In the early part of the following year I visited Edinburgh to lecture for the Philosophical Society of that city. My subject was “The Great Rebellion”; and I made a double attempt, first, to vindicate the Parliament policy as against the despotic unconstitutionalism of the infatuated monarch; and secondly, to criticise the proceedings of some eminent men on the Puritan and popular side. The society invited me to lecture again, when different historical ground was taken, and a sketch was presented of English and Scotch life in the days of Queen Anne.
My old friend, and large-hearted host, the Rev. George D. Cullen, favoured me with the company at dinner, of Dr. Goold, Moderator of the Free Church; Dr. Hanna, son-in-law to Dr. Chalmers; Dr. Alexander, and others—and we had earnest talk about topics of the day. Scotch and English elements of thought, blended so as to bring diversities into view, without any portion of the acrimony common to polemical debate. True blue Presbyterianism rose in contrast with milder colours of Ecclesiasticism. There was no want of thrust or repartee, but we kept the unity of the spirit in the bond of peace. Edinburgh society is of the choicest kind. Some of the best talkers may be found on the other side the border; and memories of celebrities in Auld Reekie, are amongst the most pleasant of my life. On the occasion just noticed, my friend Mr. Cullen took me over to St. Andrews; and there Principal Tulloch did the honours of ciceroneship to perfection. In the evening we dined at the house of Professor Swann, where further social enjoyments of a high university order were found to be in store.
During this visit to Scotland a curious fact was related to me by the librarian of the University. Drummond of Hawthornden bequeathed books to the library of that institution, and in the catalogue appeared an item of “MSS. respecting Mary Queen of Scots.”
These MSS. were long missing, and inquiries about them were made in vain. Not very long before my visit, the librarian received a communication from some one who said he had, in his possession, papers belonging to the University; and on receiving a reply to his letter, he forwarded them. They turned out to be the missing treasure. How came this about? As well as I can remember it appeared that a librarian of the last century put one day into his coat pocket these very MSS., and took them home for examination. He suddenly died. His clothes were sent to a relative, and amongst them, the coat containing the documents now mentioned. For a century afterwards they remained forgotten, and then came to light. The possessor, finding they belonged to Edinburgh University, wrote to the librarian as stated above, and restored them to their proper place. The recovered property was shown to me. It included original papers published some time ago, and others not previously known; but, if I may venture to say so, after a brief inspection, they did not promise to be of so much service as was hoped, in throwing fresh light on the mysteries of poor Mary’s career.
The seventh General Conference of the Evangelical Alliance was held in Basle, September 1st 1879.
There was a large gathering of delegates from Germany, France, Austria, Italy, Spain, Holland, America and England. The president was M. C. Sarasin, Councillor of State, who is said to have descended from a Moorish ancestor settled in the canton. He showed himself to be acquainted with English literature.
“Let me remind our English friends,” he said, “of the words their great poet puts in the mouth of Richard II.:
‘Look not to the ground
Ye favourites of a king! Are we not high?
High be our thoughts.’
“Let us cherish high thoughts, my friends! Are we not the servants of a King, of the King of kings, and Lord of lords? And is it not His work we are carrying on?
“Thus let our work be done, our testimony be given, our efforts be united, in the same joyful steadfast spirit, with the same buoyancy, with which the Apostle, with chained hands, appealed to his flock at Philippi, ‘Rejoice in the Lord always, and again I say, rejoice.’”
These were animating words, and awakened an enthusiastic response, when uttered in the old church of St. Martin, where Æcolampadius first preached the doctrines of the Reformation.
I give the following resumé of some remarks I made at the Basle Alliance meeting.
The Times reported:
“Dr. Stoughton contrasted the gathering of peoples in that assembly, representative of all nations, with a meeting held in Basle four hundred and fifty years ago. Christendom was then in a very divided state, for the spirit of religious inquiry was breaking out, and the great moot-point was, in all theological controversy, ‘Where lies the ultimate authority for religious beliefs—in Popes, in Councils, or in the Word of God?’ They met that day in times of a somewhat differentcharacter, but of still deeper and wider agitation, for the question now was, not only whether the Church or the Bible was the final test of truth, but also whether reason or revelation should be our guide as to the highest of all subjects which could affect the present and future interests of the human family. But how vast the difference between that famous Council at Basle and the Evangelical Alliance Conference of this day! Under what different aspects was union regarded by the two assemblies! The one aimed at uniformity, at a precise and definitely-expressed agreement of opinion, in relation to theological and ecclesiastical points, which might be enforced on all Christendom by pains and penalties,—even death, to a recreant brother. The other seeks to promote unity, holding, after the experience of ages, that uniformity was impossible, and that true unity could not only be attained, but was compatible with a hearty, loving, sympathetic Christian fellowship throughout the family of the redeemed. He then contrasted the appearance of the two meetings, traced out the history of the followers of John Huss, and, in a long and exceedingly able and interesting historical review of the history of the Reformation, showed that Protestant England was not only indebted to Basle for men but for principles; and, identifying the two with the work of Calvin at Geneva and John Knox in Scotland, he contended that the outcome of those early struggles was not only religious freedom in Europe, but, mainly through the Puritans of England, the religious life and progress of America. Their simple reliance now, as then, was the Gospel of Christ, and freedom to preach and practise its heaven-born truths.”
I have a great delight in all genuine Christian union, but my conception of it is by no means confined to the cultivation of love and sympathy with those, who in all, or in most, respects concur with me. There is an admirable passage in Julius Hare’s preface to the third volume of Arnold’s “Rome.” “We are so bound and shackled, by all manner of prejudices, national, party, ecclesiastical, individual, that we can hardly move a limb freely; and we are so fenced and penned in, that few can look over their neighbour’s land, or up to any piece of sky, except to that which is just over their heads.” I took an active part in the early history of the Evangelical Alliance, and I rejoice in those points of agreement which are expressed in its Evangelical faith; but I have never liked its exclusion of some good people from its fellowship, on the ground of differences in relation to ecclesiastical ordinances. I would look kindly over “my neighbour’s land,” and towards “pieces of sky” which are not “just over my head.”
I can scarcely bring myself to speak of the sorrow which befell me in November 1879. My beloved wife then died, and was interred in Hanwell Cemetery, which pertains to the parish of Kensington. The beautiful words in Proverbs are inscribed on her gravestone: “Her children arise up, and call her blessed; her husband also, and he praiseth her.” Some time ago I read in the Life of my American friend, Dr. Hodge, the following passage respecting the deceased companion of his life. I can truly appropriate it to my departed loved one. “A humble worshipper of Christ, she lived in love and died in faith. Trustful woman, delightful companion, ardent friend, devoted wife, self-sacrificing mother, we lay you gently here, our best beloved, to gather strength and beauty for the coming of the Lord.”
