You have only to see the women on the coldest day in winter with nothing over their heads but a silk or lace mantilla, or a mere velo of net, and the working-women with nothing but their magnificent hair, or, at most, a kerchief, to be certain that it is not the "air" that is to blame. I have seen the women going about Madrid in winter, both by day and night, when the men were muffled to the eyes, with thicker dresses, of course, and perhaps a fur cape, but no sort of wrap about their head or throat; and pulmonia is comparatively unknown among women. To English people, accustomed to plenty of fresh air and water, Madrid has never been an unhealthy place, and it is extremely probable that one of these days our doctors will be sending their consumptive patients there for the winter. They might easily do worse.

One of the coldest winters I remember in Madrid, a young Englishman came out with a letter of introduction from friends. He looked as if he had not many weeks to live, and in truth he was condemned by his doctors, and his hours were numbered. He was a Yorkshireman by birth, but had some years past developed seeds of consumption. He had been sent year after year to Madeira and other of the old resorts, having been told that a winter in England would certainly finish him. Finally, he made his doctors tell him the truth: it was that he had not many months, perhaps not many weeks, to live.

"Very well, then," he replied, "there is no use worrying any more about my health. I shall do my best to enjoy the little time I may have left." He threw all his medicines and remedies out of the window, he looked out for the most unhealthy place he could find, where he would be most certain of never meeting another consumptive patient; and in the course of the search he came across the well-worn chestnut about the air of Madrid. "That is the place for me," he exclaimed; "only strong and healthy people can live there. At any rate, so long as I do live, I shall be amongst sound lungs, and shall see no more fellow-sufferers. The aire tan sutil will kill me, and that will be the end of the matter." So far from killing him, the fine champagne-like air of Madrid went as near curing him as was possible for a man with only one lung. He took no precautions, never wrapped up, went out at night as well as by day, and when he died, fourteen years later, it was not of consumption. He used to come to Madrid for the winter to escape the damp of England, and revelled in the warmth and freshness of that sun-steeped air.

The climate of Madrid has sensibly altered since I have known it, and will continue to do so as vegetation increases and trees spring up and grow to perfection within and around it. In the old times, before the splendid service of water of the Lozoya Canal was in common use, the air was so dry as to make one's skin uncomfortable, and one's hair to break off into pieces like tinder under the brush; there was also a constant thickening in the throat, causing slight discomfort, and a penetrating, impalpable dust which nothing ever laid, and which formed a veritable cloud reaching far above the heads of the promenaders in the Salon del Prado. A very short time changed all this. Twice a day the streets were watered with far-reaching hose, a constant stream ran about the stems of the trees in the Prado, gardens were planted and constantly watered, and while the hitherto barren, dust-laden places began to blossom as the rose, the air itself became softer, less trying, and, perhaps, there is rather more uncertainty about the weather, or at any rate a greater rainfall. At one time there were but two rainy seasons—spring and autumn—and never a cloud in between. For about three days clouds would be gathering gradually in the sky, beginning with one literally "no bigger than a man's hand." Whenever there was a cloud, you might be certain of rain, past or to come. Then one day, when there was no longer any blue to be seen, the heavens opened and the rain came down. There could be no mistake about it. When it rains or thunders in Madrid, it tries to get it all over as quickly as possible. There is nothing like doing a thing well when you are about it, and Madrid thoroughly understands this matter of rain. It never ceases, never tempts people to go out and then drowns them. No, if you go out, it is with a thorough understanding of what you are undertaking; and if you are disposed to be critical about anything in the municipal management of La Corte now, try to imagine what it was when the water from the roofs was carried out in wide pipes a few feet from the edge, and allowed to pour on the heads of the defenceless foot-passengers, or almost to break in the roof of carriage or cab which had to pass under them. This is the time to learn why the bridges over the Manzanares are so wide and so strong; not one whit too much of either, if they are to withstand the mighty on-rush. We used to go off to the Casa de Campo the moment the rain was over, for the sake of seeing Madrid as one never sees it at other times—its magnificent Palace crowning the steep bluff, round which a mighty river is rushing to the sea.

The rain lasts a week, a fortnight, or even more, and then the sky takes at least three days to clear, during which it resembles our English white-flecked blue, or its hurrying grey masses, and the cloud-shadows fly over the wide landscape, now all suddenly changed to verdure, and lie on the distant sierra, giving an unwonted charm to the scene. The Casa de Campo, the Florida, and all green spots become carpeted with wild flowers; the trees seem to have put on new leafage, so fresh are they and free from the over-loading of dust. And then, gradually, the Manzanares repents him of his anger and haste; no more foam is dashing against the piers of the bridges, no more crested waves are hurrying before the wind; he sinks gently and slowly back to his accustomed lounging pace, "taking the sun" with lazy ease once more; and the washerwomen come down and resume their labours under the plane trees; and there is no more thought of rain for many a week, perhaps month, to come; and that strangely deep, impenetrable vault of a blue unknown elsewhere spreads its canopy over a clean, rain-washed city.

