Enter LUCIUS JUNIUS. Claud. Whither so fast, good Junius, tell us whither? Luc. To Rome, to Rome-the queen demands my pre sence. The state needs aid, and I am call'd to court. Am I a fool? If so, you cannot say I'm the first fool grac'd by a monarch's favour. Luc. Do I so, my lord? I'm always glad when you and I agree; You have just such a wit as I should choose. Would I could purchase such!-though it might split My head, as confin'd air does-water bubbles! Claud. How say you? Purchase? Pr'ythee what would'st give ? Luc. What would I give ?—ten acres of my land! Where lies it? Luc. Ask the king, my cousin ; He knows full well. I thank him, he's my steward, Claud. Who told thee so? Luc. The king himself. Now twenty years are past, Or more, since he sent for me from my farm. 'Kinsman," said he, with a kind, gracious smile, Against thy father and thy elder brother, Their lives have paid; for thee, as I love mercy, Live and be happy; simple is thy mind" Aruns. True, kinsman, true-i'faith 'tis wondrous simple. Luc. "And that simplicity will be a pledge That thou wilt never plot against thy sovereign" Claud. Indeed, for that, I'll be thy bondsman, Junius. Luc. "Live in my house, companion of my children. As for thy land, to ease thee of all care, I'll take it for thy use; all that I ask Aruns. And art thou not never Will I forget it! 'Tis my constant pray'r Aruns. Thank the gods, then for thy good memory, fool! Luc. The king your father sends for you to council, Where he debates how best to conquer Ardea. Shall I before, and tell him ye are coming? Claud. Aye, or behind, or with us, or stay here- As thy wit prompts,-as suits thy lofty pleasure. [Exit ARUNS and CLAUDIUS, laughing. Luc. (alone) Yet, 'tis not that which ruffles me-the gibes And scornful mockeries of ill-govern'd youth Or flouts of dastard sycophants and jesters, Boston marschen Reptiles, who lay their bodies on the dust Before the frown of majesty !—All this I but expect, nor grudge to bear !—the face And throw this vizor of thy madness from thee? To see revenge Spring like a lion from its den, and tear These hunters of mankind! grant but the time, To late old age, and may posterity Ne'er hear of Junius, but as Tarquin's fool! [Exit LUCIUS JUNIUS. LESSON LXXXI. Description of the Prado of Madrid.-N. A. REVIEW. THE Prado of Madrid is, both to Spaniards and strangers, a source of inexhaustible amusement. As a publick walk, it is one of the finest within the walls of any European city, finer, in most respects, than either the Thuilleries at Paris, or the Chiaja at Naples. It begins at the gate of Atocha, and passing the magnificent entrance of Alcalà, extends round to the gate and convent of the Recoletos, following the limits of the city. Anciently it was an uneven meadow or field, as its name, like that of the Prater at Vienna, derived from the Latin, pratum, plainly shows; and, while it was in this condition, it was famous as the scene of most of the plots, duels, murders, and intrigues of the city, as is, at once, seen in the old plays and ballads. It was not, however, until the middle of the last century, when the adjacent palace of the Buen Retiro rose to great favour, that Charles the Third levelled it, planted it with trees, and made it the beautiful walk it now is. On entering it from the gate of Alcalà, or rather from the street of the same name, the stranger finds himself in the midst of a superb, wide opening, called the saloon; on the right hand of which, is a double walk, and on the left, first a broad drive for the carriages, wide enough for four or five to pass abreast, and afterwards, another double walk; the whole ornamented with three fine fountains, and eight rows of trees, statues, and marble seats. During the forenoon, and nearly the whole of the afternoon, in the fine season, no part of the city is so silent and deserted as this; and yet, when the heat will permit, it is a spot, which, of all others in Madrid, is most attractive by its freshness, its solitude and its shade. Between five and six o'clock, the whole Prado is carefully watered, to prevent the dust, which would otherwise be intolerable, in a city where rain is very rare in the summer season. Just before sunset, the carriages of all Madrid, and a great proportion of the population of the city, begin to appear; and about half an hour after sunset, the exhibition is in its greatest splendour. There is nothing like it any where else. In the vast space appropriated to the carriages and horsemen, two rows of coaches, forming one unbroken line, move, at a slow walk, up and down on each side, as they do in the Corso of Rome, during the carnival, prevented by their own multitude from advancing any faster; while the king, the infantas, and the royal family, with their guards, dash