My dearest friend Joshua Harrison, who was to her as a brother, preached a funeral sermon, in which he said, “The strength of her life was her faith in the Son of God. Her path, though the sun shone brightly upon it, was often a thorny one. Her own health was liable to frequent interruptions, and her heart was pierced again and again by the loss of children, whom she loved better than herself. Oh, the unmurmuring resignation with which seven several times, she saw her dear ones carried to the grave! Oh, the courage with which she bore the shock! She never wavered in the conviction, ‘He loved me and gave Himself for me,’ but felt that these sad sorrows must be only the obscurer manifestations of His love. And hence she could write, ‘Here we shall never be exempt from trial and sorrow, but when we reach that changeless home above, there will be no need of sanctifying us there. All that is needful to make us meet for that holy place must be done here; and oh, how much pruning and purging, how much of grace and strength we need to help us to walk more closely with Him.’
“She has reached that changeless abode now, and has left all sorrow behind. Long, long had she been waiting, but the message came so suddenly at last, that, without knowing she was dying, she found herself at home. The words discovered in her desk, which by copying she had made her own, received sweet and exact fulfilment:
‘The way is long, my Father, and my soul
Longs for the rest and quiet of the goal;
While yet I journey through this weary land,
Keep me from wandering; Father, take my hand,
Quickly and straight,
Lead to Heaven’s gate
Thy child.‘The way is long, my child, but it shall be
Not one step longer than is best for thee,
And thou shalt know, at last, when thou shalt stand
Close by the gate, how I did take thy hand,
And quick and straight,
Lead to Heaven’s gate
My child.’”
Need was felt for some change after my sad bereavement; so in March, 1880, my daughter and I started for Italy. We tarried on our way a week at Cannes with my friend, Mr. Prust, of Northampton, an old fellow-student, who had a villa in the Riviera. I greatly enjoyed the climate and scenery, and felt soothed by walks and drives on the shores, through the cork groves, and round about to more distant places of interest. Old affections sprang up anew between my friend and myself as we talked of auld lang syne. Nothing could exceed the kindness shown by him and his two interesting nieces.
I met with some old acquaintances at Mentone; amongst the rest, with a gentleman well known in the political and religious world and closely connected with Lord Palmerston. He gave me much information as to what he apprehended was the state of thought and feeling amongst the upper class in reference to Christianity. There seemed to be a large amount of light-hearted, thoughtless scepticism on the part of young people; girls catching from their brothers doubts as to God and Christ and eternity—doubts circulated in conversation and in periodicals. The facts indicated did not strike me as deep and earnest, but as froth on the surface of common talk; not, however, to be passed over as a trifling phenomenon, for if those who occupy superior stations in the world have their faith shaken as to natural and revealed religion, it forebodes mischief to wider circles round them. My informant was inclined to believe that outspoken doubt and disbelief was less to be dreaded than concealed enmity. Moreover, that whilst there was much to excite concern in literature and social intercourse of the present day, there was also an increase in the higher as well as lower walks of thorough-going Christian experience and practice. In my own limited acquaintance I have been cheered to find instances of what appeared genuine piety where I little expected them; works of benevolence going on nowadays amongst all classes are surely tokens for good, which ought to fill us with thankfulness. We are all tempted to confine ourselves to one side of the world and Church picture before us; but we shall not get at the whole truth by shutting one eye and keeping the other wide open.
Leaving Cannes, we travelled by the Cornice Railway to Genoa, and there renewed acquaintance with churches, palaces, and picture galleries, seen years before. Then tarrying at Spezzia, we saw some new specimens of Italian scenery and life. Pisa and Florence were again visited, cities in which I loved to linger; and at the end of about ten days we reached Rome.
I had an introduction to Cardinal Howard, who sent me an invitation to visit him. I was met by a Monseignor friend of his, with whom I had a good deal of conversation. We discussed several topics, and then touched upon the relations in which Catholics and Protestants stood to one another. He considered there was improvement in this respect, more social intercourse existing between them than was once the case.
Pio Nono had a Jewish friend, who became a convert. Seeing him one day depressed, “the holy father,” as this Monseignor called him, asked what was the cause.
“I have just lost my father, who died a Jew, and I am greatly concerned about the state of his soul.”
“But was he a good Jew, devout and acting up to the light he had?”
“Yes,” was the reply.
Then came the Pope’s rejoinder, “I will pray for him; and do you pray for him, and I doubt not that God will have mercy on him.”
These were his words as well as I can remember. The drift of the story and its application were intended to show that the deceased pontiff did not despair of a Jew’s salvation. He did not look upon those outside the Roman pale as beyond the reach of God’s mercy, though needing purification in a future state.
Whilst we were talking the Cardinal came in. The reception he gave me was singularly cordial, and we had a good deal of friendly chat relative to the Stanley family. The favours I asked he granted at once; one was a special introduction to the chief librarian at the Vatican, and the seeing more of its treasures than I had done when I visited the library many years before. He took me into his library, well furnished with books, in handsome bindings, and we had some talk about Thomas Aquinas, in whose writings I took an interest. He recommended to me some little books of analysis and comment. He also procured a papal permission for my daughter to see St. Peter’s Crypt, which is closed to ladies generally, on all days of the year except one. The Cardinal arranged with one of the Vatican librarians that I should have special facilities for seeing historical documents; and afterwards, on my reaching the Vatican by appointment, I was received by an officer, who accompanied me into one of the magnificent galleries, which I had seen years before, to find then all book-cases closed. Now some of them were opened, and I was permitted to take down any volumes I liked; and I at once luxuriated in the inspection of charming Aldine editions of patristic and other authors—the paper as white, and the printing as fresh, as when they were produced four centuries ago.
I was surprised to find that provision was made for the use of printed books, and certain MSS., by readers, admitted after the fashion in our British Museum. There are catalogues, giving titles and press-marks; and, by writing for what you want upon slips of paper, and handing them to an attendant, as in the British Museum, you attain the volumes desired, which you can use at desks provided for the purpose. A catalogue of much greater compass than exists at present, I was informed, is in progress; but the Cardinal told me, it might be a long time before it was finished, adding, that Rome is the Eternal City in more senses than one. He encouraged me to believe that even the archives of the Holy See might be accessible; but, far short of that, MSS. which I wrote for, and examined, were sufficient to convince me that there is abundant materials for extensive research, beyond what was formerly possible. Besides, in the vast Library of the Dominicans—who once had their monastery at Sopra Minerva—a library which is now open to the public, under certain regulations, there are the archives of the Roman Inquisition; the historical use which now can be made of them, appears in many numbers of La Rivista Christiana, in which I found many valuable extracts. Much interesting information respecting early Italian confessors may be found in those Inquisitionary records.
I saw several Protestant brethren in Rome; and, besides preaching in the Presbyterian Church twice, was invited to address a large meeting of Italians, through the medium of the Rev. Mr. Piggott, who was my kind interpreter. I took occasion to lament that Italian Protestants, whilst not by any means numerous, were broken up into so many parties; said that it would be far better if they would work together; and if that were impossible, it was at least desirable and easy, not to interfere with each other’s proceedings, by opposition or uncivil criticism. Judging from a response on the part of an Italian, I was glad to find my remarks were not deemed offensive; but I am afraid they did no real good.
