ing appeared fine and
simple, and the columns had a certain majesty, I was left more than a
little cold. The whitewash with which the interior is coated gives an
unsympathetic impression, and the abundant light destroys that mystery
which the poorest, gaudiest Spanish church almost invariably possesses.
In the _Capilla de los Reyes_ are the elaborate monuments of the
Catholic Kings, of their daughter Joan the Mad, and of Philip her
husband; below, in the crypt, are four simple coffins, in which after so
much grandeur, so much joy and sorrow, they rest. Indeed, for the two
poor women who loved without requite, it was a life of pain almost
unrelieved: it is a pitiful story, for all its magnificence, of Joan
with her fiery passion for the handsome, faithless, worthless husband,
and her mad jealousy; and of Isabella, with patient strength bearing
every cross, always devoted to the man who tired of her quickly, and
repaid her deep affection with naught but coldness and distrust.

Queen Isabella's sword and sceptre are shown in the sacristry, and in
contrast with the implement of war a beautiful cope, worked with her
royal hands. And her crown also may be seen, one of the few I have come
across which might really become the wearer, of silver, a masterpiece of
delicate craftsmanship.

But presently, returning to the cathedral and sitting in front of the
high altar, I became at last conscious of its airy, restful grace. The
chancel is very lofty. The base is a huge arcade which gives an effect
of great lightness; and above are two rows of pictures, and still higher
two rows of painted windows. The coloured glass throws the softest
lights upon the altar and on the marble floor, rendering even quieter
the low tints of the pictures. These are a series of illustrations of
the life of the Blessed Virgin, painted by Alonzo Cano, a native of
Valladolid, who killed his wife and came to Granada, whereupon those in
power made him a prebendary. In the obscurity I could not see the
paintings, but divined soft and pleasant things after the style of
Murillo, and doubtless that was better than actually to see them. The
pulpits are gorgeously carved in wood, and from the walls fly great
angels with fine turbulence of golden drapery. And in the contrast of
the soft white stone with the gold, which not even the most critical
taste could complain was too richly spread, there is a delicate,
fascinating lightness: the chancel has almost an Italian