AMONG the cities of Spain, I write first of Madrid, because I knew it first, and because I know of no city that has been more systematically and unjustifiably maligned. My first visit to Madrid was undertaken on business grounds; but I have returned there many times since, and always with feelings of the keenest pleasure. There is, to me, what the Americans describe as a “homey” air about the city, that may in a measure be accounted for by the good fortune I have had in finding friends there. The friendship of a Spaniard is so genuine, and inspiriting, and whole-hearted, that an Englishman cannot in a moment comprehend it. When a Spaniard extends his friendship to you, your comfort, your interests, and your honour becomes as much a matter for his concern as his own. I first learned to understand this in Madrid. At that time the English were not reported to be held in favour in Spain, and I was advised to be prepared for an unfriendly reception. But I was, on that visit, and on each subsequent visit, agreeably disappointed; and although I have wandered pretty extensively over many parts of the Peninsula, I have

never found it to be other than an advantage to be an Englishman. I have seen the Britisher hustled in Paris, scowled at in Italy, and made the butt of cheap Teutonic wit in Germany, but in Spain he is invariably treated with the kindest consideration. I was told by an English engineer that the explanation of this friendly attitude, on the part of the Spanish people, was to be found in the fact that the country has not yet endured the curse of the average British tourist. It may be so, yet the influence of the English is very marked in the city of Madrid, if not to the full extent that it appears to be at first sight.

An American writer, who “did” Spain in the customary slapdash, get-there-and-get-away-again-fashion of American globetrotters, was not a little chagrined to find in Madrid, English goods, English manners, and English influence predominating over those of any other foreign nation. In Spain, American means South American, and the Yankee is indiscriminately included in the category labelled “Ingleses.” American tram-cars and other Trans-atlantic inventions are thus wrongly credited to the English; and the writer declares that his indignation rose to fever-heat when he entered a place marked “English drinks,” and beheld a genuine American soda-fountain. It must be, I think, due not a little to this unintentional injustice to the land of the great spread-eagle that this same writer finds Madrid ill-favoured and exceedingly noisy, its bread unappetising and heavy, and its butter bad. He cannot bring himself to admire the Puerta del Sol, which is “an ordinary square, such as may be found in almost any city of a hundred thousand inhabitants;” and as for the climate, he flippantly dismisses it in a phrase—“nine months’ winter and three months’ hell.” In a more gracious mood he is inclined to think that the surroundings have been too much depreciated by tourists and guide-book makers; while in the rapid increase in the population, together with the healthy appearance of the inhabitants, he discovers an indication that it may be “not quite as bad as its reputation.”

In the foregoing, we have a precis of the generally-accepted opinion of Madrid, and it is one in which I cannot concur. The conscious superiority of the American critic has led him into error, and I strongly deprecate these hasty and ill-formed conclusions upon the climate, the situation, and the city itself, which are responsible for its undeserved reputation. Madrid stands at an elevation of 2,500 English feet above the sea level, in the centre of an open country, and splendid views of the capital are obtained from several miles around. Whatever may be thought as to the wisdom of selecting a capital in the centre of a great plain, and with no water communication with the outposts of the kingdom, one cannot but admire both its position and the magnificence of its buildings. It is a city that, from the first moment of viewing, throughout an entire visit, commands a whole-hearted admiration. Immediately in front of the point of arrival, the Northern Station, there rises up the splendid Palacio Real, a huge building forming a square of 470 feet; and which, by reason both of its situation and general appearance, is one of the most magnificent in the world. What is true of the Palace is equally true of the other buildings of the capital, the splendour of which is common to all the public structures. But the natural features are a separate consideration.

The best view of the country surrounding the capital is to be obtained from the Parque de Madrid. Whether you like the prospect or not is purely a matter of individual taste. From this eminence, the vast campagna is stretched out to its greatest advantage; and for my own part, I know few that can compare with it. The immensity of the panorama alone entitles it to respect. On every side, save where the Guadarrama fling their rugged peaks skywards, the expanse is bordered only by the far distant horizon. The sense of space that the picture conveys is irresistibly impressive—it is more than a sight; it is an experience. I have seen it when the land has grown lifeless and shabby for want of rain, and when the coming storm has caused the swift clouds to drag their huge shadows across the broad landscape, and when, after the rains, the green pasture is lit by a purple hue, and at night, when the indigo sky is filled with a moon of such brilliancy, and stars of such irridescence, that the whole earth was more brightly illuminated than Piccadilly Circus at midnight.