Whilst in Rome at this time I tried to turn my visit to some account by restudying its Christian antiquities. Christian art in its early state is a subject illustrated by the Catacombs. The rude paintings and sculptures familiar to every Roman visitor, familiar by means of books to thousands who have never seen the originals, are historical and symbolic. Noah and the Ark, Abraham offering up Isaac, Moses receiving the law, Jonah and the whale, Daniel and the lions, the three Hebrews in the furnace—these have a Christian meaning, and point typically to truths respecting Christ’s redemption. Subterranean Rome, it has been well said by a French author, is “a living book, palpable, everlasting,” and there are written on its pages, in hieroglyphic ways, truths which are held by all true Christians, whether Protestant or Catholic. The Agape or love-feast, a ship emblematic of the Church, the cross, the fish, the dove, and other well-known signs of Christ and His salvation, occur over and over again. Also there are historical pictures of the Nativity, and of Peter denying his Master. Portraits also are found of Christ, of Peter, of Paul. The Virgin Mary is seen by the side of her husband, whilst the Holy Child, like an Italian bambino, lies in His cradle, an ox licking His feet; close by, the Magi are watching stars in the east. No picture or image of the Virgin, in solitary magnificence, at all resembling the Madonnas of a later period, so far as I can make out, has been discovered in the Catacombs. The contrast between the early attempts and the later achievements of Roman Christian art in doctrinal significance, as well as in imaginative conception and technical skill, is obvious and striking. To pass from the former to the latter requires an immense stride; to go from examining early representations of gospel facts and principles, to look round churches and galleries rich in the works of modern Catholic artists, is to exchange worlds. The difference in religious meaning is as great as the difference in artistic merit.
During this visit to Rome some remarkable religious meetings were conducted by Dr. A. N. Somerville, of Glasgow, who in other parts of Italy the same spring, held revivalistic Protestant services. Those at Rome occurred on a spot, to reach which many citizens had to cross a bridge with a toll bar on it. Notwithstanding, on the evening when we attended, I should think about eight hundred people were present. The preacher could not speak Italian, and what he said was translated into that language, by a native Protestant. Everything was skilfully managed, and the effect appeared on the whole, solemn and impressive. Congregations after the same methods had been previously gathered in Florence, where the addresses, according to report, had produced considerable impression. Sankey’s hymns, translated into Italian, were sung at Rome, with Sankey’s tunes; how far solid evangelical results followed I could not ascertain.
We made, at this time, two excursions which I must notice. One was very short: only as far as Ostia, where there are still some Roman remains. The present town is not worth notice, but the ancient city, Hare says in his “Days near Rome,” is like Pompeii. I cannot quite agree with him. The deep ruts of Roman chariot wheels; fragments here and there of Roman pottery, human bones, coloured marbles, and a few architectural relics, are of interest; but what attracted me to the spot was the memory of Augustine, who, in his “Confessions,” paints such a touching picture of his mother Monica’s illness and death. Thoughts of that interview, as related by the converted son, were the only charm of our visit, and the hour or two we were compelled to spend in the place, for the refreshment of our coachman and his horse, were most dreary. The long, long gossip going on between a priest and the mistress of the little farm, betokened the intense idleness and vulgarity of both,—typical, I fear, of the whole neighbourhood.
Another expedition we made was of a very different kind. We engaged a carriage to the charming haunts of Tivoli, where picturesque objects in the town and its vicinity, and the stupendous waterfall with manifold associations, clustering round the immediate neighbourhood, created memorable delight. Next day we drove to Subiaco, along an interesting road rich in memories of old Roman rural life. My daughter wrote in her journal:—
“It was a glorious morning, the sun was shining brightly, and in the cool spring air, our three pretty little black horses dashed along the road at a good pace, so that we soon found ourselves winding in and out amongst the Sabine Hills. We climbed up a steep ascent, only to go dashing down on the other side. The retreating hills, rising here and there to a great height, were clothed with trees, some of a sombre colour, some fresh with the bright hue of early spring, with here and there a cluster of silver olives, making a delightful variety of colour; whilst, at our feet, the roadside was beautiful with anemones, cyclamen, honeysuckle, and saxifrage; and, lower still, ran the refreshing river Arno.”
Not far from Subiaco there is a deep gorge with sloping sides of rock and foliage, reaching down to the river Arno, bordered by chestnut trees, amidst which, here and there, rises a tall cypress. The brow of the hill on the side nearest Subiaco, is crowned by a far-famed monastery in which, very different from what it is now, the great St. Benedict, founder of a monastery which bears his name, spent his early days and prepared for his great life work, which began at Monte Cassino, on the road from Rome to Naples.
We left Subiaco for Olevano, and were benighted on our way, as the horses toiled up hill after hill. We reached Olevano late at night, and caused quite a commotion in the narrow street, by our inquiries after the hotel, where we were to pass the night, and which, ignorantly, we had passed by, at the hill-top which overlooks the town. There, to our delight, we met with a most enjoyable reception, as the house is a favourite resort for artists; and though we blundered into a room, already occupied by guests, we were permitted to remain, and listen to charming stories of the place and its surroundings. After tarrying a few hours next morning, we had to hasten our departure, that we might catch a train on the railway from Naples to Rome.
After leaving Rome on our way to England, we halted some days at Venice, and revived old recollections. I went over points of interest in a visit years before, and new pictorial and architectural pleasures were enjoyed. We proceeded to Bologna, and crossed the beautiful Lago di Garda, spent a day or two at Trent, where special services were being held for young people, and hosts of “shining ones” in white, crowded the churches.
In 1881 I visited Italy again, especially for the purpose of carrying on researches commenced just before. The journey was rapid. Reaching Turin, accompanied by my dear daughter, I began my work by searching out localities which I could easily identify. In other places I picked up illustrations I desired; for, when the mind is bent on a particular inquiry, it is wonderful how it draws cognate matters to itself. We made an excursion to Pavia, and, on the way, stopped at the beautiful monastery of Certosa. Pavia, situated on the river Ticino, with a covered bridge, is interesting, from its antiquities and history. The churches are specimens of Lombardic architecture, and in the Duomo one was startled to find the tomb of Augustine, Bishop of Hippo, whose remains were transferred from Africa to this city. They were there at the time of our visit, his monument being full of magnificence and beauty, in general form and particular details. Since I was at Pavia, the body has been restored to its original resting-place. Pavia connects itself with the philosopher, Boetius, by a popular tradition that he was imprisoned in a tower belonging to the city. Piacenza and Bologna during this journey afforded gleanings which helped me to realise important events occurring there at the time of the Reformation; but it was in Florence that I did most work, and spent more than a week from day to day tracking Savonarola’s footsteps through the streets, from San Marco to the Palazzo Vecchio, and back again, not forgetting his visit to Lorenzo di Medici at his villa in Careggi, with views of rich woodlands and grassy fields. But my chief employment was in the public library, searching out and deciphering original documents, connected with his trial. According to one account Savonarola underwent an examination, first by words, then by threats, then by torture; and on the second day of his imprisonment was put on the rack. The account of the trial which I gathered from original sources, was in harmony with that of Villari in his life of the martyr. There are two letters appended, one addressed to the Pope respecting la vita buono of the sufferer, and another by a large number of Florentine citizens. I was especially interested in Savonarola’s Bible, which he used to carry under his arm. It is entitled “Biblia integra,” the type beautifully clear, the date 1491. It contains some of his prophecies in MS. Signor Guicciardini has contributed a large collection of Savonarola’s works to this Magliabecchian Library, as it is called, and the catalogue of them runs over sixty pages.
