A VISIT TO THE ESCURIAL.

BEFORE I quitted, perhaps for ever, the capital of Spain, I determined to visit the ancient edifice where repose the kings of that beautiful country. The day was on the decline when I arrived within the walls of the Escurial. The last rays of the setting sun tinged its gothic windows with a melancholy hue. I wandered slowly through this gloomy abode, where lies wrecked the grandeur of those potentates; but it was above all at the tomb of the haughty raiser of this magnificent building, that I found ample food for my sadness. Here, said I to myself, I tread upon the ashes of a tyrant, of an unnatural father. Here in this pompous mcnument, rests the assassin of the graces and of virtue; the murderer of that charming Elizabeth, who was the idol and the hope of France. Unfortunate princess! what a destiny was thine! a fatal* marriage tore from thee thy father, thy lover, and united thee to an odious monster, who punished thee because thou couldst not love him! While indulging in these sorrowful reflections, I seemed to see the plaintive shade of the daughter of the race of Valois wander near me and reproach the barbarous Philip for his cruel jealousy. My imagination carried me back to those calamitous days when the feeling Carlos and the beautiful Elizabeth cursed the brilliant yoke which enchained them, and envied the straw-roofed cot of the humble labourer. Alas! the diadem of kings could not check the tears of the luckless daughter of Henry. A life of trouble, a tragical death, such was the doom of the most virtuous of women! Indignation seized me at the sight of her persecutor's tomb; and in spite of the respect which we owe to the remains of the dead, I was on the point of cursing his memory; but unwilling to profane the majesty of this awful place, I quitted the temple, and turned my steps towards the humble burial place, where rest the ashes of the hieronymite monks, who reside in the nonastery.

My soul found a solace in contemplating the modest tombs of these pious recluses: unquiet and tumultuous

It was on the occasion of the marriage of Elizabeth of France with Philip II. that Henry II. gave the tournament in which he was killed by Montgomery.

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[No. IX.

thoughts, painful remembrances, keen regrets, all disappeared-the calmness of the spot was shared by my heart. To enjoy still more this state of tranquility, I seated myself upon one of the tombs by which I was surrounded: and there, in a softened voice, exclaimed :—“No illustrious names are engraven here in letters of gold; no marble, no porphyry retraces or perpetuates the image and the remembrance of these righteous solitaries; simple like their lives, these monuments do not astonish the eye, but they cover the remains of the virtuous. The flowers, which grow on these mouldering graves, have been watered by the tears of friendship. What feeling heart is there that would not prefer this touching picture to the pomp of those magnificent sépulchres, which the pride of the living delights in consecrating to the memory of the dead." The expiring day, the hymn of the melancholy nightingale, the murmuring sounds from the cypresses, which seemed to me like the accents of the departed just whom I was now honouring, all united to plunge me deeper into meditation, when suddenly the silence which reigned around me was broken by a concert of voices, which sung the praises of the Most High.

Prompted by an irresistible impulse, I once more entered the church. Heavens! what an august spectacle met my sight! Two hundred hieronymites on their knees, their brows bent to the dust, offered up to the King of Kings, the homage of an irreproachable life. Those long vaults, where rest the masters of Spain, now echoed with the sacred songs of the humble ministers of the Deity. This mixture of the obscure living and the illustrious dead; of the magnificence of the edifice, and the simplicity of manners of the worshippers in it; the astonishing contrast between the founder and the inhabitants of it; to what different reflections from those which I had lately made, did they not all give birth! The remembrance of guilty grandeur had driven me from this scene; the accents of humble. virtue brought me back. Deeply affected by these angelic hymns, I joined my feeble voice to those of the good recluses, and our united prayer ascended to the eternal throne.

The service being ended, all was again silent. The hieronymites returned to their cells, and I was about to quit the Escurial, when I saw a monk, who was still on his knees at the tomb of Charles V. and lost in meditation. His as

