! Mother and child! The cry of blood
Rises to heaven――the curse of Cain is launched
Upon me! Innocent victims! At God’s throne
Already ye bear witness. Mercy, mercy!
_Spare one who knew not how to spare._

[_She kneels._

_Enter_ FAKENHAM.

Ay, kneel
To heaven――and pray! Lift up your hands to God!
Lift up your voice-your heart! Pray, sinner, pray!

[_The curtain falls._”

So ends the first part of this masterly drama, and, we think, the far finer of the two plays――certainly the less painful to a Catholic reader. We have given it unqualified praise, because we have dealt with it purely as a drama. We are afraid that the real Jane Grey was a much less lovely character than the poet’s, and are thankful to know that the real Mary Tudor was a very different compound indeed. But we give the poet credit for perfect sincerity in his delineation of either character. We believe that if he was consciously partial at all, it was rather to the Catholic side――from a wish to do Catholics all the justice in his power. And this but makes us regret the more that, together with the genius he manifests, he had not the faith of the gifted son to whom he has left his mantle.

[189] _Mary Tudor: An Historical Drama._ By Sir Aubrey De
Vere, Bart. London: William Pickering. 1875.

A BIRD’S-EYE VIEW OF TOLEDO.

“Behold,” said the owl to Prince Ahmed, “the ancient and renowned city of Toledo――a city famous for its antiquities. Behold those venerable domes and towers, hoary with time, and clothed with legendary grandeur, in which so many of my ancestors have meditated.”

We had arrived at the foot of the rocky promontory on which stands imperial Toledo. The first sight of it is exceedingly impressive. Its aspect is grave and majestic, and the thousand grand memories that hover over it add to the fascination. It is the royal city, the capital of the Gothic kings. For four hundred years it was in possession of the Moors, and in the middle ages it was so renowned for its learning as to attract numerous students from foreign parts. It is, too, _par excellence_, the ecclesiastical city of Spain, and stands proudly on its seven hills like Rome. The long line of its bishops comprises many saints, as well as mighty prelates who not only held spiritual primacy over the land, but took a prominent part in the political affairs of the nation. It looks just as a city of the middle ages, with a due sense of the fitness of things, ought to look――antique, picturesque, and romantic――surrounded by its ancient walls, from which rise, as if hewn out of the rock, the massive gray towers that still bear the impress of the Goth and the Moor. Around its base winds the golden Tagus over its rocky bed, foaming and wildly raving, in a grand, solemn kind of a way, as if sensible of its high functions and knowing the secrets of the magic caves that extend beneath its very bed――caves wrought out of the live rock by the cunning hand of Tubal, the grandson of Noe, and where Hercules the Mighty taught the dark mysteries of Egyptian art, handed down to posterity, and long after known as the _Arte Toledana_. For this ancient city claims as its founder Tubal, the son of Japhet, who, as the Spanish chroniclers say, with the memory of the Deluge still fresh in his mind, naturally built it on an eminence, and hewed out caverns as places of refuge from the watery element. So remote an origin might reasonably be supposed enough to satisfy the most owlish of antiquarians; but some hoary old birds have gone so far as to whisper that Adam himself was the first king of Toledo; that the sun, at its creation, first shone over this the true centre of the world; and that its very name is derived from two Oriental words signifying the Mother of Cities. However this may be, it was Hercules, the Libyan, who, versed in the supernatural arts, achieved labors no mere human arm could have accomplished, who gave the finishing touches to the city, and set up the necromantic tower of legendary fame, in after-years so rashly entered by Roderick, the last of the Goths, letting out a flood of evils that spread over all the land. This was “one of those Egyptian or Chaldaic piles, storied with hidden wisdom and mystic prophecy, which were devised in past ages when man yet enjoyed intercourse with high and spiritual natures, and when human foresight partook of divination,” and its mysterious fate was worthy of its origin.

But Toledo did not fully awake to its importance till the fifth century after Christ, when it fell into the hands of the Goths, who made it their capital and enlarged and embellished it, especially in the good old times of King Wamba, whose name is still popular in Castile, and corresponds to that of King Dagobert in France. It now became renowned for its splendor and wealth, and, when taken by the Moors at the end of the seventh century, they found here an immense booty, including the spoils of Alaric from Rome and Jerusalem, among which was the famous table of talismanic powers, wrought for King Solomon out of a single emerald by the genii of the East, which had the power of revealing, as in a mirror, all future events, and from which that monarch acquired so much of his wisdom.

