to this instinct of jealous distrust, has but one
entrance, and that so narrow that Sir John Falstaff
would have been embarrassed to accept its hospitalities.
In the shade of the broken walls, grass-grown and gay
with scattered poppies, I looked at Toledo, fresh and
clear in the early day. On the extreme right
lay the new spick-and-span bull-ring, then the great
hospice and Chapel of St. John the Baptist, the Convent
of the Immaculate Conception, and next, the Latin
cross of the Chapel of Santa Cruz, whose beautiful
fagade lay soft in shadow; the huge arrogant bulk
of the Alcazar loomed squarely before me, hiding half
the view; to the left glittered the slender spire
of the Cathedral, holding up in the pure air that
emblem of august resignation, the triple crown of thorns;
then a crowd of cupolas, ending at last near the river-banks
with the sharp angular mass of San Cristobal.
The field of vision was filled with churches and chapels,
with the palaces of the king and the monk. Behind
me the waste lands went rolling away untilled to the
brown Toledo mountains. Below, the vigorous current
of the Tagus brawled over its rocky bed, and the distant
valley showed in its deep rich green what vitality
there was in those waters if they were only used.
A quiet, as of a plague-stricken city, lay on Toledo.
A few mules wound up the splendid roads with baskets
of vegetables. A few listless fishermen were
preparing their lines. The chimes of sleepy bells
floated softly out on the morning air. They seemed
like the requiem of municipal life and activity slain
centuries ago by the crozier and the crown.
Thank Heaven, that double despotism is wounded to
death. As Chesterfield predicted, before the
first muttering of the thunders of ’89, “the
trades of king and priest have lost half their value.”
With the decay of this unrighteous power, the false,
unwholesome activity it fostered has also disappeared.
There must be years of toil and leanness, years perhaps
of struggle and misery, before the new genuine life
of the people springs up from beneath the dead and
withered rubbish of temporal and spiritual tyranny.
Freedom is an angel whose blessing is gained by wrestling.
The only battle in which Philip II. was ever engaged
was that of St. Quentin, and the only part he took
in that memorable fight was to listen to the thunder
of the captains and the shouting afar off, and pray
with great unction and fervor to various saints of
his acquaintance and particularly to St. Lawrence
of the Gridiron, who, being the celestial officer
of the day, was supposed to have unlimited authority,
and to whom he was therefore profuse in vows.
While Egmont and his stout Flemings were capturing
the Constable Montmorency and cutting his army in
pieces, this young and chivalrous monarch was beating
his breast and pattering his panic-stricken prayers.
As soon as the victory was won, however, he lost his
