Friday, October 16.
Yesterday (my feast) and the feast of the great Spanish Saint Teresa was celebrated by our most sorrowful departure from Grenada! At three o'clock in the morning, we descend the hill of the Alhambra, and ruefully mount to the top of a Spanish diligence, and squeeze into what they call the "coupe"—an exalted place behind the coach-box, from whence one looks down upon the ten mules who drag this lumbering vehicle, see all their antics, observe the rash manner in which they tear down precipitous heights, and mount steep ascents, having the comfortable certainty that in no event of danger could we possibly descend from this lofty perch and save ourselves!
A "special providence," however, guards the Spanish diligence, to say nothing of the three "conductors"—the postillion who rides in front, the individual who sits on the box with gold lace and red on his cap, and who smokes leisurely, let what will happen, only occasionally speaking to the mules, calling them by name, and urging them on with a sound like "ayah!" and the boy who runs alongside shouting, screaming, and plying the whip, now jumping on the front of the diligence to rest a moment, now hanging on by one hand to the side doors or behind; active as a cat he springs up and down while the vehicle is at full speed, keeping one all the while in terror for his safety.
Such is the Spanish diligence from the "coupé." In the interior, shut out from the front view, one only hears the united voices of the "conductors," and it is less exciting. We who are above, however, have the advantage of a fine view of the mountains, (the Sierra Morena,) over which we pass by a smooth and beautiful road.
Jaen is the only place of importance which we see, an old Moorish town with histories and legends, a fine cathedral, and a Moorish castle on the height above. From this, a few hours brings us to Menjibar, where we take the railway at six P.M., and reach Madrid about eight the next morning. At Menjibar, we bid adieu to our young American friend, who had journeyed with us since leaving Cordova, and parted with the Scotch and German ladies whom we had encountered at various points.
Madrid is filled with people. General Prim is in this hotel, is modestly refusing to be made dictator, and proposing that Spain shall have, as heretofore, a king. We shall see how long it will be before (like Caesar) he is overpersuaded, and reluctantly assumes power.
Topete (the admiral who, at Cadiz, brought over the fleet) is also in Madrid; and Serrano, the prince of the traitors, is president of the provisional government. The table d'hôte is crowded with men of the press, (letter-writers of all nations,) giving their several impressions of matters to the gullible "public," and interpreting events to suit the taste of their readers. We ask one of these (a witty Frenchman) if he writes for Le Monde. "Oui, Madame, pour tout le monde." Amongst the motley crowd, we distinguish the letter-writer of the London Times, and him of the New York Times, with whom we make acquaintance, and who having lived a long time in France, and being of Irish extraction, is very little of an American in appearance and manner.
Saturday, October 17.
Madrid is a modern city with fine buildings and shops, many handsome streets and squares, and a beautiful promenade, called the Prado, (meadow.) The principal of these squares is the "Puerta del Sol," upon which this hotel opens, and which is always thronged with people, and is all life and bustle. This being the head and front of the revolution, and General Prim being in the house, the doors are besieged by beggars and revolutionists. As we walk the streets, in many shop-windows are vulgar caricatures of the queen and the priests. This is adding insult to injury, and the very essence of meanness—to take away her throne, and then aim at her character as a woman. It is refreshing to find that the best people we see—the best born, the best bred, and the best educated—defend her from these aspersions, and are loyal to her, and to the throne.