Spain in 1830 (Vol. 1&2). Henry D. Inglis
by a pleasant smell, and the next stunned by a bad one; among the former, is the fragrant perfume from the cinnamon to be mixed with the chocolate: at the door of every chocolate shop, a person is to be seen beating cinnamon in a large mortar. Another pleasant smell arises from the heaps of melons that lie on the streets. This custom, by-the-by, of heaping fruit on the street, requires that one unaccustomed to the streets of Madrid should look well to his feet—melons, oranges, apples, and many other kinds of fruit, lie every where in the way of the passenger, who is in constant danger of being toppled over. Among the bad smells that assail one, the most common, and to me the most offensive, is the smell of oil in preparation for cooking. The Spanish oil is unpleasant both to the taste and smell; but I have heard well-informed persons say that the fault does not lie in the oil, but in the manner of expressing it; this may probably be true—the oil of Catalunia is as unpleasant as that of Andalusia, and yet the olives of Catalunia grow in a latitude little different from the most southerly parts of France, from which the most excellent oil is produced. As I have mentioned offensive smells, let me not omit one offensive sight—I allude to the constant practice of combing and cleaning the hair in the street: in most of the less frequented streets, persons are seen at every second or third door intent upon this employment; and sometimes the occupation includes a scrutiny, at the nature of which the reader must be contented to guess; and even in the most frequented streets, if two women be seated at fruit-stalls near each other, one is generally engaged in combing, assorting, and occasionally scrutinizing the hair of the other. Sights like these neutralize, in some degree, the enjoyment which a stranger might otherwise find in the delicious flavour of Muscatel grapes.
I was prepared to find much more wretchedness and poverty among the lower orders in Madrid, than is apparent—I might perhaps say, than exists there. There is much misery in Madrid, but it lies among a different class, of whom I shall have occasion to speak afterwards: at present, I speak merely of the lowest class of the inhabitants, among whom, in every great city, there is always a certain proportion of miserably poor. I purposely walked several times into the lowest quarters of the city, but I never encountered any such pictures of poverty and wretchedness as are to be found abundantly in Paris, London, Dublin, Manchester, and other great towns of France and England. When the king arrived in Madrid from La Granja, there were at least 10,000 persons present at his entrée; and upon the occasion of the queen’s accouchement, there were three times that number in the court of the palace; and yet I did not see a single person in rags—scarcely even a beggar. It is possible, however, that a cloak may conceal much wretchedness; and of this I had one day an example. Sauntering one morning in the retired part of the Prado, in front of the botanical garden, I sat down upon the low wall that supports the iron railing: a man, with a decent cloak wrapped around him, sat a few paces distant, seemingly in a reverie; he happened to have taken his seat upon some prohibited place, and one of the guards, unperceived by him, walked forward, and tapped him on the shoulder with his musket: whether the sudden start which this intrusion occasioned had unfastened the cloak, or whether he had accidentally let go his hold of it, is of no consequence; but the cloak dropped half off his body, and I discovered that it was his only garment, excepting his neckcloth: the man was no beggar; he hastily replaced the cloak, and walked away. He was probably one of that class who, in Madrid, sacrifice all to the exterior; or, possibly, one of those very few Castilians, who yet inherit old Castilian pride, and who would die rather than ask an alms.