All these and many other things were flitting through our minds as we crossed the bridge of Alcantara, with its tower of defence and tutelary saint, and wound up the steep hillside into the city. We alighted in the court of the Fonda de Lino, where we learned once more that an old bird sometimes gets caught with mere chaff. It soon became alarmingly evident that, between the Goth and the Moor, but little had been left behind――at least, at the Fonda. But “Affliction is a divine diet,” says Izaak Walton, and we took to it as kindly as possible. In this state of affairs, we gave ourselves unresistingly up to a _valet-de-place_, who lay in wait for his prey, and, for once in the world, did not regret it; for he proved quite indispensable in the maze of narrow, tortuous streets, and was tolerably versed in the archæology of the place. Few cities are more rich in historic, religious, and poetic memories, or have as many interesting monuments of the past. At every step we were surprised by something novel and curious. The streets themselves run zigzag, so that we were always dodging around a corner, like our old friend Mr. Chevy Slyme, and soon began to feel very mean and pitiful indeed. This must have been convenient in days when arrows were weapons, but to honest, straightforward folk in these pacific times they are peculiarly trying. One side of you always seems getting in advance of the other, and you soon begin to feel as if blind of one eye. It is to be hoped obliquity of the moral sense does not follow from this necessity of going zigzag. The streets are extremely clean, but so narrow as to afford passage only to men and donkeys, or men _on_ donkeys, sometimes looking, in their queer accoutrements, “like two beasts under one skin,” as Dante says. These sombre, winding streets are lined with lofty houses that are gloomy and solid as citadels, with few windows, and these defended by strong iron grates. The portals are flanked with granite columns and surmounted by worn escutcheons carven in stone. They are frequently edged with the cannon-ball ornaments peculiar to Castile, like rows of great stone beads. The doors themselves are so thick and massive that they have withstood all ancient means of assault, and the resinous wood of which they are made seems to defy the very tooth of time itself. They are studded with enormous nails of forged iron, with diamond-shaped or convex heads, sometimes as large as half a cocoanut, and curiously wrought. Frequently they are not content with their primitive forms, but go straying off into long, artistic ramifications that cover the door like some ancient embroidery. The gabled ends of the houses often project over the streets with huge beams, carved and stained, that add to the gloom. These streets do not seem to have changed for ages. Every instant we saw some trace of the Goths or an Arabic inscription, or Moorish galleries and balconies. Once we entered an old archway, and found ourselves in a court with sculptured granite pillars that supported Oriental-like galleries, to which we ascended by stairs faced with colored _azulejos_, old and glittering, as the Moors alone knew how to make them. Once the city contained two hundred thousand inhabitants; now there are not more than twenty thousand. The streets are deserted and silent, the houses empty. Everywhere are ruins and traces of past grandeur over which nothings of modern life is diffused. You seem to be wandering in a museum of antiquities. Above all, you feel it was once, and perhaps still is, a city of deep religious convictions, from the numerous monasteries and magnificent churches. Pious emblems are on the houses. Among others, we remember the cord of St. Francis, carven in stone, with its symbolic knots of the Passion. At the Ayuntamiento, built after the designs of El Greco, who, like several other eminent artists, was at once painter, architect, and sculptor, is an inscription on the side of the staircase by the poet Jorje Manrique worthy of a place over the entrance of every city-hall: “Ye noble, judicious lords who govern Toledo, on these steps leave all your passions――avarice, weakness, fear. For the public good forget your own private interests; and since God has made you the pillars of this august house, continue always to be firm and upright.”

