THE reign of the enlightened Charles III is like the
lull before the storm, although this appearance of
tranquillity is chiefly the effect of contrast, for Spain
was at war with England nearly all the time. In
Madrid, too, there were riots because the prime
minister, the Marqués de Squillace, undertook, for
the purpose of making murder and dueling more
difficult, to forbid cloaks that muffled up the chin and
hats that could be drawn down over the brows. But
the general impression is one of calm.

In 1788, the year preceding the French Revolution,
Charles III died and his son Charles IV succeeded to
the crown. Of all Spanish kings from Philip IV until
to-day, those that have visited the Prado know
Charles IV (r. 1788-1808) the best. Philip IV, sen-
sual, weak, distrustful, sad, is always kingly; but
Charles IV is, both body and soul, a clodhopper
yokel. Goya did for his sovereign what Velásquez
had done for his. The envious Casca could not have
dealt a worse stroke. The dull-witted, gross, self-
complacent, slow, ponderous fool stands in the pillory
of the painter's canvases. Alone, on foot or on horse-
back, or with his family, the miserable monarch
renders the account that he will render on the Day
of Judgment. The only good thing I have heard of
Charles IV is that he was fond of music. That most

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