After leaving Florence, we visited the Waldensian valleys, of which I have given some account in my “Footprints of Italian Reformers,” and I may here add, that I agree fully with Professor Comba in his opinion, that the Waldenses, properly speaking, do not appear in history earlier than the twelfth century, and then they are seen scattered over the South of France at Metz, and in the Netherlands—their origin being ascribed by their enemies to Peter Waldo of Lyons, who does not appear to have visited the valleys. I found the good people in the valleys opposed to the results of Professor Comba’s researches. An intelligent daughter of a Waldensian minister said, “We do not believe in them at all here.” After studying the subject, let me add, I do.
In 1881 my dear friend Dr. Stanley died, after so short an illness that I had no opportunity of seeing him in his last hours. His funeral was an event of national interest.
He had much of the mind which distinguished “that disciple whom Jesus loved.” His singular sweetness of disposition was partly natural, for he was a gentle, quiet boy, winning many hearts; but it was gracious and spiritual also, a result of sincere discipleship to the Divine Master. I often felt surprised at his extraordinary amount of forbearance under most unjust and cruel attacks. I once alluded to the need of patience amidst such trials, instancing Archbishop Tillotson, who left behind him a bundle of scurrilous letters, labelled with the words, “May God forgive the writers as I do.” I learned from my friend that once he was accused of infidelity by an anonymous correspondent; and on another occasion, after the figures of Moses, David, Paul, and Peter had been placed in the choir of the Abbey, he received a note beginning with a charge of idolatry. Our Broad Church Dean, and the prelate of the Revolution were ecclesiastically and socially much alike. As to theology the former told me there is much in the teaching of Scripture which transcends human conception, much which, running along lines of mystery, he felt himself unable to follow; but, at the same time, he would remark, there is much more that is plain, which “a wayfaring man, though a fool,” may receive and “not err therein.” To these plain things, he said, he desired to cleave; these plain things he endeavoured to preach. The main difference between others and himself was that certain Evangelical principles were plainer to them than to him.
His interest in Bible study was intense, especially with regard to historical and biographical subjects; and it was well said, that whilst some critics seemed to delight in destroying certain parts, his delight was to build them up into a grand whole. His habit was to maintain truth, so far as he saw it, rather than to attack and overthrow error; and his gift of felicitously adapting events and passages of Holy Writ to passing incidents and characters, was truly wonderful; especially when an opportunity occurred for weaving sacred associations round the walls of his beloved Abbey. Nor did he fail to turn his skill in this respect to admirable account, when preaching in America.
Dr. Stanley’s amiableness never betrayed a suspicion of weakness in his character. Indeed he had a side almost stern in some of its appearances; and he fought against what he deemed evil, with great vehemence; and stood up very boldly, I know, against unprincipled people, declaring that he would not meet them, except in the presence of witnesses.
To see him at his best was to be with him alone, when he gave full sway to his thoughts and feelings, expressing them with greater freedom than I ever heard him do in company. The most enjoyable time was late in the evening, after guests had retired; especially when he conducted me to my bedroom, candlestick in hand, and tarried for a good while chatting about subjects and persons of interest to us both.
Not long before his death, I spent a night at Westminster, when we talked about Oliver Cromwell. With much pathos he read aloud Carlyle’s description of the Lord Protector’s last hours; and, some time before this, he told me that he had been engaged in endeavouring to ascertain what became of the hero’s remains after indignities done to them at the Restoration.
Soon after the Dean’s death, I received from Mrs. Drummond, his executrix, a note accompanied by the picture it referred to. “In a memorandum left by our dear Dean, he desired a photograph of him, which used to stand in the drawing-room, should be sent to you, in remembrance of a sincere friendship.”
With regard to the composition of historical works he was in the habit of employing such information as he could gather from friends.
Oxford men have told me, that he used to lay under contribution whatever he could learn from other people’s researches. For these, however, he was always ready to make ample returns.
Dr. Stanley told me that he was in the habit of looking at some historical characters through the medium of living people, who appeared to him, in one way or other, to resemble them. Excellencies and frailties on the part of deceased individuals, thus came out more vividly before him. It struck me as a considerable help to a realisation of what departed persons might be; but it requires to be carefully employed, lest from resemblances which are real, we infer other things which are imaginary.
His taste was comprehensive. He loved everything which related to English history, especially where it touched his own dear Abbey. Conformity and Nonconformity he sometimes sought to harmonise in surprising ways.
I may add here that there was in the Abbey a monument to Dr. Watts in a dilapidated condition, when I suggested a plan for its restoration. The plan was adopted, and in consequence the monument was for a time removed. During its absence I received a note containing a playful allusion to the circumstance:—
“If some strong Nonconformist should wander through the Abbey this week, he may go away with the impression that in a fit of sudden intolerance the Dean had torn down the monument of Isaac Watts. I assure you that the gaping and vacant chasm in the wall might well suggest such an interpretation. I hope, however, in a few days the restored angel and the mended harp of your sweet psalmist will dispel any hopes that may be awakened in High Churchmen or suspicions in Nonconformists.”
I was informed not long after the Dean’s death, that a gentleman in Kent had in his possession what was said to be Oliver Cromwell’s skull. A friend of mine procured from that gentleman an invitation to see the relic. A large, handsome box was placed on a table, and out of it was taken, wrapped up in silk, a man’s skull. The lower part of the face was gone, leaving the upper jawbone entire, or nearly so; and within the mouth we saw the shrivelled remains of a tongue, while some of the skin on the upper part of the face was still preserved. What astonished me was the quantity of hair adhering to the scalp; and also the following circumstances pertaining to the relic. The inside, carefully examined by a medical companion, plainly appeared to have been embalmed; signs of this were attached to the surface. Moreover, part of a spike penetrated the upper bone, showing that once the skull must have been exposed in a way common enough, when men, put to death for political crimes, had their heads set up in conspicuous places. Finally the head had been severed from the body, not by a sharp axe, but by a knife which had hacked and torn the skin. These peculiarities pointed to one who, having received honourable burial, was afterwards beheaded with a blunt instrument, and then treated as a traitor, by having his head exhibited like those fixed on the top of Temple Bar. These peculiarities pertained to Oliver Cromwell; and to no one else. Documents are preserved together with the relic. They state that the relic remained publicly exposed for a long time, till one night a gale of wind blew it down; that a soldier on sentry picked it up and took it home, and then became alarmed at finding there was search made after it by public authorities. He concealed it down to the time of his death; and when danger was over, the secret was divulged. The skull was afterwards exhibited as a source of profit, and an account of the exhibition appears among papers preserved in the box. After being withdrawn from public view, it was privately sold to an ancestor of the gentleman possessing it at the time of my visit. There is a story afloat, that Cromwell was not buried in Westminster, another corpse being substituted for public interment, and, therefore, that the body hanged at Tyburn was not his! This story is not to be trusted.
