is, and was delighted to find himself in love
with the mother of the Saviour. In this he was a true Spaniard; they only
love pictures of this kind, and interpret the passions they excite in the
most favourable sense.

At Madrid I had, seen a picture of the Madonna with the child at her
breast. It was the altarpiece of a chapel in the Calle St. Jeronimo. The
place was filled all day by the devout, who came to adore the Mother of
God, whose figure was only interesting by reason of her magnificent
breast. The alms given at this chapel were so numerous, that in the
hundred and fifty years, since the picture had been placed there, the
clergy had been able to purchase numerous lamps and candlesticks of
silver, and vessels of silver gilt, and even of gold. The doorway was
always blocked by carriages, and a sentinel was placed there to keep
order amongst the coachmen; no nobleman would pass by without going in to
pray to the Virgin, and to contemplate those 'beata ubera, quae
lactaverunt aeterni patris filium'. But there came a change.

When I returned to Madrid I wanted to pay a visit to the Abbe Pico, and
told my coachman to take another way so as to avoid the crush in front of
the chapel.

"It is not so frequented now, senor," said he, "I can easily get by it."

He went on his way, and I found the entrance to the chapel deserted. As I
was getting out of the carriage I asked my coachman what was the reason
of the change, and he replied,--

"Oh, senor! men are getting more wicked every day."

This reason did not satisfy me, and when I had taken my chocolate with
the abbe, an intelligent and venerable old man, I asked him why the
chapel in question had lost its reputation.

He burst out laughing, and replied,--

"Excuse me, I really cannot tell you. Go and see for yourself; your
curiosity will soon be satisfied."

As soon as I left him I went to the chapel, and the state of the picture
told me all. The breast of the Virgin had disappeared under a kerchief
which some profane brush had dared to paint over it. The beautiful
picture was spoilt; the magic and fascination had disappeared. Even the
teat had been painted out; the Child held on to nothing, and the head of
the Virgin no longer appeared natural.

This disaster had taken place at the end of the Carnival of 1768. The old
chaplain died, and the Vandal who succeeded him pronounced the painting
to be a scandalous one, and robbed it of all its charm.

He may have b