AND THE SPANISH SENATE.

Gazpacho; or, Summer Months in Spain, is the title of a new book by W.
George Clark, published in London. Gazpacho, it seems, is the name of
a dish peculiar to Spain, but of universal use there, a sort of cold
soup, made up of familiars and handy things, as bread, pot-herbs, oil,
and water. "My Gazpacho," says the author, "has been prepared after
a similar receipt. I know not how it will please the more refined
and fastidious palates to which it will be submitted; indeed, amid
the multitude of dainties wherewith the table is loaded, it may well
remain untasted." It at least deserves a better fate than that. The
volume relates, in a pleasant, intelligent, and gossiping way, a
summer's ramble through Spain, describing with considerable force the
peculiarities of its people, and the romantic features by which it
is marked. The clever painter could not have better materials. The
party-colored costumes of the peasants, like dahlias at a Chiswick
show; the somber garments of the priests, the fine old churches, the
queer rambling houses, looking centuries old, the dull, gloomy streets
of Madrid, the life and activity of the market-place. Such are the
objects upon which the eye rests, and of which Mr. Clark was too
observant to neglect any. The following passages will give an idea of
the materials of which the Gazpacho is made up:--

MADRID.

"I left, I suppose, scarcely a street in Madrid which I did not
traverse, or a church which I did not enter. The result is hardly
worth the trouble. One street and church are exactly like another
street and church. In the latter, one always finds the same profusion
of wooden Christs, and Madonnas in real petticoats, on the walls, and
the same scanty sprinkling of worshipers, also in petticoats, on the
floor. The images outnumber the devotees here, as in all other Roman
Catholic countries (except Ireland, which is an exception to every
rule.) To a stranger, the markets are always the most interesting
haunts. A Spaniard, he or she, talks more while making the daily
bargain than in all the rest of the twenty-four hours. The fruit and
vegetable market was my especial lounge. There is such a fresh, sweet
smell of the country, and the groups throw themselves, or are thrown,
into such pretty tableaux after the Rubens and Snyders fashion. The
shambles one avoids instinctively, and fish-market there is none,
for Madrid is fifty hours' journey from the nearest sea, and th