In the August following Dean Stanley’s death, I made, with my friend Harrison and some of my family, a tour in Germany. We were delighted with the Bavarian Highlands and the Bader See.
We visited Oberammergau, and heard much about the Passion Play, and were conducted to the place of performance, by persons who had taken part in it. They gave us interesting information. The priest of the place is no bigot. He insisted that a Protestant, who had died in the village, should be interred in consecrated ground, for which, we are told, he received a rebuke from Rome. The drive we had from Partenkirchen to Mittenwald called forth exclamations of great delight.
In the following winter I mixed with members of various denominations, some widely separated from others. This led me to think a good deal about consistency. I noted down at the time considerations of this kind. Everybody admits the palpable truism, “Truth is true, and falsehood is false,” and some deduce from that the corollary: “Then stick to the true, and eschew the false altogether. Countenance what you believe, by consorting exclusively with such as believe as you do.”
But, it must be remembered, systems are complex, and cannot be fairly dealt with in the fashion recommended by some. In many cases, what is condemned as a whole, contains seeds of another sort. There are estimable people who are not accustomed to analyse what they condemn, and cannot see what of truth may be found in the midst of error. To look alone at one side of a system, which, after all, has much of truth, may involve us in error. Thinking of Divine sovereignty, if not connected with human responsibility, may land us in Antinomianism; to dwell upon responsibility by itself, may make us Pelagians.
In the summer of 1882, I went down to Rodborough, in Gloucestershire, to visit my friend, Sir S. Marling, just made baronet, and to preach, I think, for the seventh time, on behalf of the Sunday Schools. The Countess of Huntingdon, George Whitefield, and Rowland Hill had all been in some way connected with the chapel.
On the occasion now mentioned, there was a large gathering of day and Sunday scholars, a picture worthy of Wilkie’s pencil. Sir Samuel and his lady were encircled by guests old and young, receiving from them demonstrations of affection in loud huzzas.
Soon after my return from Italy I attended meetings connected with Wesleyan Methodism, when my friend Mr. McArthur, (afterwards knighted), was Lord Mayor of London. He invited me at different times to meet a large number of ministers of his own and other communions, and at such times he manifested the catholic spirit by which he was eminently distinguished. I think it was once in his mayoralty that the archbishops and bishops dined at the Mansion House table, when toasts were proposed, to which the Archbishop of Canterbury had to respond. Afterwards Nonconformists were honoured in the common way, and it fell to my lot to reply in a few words. The Archbishop had, in a good-natured style, referred to the cares and troubles of his right reverend brethren, and himself. Alluding to what he had said, I ventured to remark I was quite content with my humbler position, and had no aspirations after a seat on the Episcopal Bench. Further, I pleaded, as I always do, for catholic union, and remarked that I strove to be a Christian first; next, a patriotic religious Englishman; and thirdly, a devout Dissenter, adding that I should be ashamed of my Nonconformity, if that were so obstreperous, as to quarrel with the subordinate place I assigned to it.
At the close of the year 1882 Dr. Tait, Archbishop of Canterbury, died. With him I had the pleasure of being acquainted soon after his appointment to the See of London. Our relations afterwards were very friendly. I was kindly invited to share in the pleasure of his Lambeth hospitality; and at a time of deep domestic sorrow he was one of the very first to express affectionate sympathy in a letter of condolence. I found him always very kind, and he impressed me with the conviction that in his judgment of Conformity and Nonconformity, and of the relative duties of Churchmen and Dissenters, he took much more sensible views than most of his brethren. He did not seem to anticipate, as at all probable, the comprehension of all, or most, English Christians within the pale of one community; since each denomination has its principles, its traditions, and its trust property, and is not likely to merge its peculiarities in the adoption of others. A wise, liberal, Christian modus vivendi was the object of his desire. I attended his funeral, and met in his residence at Addiscombe, a large number of clergymen, and men of different opinions, drawn together by a common regard for his eminent moral and religious worth. The trees were bare, the ground was covered with snow, and the long procession walked through the park, the winter sun brightening the scene. The whole struck me as very solemn, and in harmony with the occasion that had brought us together.
My journeys abroad were approaching an end when in 1882 my daughter and I spent a few weeks in Switzerland, on the shores of the Genevan lake, and in its neighbourhood. One memorable expedition we made was to Grenoble and the Grande Chartreuse. The monastery was difficult of access early in this century, but now there are well-appointed vehicles for conveying tourists from the railway to the gates of this romantic retreat. The ascent as far as Laurent du Pont is up a road lined with acacias, bordering barley fields, commanding glimpses of a magnificent valley, with bosky dells, cut in twain by the river Isere. The gorge to the right increases in grandeur as one ascends. Purple rocks rise from depths of massy verdure, sublimity succeeds beauty, and, after reaching a broad mountain-girdled plain, one arrives at a halting place called Laurent du Pont. Thence the road becomes more steep, winding along ledges of rock, whence, through openings, one looks down on pine woods, and sees the stream fighting its way, like our contested passage through this troublesome world. We reached a thick forest at the top of the pass, and came to the monastery—a pile, of buildings sheltered on green uplands. There were before us long walls, square towers, and steep roofs, dappled with dormer windows; here and there was a slender spire. The buildings stand 4268 feet above the level of the sea, and one of the corridors is 660 feet long. The original foundation dates far back; but little of what one now sees is older than the seventeenth century. The founder was the famous Bruno, who, with six companions, retreated to this spot so secluded and desolate. Chartre signifies a prison, but it also expresses what we mean by the word charter. The buildings have been seven times destroyed, but in the seventeenth century the convent reached its meridian glory.
No sooner had we entered the penetralia of the building, than we saw notices requesting visitors not to smoke, nor loiter, nor speak loudly; and in the distance were monks with white cloaks and cowls, gliding about like ghosts from the other world. Pictures of Carthusian convents were hanging on the corridor walls; and the Chapter House exhibited badly painted portraits of past generals. Following our guide, we entered a vaulted cloister, with windows on one side and doors on the other, bearing texts of Scripture, such as “Narrow is the way which leadeth unto life,” and “Whosoever he be of you that forsaketh not all that he hath cannot be My disciple.” Stations of the Cross are hung upon the walls; through a window are caught glimpses of a green garden, bright and cheery amidst sombre appearances all round. The dormitories have each a cupboard-like bed, a little reading desk, a stove, directions for novices, a statuette of the Virgin, and a crucifix. There are workshops fitted up with lathes, and a small chapel with an altar cloth, covered with skulls and cross-bones. Inscriptions such as “Vanity of vanities, all is vanity,” expressed the characteristic feeling of the inmates. The library is handsome, well fitted up, with beautifully bound books.
