Toledo boasts of an excellent guide, without whom the traveller would fare ill there, despite clean beds and wholesome food. What a debt of gratitude do we not owe to you, good Señor Cabezas, for having guided us so well through this more than Cretan myth--not I am sure from gain’s sake only, but from an honest antiquarian love of it! “I am a son of Toledo, _hijo de Toledo_,” he said to us; “and there is not a stone of the place unknown to me:” and this speech was made without any self-arrogance or vanity. It was the simple truth. There is this good trait about the Spaniard of the lower ranks, that he never affects, and is consequently never a snob. He treats you--a little too familiarly, I daresay, to please aristocratic palates--but always with a quiet dignity and self-possession, reminding you of the Arabs, and most likely inherited from them. How much, indeed, has not the Spaniard inherited from the Arab?
Señor Cabezas is a slightly-built, prematurely old man, with eyes of extraordinary vivacity, very small hands and feet (a veritable _cosa de España_), and a chronic cough that makes one think the climate of Toledo does not suit her son. He carries a stick, with which he points out any precious relic that comes in the way, and is so peremptory and so like a schoolmaster in making you understand the history of it, that you dread lest the stick should descend upon your knuckles or shoulders if guilty of inattention. But only really idle people would deserve the stick, for Cabezas thoroughly understands what he is talking about, and, like all wise men, reserves his talk for occasions worthy of it. You are never wearied by him, but follow his eyes and the point of the stick with unflagging interest.
Cabezas is always busy, and we had to accept thankfully as much of his time as he could spare.
“I have engaged myself this afternoon,” he said, “to an old French gentleman, a silk-merchant bound to Murcia, but, if you like, you can accompany us in our rounds.” This we did, and the silk-merchant proved not only an inoffensive, but a very amusing person.
The poor man seemed so tormented with the idea of seeing all the sights of Toledo that one would have fancied he was thereby doing penance for his sins. When he found himself in the Cathedral, his melancholy became overwhelming. The beautiful painted windows, the richly-carved stalls of the choir, the exquisite Retablo, the chapels, each so full of monuments and treasures, the pictures, relics, and jewels of the Sacristy, and the _coup d’œils_ of the whole interior, could only elicit from him a dreary expression of regret that there was so much to see.