huge gateway, its famous fountains and its mingled palms and tall
cypresses, all combine to perfect an impressive picture of the dead and
buried thousands connected with its history.

We still pursue a northerly course. From Cordova to Madrid is about
three hundred miles by railway, carrying us through some very
interesting and typical scenery. Occasionally a gypsy camp is passed,
pitched near our route, presenting the usual domestic groups, mingled
with animals, covered carts, lazy men stretched on the greensward, and
busy women cooking the evening meal. Long strings of mules, with
widespread panniers, are seen winding across the plain, sometimes in
charge of a woman clad in gaudy colors, while her lazy husband thrums a
guitar as he lies across one of the mules. Towards evening groups of
peasants, male and female, with farming tools in their hands, are seen
winding their steps towards some hamlet after the day's labor. Arched
stone bridges, old and moss-grown, come into view, spanning small
watercourses on their way from the mountains to join more pretentious
streams. Elevated spots show us the ruins of old stone towers, once a
part of some feudal stronghold, but the eye seeks in vain for
well-wooded slopes, thrifty groves, or cultivated fields with promising
crops. While the more practical traveller realizes a sense of
disappointment at the paucity of thrift and vegetation, the poet and the
artist will find enough to delight the eye and to fire the imagination
in Spain. The ever-transparent atmosphere, and the lovely cloud-effects
that prevail, are accompaniments which will hallow the desolate regions
for the artist at all seasons. The poet has only to wander among the
former haunts of the Moors and view the crumbling monuments of their
gorgeous, luxurious, and artistic taste, to be equally absorbed and
inspired.

When we arrive at Madrid, the first query which suggests itself is, why
Charles V. should have made his capital on this spot. True, it is in
about the geographical centre of Spain, but it is hemmed in on all sides
by arid plains, and has an adjacent river, so-called, but which in
America would be known as a dry gulch. It is difficult to see what
possible benefit can be derived from a waterless river. Like the Arno at
Florence, it seems troubled with a chronic thirst. In short, the
Manzanares has the form of a river without the circulation. In the days
of Charles II. its dry bed was turned into a sort of rac