Visitors are not admitted to the monastic chapel; but from a tribune they are permitted to look down on the ante-chapel, and witness matins at the appointed hour. The brotherhood are remarkable for industry, being graziers of cattle, and manufacturers of liqueurs.
The clock struck six just after we left the monastery, and a calm summer evening shone on the old walls, the green pastures, and the climbing woods. The pass, as we descended, struck us as almost equal to the Via Mala in grandeur, united with beauties which the other scene can scarcely boast. Road-making, tree-felling, saw-mills, iron works, distilleries, cement manufactories, told of widespread industry. The old monastery lay behind; modern enterprise stood out before.
We were rapidly driven through Laurent du Pont, as the star-studded sky, streaked by the Milky Way, overarched the region. We noticed glow-worms in the hedges, brought out by advancing night, and presently the wide vale at the foot of the descending road seemed dusted with bright-looking objects like glow-worms; but they turned out to be the lamps of Voirons, where we took the train for Grenoble, and finished a day of remarkable interest.
At this period I was engaged in the preparation of “The Spanish Reformers,” and to give vividness to the work, with regard to local scenery and circumstances, I resolved in March 1883 to visit the Peninsula, where I might gather what was possible for the accomplishment of my purpose.
My daughter was my companion, and had been studying Spanish to render me assistance. We travelled through France on our way to the north-east of Spain.
We halted at Lyons: in the neighbourhood of it persecution occurred in the second century; but unlike what obtained in Spain three hundred years ago, it was not the persecution of one class of Christians by another, but the persecution of the Church by a heathen world. We find embedded in the Ecclesiastical History by Eusebius a document giving an account of sufferings by believers at that time who were in the neighbourhood of Lyons. Vienne, with its glass houses and metal foundries, coalpits and smoke, is now passed by travellers, without any interest; but in the second century it took precedence of Lyons, and had a flourishing Church, a member of which—Blandina, a maiden slave—suffered death as the penalty of her faith. [315]
We tarried a night at Lyons, drove round the city, saw the cathedral and other buildings, and ascended a hill on which stands the church of Notre Dame de Fourvières, covered and crowded with ex-votive offerings, in return for miraculous cures by the Virgin. From the elevation views are caught of extensive scenery. Thence we proceeded to Arles, rich in Roman remains, including a magnificent amphitheatre. The cathedral of St. Trophimus said to have been one of St. Paul’s disciples, is an interesting specimen of twelfth or thirteenth century architecture. Thence we proceeded to Narbonne, a quaint old town, of importance in Roman times, with ramparts still of some interest, and quaint streets, through which we had an evening’s ramble. The cathedral of St. Just is an unfinished edifice of the thirteenth century, with some good tracery in the windows. The city is distant from the sea only about eight miles. Thence we proceeded to Perpignan, and, entering Spain, reached our destination at Figueras, where we were kindly welcomed by our friends, [316] who are engaged in evangelistic work amongst Roman Catholic Spaniards.
Figueras is a considerable town, which greatly interested us. It was the day before Good Friday that we arrived, and we were much amused by a number of boys with wooden mallets vehemently beating the pavement, which was explained to us as a custom indicative of hatred to the Jews for having crucified our Lord; what the Jews had to do with Figueras I could not make out. In the evening there was a procession through the streets of a truly magnificent description. It consisted of the gentry in the town, attired in antique Spanish costumes, and presented an imposing spectacle. Ladies personated the Virgin Mary and other Scripture characters, and numerous candles carried by attendants made a splendid illumination. On the following day, Good Friday, we had a drive into the country, where we saw and heard of what went on in the way of missionary work conducted by our zealous friends. In the evening we visited a neighbouring church which was illuminated, and crowded with people engaged in religious service. After this, we saw in the streets a long procession, including penitents, who were fettered with chains.
From Figueras we travelled to Barcelona, a city rich in commercial enterprise and wealth, the streets crowded with people and enlivened by carriages of grandees and wealthy merchants, as well as by vehicles employed in humble traffic. The cathedral is a noble edifice, in which we attended Divine worship on Easter Sunday. A priest with difficulty made his way through a densely-crowded congregation to the altar steps, where he knelt and prayed, and then mounted a temporary pulpit. As soon as he opened his lips, all eyes were turned towards him. His voice was marvellous and his attitudes were graceful; sometimes he was persuasive, then indignant, always earnest; women wept, tears ran down men’s cheeks. The sermon was on our Lord’s resurrection. He insisted on our duty to remember Christ—“the Way, the Truth, and the Life”; and he showed the effect of this on the hearts and lives of believers. He dwelt on the duty of repentance, and urged people to come to Christ. In a touching manner he referred to his own experience, and exhorted the congregation to believe, pray, and obey the Gospel; saying over and over again, “Haber fè, fè, fè”—“Have faith, faith, faith.”
I met with signs of Protestant work going on in Barcelona, and a gentleman residing there at the time, told me of what the British and Foreign Bible Society was doing in Spain. He gave it, as his opinion, that it exceeded other instrumentalities in the efficiency of its service. I find it stated by a Spanish author, that Barcelona abounds in mendicancy, and I have, as I write, a woodcut before me representing a pitiable crowd of beggars at one of the cathedral doors. [318]
Next to Barcelona, we visited Tarragona, travelling there by rail. Tarragona is situated on an eminence commanding a fine view of the Mediterranean, and I was much interested in the architecture of the cathedral, a building of the eleventh century, fully described by Street in his work on “The Gothic Architecture of Spain.”
Whilst tarrying at Tarragona, I made an excursion to Poblet, rarely visited by English, though frequented by French and German travellers. This place is distinguished by monastic remains of extraordinary magnificence. You wander amongst courts, cloisters, and dormitories, through stately halls, which once boasted of a magnificent library rich in MSS.; through a palace appropriated for the use of royal and noble visitants; and through a stately church with a nave of seven bays. The architectural grandeur of the whole is amazing; I was surprised to learn that it is so rarely seen by our countrymen. Kings and nobles were brought there for interment, and in that respect it vies with our Westminster Abbey. At Poblet shattered tombs may still be seen; and few, if any, but Spaniards of purest blood, were permitted to sleep within the monastic walls. A marble slab may be seen covering the remains of an Englishman, described in the Spanish guide book as “Felipe de, Marquése de Malbursi y de Cacharloch,” etc. Wharton was the English name of this well-known personage, who was made Knight of the Garter by James II. He had become a Roman Catholic, but his father was a distinguished English Nonconformist.
Our next destination was Valencia, to which city we travelled by rail, enchanted as we approached it, by beautiful scenery which one does not find abundant in Spain. Augustus Hare breaks out rather rapturously respecting his approach: “Day broke in time to show us the first vision of tall palms, with their feathery foliage, rising black against one of Tennyson’s ‘daffodil skies,’ which above, still deep blue, was filled with stars.” The groves and gardens appeared to me very beautiful; and the soil is so fertile, that lucerne is sown fifteen times in the course of a year. Valencia has battlemented walls; and its arched gate, the Puerta de Sarranos, reminds one of old English barbicans. It is an Oriental kind of place, and has charmingly arched entrances for light—agimes,—i.e., openings by which the sun enters. The city is full of memories, connected with the Cid, which I have not space to introduce; but I may mention that precursors of the Reformation entered the city in 1350,—under the name of Beghards, who figure rather prominently in the religious history of that period.