We were now near the cathedral――one of the grandest, and certainly the richest, in Spain. Its first foundation is lost in the obscurity of legendary times. The people, however, are not so indefinite in their opinion. With a true Oriental love of the marvellous, they not only attribute the foundation of Toledo to patriarchal times, but declare this church was built by the apostles, and that even the Blessed Virgin herself took a personal interest in its erection. It is at least certain that a church was consecrated here in the time of King Ricared the Goth, after the condemnation of the Arians by the Council of Toledo, and it was probably built on the site of a previous one. It was placed under the invocation of the Virgin, and her ancient statue, which has been preserved to this day, was regarded then, as now, with special veneration. The old Gothic kings were noted for their devotion to Mary, and hung up at her altar the beautiful crowns of pure beaten gold and precious stones discovered a few years ago near Toledo, and now at the Hôtel Cluny at Paris.[190]

The Moors, when they took Toledo, seized this church, so sacred to the Christians, razed it to the ground, and erected a mosque in its place; and when Alfonso VI. triumphantly entered the old capital of the Visigoths, May 25, 1085――the very day the great Hildebrand died at Salerno, exclaiming: “I have loved justice and hated iniquity, and therefore I die an exile”――having left the Moors in possession of the building, he was forced to hear Mass in a little mosque of the tenth century, afterwards given to the Knights Templars and called the Christo de la Luz, where may still be seen the wooden shield hung up by King Alfonso, with its silver cross on a red ground.

The people, of course, were dissatisfied to see the infidel left to defile a spot where the Gospel had first been announced to their forefathers and the Christian mysteries first celebrated, and, as soon as the king left the city, determined to regain possession of it. Queen Constanza herself, though a native of France, favored the movement, and had the doors of the mosque forced open in the night. The archbishop purified it with incense, aspersions, and prayer; an altar was hastily set up, and a bell hung in the tower, which, after a silence of four centuries, rang out as soon as daylight appeared, to call the people to a solemn service of thanksgiving.

Bernard de Sédirac was now Archbishop of Toledo. He belonged to a noble family of Aquitaine, and became early in life a Benedictine monk at St. Oren’s Priory, Auch, of which he was soon made prior. This house was affiliated to the Abbey of Cluny, to which he was transferred by St. Hugo on account of his talents and eminent virtues, and when Alfonso VI. sent there for a monk capable of re-establishing monastic discipline in the convents of Castile, Dom Bernard had the honor of being appointed to the mission. He found not in the Spanish monasteries the austerity and silence of Cluny. The neighing of steeds, the baying of hounds, and the whistle of the falcon prevailed over the choral chants, and soft raiment had taken the place of haircloth and the scourge. The monks, however, were by no means depraved, and Bernard soon acquired such an ascendency over them as to effect a radical change in their habits, especially at the great Abbey of San Facundo, of which he had been made abbot.

When Alfonso VI. took Toledo, desirous of restoring the see to its ancient grandeur and importance, he endowed it magnificently, and appointed Dom Bernard archbishop. The part this prelate took in the seizure of the mosque has been alluded to. Mariana, the Jesuit historian, considers his zeal on this occasion as too lively and impetuous. The Moors were naturally enraged at losing their chief place of worship, and for a time it was feared they would break out into open revolt. But they finally concluded to send a deputation to the king to make known the violation of the treaty and demand redress.

Alfonso was then in the kingdom of Leon, and, when he learned what had occurred, he was not only alarmed for the safety of his capital, but angry with those who had endangered it. He at once set out for Toledo, resolved to punish the queen and archbishop. When the Christians of Toledo learned that he was approaching the city in such a disposition the principal citizens clothed themselves in black, and the clergy put on their sacred robes, and went forth to meet him. In the midst was the fair Princess Urraca, pale and trembling, clothed in sackcloth, with ashes on her head, sent by the queen to appease the king’s anger, knowing, if anything could turn him from his purpose, it would be the sight of his favorite daughter. But Alfonso hardened his heart when he saw them approach, and silently registered a vow not to be moved by the princess’ entreaties. Urraca had the true tact of a woman, and, divining her father’s thoughts, fell at his feet, conjuring him to grant her but one favor――to show no mercy on those who had set at naught his authority out of obedience to a higher will!

The king was taken aback by this pious stratagem, and, before he recovered from his embarrassment, a second embassy from the Moors appeared. The king, in anticipation of their renewed complaints, exclaimed: “It is not to you the injury has been done, but to me; and my own interest and glory forbid me to allow my promises to be violated with impunity.”

The messengers fell on their knees and replied: “The archbishop is the doctor of your law, and if we, however innocent, be the cause of his death, his followers will some day take vengeance on us. And should the queen perish, we shall become an object of hatred to her posterity, of which we shall feel the effects when you have ceased to reign. Therefore, O king! we release you from your promise, and beg you to pardon them. If you refuse our petition, allow us to seek in another country an asylum from the dangers that threaten us here.”

