CATHEDRAL OF TOLEDO]

I withdrew at once with the Morisco into the cloisters of the
Cathedral.--_Don Quixote._

I

The peace of death is over Toledo, unbroken by any invasion of modern
thought or new architecture since her last deep sighs mingled with the
distant echoes of the middle ages. But she still wears the mantle of her
imperial glory. She sleeps in the fierce, beating sunlight of the
twentieth century like the enchanted princess of fairy tales,
undisturbed by, and unconscious of, the world around her.

The atmosphere is transparent; the sky spreads from lapis-lazuli to a
cobalt field back of the snow-capped, turquoise Sierra de Gredo
mountains, while a clear streak of lemon color throws out the sharp
silhouette of the battlements and towers.

There is sadness and desolation in the decay, a pathetically forlorn and
tragical widowhood, strangely affecting to the senses.

A blackened ruin, lonely and forsaken,
Already wrapt in winding-sheets of sand;
So lies Toledo till the dead awaken,--
A royal spoil of Time's resistless hand.

Toledo! The name rings with history, romance and legend. Enthralling
images of the past rise before one and vanish like the ghosts of
Macbeth. Capital of Goth, of Moslem, and of Christian; mightiest of
hierarchical seats,[8] city of monarch and priest, she has worn a double
diadem. Gautier says, "Jamais reine antique, pas meme Cleopatre, qui
buvait des perles, jamais courtisane Venitienne du temps de Titien n'eut
un ecrin plus etincelant, un trousseau plus riche que Notre Dame de
Tolede." But the flame of life which once burned warm and bright is now
extinct and all her glory has vanished. Neglected churches, convents,
palaces, and ruins lie huddled together, a stern and solemn vision of
the past, waiting with the silence of the tomb, broken only by the
continual tolling of her hoarse bells.

The city has a superb situation. Once seen, it is forever impressed upon
the memory. The hills on which it stands rise abruptly from the
surrounding campagna, which bakes brown and barren and crisp under the
scorching rays of the sun, and stretches away to the distant mountains,
vast and uninterrupted in its solitude and dreariness. It is "pobre de
solemnidad,"--solemnly poor, as runs the touching phrase in Spanish.
There is no joy and freshness of vegetation, no glistening of wet
leaves, no scent of flowers. You read thirst in the plains, hunger in
the soil-denuded hills.