up and down in the midst, at a full trot, in a space kept open for them, and compel every body on foot, to be uncovered, and every body in a carriage to stop, and, however wkward, the manœuvre may be, to stand up. But such equipages can be found in no other part of Christendom; such a motley confusion, or such a strange and incongruous variety; for the fashions of at least three centuries, are confounded so completely, that it is often difficult to tell to which the different parts belong, and impossible to conjecture how they have been thus brought together. First, perhaps, comes along a beautiful coupée, such as might be ventured at the exhibition of Longchamp, or in Hyde Park, but drawn with difficulty by two worn out mules, attached to it by ropes, and with a postillion who looks as if he had come down unchanged, from the reign of Ferdinand and Isabella. Next follows a gothick looking chariot, without springs, covered with antique carving and gilding, but with two fine Andalusian steeds, who are kept with difficulty in the grave and measured pace prescribed to all, while, behind the vast machine, stands a light chasseur of the newest pattern, with his feathered chapeau de bras stuck affectedly under his arm. After this comes, perhaps, a broken down, dirty modern coach, painted on its pannels, with all four footed and creeping things, and seeming almost covered over with laced lacqueys; and finally, follows, some ambassador's splendid parade barouche, which makes all the rest look dim and mean. But amusing as is the procession, which is thus brought together in the Prado, partly by the vanity of the nobility, who have hardly any opportunity except this to show themselves, but chiefly because there is no other drive in Madrid, or its neighbourhood, it should still be remembered, that the prevalent custom of using mules instead of horses, which extends even to the royal family, and the great proportion of antiquated, grotesque carriages, covered with all forms of vulgar painting and gilding, prevent this part of the exhibition from being little else besides amusing to a foreigner. The exhibition on foot, however, in the saloon, and in the walks adjacent to it, is altogether different. The greater part of the persons, who constitute it, are women; and the national costume for them, which all are compelled to observe, from the highest to the lowest, the moment they appear abroad, except in a carriage, is singularly adapted to produce a picturesqe effect, and by its uniformity, to conceal any negligence in the dress of an individual. So that a collection of Spanish women in the national costume, though taken from all classes, often resembles the groups, that are care fully and fancifully collected in the ballet of a grand opera, to produce a stage effect. But this effect is no where so strikingly produced, as in the Prado of Madrid, where, above all others, the Spanish women delight to resort, and where their peculiar dress and manners can be best exhibited. The show they make here, is, indeed, altogether unique. Their dark basquiña so sets off their passionate physiognomy, and full, piercing eyes; there is such grace and coquetry in all their movements, in their manner of wearing and flirting their beautiful veils, and of beckoning a salutation to their acquaintance with their fans, as well as in the neatness and skill with which they dress every part of their persons, and particularly their feet, that every time a stranger sees this vast crowd of the Prado, mingled with the great number of the officers of the royal guard, who are always there in their showy uniforms, and the still greater number of monks and priests, in their dark, severe costumes, he must be persuaded anew, that it is the most beautiful moving panorama, the world can afford. At about three quarters of an hour after sunset, when the crowd is the greatest, the bell of the neighbouring convent tolls for the angelus, or evening prayer, and the long line of carriages stops as if by magick, while every body on foot becomes instantly fixed as a statue, and prays, or seems to pray, in perfect silence. The effect is very striking; for the whole of this immense crowd, which an instant before, sent up a murmur like the chafing of the distant ocean, is now as still as the earth beneath their feet; but in a moment afterwards, the busy hum and movement begin again, and all goes on as gaily as before. By eight or nine o'clock, however, even in midsummer, the multitude begins to melt away, and at ten, none but the ordinary passengers are met there; except that sometimes, during the extreme heats, little parties are formed, that send for refreshments and musick, and protract their gay evening, on the borders of one of the fountains, until midnight. |