They also showed us a portrait of the Madonna which was painted by St. Luke, and it did not look half as old and smoky as some of the pictures by Rubens.  We could not help admiring the Apostle’s modesty in never once mentioning in his writings that he could paint.

But isn’t this relic matter a little overdone?  We find a piece of the true cross in every old church we go into, and some of the nails that held it together.  I would not like to be positive, but I think we have seen as much as a keg of these nails.  Then there is the crown of thorns; they have part of one in Sainte Chapelle, in Paris, and part of one also in Notre Dame.  And as for bones of St. Denis, I feel certain we have seen enough of them to duplicate him if necessary.

I only meant to write about the churches, but I keep wandering from the subject.  I could say that the Church of the Annunciation is a wilderness of beautiful columns, of statues, gilded moldings, and pictures almost countless, but that would give no one an entirely perfect idea of the thing, and so where is the use?  One family built the whole edifice, and have got money left.  There is where the mystery lies.  We had an idea at first that only a mint could have survived the expense.

These people here live in the heaviest, highest, broadest, darkest, solidest houses one can imagine.  Each one might “laugh a siege to scorn.”  A hundred feet front and a hundred high is about the style, and you go up three flights of stairs before you begin to come upon signs of occupancy.  Everything is stone, and stone of the heaviest—­floors, stairways, mantels, benches—­everything.  The walls are four to five feet thick.  The streets generally are four or five to eight feet wide and as crooked as a corkscrew.  You go along one of these gloomy cracks, and look up and behold the sky like a mere ribbon of light, far above your head, where the tops of the tall houses on either side of the street bend almost together.  You feel as if you were at the bottom of some tremendous abyss, with all the world far above you.  You wind in and out and here and there, in the most mysterious way, and have no more idea of the points of the compass than if you were a blind man.  You can never persuade yourself that these are actually streets, and the frowning, dingy, monstrous houses dwellings, till you see one of these beautiful, prettily dressed women emerge from them—­see her emerge from a dark, dreary-looking den that looks dungeon all over, from the ground away halfway up to heaven.  And then you wonder that such a charming moth could come from such a forbidding shell as that.  The streets are wisely made narrow and the houses heavy and thick and stony, in order that the people may be cool in this roasting climate.  And they are cool, and stay so.  And while I think of it—­the men wear hats and have very dark complexions, but the women wear no headgear but a flimsy veil like a gossamer’s web, and yet are exceedingly fair as a general thing.  Singular, isn’t it?