122

FIRST SIGHT OF MADRID.

66

"profesor de cirurjia y comadron "—" professor of surgery and midwife." "These men," said a Spanish gentleman of whom I afterwards asked an explanation, "are licensed to bleed, and therefore assume the title of professors of surgery. In the villages, if you wish to be in good company, you must cultivate the acquaintance of the barber and the curate."

From Alcobendas, a weary road, without any habitations in sight, led us to the poor-looking town of Fuencarreal; and beyond Fuencarreal an expanse equally dreary and deserted lay before us. Yet the road was planted on each side with rows of young trees, among which were conspicuous two American species-the locust and the three-thorned acacia; and here and there, by the road side, were nurseries, from which these and the poplar were supplied to the highways. Roads apparently never mended, and meant only for horsemen and beasts of burden, winded away in various directions from the great macadamized thoroughfare on which we were travelling. At length Madrid, with its spires and towers, appeared, lying in what seemed a little hollow of the ashcolored landscape. Through an avenue of very young trees, we reached a stately gate, where a sleek, well-dressed custom-house officer asked us if we had brought with us any thing subject to duty, and being answered that we had not, said that he would not order our baggage to be taken down, but would send a clerk to our hotel to inspect it.

We were then allowed to enter Madrid, and were struck with its lively, cheerful aspect, and its thronged streets. We applied for lodgings at the Casa de Cordero, to which we had

HOTELS OF THE CAPITAL.

123

been recommended. The hostess, who is commonly called La Biscayina, offered us two sitting-rooms with alcoves, inconveniently small for our party, and up three lofty flights of stairs, but showily furnished, for thirty-two dollars a day, including board at the common table. From this place we drove to the Calle de Alcalá, where, in the Fonda Peninsulares, kept in a building which was once a convent, and which even now had not a single woman in it except those who were guests, we obtained rooms at a somewhat more reasonable rate. The hotels of Madrid have the reputation, which I believe they deserve, of being the dearest in Europe, and the worst to be found in any of the large capitals. As soon as our baggage was brought up to our rooms, a respectable looking man from the custom-house at the city gates made his appearance, and after eyeing first our party, and then our trunks, declined the task of inspection, and wishing us a good morning, left us to settle ourselves in our new abode.

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MADRID. ITS GALLICISM.

LETTER XII.

THE SPANISH CAPITAL.

MADRID, November 15, 1857.

I OUGHT not to quit Madrid without saying something of the great capital of the Spanish monarchy, the CoOURT, as they call the city; and yet, I have seen too little to speak of it as I could wish. The outside of Madrid, however, I have seen, and that is as much as the majority of travellers at the present day see of any thing. Yet there are many native Spaniards who tell you that seeing Madrid is not seeing Spain. "Madrid," said a very intelligent person of this class to me, "is not a Spanish city; it is French-it is inhabited by afrancesados, people who take pains to acquire French tastes, and who follow French fashions and modes of living. Those who form the court speak French, and when they use the language of the country, disfigure it with Gallicisms. People here read French books and fill their minds with French ideas; our authors of novels give us poor imitations of Eugene Sue; our writers for the stage translate French dramas. From France our absolutists import their theories of despotism, and our liberals the follies of socialism. If you want to see Spain, you must seek it in the provinces, where the national charac

ter is not yet lost; you will find Spain in Andalusia, in Estremadura, in the Asturias, in Galicia, in Biscay, in Aragon; but do not look for it in Madrid."

Yet it is not fair to deny to Madrid certain characteristic peculiarities, even when considered in this point of view. If it be French, it is so after a manner of its own, and the prevailing Gallicism is modified by the national temperament, by old institutions and traditions, and by the climate.

One of the first places we were taken to see on our arrival in Madrid was the Prado. Here, beyond the pavements and yet within the gates of the capital, is a spacious pleasureground, formed into long alleys, by rows of trees, extending north and south, almost out of sight. In the midst, between the colossal figures of white marble which form the fountain of Cybele on the north, to those of the fountain of Neptune in the other direction, is an area of ten or twelve acres, beaten as hard and smooth as a threshing-floor, by the feet of those who daily frequent it. Into this, two noble streets, the finest in Madrid, widening as they approach it, the Calle de Alcalá and the Calle de Atocha, pour every afternoon in fine weather, at this season, a dense throng of the well-dressed people of the capital, to walk up and down, till the twilight warns them home. They move with a leisurely pace from the lions of Cybele to the sea-monsters of Neptune, and then turning, measure the ground over again and again, till the proper number of hours is consumed. The men are unexceptionably dressed, with nicely brushed hats, glittering boots and fresh gloves; the favorite color of their kids is

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COSTUME OF THE LADIES.

yellow; the ladies are mostly in black, with the black veil of the country resting on their shoulders; they wear the broadest possible hoops, and skirts that trail in the dust, and they move with a certain easy dignity which is thought to be peculiar to the nation. On these occasions, a dress of a light color is a singularity, and a bonnet attracts observation. Close to the walk is the promenade for carriages, which pass slowly over the ground, up one side and down the other, till those who sit in them are tired. Here are to be seen the showy liveries of the grandees and opulent hidalgos of Spain, and of the foreign ambassadors. It seemed to me that the place was thronged on the day that I first saw it, but this the Spanish gentleman who conducted us thither absolutely denied. "There is nobody here," said he, "nobody at all. The weather is chilly and the sky threatening; you should come in fine weather." The threat of the sky was fulfilled before we could get home, and we reached the door of our hotel in a torrent of rain.

The public walk is one of the social institutions of the Spanish towns; it is a universal polite assembly, to which you come without the formality of an invitation, and from which nobody is excluded; all are welcome under the same hospitable roof, the sky. Here acquaintances are almost sure to meet; here new acquaintances are formed; here the events of the day are discussed-its news, politics and scandal; here the latest fashions are exhibited; here flirtations are carried on, and matches, I suppose, made. The Spaniards everywhere pass a great deal of their time in the streets, and