The climate of Madrid has suffered greatly from the strictures of visitors, who, from one cold breeze, or a single rain storm, consider themselves competent to form, and justified in publishing abroad, their opinions. That the city is subject to sudden changes of temperature is incontestable. Perched as it is on a

commanding table-land so far above the level of the sea, it is swept by every breeze that blows across the wide expanse of plains by which it is surrounded. On the northern side, the horizon is jagged by the snow-capped peaks of the noble Guadarrama; and when the wind sets in from that direction, it comes like an icy blast, bringing, as the guide-book writers aver, chills and acute pneumonia with it. But the climate, though treacherous on this account, is not unhealthy. It is true that pneumonia is unhappily prevalent among the men of Madrid, but the women are singularly free from the malady. There is a reason, of course, for this curious anomaly, and it is to be found in the different fashions in which the men and women protect themselves from the climate. The men, as a class, are abominators of fresh air, and an “eager and a nipping air” is to them a malignant danger to be avoided at any cost. They live in houses, cafes, and clubs heated to the temperature of a second-class New York hotel at mid-winter, without ventilation, and rendered stuffy from over much tobacco smoke. When they venture into the streets they encase themselves in heavy cloaks, throw the “capas,” or velvet-lined capes across their mouths, and stifle behind its oppressive folds. Is it to be wondered at, that, if by any chance the chilled wind should penetrate, or, as more often happens, deprive the muffled pedestrian for the space of a few inspirations of his accustomed protector, his lungs should suffer the inevitable consequences?

But the women face the elements with a sane hardihood that makes the “coddlings” of their men folks seem more inexplicable by comparison. Clad in sensible, thick dresses, supplemented perhaps by a fur cape, they brave the Winter winds with unmuffled throats, and their heads covered only with a light mantilla; while the working women trust almost entirely to the natural protection afforded by their splendid hair. The result is that, while pneumonia is a veritable curse to the men, it is practically unknown among the women.

The present excellent system of watering the streets that has been adopted in Madrid, has greatly moderated the excessive dryness of the atmosphere in Summer; and the increase of vegetation around and in the city is sensibly affecting the climate. I was in Madrid one Autumn in the rainy season. I have had some experience of the tropical rainfalls of mid-Australia, where sandy tracks are converted in a few hours into mighty rivers, and waggon ruts in the bosom of a hill become rushing cataracts; but the rain that I watched for a fortnight from the luxurious shelter of the Hotel de Paris was every bit as business-like and effective. When it was over, the foliage had put on a brighter green, wild flowers had sprung up in profusion, and the lazy, imperturbable Manzanares had become an angry, turbulent river. Madrid is then a sight that it is worth enduring a fortnight of incessant rain to see.

Coming as I did direct to Madrid, and regarding the city with eyes unacquainted with Spanish sights, I was quick to note all the individual characteristics of its architecture, its crowds, and its popular customs; but even without the standards of other Spanish towns by which to form a comparison, I could not fail to be impressed by the cosmopolitan appearance of the capital. Madrid and Barcelona are many years in advance of any other city in Spain; they have not outgrown their national characteristics, but they have adopted with broad-minded opportunism the improvements that intercourse with other nations has made them cognisant of. The casual visitor to Madrid would, perhaps, not regard it as a go-ahead city; and, indeed, I am assured that only those who have a long acquaintance with the Spanish capital can appreciate the advances it has made in the last half-century. It has extended its boundaries, improved its condition,

