The village in the vicinity of the great palace is called El Escorial from the quantity of scoriæ of iron which is found strewn about the neighbourhood, the _débris_ of extinct iron mines. The region, from the midst of which rises the enormous mass of the second Philip's convent-palace, is very forlorn and gloomy--a spot over which we may say, figuratively, the sable wing of desolation hangs heavily. The masses of broken masonry once formed the offices of the palace which the French destroyed in war, and they now cover the sides of the barren mountains with their ruins for leagues around. The population of the rotting village, who are seething in squalor, consist almost entirely of poor beggars, crawling through the miserable rock-strewn streets, in rags which scarcely conceal their nakedness. Hungry-eyed dogs prowl, like wolves, amongst the broken walls. The whole landscape is wild and lifeless, and our glance wanders far away over lonely plains to the sad horizon, with nothing to refresh the eye, fatigued by such an expanse of grey stony regions, but forests of mournful pine, and the lofty peaks of shattered mountains in the distance, the grey giant pile of the convent itself looming in the midst like the stupendous landmark of some inexorable fate set up to outwatch the cycle of ages. The place is one of great solemnity, and one cannot approach it without feeling oppressed by its gloom; nor was that painful impression at all alleviated by the squalid and decaying appearance of the more humble human habitations in its neighbourhood, the inmates of which were equally dull, hopeless, and sad in their aspect.