Dismal plains.--Santa Cruz.--Val de Carneiro.--A most determined
musical amateur.--The Alcayde Mayor.--Approach to Madrid.--Aspect
of the city.--The Calle d’Alcala.--The Prado.--The Ave-Maria bell.
Tuesday, Dec. 11th, 1787.
Dismal plains and still more dismal mountains; no indication as yet of
the approach to a capital; dined at Santa Cruz; thought we should have
been flayed alive by its greedy inhabitants; arrived in the dark at Val
de Carneiro; lodged in the house of a certain Don Bernardo, passionately
fond of music. The apartment allotted to me contained no less than two
harpsichords: one of them, in a fine gilt case, very pompous and sullen,
I could scarcely prevail upon the keys to move; next it stood a very
sweet-toned modest little spinet, that responded to my touch right
willingly, and as I happened to play some Brazilian ditties Don
Bernardo never heard before, he was so good as to be in raptures.
These were becoming every minute more enthusiastic, when the arrival of
the alcayde mayor, followed by a priest or two with enormous spectacles
on their thin snipish noses, interrupted our harmonious proceedings.
This personage came expressly to pay me a visit, and to ask questions
about England and her unnatural offspring, the revolted provinces of
North America; a country which he had heard was colder and darker than
the grave, and spread all over with animals, whether biped or quadruped
he could not tell, called _koakeres_, living like beavers, in strange
huts or tabernacles of their own construction.
Wednesday, Dec. 12th.
Don Bernardo showed me his cellars, in which are several casks capable
of holding thirty or forty hogsheads, and ranges of jars in the shape of
the antique amphoræ, ten feet high, and not less than six in diameter.
For the first time in my life I tasted the genuine Spanish chocolate,
spiced and cinnamoned beyond all endurance. It has put my mouth in a
flame, and I do nothing but spit and sputter.
The weather was so damp and foggy that we could hardly see ten yards
before us: I cannot, therefore, in conscience abuse the approach to
Madrid so much, I believe, as it deserves. About one o’clock, the
vapours beginning to dissipate, a huge mass of building, and a confused
jumble of steeples, domes, and towers, started on a sudden from the
mist. The large building I soon recognized to be the new palace. It is a
good deal in the style of Caserta, but being raised on a considerable
eminence, produces a more striking effect. At its base flows the pitiful
river Mançanares, whose banks were all of a flutter with linen hanging
out to dry.
We passed through this rag-fair, between crowds of mahogany-coloured
hags, who left off thumping their linen to stare at us, and, crossing a
broad bridge over a narrow streamlet, entered Madrid by a gateway of
very indifferent architecture. The neat pavement of the streets, the
loftiness of the houses, and the cheerful showy appearance of many of
the shops, far surpassed my expectation.
Upon entering the Calle d’Alcala, a noble street, much wider than any in
London, I was still more surprised. Several magnificent palaces and
convents adorn it on both sides. At one extremity, you perceive the
trees and fountains of the Prado, and, at the other, the lofty domes of
a series of churches. We have got apartments at the Cruz de Malta,
which, though very indifferently furnished, have at least the advantage
of commanding this prospect. I passed half-an-hour after dinner in one
of the balconies, gazing upon the variety of equipages which were
rattling along. The street sloping gradually down, and being paved with
remarkable smoothness, they drove at a furious rate, the high fashion at
Madrid; where to hurry along at the risk of laming your mules, and
cracking their skulls, is to follow the example of his Majesty, than
whom no monarch drives with greater vehemence.
I strolled to the Prado, and was much struck by the spaciousness of the
principal walk, the length of the avenues, and the stateliness of the
fountains. Though the evening was damp and gloomy, a great many people
were rambling about, and a long line of carriages parading. The dress of
the ladies, the cut of their servants’ liveries, the bags of the
coachmen, and the painting of the coaches, were so perfectly Parisian,
that I fancied myself on the Boulevards, and looked in vain for those
ponderous equipages, surrounded by pages and escudeiros, one reads of in
Spanish romances. A total change has taken place, and the original
national customs are almost obliterated.
Devotion, however, is not yet banished from the Prado; at the ringing of
the Ave-Maria bell, the coaches stopped, the servants took off their
hats, the ladies crossed themselves, and the foot passengers stood
motionless, muttering their orisons. There is both opera and play
to-night, I believe, but I am in no mood to go to either.