The Paseo was crowded from end to end, and from side to side; so crowded, indeed, that by mixing with the tide, it was impossible to see more than one’s next neighbour; and that I might better observe the elements of the crowd, I contrived, with some difficulty, to extricate myself from the stream, and get into the carriage drive. Before visiting Spain, I had heard much of the beauty of Spanish women,--their graceful figures,--their bewitching eyes,--their fascinating expression,--in short, their personal attractions. Whether owing to the representations of travellers, or the unreal descriptions of poets, or the romance with which, in the minds of many, every thing in Spain is invested,--it is certain, that a belief in the witchery of Spanish women obtains very general credence in England. With curiosity, therefore, considerably excited, I took up a station to decide upon the claims of the ladies of Spain. In my expectations of beauty I was miserably disappointed; beauty of features I saw none. Neither at that time, nor at any subsequent visit to the Prado, did I ever see one strikingly lovely countenance; and the class so well known in England, because so numerous, denominated “pretty girls,” has no existence in Spain. The women were, without exception, dark,--but the darkness of the clear brunette, is darkness of a very different kind from that of the Castilian. I saw no fine skin, no glossy hair: dark expressive eyes I certainly did see, but they were generally too ill supported to produce much effect. But let me do justice to the grace of the Spanish women. No other woman knows how to walk,--the elegant, light, and yet firm step of the small and well attired foot and ancle,--the graceful bearing of the head and neck,--the elegant disposition of the arms, never to be seen hanging downward, but one hand holding the folds of the mantilla, just below the waist; the other inclining upward, wielding, with an effect the most miraculous, that mysterious instrument, the fan,--these are the charms of the Spanish women. As for the fan, its powers are no where seen displayed to such advantage as on the Prado. I believe I shall never be able to look at a fan in the hands of any other than a Spanish woman,--certainly no other woman understands the management of it. In her hands it is never one moment at rest,--she throws it open, fans herself, furls it to the right,--opens it again, again fans herself, and furls it to the left, and all with three fingers of one hand. This is absolutely marvellous to one who has been accustomed to see a fan opened with both hands, and furled only on one side. But that I may at once exhaust the subject of fans, let me add, that in the hands of its true mistress, the fan becomes a substitute for language, and an interpreter of etiquette. If a lady perceives that she is an object of attention to some inquisitive and admiring _caballero_, she has immediate recourse to her fan, that