street silence there seemed to be a great deal of noise,
which I suppose came from the click of boots on the sidewalks and of
hoofs in roadways and the grind and squeal of the trams, with the harsh
smiting of the unrubbered tires of the closed cabs on the rough granite
blocks of the streets. But there are asphalted streets in Madrid where
the sound of the hoofs and wheels is subdued, and the streets rough and
smooth are kept of a cleanliness which would put the streets of New York
to shame if anything could. Ordinarily you could get cabs anywhere, but
if you wanted one very badly, when remote from a stand, there was more
than one chance that a cab marked _Libre_ would pass you with lordly
indifference. As for motor taxi-cabs there are none in the city, and
at Cook's they would not take the responsibility of recommending any
automobiles for country excursions.

VII

I linger over these sordid details because I must needs shrink before
the mention of that incomparable gallery, the Museo del Prado. I am
careful not to call it the greatest gallery in the world, for I think of
what the Louvre, the Pitti, and the National Gallery are, and what
our own Metropolitan is going to be; but surely the Museo del Prado is
incomparable for its peculiar riches. It is part of the autobiographical
associations with my Spanish travel that when John Hay, who was not yet,
by thirty or forty years, the great statesman he became, but only the
breeziest of young Secretaries of Legation, just two weeks from his post
in Madrid, blew surprisingly into my little carpenter's box in Cambridge
one day, he boasted almost the first thing that the best Titians in the
world were in the Prado galleries. I was too lately from Venice in 1867
not to have my inward question whether there could be anywhere a better
Titian than the "Assumption," but I loved Hay too much to deny him
openly. I said that I had no doubt of it, and when the other day I
went to the Prado it was with the wish of finding him perfectly right,
triumphantly right. I had been from the first a strong partisan of
Titian, and in many a heated argument with Ruskin, unaware of our
controversy, I had it out with that most prejudiced partisan of
Tintoretto. I always got the better of him, as one does in such
dramatizations, where one frames one's opponent's feeble replies for
him; but now in the Prado, sadly and strangely enough, I began to wonder
if Ruskin might not have tacitly had the b