L’Escurial, October 5, 1853.

I send you a little flower which I found on the mountain behind the ugly convent of the Escurial. I have not seen it since I was in Corsica; they call it there mucchiallo; here, no one knows its name. At night, when the wind passes over it, it has an odour which is to me delicious.

I found the Escurial as gloomy as when I left it twenty years ago, but it has been invaded by civilisation. There are now iron beds, and mutton chops, and all the bugs and monks have vanished. The latter I miss very much, and their absence seems to render all the more ridiculous the heavy style of Herrara’s architecture. I am going to dine in Madrid to-night, for I can not endure another day in this place.

I shall, in all probability, remain in Madrid until the 15th of this month, when I shall go to Valladolid, Toro, Zamora, and LÉon, providing the weather, which until now has been superb, does not become cold and rainy. This, however, is improbable. I have been to Toledo and to Madrid. I am going to SÉgovia in order to escape the balls, which bore me to death. I went the other night to see the opening of the Grand Opera. Except for the very attractive and comfortable building, and the pretty women who were there in large numbers, it was a pitiable spectacle. The actors are oppressively commonplace.

Were you here, you would see the finest collection of fruits imaginable. There is a fair in Madrid, to which are sent fruits from distant points. Most of them you have probably never seen. It is a pity that they can not be sent to you. If there is anything here that you would like to have, you have but to mention it.