But
From The Time You Cross The Tawny Flood Of The Tagus Just North Of
Aranjuez, The Valley Is Gladdened By Its Waters All The Way To The
Primate City.
I am glad I am not writing a guide-book, and do not feel any
responsibility resting upon me of advising the gentle reader to stop at
Aranjuez or to go by on the other side.
There is a most amiable and
praiseworthy class of travellers who feel a certain moral necessity
impelling them to visit every royal abode within their reach. They
always see precisely the same things, - some thousand of gilt chairs,
some faded tapestry and marvellous satin upholstery, a room in
porcelain, and a room in imitation of some other room somewhere else,
and a picture or two by that worthy and tedious young man, Raphael
Mengs. I knew I would see all these things at Aranjuez, and so contented
myself with admiring its pretty site, its stone-cornered brick facade,
its high-shouldered French roof, and its general air of the Place
Royale, from the outside. The gardens are very pleasant, and lonely
enough for the most philosophic stroller. A clever Spanish writer says
of them, "They are sombre as the thoughts of Philip II., mysterious and
gallant as the pleasures of Philip IV." To a revolutionary mind, it is a
certain pleasure to remember that this was the scene of the emeute
that drove Charles IV. from his throne, and the Prince of Peace from his
queen's boudoir.
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