Of course in every continental town there is always that architectural black-dose, the Cathedral, to be _done_. But, praise be to the divinity presiding over the weary Cockney, there is none at Madrid. There is nothing nearer to a cathedral than a dirty, big church in the Calle de Toledo, where we were regaled with the sight of various delectable relics: such as a saint's toe in pickle and a martyr's tooth on a velvet cushion. This church is amongst the _quartiers_ of the poorer classes. It was natural, consequently, that we, poor benighted foreigners, should be supposed to be able to see, do, or understand nothing without assistance. We were, therefore, escorted all over the building by a sickly-looking old hag of a lady, who, with the one remaining tusk sticking out of her jaw like a dilapidated milestone, created sad havoc in her attempts to articulate "_la lingua dulce de España_." What she said no pronouncing dictionary could have enabled us to interpret. She seemed particularly enthusiastic about the saint's toe, and, as she pointed it out, smiled sweetly on the side of her mouth where the one tooth was. Now, when we are shown such things as saints' toes in pickle, or the bottled tears of martyrs, we make a point of never appearing to doubt the authenticity of the same for a moment. Firstly, we assume an appearance of credulity from motives of good taste; secondly, for the reason that if the old lady who exhibits them sees one is interested in the articles brought to notice, there is no knowing what may not be eventually produced for one's delectation, even to a phial of ink which was once shown to one of our friends, in a church in Italy, as "some of the darkness which covered Egypt." We never came across anyone yet whose tongue so fairly bolted with her as this yellow old lady, who followed us like a shadow into the very streets, scratching herself with one hand, while with the other she tried to arrange into a round knot the stubble on the top of an otherwise bald head. We that evening dined luxuriously on one of the great continental standing dishes: "Cock and Salad"--notwithstanding that the former article looked, if it did not taste, as if it had departed this life, not by violence, but from some natural disease. Being in Spain, we called for a bottle of Sherry or Xeres, the first glassful of which took us by the throat like a bull-dog and held us there. The next morning, after breakfasting at the cheerful hour of five upon tea which, when analytically considered, seemed to consist chiefly of chopped broomsticks and dead flies, we started by train for the Escorial. FOOTNOTES: [8] The Manzanares. [9] The engineer, Señor Lucio del Valle, was created Marqués del Lozoya.