pect was calculated to inspire reverence. The mild serenity which was pictured on his venerable brow, his bald head, his trembling hands raised to heaven, his eyes closed to earthly objects, every thing in his person contributed, indeed, to make him an object of the profoundest respect. I did not dare to interrupt him, for I should have thought it a crime to place myself between him and the Divinity. Yet I could not bring myself to depart, without having obtained from. this virtuous being, one look, which I figured to myself must be that of the angel of peace. Motionless, I was silently contemplating him, when the bell of the monastery roused him from his meditative posture. He rose, as if with reluctance, and slowly quitted the altar. As he passed by, he perceived me, and astonished to see a stranger so near him, he spoke to me a few obliging words, and was then going on his way; but I stopped him. "Oh, Father," said I, "have the kindness to spare me a word or two more. Tell me, does happiness dwell here?" At this unexpected question the good old man cast on me a look of surprise, and seemed to hesitate whether he should reply; but at length taking me by the hand, "Stranger," he said, "behold this tomb. It encloses the dust of one of the most powerful monarchs of the earth. Charles V. gave laws to Europe, he made his subjects tremble, he overwhelmed with the weight of his pride the kings who were his allies, he trampled upon those who were his enemies, he knew the intoxication of power, the exultation of victory, the sweets of adulation—these were his-do you think then he was happy? History answers no! Undeceive yourself, therefore, with respect to the illusions of rank, the charms of opulence, the enjoyments of vanity, the vain pleasures of the world." "There is, then, no such a thing as happiness below?" "What! after the example which I have placed before you, are you not yet convinced of the nothingness of all earthly things? Come with me, and explore this pantheon, which contains our ancient sovereigns; question their ashes;-they will attest to you, more strongly than I can, how true were the words of the wise man, when he exclaimed, "Vanity of vanities! all is vanity !" "I think as you do ; happiness, therefore, is nothing but an imaginary being, which hope shows to us afar off, but which we never muşt hope to reach."

At these words, my guide paused for a moment, then turning towards me, he said, "Mortal, so proud of thy being, what art thou in the eyes of him who knows how to estimate things at their real value? Nothing but a little organized dust, which a breath of the Creator has thrown upon this world of exile, and which another breath can make disappear from it. Like those brilliant congelations which we admire, and which a single beam of the suncan dissipate, thou vanishest in an instant, and in thy rapid. progress art unable to seize that happiness which is still more fugitive than thyself. Aware as thou art of this sad truth, believe, O, my son! that this existence would not be a benefit, if it were not given us for the purpose of labouring to merit a better. If you are so fortunate as to be convinced of this last consoling truth, it will assist you to bear all the calamities which await you in your course. The true Christian despises the caprices of fate, the loss of fortune, the prosecutions of the wicked, the shafts of calumny : strong in his innocence and the succour of his God, he dreads nothing and resigns himself to all." "I have then," exclaimed I enthusiastically, "discovered a happy man; for with such principles, father, you must be one." "Doubtless I am." "But how did you succeed in seizing this fugitive shadow?" "By consecrating myself to God, in making to him the sacrifice of my passions." "And is there no other way of obtaining felicity?" "I have proved to you that there is not." "But when our destiny has thrown us into the midst of the world, ought we to quit the world, and bury ourselves here?" "I am far from thinking so: God did not form us all for retirement; and it is a noble act to brave the contagion of vice, in order to rescue from its perils those weak minds who would perhaps fall, if they were not surrounded by examples of virtue." "Venerable recluse! you whom wisdom seems to inspire, tell me, I conjure you, by what means may be preserved, amidst the tumult of the world, that calm of heart which is your portion." "My son, we must perform our duties, destroy our illusions, and repel flattery." As he spoke these words the old man departed: but those last words made a deep impression on my heart. This solemn lesson, the time, the place, the images around me, what a combination of awe-inspiring ideas!

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What a glorious moment was that in which, standing on the grave of one of the most powerful monarchs, an unknown recluse demonstrated to a presumptuous youth the frailty of his being. That simple voice, which blended with the eloquent voice of death; that sage counsel, sanctified by eighty years of virtue and knowledge, and given before the altar of the Omnipotent by one of his elect, now ready to appear in his presence-what heart of iron would not have been moved by them? What effect, then, must they not have produced on a tender mind, wounded by misfortune, and which felt the indispensable want of celestial support! Tired by the storms of life, I embraced, amidst the shade of tombs, the altar of Him in whom I hoped to find a sure asylum. When we have tasted the calm of solitude, how difficult it is to bring ourselves, once more to a world so frivolous, and so wicked! It was, however, necessary for me to quit this majestic temple; but as I walked under its high arched roof, I could not help repeating to myself the last words of the monk, of that virtuous man whom I was never again to see, but whom I shall never forget. To perform our duties, to destroy our illusions! "This," said I, "is the advice which wisdom itself has dictated to me. Yes! I will be faithful to it. I swear it, before these formidable doors, which are for ever closed on their founder." As I pronounced this oath, I reached the western front of the Escurial. Then, leaning against the beautiful columns which decorate the entrance of it, I cast a long and last look on that gate which never opens but twice to its august masters; and I could not resist the melancholy ideas which crowded on me, when I thought of those kings, those princes, who, glowing with youth and hope, had entered these walls with a light step, without thinking, perhaps, that they should return within them no more till the mantle of death had taken on them the place of the royal purple.

Terrified by these gloomy ideas, I quitted the spot, and intended to take the road to Madrid; but, too absorbed in

* The western front of the Escurial has a beautiful entrance, formed of columns of the Doric order, and on each side two large and fine gates. This principal entry is never opened for the kings of Spain and the princes of their house, but on two solemn occasions-their coming of age and their death.