and increased its notable buildings in an almost marvellous manner. The present Plaza de Toros, the magnificent viaduct across the Calle de Segovia, the Markets, the Hippodrome, and the Parque de Madrid are all the creation of some twenty-five years. And as Madrid has grown, the MadrileÑo has advanced. He, and more particularly she, has progressed at the expense of the picturesque. English women are the beneficiaries of French fashions, because they have no style of their own—no peculiar modes or costumes that became them peculiarly as a race. Somebody once said that an English woman was only a French woman badly dressed. It was a libel; but, notwithstanding, she has lent truth to the definition by her anxiety to remedy the defection. The English woman who covets the distinction of being well dressed buys her gowns in Paris; but, in so doing, she improves, she does not alter, her style of costumes. She gains in effectiveness without the sacrifice of individuality. But the Spanish woman, though having something to gain by this Parisian attachment, has something also to lose. She had her “velo”—her coquettish adornment with its rose fastening, and her fan. With these, which suited her Spanish face to perfection, she was characteristic, fascinating, adorable; but French millinery demanded the renunciation of the “velo,” and taught her to forget the witchery of the fan and the grace of the natural rose; and artists, experts, even the ordinary, impressionable Englishman without Æsthetic tendencies, may be allowed a regret for the decay of a national means to a beautiful end.

To me, a stroll through the thoroughfares of Madrid is a source of never-ending pleasure. I delight in its wide, clean streets, its gay squares each containing a garden, fountain, and statuettes, its crowded cafes, its promenades, its spectacles, and its unending animation and bustle and crowded life. The street AlcalÁ, which divides Madrid in half, is magnificent in its proportions. The Prado, made enchanting by its carriage drives and its avenues, filled with beautiful women, is a panorama of which one cannot have a surfeit; while the people, and the variety of life in the Puerta del Sol is in itself a sight that shall not be witnessed in any other city in Europe.

The Puerta del Sol is the living room of Madrid. It is a mingling of salon, promenade, theatre, academy, garden, a square-of-arms, and a market. The Italian author, Edmondo De Amicis, was so fascinated with its attractions, that during the first few days of his stay in Madrid, he was unable to tear himself away from the spot. The change, the colour, and the contrasts that it presents are admirably summed up in his description of the crowd that from daybreak until one o’clock in the morning throng this famous thoroughfare. Here gather the merchants, the disengaged demagogues, the unemployed clerks, the aged pensioners, and the elegant young men; here they traffic, talk politics, make love, promenade, read the newspapers, hunt down their debtors, seek their friends, prepare demonstrations against the Ministry, and weave the gossip of the city. Upon the side-walks, which are wide enough to allow four carriages to pass abreast, one has to use one’s elbows to force a way. On a single paving-stone you see a civil guard, a match-vendor, a broker, a beggar, and a soldier, all in one group. Crowds of students, servants, generals, officials, peasants, toreros, and ladies pass; importunate beggars ask for alms in your ear; cocottes question you with their eyes; courtesans hit your elbow; on every side you see hats lifted, hand-shakings, smiles, pleasant greetings, cries of “Largo” from laden porters, and merchants with their wares hung from the neck; you hear shouts of newspaper sellers, shrieks of water vendors, blasts of the diligence horns, cracking of whips, clanking of sabres, strumming of guitars, and songs of the blind.

In this description, De Amicis does not omit a single one of the various noises and incidents that are to be heard and seen in the Puerta del Sol—indeed, the fault of his description is one of commission rather than omission. For instance, I have never yet been elbowed there by a woman, even by accident, who, to the evidence of the sense of sight, was a courtesan. This fact leads me to the reflection that in two respects Madrid is ahead of any European capital that I have visited—it neither flaunts its vices, nor finds excuse for founding a total abstinence movement. I have never seen there an intoxicated man or a representative of what Rudyard Kipling has described as “the oldest profession in the world.” I am not pretending that I believe Madrid to be entirely free from this particular traffic—no city that has American, French, or even English tourists on its visitors’ list could hope for that—but whatever there is, is kept decently out of sight. Any grandmother may inspect the photographs exhibited in the shops without a blush: and the volumes which are exposed to view in the booksellers’ windows do not appeal to the lower passions of the reading public, while as for “the curse of drink,” Spain does not understand the meaning of the phrase. The Spaniard is temperate by temperament, by custom and by heredity. The climate of Spain is antagonistic to strong drink, and the Spanish character revolts against the abuse of it. It would not be too much to say that the Spaniard regards a drunken man with much the same feelings as an Englishman looks upon the Spanish national sport of bull-fighting.

