Art is here at a standstill, and the moral and material resources which raise a nation in the respect of the world are but slowly and feebly developed. Literature, which the Inquisition in past times rendered a perilous occupation, has never been able to recover the ground it has lost, and is now almost abandoned.[10] Fierce political contests and party animosities occupy all the spare time of the Madrileños; and in these the angry Dons are always ready to engage, generally with more spirit than discretion. The lounge, if not the bath, is, however, a favourite way of passing the time in Madrid, as in London. In the Prado, as in Rotten Row, one meets with some very alarming dandies, who favour one with a cold stare, as if they intended to measure him from head to foot. Yet from the best authority, as well as from our own observation, we know perfectly well that in this country, which is a very poor one, these dazzling señors and señoras find that pride has a hard struggle to maintain against poverty, and that consequently all is not gold that glitters. Although the boot is bright, it frequently contains no stocking. Although the scarf be vivid, and the pin stuck into it be gorgeous, there may be no shirt beneath. And so these beautiful Apollos, whom we behold sucking the knobs of their canes with such dignified grace, while ogling "partial beauty" over railings, may often be compared not only to whitened, but to painted sepulchres. As an illustration of Spanish manners, we have learned on good authority that an illustrious minister of government, a man of high education and taste, remained a fortnight in an hotel, and would never during that period allow the _garçon_ to change the water in his washhand basin. "The farther South, the farther the bath," might well be a Spanish proverb, if it is not; and, in fact, as all geographers know, the Wash is only to be found in the North. Now if ablution is so little practised by the higher classes, we may well ask what must be the state of the lowest? When the unsavoury truth is told, one can only exclaim with a gasp, What do they do, then? Those beautiful girls, so well _soignées_, so gaily dressed, and so fair to behold--what substitute have they for this first necessary of the toilet? "Well," we are told, "they are instructed from early youth by their medical advisers that water is unwholesome, and, as it renders the skin coarse and rugose, must be avoided. Consequently, once a week they attempt to clean themselves, as Dejazet used to do, with cold cream, a dry towel, and some white sand."