The Prado about exhausts the art treasures of Madrid.  In the Escorial, that most monstrous and gloomiest of the tombs of kings, are pictures that should be seen—­some Grecos among the rest—­even if the palace does not win your sympathy.  In Madrid what was once called the Academia de San Fernando is now the Real Academia de Bellas Artes.  It is at 11 Calle de Alcala and contains a Murillo of quality, the Dream of the Roman Knight, Zurbaran’s Carthusians, an Ecce Homo by Ribera, of power; the Death of Dido by Fragonard; a Rubens, St. Francis, the work of his pupils; Alonzo Cano, two Murillos, Domenichino, Tristan, Mengs, Giovanni Bellini; Goya’s bull-fights, mad-house scenes, and several portraits—­one of the Due de la Paz; a Pereda, a Da Vinci (?), Madrazo, Zurbaran, and Goya’s equestrian portrait of Charles IV.  A minor gathering, the debris of a former superb collection, and not even catalogued.

There are museums devoted to artillery, armour, natural sciences, and archaeology.  In the imposing National Library, full of precious manuscripts, is the museum of modern art—­also without a catalogue.  It does not make much of an impression after the Prado.  The Fortuny is not characteristic, though a rarity; a sketch for his Battle of Tetuan, the original an unfinished painting, is at Barcelona.  There are special galleries such as the Sala Haes with its seventy pictures, which are depressing.  The modern Spaniards Zuloaga, Sorolla, Angla-Camarosa are either not represented or else are not at their best.  There is a Diaz, who was of Spanish origin; but the Madrazos, Villegas, Montenas, and the others are academic echoes or else feeble and mannered.  There are some adroit water-colours by modern Frenchmen, and there is a seeming attempt to make the collection contemporary in spirit, but it is all as dead as the allegorical dormouse, while over at the Prado there is a vitality manifested by the old fellows that bids fair to outlast the drums, tramplings, and conquests of many generations.  We have not more than alluded to the sculpture at the Prado; it is not particularly distinguished.  The best sculpture we saw in Spain was displayed in wood-carvings.  The pride of the Prado is centred upon its Titians, Raphaels, Rubenses, Murillos, El Grecos, and, above all, upon Don Diego de Silva, better known as Velasquez.

EL GRECO AT TOLEDO

Toledo is less than three hours from Madrid; it might be three years away for all the resemblance it bears to the capital.  Both situated in New Castille, Madrid seems sharply modern, as modern as the early nineteenth century, when compared to the mediaeval cluster of buildings on the horseshoe-shaped granite heights almost entirely hemmed in by the river Tagus.  It is not only one of the most original cities in Spain, but in all Europe.  No other boasts its incomparable profile, few the extraordinary vicissitudes of its history.  Not romantic in the operatic