In former letters I have given you an idea of the detestation with which Ferdinand’s widow, once so beloved, has long been regarded. To those who remember the affection and enthusiasm testified for her during the early years of her residence in this country, the contrast with the storm of hatred and execration amidst which she has quitted it, is very striking. Then she was the hope of Spain, the idol of the Liberal party; her appearance abroad was the signal for cheers as vehement and heartfelt as any that have since been raised for Espartero. Her name was the soldier’s battle-cry, when combating, amidst the rugged hills of northern and eastern Spain, the partisans of Charles V.; it was the burthen of the songs with which he enlivened his brief intervals of repose, and beguiled the weariness of the march. As I write, there recurs to my memory the burthen of one of those cheerful ditties, in which Spaniards are called upon joyfully to exclaim “_Viva la Reina, Maria Cristina_, she who broke the chains that bound and oppressed us”—and more to that effect. Little more than a month ago, as I walked through the Puerta del Sol—the heart of Madrid, which is the centre of Spain—blind men and ill-favoured women shouted at every corner the titles and contents of scurrilous pamphlets that recounted the misdeeds of “Mother Christina.” It may truly be said that, of the fourteen millions that people Spain, not one person (save her own creatures) could be found to raise his voice in her favour. The charges brought against her are numerous, and but too well founded. She is accused of gross and wilful neglect of her daughter’s education—neglect which has been the main origin of the scandal Isabella has caused, and of the humbled and perilous position in which she now finds herself; her crown tottering on her head, and her only chance of not losing it consisting in implicit obedience to her minister’s directions. She is accused of having betrayed the liberties of Spain, which were intrusted to her keeping; of having trampled on the laws she had sworn to maintain; of having built up a colossal fortune at the expense of the nation; of having, by her unscrupulous greed and shameful political intrigues, by her own conduct, and by her patronage of, and complicity with, some of the worst men in Spain, destroyed all public morality, and augmented to an inconceivable extent administrative corruption. On all these charges, an immense jury, composed of the whole Spanish nation, has unanimously found her guilty. And, since her departure, the general hope and prayer are that she may never again set foot in the country she has so deeply injured. “May the accursed Italian,” said a newspaper the other day, “never return hither to make a traffic of all that is most sacred and holy upon earth.” But, before she had left, the feeling concerning her was in one respect different. It was the opinion of many that it was neither safe nor just to allow her to leave the country. It was