From the _Sala Prioral_, we went to the _Iglesia Vieja_, which is remarkable only on account of its pictures; among which, is one of Raphael: and from the Iglesia Vieja, I was next conducted through the cloisters, also adorned with pictures, to the great Library. This is a magnificent room; the ceilings in fresco, by Peregrini and Carducho, represent the progress of the sciences; the floor is of chequered grey and white marble; and the finest and rarest woods encase the windows, the doors, and the books. The library is more curious than extensive; it does not contain more than 24,000 volumes, but many of these are scarce; and among others, they shew a copy of the Apocalypse of St. John, with a commentary, and illuminated borders, and the devotional exercises of Charles V., &c. The day was almost spent before I reached the library; the light streamed but dimly through the deep windows; and the portraits of Charles, and his son,--the gloomy-minded founder of the monastery,--frowned darkly from the walls. It was too late to examine the Manuscript Library; and making an appointment with Father Buendia for the morning, I left the Escurial for the Posada, where I had ordered a bed, and a late dinner. I was offered both refreshments and a bed, in the monastery; but having a better opinion of the dinner I had ordered than of a supper in the refectory, (for it chanced to be Friday), I forced an excuse upon the reverend father. Although it was almost night within the Escurial, I found day without. It was yet too early to expect dinner at the Posada; and therefore, skirting the small straggling village of _San Lorenzo_, I climbed up among the defiles and ridges of the sierra that forms the back-ground to the monastery and its tributary village. The sun had already set, and dusk was creeping over the distant landscape; and, excepting the vast and magnificent building below, there was scarcely a trace of human existence, for a ridge of the sierra shut out the little village of San Lorenzo: and the only sound I heard, was the bell from the monastery. To me, there is nothing poetic in a convent bell; it only reminds me of bigotry and ignorance, absurd penance, or sinful hypocrisy. It was almost dark before I reached the Posada, where I had the pleasure of passing an agreeable evening with M. Feder, whom I have spoken of already, and must always speak of, as a learned and an amiable man.