tion, it must be conceded that it has one of the finest picture galleries in the world. One of the finest, did I say? I pause to ask myself if I ever received as much pleasure from any other. It should have volumes written about it instead of a mere brief mention in the uncritical diary of a lazy tourist. Here Titian and Coello and Velasquez have handed down to us such living portraits of the Spanish sovereigns of the House of Austria that we know them all by heart, beginning with Charles V. and his dog. To have lived in this world and to die without having ever seen the pictures of Velasquez,- that, truly, were an evil fate. You can see Raphael, Titian, and even Murillo to excellent advantage in many other galleries; but here in this Museo at Madrid is almost the entire work of Velasquez.

What is the sombre, splendid charm of this wonderful Andalusian? Partly, I think, that he dared to tell the truth as no other man has told it before or since. What other painter of royal portraits ever made them as revealing as the Day of Judgment? Here they are, these kings and queens, weak when they were weak, sensual when they were sensual; so human that you almost see the blood throb in their veins. These buffoons are the court fools of all time: this Esop, what is there in his face, with its sensitive humility, its innocent shrewdness, its pathetic patience, that I cannot look at it except through a mist? I do not like Velasquez in the few instances when he paints religious subjects. He was a realist, not an idealist; and he should have left the holy people to Murillo, who has so depicted the girlish sweetness of her whom the Spirit of God overshadowed that it is no wonder Spain gave him the name of the Painter of Conceptions.

I knew little of Goya until I found him in this gallery. He was the painter of bull-fights, and peasants, and Spanish ladies. who flirted behind their fans, a fiery Aragonese, whose delight in bull-fights was so great that, during the latest years of his life, while residing at Bordeaux, he would go once a week to Madrid to see a bull-fight, and return without stopping even to salute his old friends.

What is this cruel, fascinating sport, that it can have taken such a hold on the Spanish people, we asked ourselves; and then we began to say diffidently to each other that, being here, perhaps it would be well to see it for ourselves. The Wise Woman had protested against it with such lofty scorn that, for dear consistency's sake, as I think, she stayed at home; but

VOL. XV.-31

the rest of us went, and with us our Vicar of Wakefield with his bland and patriarchal smile.

The amphitheatre is an immense place, round like the Roman Colosseum, and the ring is surrounded by "terraced granite," and crowned with galleries. Six bulls were doomed to die for our entertainment, but I only out-stayed the taking off of three of them. It was the last grand bull-fight of the season, and the audience was a brilliant one. The young king and queen looked down from their box of state; old Isabella was there with her daughters; and adjacent boxes were occupied by lords and ladies of high degree.

The first bull was very meek. His sole desire seemed to be to be let alone. The picadores, or mounted spearsmen, pricked him with their lances, and he looked at them with an injured air, as if he would fain have said: "How can you? I am a well-intentioned bull, and I deserve nothing of this sort." One was divided between disgust at his want of spirit and indignation that a creature so harmless and kindly should be foredoomed to death. He waked up slightly when the banderilleros came in with their darts and their gay cloaks; but, all through, one felt that he was being butchered to make a Spanish holiday, without at all taking his own part; and even the matador, whose office it was to give him his death-wound, performed at his task a little scornfully, as if it were hardly worth the trouble.

The second bull was a different fellow altogether. As a young American on my left expressed it, he was "all there." He had a sullen, determined, desperate nature. He gored two horses to death, literally in an instant, just uplifting them and running them through with his mighty horns. He made sullen plunges at the banderilleros, and he pushed the great matador himself to the end of his resources; but at last he lay there dead, and the team of mules dragged him out of the arena. He was as black as an undertaker's horse; and he had been solemn and indignant and scornfully defiant all the way through.

The third bull was a little red one, as fiery and aggressive a creature as can possibly be imagined. He did not chance to hurt the horses, but he made swift plunges at the cloaked banderilleros, which it took all their skill to escape; and once he even leaped the barrier, and caused a precious consternation among the audience for a moment. This brilliant creature

made hot work for the banderilleros, and held even the matador for a long time at bay; but at last he gamely died, and the black mules dragged him away, as they had done his brothers before him.

By this time I thought I knew enough about bull-fights, and I left the king and queen and their court to behold the other three combats without me, and went away to walk on the prado and reflect. My sympathies were all with the bulls. They were the only creatures who had no least show of fair play. They alone were doomed with absolute certainty from the start. Even the horses might escape; and at worst their torture was but for a moment. The men were only in just enough danger to make the thing exciting, and there were ninety-nine chances out of a hundred that they would come off scathless; but the bull, let him bear himself never so bravely, was to be made an end of.