The Cathedral of Valencia is a noble edifice, and has one magnificent entrance of richly decorated Gothic. There is, in the Colegio del Patriarca, a ceremony every week on Friday, which attracts a number of people. It consists in letting down an altar piece by concealed machinery; and then, by withdrawing a curtain, there is disclosed a large picture of our Saviour on the Cross. Those who assemble to witness this ceremony, are required to appear in mourning. I explored the city from end to end, and found it by no means so uninteresting as some represent it.
We started in the evening for Cordova, a long distance; but as it was accomplished in darkness, I noticed nothing by the way, except stoppages at stations and a change of trains. We crossed the Sierra Morena, which, in some places, at least, must be very magnificent, if one may judge from an engraving of tall rocks facing each other, leaving scarcely room for muleteers to pass between. The approach to Cordova is inviting, and the Moorish city is beheld amidst a fertile region, across which runs the Guadalquivir.
We had been invited to take up our abode with an exemplary Scotch missionary in the city. The sojourn was in a quiet street at a comfortable dwelling, with an open space in the middle of the residence, planted with shrubs. Upon this we looked down from windows in our apartments. One room on the ground floor is sufficiently large to receive a congregation of about fifty people. We were there on a Sunday and attended worship in the evening.
The Mosque of Cordova, now a cathedral, is one of the most wonderful buildings in the world. The surrounding walls are from thirty to sixty-feet high. The courtyard measures 430 feet by 210. Once there were nineteen entrance gates, now there is but one. Formerly there were inside the mosque 1200 monolithic columns, now there are only 850. What is the coro, or choir, of the cathedral, was erected in the sixteenth century, after the Mohammedan mosque had become a Catholic church. We had pleasant walks and drives in the neighbourhood.
The next celebrated place in our route was the far-famed Granada, of which expectations were highly raised, without any disappointment. We wandered about the Alhambra for several days. The Hall of the Lions, the Hall of the Ambassadors, and the Hall of the Abencerrages,—with their arches and columns, courts and colonnades, fountains and flowers,—kept us spel-bound day by day. We read Washington Irving on the fascinating spots which he describes so vividly. We could but bow to his relentless fidelity, where he assures us that, after examining Arabic authorities and letters, written by Boabdil’s contemporaries, he was convinced, that the whole collection is fictitious with a few grains of truth at the bottom.
The fame of the Alhambra swallows up all which is wonderful in Granada, but, the city retains much besides worthy of a traveller’s attention. The prospect you have of the place, the plain, and the surrounding hills, is magnificent; and the cathedral, commenced in 1529, after the defeat and banishment of the Moors, is a building of architectural interest. It contains the Capella Real, with the tomb of Ferdinand and Isabella; also of Philip the Handsome, and his wife Juana, “Crazy Jane,” as she was called, mother of the famous Charles V. The granddaughter tells us: “She committed her soul to God and gave thanks to Him, that, at length, He delivered her from all her sorrows.” In connection with the cathedral, we meet with Fernando de Talavera, better known by Spaniards than by Englishmen. Though he remained a Roman Catholic, he deviated from the common opinions and usages of his age. The Carthusians have a monastery outside the city, and on visiting it, I found pictures of English priests, reported to have been martyrs at the period of the Reformation. No doubt their sufferings are exaggerated on the monastic walls, but it is a fact, beyond reasonable doubt, that there were Roman Catholics put to death by English Protestants.
We started one morning from Granada for Seville, and, on crossing the Vega by the railway, we saw a good barley crop in the month of April. At Bobadillo, we got on the Seville line, and found the country improve as we came near to the city on the banks of the Guadalquivir. There, instead of antique and uncomfortable fondas, travellers meet with spacious and well-furnished hotels. We tarried several days in the city.
The cathedral, of course, was the first object of interest; and, as soon as possible, we repaired to it, and received an overpowering impression, as we looked above, beneath, around. Above there is the magnificent roof, spanning the breadth of the temple; beneath there lies a large slab covering the remains, not, as sometimes supposed, of Columbus, who discovered America, but of Fernando, his son. In Holy Week an immense Greek cross, carved in wood, is raised over the spot, and lighted up so as to produce an indescribable effect. The coro, or choir, is as grand, though in another way, as the nave which leads up to it. In an upper part of the edifice there are preserved MSS. and other memorials of unrivalled Spanish discoveries, and they were freely shown to us. We went to the Museum, and feasted on Murillo’s pictures. We were also taken by a friend to see another work of the same artist, since presented, I am told, to the Pope.
Seville was headquarters of the Protestant cause. The Reformation did not penetrate much below the hidalgo class. It left the masses almost untouched. In Seville stood the Inquisition prison, till it was removed to a palace in the Calle san Mario. “Here,” says Mr. Wiffen in 1842, “while gazing on the edifice with feelings of awe, I recalled to remembrance those martyrs for the truth, and, at the same time, I listened with painful interest to the narration made to me by a Spanish gentleman, of an attack on those very premises at a recent period by an infuriated populace, who suffered but few of the friars confined there for political offences, to escape with life. The building having taken fire some perished in the flames, while others fell by the hands of the assassins.” The tables were turned just then, priests were in prison for political crimes, as heretics had been incarcerated in the sixteenth century.
Old Venetian political policy was carried out against Protestantism, and the Inquisition office, with opened ears, listened for whisperings of heresy. Horrors went on in secret places. I cannot relate them, but they may be found in what is written by Limborch and Llorente. A few miles from Seville is the monastery of San Isidore—the cradle of the Spanish Reformation—and I visited the building with deep interest. The chapel remains in tolerable repair, and is used as a parish church. The chapter-house, sacristy and cloisters are preserved. Ancient pictures hang on the walls, and old embroidered vestments are shown to visitors. Bibles and Protestant books were of old secretly brought within the walls, and monks began to read them.
I have described Seville Cathedral and its treasures at some length in my volume on “Spanish Reformers, their Memories and Dwelling Places.” I cannot repeat here what has been said there. But let me say, the city is full of interest to travellers, hotels are comfortable, shops are well stocked with curiosities, manufactories are hives of industry, and pictures by great masters are found in churches and private houses. I was enchanted with some of the Murillos, and would advise every traveller to visit the Sala de Murillo in Seville.
I should have been glad to have prolonged my stay, and to have revisited spots full of historic interest. But I had much before me to see and study in the interior and north of Spain; therefore, though unwillingly, we took the train one night for Madrid, making that a starting point for other explorations.
I may mention that during our stay at Madrid we were entertained in a curious straggling house, occupied by Dr. Fliedner, a minister, who acted as chaplain to the German Embassy. The house, it is said, was occupied by the famous Escovedo, secretary to the still more famous Don Juan of Austria; and one night as he was returning home six ruffians waylaid him, between eight and nine o’clock, and inflicted on him wounds, of which he died in half an hour. Peres, a great villain who hated Don Juan, is said to have obtained the sanction of Philip II. for this abominable deed, prompted by the discovery of an amour between Escovedo and the Princess of Eboli. It is a horrible story of crime and vice, common in the secret annals of Spain.