But it is not difficult to assign plausible reasons for the fact, that the utterly destitute form but a very trifling proportion of the inhabitants of Madrid. Madrid lives by the court; it is said that the employées, including all grades, and the military, form one fourth part of the whole inhabitants. The professional persons, especially those connected with the law, form a large body; the friars and priests, a still larger. In Madrid, too, are assembled the greater number of the nobles and rich proprietors; so that more than one half of the inhabitants live upon their salaries and rents. We have then to consider the great number of tradespeople, artificers, and shopkeepers required to supply the wants of the former classes; add to these, the common labourers, servants, market people, itinerant venders, porters, water carriers, fruiterers, and the seminaries, hospitals, and prisons; and if, as is said to be the case, the employées, the military, the professional men, and all their families, together with priests and friars, amount to 80,000 persons, we may easily account for the other 80,000, without the necessity of filling up a blank with the utterly destitute. Indeed, the lowest orders in Madrid, are the water-carriers and fruiterers; and these are not a fixed population; many belong to the neighbouring villages, and to the fruit countries bordering on the Tagus; and in the winter months, these leave the capital. There is always a resource for the most destitute in Madrid, in the trade of a water-carrier: he weaves a little basket of rushes; pays a couple of reals for a couple of glasses, and he is at once equipped as a vender of aqua fresca. Madrid has no manufacture, so that labour is not attracted to the capital, to be afterwards subject to the vicissitudes of trade; nor is there any spirit of enterprise, whose caprices demand a constant supply of superabundant labour. These may, or may not, be deemed sufficient reasons for the fact I have wished to account for—the reader may probably be able to add others. The fact, however, is certain, that in no city of Europe ranking with Madrid, is there so little apparent wretchedness.
There is less appearance of business in the streets of Madrid, than in any city I have ever seen: the population seem to have turned out to enjoy themselves. Two things contribute mainly to give that air of ease and pleasure to the pursuits of the inhabitants of Madrid; the great proportion of women of whom the street-population is composed—and the extreme slowness of movement. The women of Madrid have nothing to detain them at home; the ladies have no home occupations as in London; nor have the majority of the bourgeoises any shop duties to perform as in Paris—the street is, therefore, their only resource from ennui. And there is something in extreme slowness of motion, that is entirely opposed to business and duties—a quick step, and a necessary one, are closely allied; but the street population of Madrid, with few exceptions, merely saunter; and wherever you reach an open space, especially the Puerta del Sol—a small square in the centre of the city—hundreds of gentlemen are seen standing, with no other occupation than shaking the dust from their segars. The great numbers of military too, strolling arm in arm, and, above all, the innumerable priests and monks, with whom we at once connect idleness and ease, give to the street population of Madrid an appearance of pleasure seeking, which is peculiar to itself, and is perhaps little removed from truth.
On Sunday, Madrid presents the same aspect as on other days, with this difference, that the shops and the streets are more crowded; and that the lower classes, and the bourgeoises, are better attired. On Sunday evening, the houses are deserted; the whole population of Madrid pours down the Calle de Alcala, to the Prado. Every Sunday afternoon, from four o’clock until six or seven, this street, nearly a mile in length, and, at least, twice as broad as Portland Place, is crowded from end to end, and from wall to wall, so that a carriage finds some difficulty in making its way. Among this crowd, I have often looked in vain, to find an ill-dressed person; but this exterior is no real index to the condition of those who throng the Prado. I have reason to know, that hundreds, who by their dress might pass for courtiers, have dined upon bread and a bunch of grapes, and go from the Paseo to hide themselves in a garret; and females have been pointed out to me, whose mantilla, comb, and fan could not have cost less than 10l., who were starving upon a pension of 2,500 reals (25l.).
As I have mentioned the Calle de Alcala, let me speak of this street as it deserves to be spoken of. I know of no finer entry to any city; I might perhaps say, no one so fine, as that to Madrid by the Calle de Alcala. Standing at the foot of this street, you have on the right and left the long, wide Prado, with its quadruple row of trees stretching in fine perspective to the gates that terminate it; behind is the magnificent gate of Alcala, a fine model of architectural beauty; and before lies the Calle de Alcala, reaching into the heart of the city—long, of superb width, and flanked by a splendid range of unequal buildings—among others the hotels of many of the ambassadors; the two fine convents of Las Calatravas, and Las Ballecas, and the Custom-house. But the Calle de Alcala is the only really fine street in Madrid; many of the other streets are good, and very many respectable, of tolerable width, and the houses lofty and well built; but there is no magnificent street, excepting the Calle de Alcala. Like all the other