The king, who had been weighed down with sadness, broke into transports of joy: “You have not only saved the archbishop, but the queen and princess. Never shall I forget so happy a day. Henceforth you may be assured of my special protection.”

When the king entered the city a few hours after, he proceeded directly towards the mosque taken from the Moors. On the threshold stood Queen Constanza in garments of mourning, and Dom Bernard in pontifical vestments. The king kissed the archbishop’s hand, embraced the queen, and entered the church to give thanks unto God for the happy ending of so threatening a drama. And so, adds Mariana, this day of tears and lamentations was changed into a day of joy. This was in the year of our Lord 1087.

The _Alfaqui_, or Moorish doctor, whose sagacious advice the Moors had followed on this occasion, was regarded with so much gratitude by the Christians that they set up his statue in the Holy of Holies, where it is to be seen to this day among the kings of Spain and the dignitaries of the church.

The present cathedral was begun by St. Ferdinand in 1227. Eight portals give entrance to the edifice. The principal one is called the great Door of Pardon. Seven steps lead up to it, which the people often ascend on their knees. And to kneel is the attitude one instinctively takes on entering this magnificent church, which is like a great jewelled cross of marvellous workmanship. It is, in fact, a museum of sculpture and painting. The eye is absolutely dazzled by its richness, as it looks up the long aisles with their clustered columns, lit up by the finest stained-glass windows in Spain. The choir alone it would take hours to examine, so profuse are the beautiful carvings. On the lower stalls――those of the choristers――are carved jousts, tourneys, battles, and sieges, as if to figure the constant warfare of man here below. Even the very animals in the accessory carvings are represented contending. Forty-five of these stalls represent the siege of some city or fortress in the war with the Moors, and are curious for the costumes and arms of the time. The most interesting relate to the conquest of Granada, just after which they were executed. Nor is it surprising to find such things commemorated in so holy a place. The war with the Saracens was not merely a national enterprise, but a holy crusade on which depended, not only the safety of Spain, but of all Christendom, and Europe has never been sufficiently grateful to the Spaniards for saving it from the yoke of Islam. These carvings seem like a psalm of triumph for ever echoed in this choir: “The Lord hath triumphed gloriously: the horse and his rider hath he thrown into the sea.” Each panel, labelled with its victory, seems chanting, one after the other:

“To him which smote great kings:
For his mercy endureth for ever!――
Sihon, the King of the Amorites:
For his mercy endureth for ever!
And Og, the King of Bashan:
For his mercy endureth for ever!
――And hath redeemed us from our enemies:
For his mercy endureth for ever!”

On the upper stalls, where sit the canons of the church between red marble columns, are the holy mysteries of the faith, carved by Berruguete and Felipe de Borgoña, and above in alabaster is the genealogy of Christ. At the head of the choir is the archbishop’s throne, like the stalls of carved walnut, but supported by bronze pillars. Among other carvings on it is the legend of St. Ildefonso and the sacred _Casulla_, so popular at Toledo, and which has inspired the pencil of Murillo, Rubens, and other eminent artists. St. Ildefonso was Archbishop of Toledo in the seventh century, and the author of a famous work entitled _De Virginitate Mariæ_. It is said that one night, entering the church at the head of his clergy to sing the midnight office, he found the altar illuminated, and the Blessed Virgin seated on his ivory throne surrounded by a throng of angels, holding in her hand the book he had written in defence of her virginity. She beckoned him towards her, and said, as she bestowed on him a beautiful white chasuble of celestial woof: “Inasmuch as with a firm faith and a clean heart, having thy loins girt about with purity, thou hast, by means of the divine grace shed on thy lips, diffused the glory of my virginity in the hearts of the faithful, I give thee this vestment, taken from the treasury of my Son, that even in this life thou mayest be clothed with the garment of light.” And the attendant angels came forward to fasten the sacred _Casulla_ around him.

After the time of St. Ildefonso no one ever ventured to use this chasuble till the presumptuous Sisberto was made archbishop; but he experienced the fatal effects of his rashness and died a miserable death in exile. This precious garment was carefully preserved fifty-seven years at Toledo, and then carried to the Asturias to save it from the Moors――perhaps by Pelayus when he floated down the Tagus two hundred and fifty miles in a wooden chest, a second Moses destined to save his nation:

“The relics and the written works of saints,
Toledo’s treasure, prized beyond all wealth,
Their living and their dead remains,
These to the mountain fastnesses he bore.”