In Madrid I had the privilege of using the public library, and found there a large collection of English and French, as well as Spanish, literature. I am sorry to say, that on the shelves, many volumes in our language appeared, written by “advanced thinkers,” tending to the diffusion of anti-Christian principles. And, in the windows of booksellers I noticed works for sale of the same description. The Bible Society I found at work within limits marked by law, and I attended one evening a Spanish congregation gathered by Protestant agency, and had the privilege of addressing those present, through the medium of an interpreter. I met with specimens of Spanish superstition which were very degrading. In one case I saw papers, with a figure of the Virgin’s shoe printed upon them, sold to ignorant people as a sacred charm.
The Plaza at Madrid is a magnificent square, encompassed by a line of handsome buildings with a garden, fountains, and an equestrian statue of Philip III. in the middle. Here some of the autos were held in the seventeenth century, and in 1869 excavations were made, where incontestable proofs of burnings appeared in bones, charred wood, chain links, nails and rivets discovered in the soil. Dr. Manning, in his “Spanish Pictures,” wrote soon after the discovery: “I visited the spot, and much as I had heard of the horrors of the Quemadore, I was not prepared for the sight I beheld; layer above layer, like the strata of a geological model, were these silent, but most eloquent witnesses of the murderous cruelty of Rome.”
I may here add that I saw other mementoes of the Spanish Inquisition in underground vaults connected with a house occupied by the Rev. Mr. Jameson, a Presbyterian clergyman at work in Madrid. I found recesses walled up, which it was said had been cells in the days of persecution.
Of course, I visited the immense picture-gallery in Madrid; but the size and number of rooms with multitudes of paintings on the walls, were so bewildering, as to make only a confused impression on my mind. Spanish art has not the charm for me which it has for many. Velasquez and Murillo, of course, are pre-eminent. The latter stands first of all in my estimation. No one, who has seen only the dirty beggar boys at Dulwich, can have any conception of Murillo’s merits. It is in Seville, however, that he must be studied, if any one would see him at his best. I found no Murillo in Madrid which charmed me like those it was my privilege to enjoy in the Capital of the South. There is a good chapter on Velasquez and Murillo in Sir E. Head’s “Handbook of Painting—Spanish School.”
“Velasquez and Murillo are preferred, and preferred with reason, to all the others, as the most original and characteristic of their school. These two great painters are remarkable for having lived in the same time, in the same school, painted for the same people and of the same age, and yet to have formed two styles so different and opposite that the most unlearned can scarcely mistake them, Murillo being all softness, while Velasquez is all sparkle and vivacity.” [329]
A curious story is told of a picture by Velasquez—the portrait of Adrian Pulido Pareja. Philip IV. coming, as usual, to see the artist at work, started when he saw this portrait, and addressing himself to it, exclaimed: “What, art thou still here? Did I not send thee off? How is it thou art not gone?” But seeing the figure did not salute him, the King discovered his mistake, and, turning to Velasquez, said: “I assure you I was deceived.”
We visited the Escorial some distance from Madrid. Philip II. is buried there. Its situation is wild and desolate—a vast expanse of undulations, scarcely to be called mountainous, except in the distance, where snow-streaked sierras send cutting blasts over the slate roofs and against the grey stone walls. The building itself looks like a manufactory, at best like spacious barracks; one may think it something between a prison and a convent, or rather a combination of the two; at any rate its cold, stern, repulsive exterior is a fair type of the builder’s character and influence. The only objects of much interest, and they are in truth most melancholy, one finds in the monkish apartments, the monastic chapel, and the costly sepulchre of the founder and his family. A long and narrow room is shown with brick floor and leathern chairs, where he dined. Next to it is another, only separated by folding doors, from which, when open, the despot borrowed the light by which he wrote his despatches. In this room is a plain oak table, with three brass ink bottles on one side, and a velvet writing-case in the middle; these, with the leather-bottomed chair on which he sat, are carefully preserved. From this room you pass into a third, low and dark, a mere cell, whence through an opening in the wall, the altar of the monastery chapel may be seen; there he spent his last hours, after being, like his prototype Herod, smitten by an angel of the Lord, and eaten up of worms; no death could be more horrible. That chapel is an enormous marble building, most costly, most dreary, and into one corner of the coro he would sometimes steal, to perform his devotions with the Jeronymite brotherhood. The sepulchre under the high altar is reached by a slippery marble staircase; and round the sides of the vault are placed sarcophagi, one above another; Charles V. occupies the topmost position, Philip being placed under his father. The dismalness of the spot is unrelieved by any emblem or suggestion of Christian hope: not even such a ray falls over it as that which lighted up the mind of the heathen Cicero, when he spoke of meeting in the future life an assembly of noble souls.
Toledo is about forty miles from Madrid, and is easily reached by rail. Scenery on the way is uninteresting till you get near the city, when, crossing the bridge over the Tagus, you are reminded of the rocky seat on which sits Durham Cathedral. Winding through narrow streets of the city and past Moorish-looking entrances into courts, called patios, I thought Toledo was a sort of album, with ornamented leaves on one side, and romantic legends on the other. At the foot of St. Martin’s bridge lies a cave, where Roderic, the last of the Goths, saw the lady whose seduction caused the Moorish invasion; which invasion robbed the monarch of his crown. The cathedral is grand indeed. The cloisters are full of rich tracery, elegant pilasters crowned with statuettes, and open windows adorned by elaborate tracery. The interior is worthy of its surroundings and its approach; and I was deeply interested in the Mozarabic chapel. There is preserved a thin folio, bearing the name of the chapel, and containing a Latin service, used there every day. With it is connected an absurd tradition, the story and meaning of which are disputed by archæologists. With the cathedral you have connected the name of Bartolomo Carranza, called the Black Friar, whose long story is entwined round the Council of Trent, and with Philip of Spain, who married the English Queen Mary. He attended Charles V. on his deathbed, and was accused of heresy; and yet the Pope raised for him a monument in commemoration of his virtues. It is said Carranza believed in the doctrine of Justification by Faith; and his history from beginning to end appears to me a hopeless puzzle. [333]
In Toledo is the “Square Market,” as it is called; and here occurred bullfights and burnings,—one of the latter in 1560, when Philip II. was present.
We returned from Toledo to Madrid and leaving the capital, a week or so afterwards, travelled to Valladolid. The chief, indeed the only, architectural monument in Valladolid is found in the combined edifices of San Pablo’s Church, and San Gregorio’s College. The facade of the former is an elaborate example of Gothic flamboyant; but the gateway of the latter with its heraldic ornaments, coats of arms, statues in niches, and numerous figures, has a bewildering effect. Columbus and Cervantes both resided in this city; the former died in the Calle de Colon, the latter wrote the first part of “Don Quixote” in the Calle de Rastro.