During the first few days, we had some difficulty in accustoming ourselves to the sight of women with their shoulders exposed as if they were going to a ball, their arms bare, their feet encased in satin shoes, and their fan in their hand, walking about alone in a public thoroughfare, for it is not the custom to offer your arm to a lady unless you are her husband or some near relation; you content yourself with merely walking by her side, at least as long as it is light, for after nightfall, this practice is not so rigorously observed, especially with foreigners who are not used to it. We had heard people talk a great deal of the _manolas_ of Madrid; the type of the _manola_ has disappeared, like that of the grisette in Paris, and of the _transteverini_ in Rome; it certainly does exist, but it has been stripped of all its primitive characteristics. The _manola_ no longer wears her old costume, which was so spirited and picturesque. The ignoble gown of printed calico has replaced the bright-coloured basquina, embroidered with extravagant patterns; the frightful leather shoe has superseded the satin slipper, and, horrible idea, their gowns are lengthened at least two good inches. In former days, the _manolas_ lent an aspect of variety to the Prado by their lively manner and their singular dress; at present, it is difficult to distinguish them from the wives of the lower class of tradespeople. I looked for the _full-blood_ manola in every corner of Madrid; at the bull-fights, in the Garden _de las Delicias_, at the _Nuevo Recreo_, and on the Festival of Saint Anthony, without finding a perfect one. Once, as I was crossing the quarter of the _Rastro_, the Temple[7] of Madrid, after I had picked my way between an immense number of dirty wretches, who were stretched out asleep, upon the ground, in the midst of the most horrible collection of rags, I found myself in a little deserted lane. There, for the first time, did I behold the manola I was in search of. She was a tall, strapping girl, about four-and-twenty, which is the greatest age that a _manola_ or a grisette can ever attain. She had a dark complexion, a sorrowful but determined look, rather thick lips, and something strangely African in the general formation of her face. An immense roll of hair that was so intensely black as to appear blue, and plaited like so much basket-work, encircled her head and terminated in a large high-backed comb. A bunch of coral hung from each ear, her tawny neck was adorned with a necklace of the same material; a mantilla of black velvet was wound around her head and shoulders, her robe, which was as short as those of the Swiss girls in the Canton of Berne, was formed of embroidered cloth, and exposed to view her well-shaped nervous legs encased in a pair of tightly-fitting black silk stockings; her shoes were of satin according to the old fashion; and to complete the whole, a red fan fluttered about like a cinnabar butterfly between her fingers,