When the church of San Salvador at Oviedo was completed, Alfonso el Casto had the Santa Casulla solemnly conveyed thither, and there it remains to this day.

St. Ildefonso and the holy Casulla are to be seen at every hand’s turn at Toledo. Countless houses have a majolica medallion depicting them inserted in their front walls. They are sculptured over one of the doors of the cathedral, and several times within. And among the numerous paintings that adorn the edifice are two in which the Blessed Virgin is clothing St. Ildefonso with something of the grace and majesty of heaven.

But the vision of St. Ildefonso is specially commemorated on the spot where it occurred by a beautiful little temple of open Gothic work on one side of the nave. Here the whole legend is admirably told by Vigarny in a series of bas-reliefs in marble. In the outer wall is inserted the slab on which the Virgin’s feet rested, protected by an iron grating. Both the grate and slab are worn by the fingers of the devout. No one passes without thrusting his hands through the grating to touch the stone, after which he kisses the tips of his fingers and makes the sign of the cross.

The _Capilla mayor_ is of excessive richness. Jasper steps lead up to the high altar. The retable, covered with countless sculptures, rises almost to the arches, alive with scenes from the life of our Saviour amid innumerable pinnacles, and niches, and statues of most elaborate workmanship. Around are the tombs of the ancient kings of Spain, and among them that of the celebrated Cardinal Mendoza, the _tertius rex_, who took so prominent a part in the government in the time of Ferdinand and Isabella――a tomb in the Plateresco style, and worthy, not only of that great prelate, but of the marvellous chapel in which it stands. Near by is the effigy of the _Alfaqui_, who interposed in favor of Queen Constanza and Archbishop Bernard, and opposite is a statue of San Isidro, who led Alfonso VIII. to victory at Navas de Tolosa, as well as one of that king himself in a niche. There is certainly nothing grander in all Christendom than this chapel――nothing more in harmony with the imposing rites of the church, which are here celebrated with a majesty that is infinitely impressive.

The chapel of the Sagrario contains the celebrated statue of the Virgin so honored by the Goths, said to have been saved from the Moors by an Englishman. It is of wood, black with age, but entirely plated with silver, excepting the face and hands. This Madonna stands in a blaze of light from the numerous lamps, and is absolutely sparkling with jewels. One of her mantles is of silver tissue embroidered with gold thread (that required three hundred ounces of gold to make) and thousands of pearls weighing nearly as much. There is scarcely room for the rubies, emeralds, and diamonds suspended on this mantle. That of the Child is similar in style, and took nine persons over a year to embroider.

Near by, in the chapel of Santa Marina, is a tombstone over the re-mains of Cardinal de Carrero, the king-maker of Philip the Fifth’s time, with its _Hic jacet pulvis, cinis, et nihil!_――sublime cry of Christian humility.

Every chapel in this cathedral is worthy of interest. One bears the curious name of the _Christo de las Cucharas_, or of Spoons, from the _armes parlantes_ of Diego Lopez de Padilla emblazoned here――three _padillas_, or little paddles in the form of a spoon. It was a lady of this family who, in some civil contest, stripped the statues in the cathedral of their valuable ornaments as a means of defraying the expenses of the war, but first kneeling before them to beg the saints’ pardon for the liberty she was about to take.

Then there is the beautiful chapel of _Los Reyes Nuevos_, lined with rich tombs in sculptured recesses, each with its recumbent effigy, among which is that of a daughter of John of Gaunt, “time-honored Lancaster,” who married a Spanish prince.

The chapel of Santiago, in the flamboyant style, was built before the discovery of America, by Alvaro de Luna, grand-master of the Knights of Santiago. On every side are scallop-shells, emblem of the tutelar, and the crescent, cognizance of the Luna family. The tomb of the founder is in the centre, with knights, cut in alabaster, keeping eternal watch and ward around their chief, who is lying on his tomb; while monks and nuns that have turned to stone seem to pray for ever around that of his wife.

The Mozarabic chapel, with its memories of Cardinal Ximenes, is very interesting. One side of it is entirely covered with a fresco of the battle of Oran, in which the cardinal took a leading part, full of animation and vigor. Here the Mozarabic rite which he re-established is still kept up.