I am going to Madrid to see the bull-fights, and must leave my goddesses for two or three days in order to make my visits and work in the library. As there are nine ladies in the house, without a man, they call me in Madrid “Apollo.” Of the nine muses, there are, unfortunately, five who are the mothers or the aunts of the other four; but these four are Andalusians, with severe little airs, which become them charmingly, especially when they wear their Olympian costume, with peplums, which they, from love of euphony, insist on calling _peplo_. You have, doubtless, less beautiful weather than we are having here.... CLIII L’ESCURIAL, _October 5, 1853_. I send you a little flower which I found on the mountain behind the ugly convent of the Escurial. I have not seen it since I was in Corsica; they call it there _mucchiallo_; here, no one knows its name. At night, when the wind passes over it, it has an odour which is to me delicious. I found the Escurial as gloomy as when I left it twenty years ago, but it has been invaded by civilisation. There are now iron beds, and mutton chops, and all the bugs and monks have vanished. The latter I miss very much, and their absence seems to render all the more ridiculous the heavy style of Herrara’s architecture. I am going to dine in Madrid to-night, for I can not endure another day in this place. I shall, in all probability, remain in Madrid until the 15th of this month, when I shall go to Valladolid, Toro, Zamora, and Léon, providing the weather, which until now has been superb, does not become cold and rainy. This, however, is improbable. I have been to Toledo and to Madrid. I am going to Ségovia in order to escape the balls, which bore me to death. I went the other night to see the opening of the Grand Opera. Except for the very attractive and comfortable building, and the pretty women who were there in large numbers, it was a pitiable spectacle. The actors are oppressively commonplace. Were you here, you would see the finest collection of fruits imaginable. There is a fair in Madrid, to which are sent fruits from distant points. Most of them you have probably never seen. It is a pity that they can not be sent to you. If there is anything here that you would like to have, you have but to mention it. CLIV MADRID, _October 25, 1853_. ... Our colony has broken up, the duchess having given birth to a daughter. Her mother has constituted herself the nurse, and the rest of us have come in a body to Madrid. I have caught an odious cold, and to make it worse there is a cursed sirocco blowing.