To anyone, other than the American on the make-haste, the Puerta del Sol, the subject from which I have digressed, is a feature which appeals irresistibly to the student of humanity. It is the centre where all the great arteries of circulation meet and diverge, where the chief pulse of Madrid life beats hardest, and the high tide of affairs flow and ebb. Here are situated many of those huge, highly-decorated cafes where the Madrilenians congregate to discuss politics, and settle the affairs of the nation over good coffee and the most excellent chocolate; here is the Home Office; and here, too, is the handsome Hotel de Paris. Even this imposing and supremely comfortable hotel is not without its detractor. The author of a book of jottings, which I came across recently, wrote of it: “I did not particularly like the place, and the manager and servants of the hotel did nothing to render our visit agreeable.” From my knowledge of the hotel and its management, I feel justified in stigmatising this expression as a gratuitous libel. A more charming welcome, or more graceful attention, or more solid comfort than I have invariably found at the Hotel de Paris, in Madrid, is not to be obtained in any hostelry in Europe. It is on these grounds that Sres. Baeza have built for the establishment they direct a reputation equal to that of the Hotel Chatham, in Paris; the Carlton, in London; the Hermitage, in Monte Carlo; and the Hotel Bristol, in Berlin. The opinion I have quoted is that of a traveller who “had heard such miserable accounts of Madrid” that he had “almost abandoned the idea of going there at all;” and who, having been there, can apply to the capital such adjectives as “cheerless,” “gloomy” and “depressing;” but yet he cannot say that he “conceived any violent hatred to the city.” In poll-parrotting the opinion of Theophile Gautier, which was expressed nearly half a century ago, about a Madrid which is as different from the capital of to-day as Madrid of to-day is, thank heaven! from Chicago, this writer, doubtless, considers that he has earned a repute for erudition and original observation surpassed only by that of Gautier himself.

In the Puerta del Sol is the Imperial cafe, an immense hall, comparable only in its size and the gaudiness of its decorations

with the Fornos in the Street AlcalÁ, or the Colon, in Barcelona. Long after the theatres and the handsome Opera House is closed, and the hour of midnight is past, the city remains illuminated, the streets are filled with carriages, and the cafes are just as crowded as at the beginning of the evening. If you glance into the Imperial before the doors are open, or, as I was privileged to do, after the doors were closed, you would marvel, as I did, that so vast a room should find customers sufficient to fill it; yet, for the previous eight hours without intermission, each table had possessed its complement of guests, and every chair had been occupied. And, in addition to these mammoth halls, there are innumerable others throughout the city in which a hundred couples could dance easily. I have been told, and I see no reason for doubting the statement, that enormous sums are quickly amassed by the cafe proprietors in Madrid and Barcelona. For the huge Colon cafe in the latter city, the present tenant agreed to rebuild the cafe and pay the sum of £12,000 for ten years occupation only. This he did, and although only half the time of his tenure has expired, he has made a fortune after deducting the cost of building.

Wherever one wanders in this “cheerless” and “depressing” city, one’s eyes are delighted with the constantly changing groups of all ages, colour, and costume; one’s ears are filled with sounds of laughter, and song, and merriment: and one’s senses are galvanised by the vivacity, the gaiety, and the almost feverish overflow of pleasure by which one is surrounded. Stroll, if you will, through the beautiful gardens of the Plaza Mayor (the grand square of Madrid), saunter by the open shops of the Calle de Toledo, cross the oval-shaped Plaza de Oriente, which lies between the Royal Palace and the Royal Theatre, linger on any of the many handsome bridges, or promenade the beautiful prados—the Bank of Spain, one of the finest public buildings in Europe, is situated in the Salon del Prado—and you shall never escape the carnival spirit that animates young and old, rich and poor alike.

