The urns are all of marble, beautifully sculptured; and the sanguine glow of the flame played on the gilded ornaments with which they were decorated. The kings are on the right of the altar, with its great gaunt crucifix, and the queens on the left, all of royal descent, in their day reigning monarchs, but now sharing the common fate of humanity. In that niche, and within that shining casket, lies what remains of him whom once the nations feared, _el César_ and "Master of the World," the Emperor Charles V. Beneath, is Philip II., his son, founder of the Escorial. Within this mournful chamber the spirit of the past speaks to us, telling us how little different from that of the poorest slave is the destiny of the mightiest potentate. For the rest--"Pallida mors æquo pulsat pede," &c. Kings whose power has shaken the earth must perish, although their great influence may still throb through the globe. Subject to the common lot, their ashes are scattered on the wind, and their bodies have mouldered back into clay. "The glories of our birth and state Are shadows, not substantial things; There is no armour against fate: Death lays his icy hand on kings. Sceptre and crown Must tumble down, And in the dust be equal made With the poor crooked scythe and spade."[14] The evening shades were falling as we emerged from the Escorial; the wild pine forests covering the mountain sides, seemed like a deep pall spread upon the land; and we looked lingeringly back on the great mass of the prodigious edifice rearing all its domes and pinnacles against the last melancholy glory of the sunset. * * * * * The Plaza Mayor in Madrid is a fine remnant of mediæval architecture, with its lofty ornamented façades, and its low dark arcades running round the square. These arcades, unfortunately, are now filled with musty slop shops, and stalls where the worst Birmingham jewellery is sold. In this immense plaza, in the year 1623, Charles I. of England--then Prince of Wales--witnessed a bull-fight in honour of his betrothal with the Infanta Maria, surrounded by all the grandees and beauty of Spain, and attended by "the profligate minister Buckingham," as good history books would call him. However, as we all know, the matrimonial engagement came to nothing, and Henrietta Maria of France was reserved for the professional attentions of the widow-maker Cromwell.