struggle between the two elements, each of which appears to be striving which can make the most noise. The fire, which is more inextinguishable than that of Vesta, is carried about by young rascals in little vases filled with coal and fine ashes, with a handle, to prevent the bearers from burning their fingers. [Illustration: FOUNTAIN AT MADRID.] It is now half-past nine o'clock. The crowd on the Prado begins to thin, and the promenaders direct their steps towards the coffee-houses and botillerias which line the Calle d'Alcala and the neighbouring streets. To us who are accustomed to the dazzling and fairy-like splendour of the Parisian cafés, the coffee-houses of Madrid appear to be nothing more than mere low, twenty-fifth-rate public-houses. The manner in which they are decorated recalls most successfully to your recollection the wretched sheds in which bearded women and living sirens are shown to the public. But this want of splendour is amply compensated by the excellence and variety of the refreshments. I must frankly own that Paris, so superior in everything else, is behindhand in this respect: the art of the _limonadier_ is with us in its infancy. The most celebrated coffee-houses are those of the _Bolsa_, at the corner of the _Calle de Carretas_; the _Café Nuevo_, which is the rendezvous of the _exaltados_; the _Café de_ ---- (I have forgotten the name), where those who belong to the moderate party, and who are called _cangrejos_, that is to say, "crabs," meet; and the _Café del Levante_, just by the Puerta del Sol. I do not mean to assert that the others are not good, but simply that those I have mentioned are the most popular. I must not forget the _Café del Principe_, next the theatre of the same name, and which is the customary resort of the actors and authors.