Rich as Madrid is in obelisks, fountains, and splendid statuary, it has fewer architectural and antiquarian attractions to afford the visitor than such cities as Toledo, Granada, or CÓrdova; but it has a Royal Picture Gallery which contains one of the finest, if not the very finest collection of old masters in the world. Velasquez is to be seen here, and here only, in all his power. Titian is also represented, as also are RaffÆlle, Veronese, Murillo, Juan Juanes, Rubens, Tenier, and many others. Rembrandt alone, of all the great artists, is limited to a single specimen; but there is a whole host of comparatively unknown and yet veritable masters, from the sixteenth century Antonio Moro, Coello, and Pantoja de la Cruz, through Pacheco, Ribera (with, after all, his only too life-like representations of what old days and old saints were), Zurbaran and Alonso Cano, down to ValdÉs Leal; or, the Goya and Lopez of but a century ago. This quiet Museo is a veritable home of art. It is all in such deliciously small compass, all so well ordered, all so good. One has not to walk miles before attaining to favourite spots, or to stare over acres of unresponsive canvas before lighting upon familiar faces, or even to command one’s temper against officialism or jostling. All is contained in a few rooms, and that by exclusion of the bad rather than through poverty. In the neighbouring Academia of San Fernando—the Academy of Fine Arts—in the Calle AlcalÁ, there is, besides a fine collection of minerals, precious stones, and the finest zoological department in Spain, several excellent Murillos, Riberas, and Zurbarans, a characteristic Rubens and some sketches of Goya’s. A visit should also be paid to the Armeria Real. Here is housed probably the very finest collection of armour in the world, a

collection that is not only a perfect epitome of the history of the science of attack and defence, but is full likewise of touching record and suggestion.

The Royal Palace of Madrid is admittedly one of the most magnificent in the world; it is, in every sense of the word, a Royal residence. The building is a square of 470 feet by 100 feet high, occupying, it is said, the site of the original outpost alcazar of the Moors. The exterior, despite its noble proportions, does not fulfil the expectations inspired by the distant view; but once it is entered, the princely magnificence of its decorations fills the beholder with feelings of wondering ecstacy. Throughout the palace the appointments are of extreme richness, and remind one of a time when Spain was in the zenith of its glory. All the countries of Europe have been laid under tribute for the art treasures that crowd every corner. In one apartment there is a collection of timepieces, some of which are worth almost their weight in gold, and they were all collected by one monarch; while another sovereign devoted much time to completing a collection of china which is one of the proudest possessions of the palace. Other kings have covered the walls with the priceless works of old masters, and the result is a gallery of paintings of various schools which is one of the wonders of Europe. But undoubtedly the finest apartment in the palace is the throne room, which glows with rich colouring and scintillates with a lavish display of precious metals. The superb throne, made for the husband of Mary of England, is entirely of silver; the huge lions that mount guard on each side being of the same metal. Marbles of almost every colour of the rainbow are to be seen everywhere; and the furniture, made of the rarest of inlaid woods, delights the eye with its graceful form. The whole apartment is given a finished and warm appearance by the costly hangings of crimson velvet. The ball room of the palace is the largest in Europe. All the arts and manufactures seem to have contributed to its splendour.

In Madrid I sampled for the first time the cooking of the country. The untravelled Englishman still clings to the superstition that the visitor to Spain must either starve, or condescend to consume food fried in rancid oil and seasoned with garlic. The fastidious tourist will be fed as well in Spain, both in the cities and the country inns, as in any city or provincial district in Europe. That born master of commissariat, the Switzer, has introduced himself into the country; and he has banished garlic and bad oil from Spain, even as he expelled “rare” beef and parboiled cabbages in England. But the hotel charges of New York and Paris have not yet been adopted in Madrid, and one can live sumptuously at the Hotel de Paris for £1 per day. Throughout Spain the charges are remarkably reasonable, and in the principal cities 10s. a day, including wine at meals and all et ceteras, is the average at the best hotels.

But the cooking of the Hotel de Paris is not to be met with all over Spain, nor are the menus of the city caravansary the ones adopted for the general use throughout the country districts. Pork, in its various phases—bacon, ham and sausage—is the meat par excellence of provincial Spain, occupying the same elevated position in the department of gastronomy as English beef, Welsh mutton, and Irish potatoes. Judging from the Continent generally, an Englishman is apt to fancy that a rasher is a delicacy confined to the British Isles; but before he has been long in Spain, he will discover the truth of Ford’s eulogium: “The pork of Spain has always been unequalled in flavour. The bacon is fat and well flavoured; the sausages delicious, and the hams transcendently superlative, to use the very expression of Diodorus Siculus, a man of great taste, learning and judgment. Of all the things of Spain, no one need

SKETCHES IN SPAIN.