_Madrid, July 1854._ Dear Ebony.—Had I known that you would treacherously publish my private communications, and that Maga comes to Madrid, I certainly would have waited until I had quitted this capital, before imparting to you my impressions of it, its inhabitants, and its institutions. I admit that I have but myself to blame for my ignorance of the fact that Maga, whose fame extends to the uttermost parts of the earth, has her regular readers even in Madrid. But you, who must be aware of that fact, are not the less culpable for risking the valuable life of your old ally and contributor. You might have had a little more consideration for your outpost than to expose him to the thrust of an Albacete dagger or Catalan knife, whether dealt under the fifth rib, or treacherously in the back. You should have reflected that my olive-green uniform, with a golden thistle on the black-facings, would naturally betray my quality of Maga’s vedette. Since the 10th of June, date of the Magazine’s arrival in Madrid, my existence has not been worth an hour’s purchase. I have been obliged to strike my tent, pitched in the Puerta del Sol, as the best place for observation, and to picket my charger in the recesses of the Retiro, whose cool shades, I confess, are not altogether to be despised now that the thermometer ranges from 90 to 100 in the shade, and that the streets of this capital resemble nothing so much as limekilns, thanks to dust from demolitions, and to the rays of a sun compared to which the Phœbus of the British Isles is a very feeble impostor. You are, of course, aware of the pleasant peculiarities of the Madrid climate—Siberia in winter and in the wind; the Sahara in summer and in the sun. We are just now in all the delights of the dogdays; a wet brick is sunburned red in half an hour; eggs, placed for ten minutes on the tiles, open for the exit of lively chickens; and Madrid, to avoid calcination, flies to the woods and waves. As I hope soon to follow its example, and shall consequently not be here when your August number arrives, I will venture to send you another epistle, notwithstanding that I have received sundry mysterious warnings that a repetition of my first offence would lead to prompt blood-letting. This time, however, I shall have less to say of the follies and failings of the natives, and more of what has occurred since last I troubled you with my prose. Then I did but glance at politics _en passant_; now, I propose devoting my whole letter to them. Just one fortnight ago there occurred at Madrid an event so important that I think it best to confine myself to an account of it, and to reserve lighter matters for a future communication. I need hardly say that the event in question is the military insurrection of the 28th of June.