There was one feature of the spectacle that was so picturesque that, at the risk of being called inhuman, I must own to enjoying it. When the banderilleros came in with their gay cloaks and their darts, it was a pretty sight to see their encounter with the bull. They would give him a little prick, just enough to attract his attention, and he would turn to attack them. One second they were there, behind their satin cloaks, and the next they were safely over the barrier, and their enemy, making his plunge against them, found nothing. And then, if you had seen his contempt for such artful dodging! "Surely," he said to himself, "this butterfly-looking creature, all green and gold, was here, and where is he?" And then he would look round, and see another gorgeous mantle, and make another vain spring against the empty air. There is no denying that the grace and agility of these men was a pretty sight. Their figures were faultless. There dazzling costumes glittered in the sun; and their movements were grace itself. I kept thinking of a line of Harriet Spofford's,

"Ye riders bronze your airy motion,"

and I thought if but these motions could be bronzed, we should have such a group of statues as the world has not yet seen.

8336

LOUISE MÜHLBACH,

MÜHLBACH, LOUISE, pseudonym of Clara (Müller) Mundt, a German novelist; born at Neubrandenburg, January 2, 1814; died in Berlin, September 26, 1873. She was the daughter of the Oberbürghermaster of Neubrandenburg. While in Italy, in 1836, she met Theodore Mundt, to whom she was married in 1838. They lived in Berlin until he was appointed professor in the University of Breslau. Mundt died in Berlin in 1861, and from that time until her death his wife resided there. Her numerous books were of three classes: romantic stories, holding moral or social themes, stories of every day life, and historical novels. They became very popular and were translated into several languages. Among them are "First and Last Love" (1838); "Voyage Birds" (1840); "Fortune and Money" (1842); "Gisela " (1843); "Eva" (1844); "Sketches of Travel" (1846); "Court Histories" (1847); "Aphra Behn" (1849); "Berlin and Sans Souci," "The Nursling of Society" (1850); "Frederick the Great and his Court" (1853); "Joseph II. and his Court" (1858); "Queen Hortense," "Andreas Hofer," "Old Fritz and the New Era," "The Empress Josephine," "Napoleon and Blücher" (1858-59): "Two Paths," "Archduke Johann and His Times" (1860-62); "Letters from Switzerland," "Louisa of Prussia and Her Times," "Henry VIII. and Catherine Parr" (1864); "Germany in Storm and Stress" (1867); "From Solferino to Königgrätz" (1869-70); "Letters from Egypt" (1871); and "From Königgrätz to Chiselhurst" (1873).

THE PLAN OF ESCAPE.

(From "Marie Antoinette and Her Son.")

DURING the whole evening Mistress Tison did not leave her place behind the glass door for a moment, and at each stolen glance which the queen cast thither she always encountered the malicious, glaring eyes of the keeper, directed at her with an impudent coolness.

At last came the hour of going to bed - the hour to which the queen looked impatiently forward. At night she was at least alone and unguarded. After the death of the king, it had

been found superfluous to trouble the officials with the wearisome night-watches, and they were satisfied, after darkness had set in and the candles were lighted, with locking the three doors which led to the inner rooms.

Did Marie Antoinette weep and moan at night, did she talk with her sister, did she walk disconsolately up and down her room? the republic granted her the privilege. She could, during the night at least, have a few hours of freedom and of solitude.

But during the night Marie Antoinette did not weep or moan; this night her thoughts were not directed to the sad past, but to the future; for the first ray of hope which had fallen upon her path for a long time now encountered her.

"To escape, to be free!" she said, and the shadow of a smile flitted over her face. "Can you believe it? Do you con

sider it possible, sister?"

"I should like to believe it," whispered Elizabeth, "but there is something in my heart that reminds me of Varennes, and I only pray to God that He would give us strength to bear all the ills they inflict upon us. We must, above all things, keep our calmness and steadfastness, and be prepared for the worst as Iwell as the best."

"Yes, you are right, we must do that," said Marie Antoinette, collecting herself. "When one has suffered as we have, it is almost more difficult to hope for good fortune than to prepare for new terrors. I will compel myself to be calm. I will read Toulan's plan once more, and will impress it word for word upon my memory, so as to burn the dangerous sheet as soon as possible."

"And while you are doing that I will unwind the ball that Toulan brought us, and which certainly contains something heavy," said the princess.

"What a grand, noble heart! what a lofty character has our friend Toulan!" whispered the queen. "His courage is inexhaustible, his fidelity is invincible, and he is entirely unselfish. How often have I implored him to express one wish to me that I might gratify, or allow me to give him a draft of some amount! He is not to be shaken - he wants nothing, he will take nothing. Ah, Elizabeth, he is the first friend, of all who ever drew toward me, who made no claims and was contented with kind word. When I implored him yesterday to tell me in what way I could do him a service, he said: 'If you want to make me happy,