The Parque de Madrid, which lies high above the Prado, affords a striking view of the country on all sides. An Englishman of wide Continental experience, describing this prospect, says he was "more than recompensed by the sudden apparition, through an opening between the houses, of the exquisite campagna that surrounds Madrid.... Compared with that of Rome, it seemed to me clearer, and more extensive, while the hue of the atmosphere that overspread it was of a rich purple." I have quoted these remarks because it is so rare for English visitors, accustomed to the lush green of our own meadows and woods, to find anything to admire in what is too often called the "mangy," or at best the "arid," surroundings of the capital of Spain. This, however, was written in September, and there had been heavy rains; after the crops are gathered and before the autumn rains come on, the prospect is scarcely so much to be admired. That the view is extensive, no one can deny; there is unbroken horizon, except where the rugged peaks of the Guadarramas pierce the sky, and the atmospheric effects are often marvellously beautiful, especially when the swift shadows of clouds pass over the wide landscape, or lie upon the "everlasting hills."

For myself, this vast expanse, with the sense of immensity which we generally are only able to associate with the sea, has always had an extraordinary charm. I have seen it at all times of the year, early in the morning, and at, or just before, sundown—nay, even once or twice by moonlight, or with the marvellous blue vault overhead, that seems so much higher and greater there than elsewhere, studded with planet and star, luminous beyond all that we know in our little island, where the blue is so pale by comparison, and the atmosphere laden with moisture when we think it most clear. I do not remember elsewhere in Spain, or in any other country, such a depth of sky or such brilliancy of moon and star light as in Madrid, where it is as easy to read by night as by day on some occasions.

Given plenty of water, and Madrid is an ideal place for flowers. Such carnations as those which are grown in the nursery gardens there are never seen elsewhere—they are a revelation in horticulture; nor are the roses any less wonderful. The bouquet with which a Spaniard, whether hidalgo or one of your servants, greets your birthday is generally a pyramid almost as tall as yourself. It needs to be placed in a large earthenware jar on the floor, and if you should be happy enough to have a good many friends, there is scarcely room for anything else in your gabinete. The flowers one can raise in a balcony in Madrid merely by using plenty of water, syringing the dust off the leaves, and shading them occasionally from the worst heat, are more than equal to anything a hothouse in England can produce. An idea may be formed of the really marvellous fertility of the soil and climate by the rapidity with which seeds develop. I remember one summer, when some of the new gardens were being laid out in the Buen Retiro, a grand concert and evening fete was to be given as the opening function. On the evening before this entertainment was to take place we happened to be near, and strolled in to see how the preparations were going on. The gravel walks were all there, the stands for the bands, the Chinese lanterns hanging from the trees, but where was the grass? Alas! wherever it ought to have been were to be seen brown, sad-looking patches of bare earth, not a blade springing anywhere; what was worse, an army of gardeners were, at that moment only, sowing the seed in some patches, while others were being rolled, and watered with hose. Cosa de Espana! of course. It had been put off to manana, until now there might be fete, but no gardens. The following evening, when in company with all Madrid we went to the concert, behold a transformation! Soft, green, velvety sward—not to be walked on, it is true, but lovely to behold—covered the patches so absolutely bald twenty-four hours ago. The seed we had seen sown had sprung up as thickly as finest cut velvet. Cosa de Espana, indeed! It is not always in Spain—the land of the unexpected—that Manana veremos is foolishness.

Until after Christmas the winter in Madrid is charming, even if it be cold; the glorious sunshine from dawn to sunset, the fine exhilarating air, raise one's spirits unconsciously; but very often the old year is dead before any real cold comes on. I have sat out in the Buen Retiro many a day in December with book or work, and scarcely any more wrap than one wears in summer in England. After that there is generally a cold, and perhaps disagreeable, spell, when the wind comes howling across the plains straight from the snow and ice, and the Madrileno thinks it terrible; as a matter of fact, so long as the sky remains clear, there is always one side of the street where one can be warm. Sometimes, but not often, the cold weather or the bitter winds last pretty far into the spring, and it has certainly happened in the depth of the frost that one of the sentries on duty at the Palace, on the side facing the mountains, was found frozen to death when the relief came. After that the watch was made shorter, and the change of guard more frequent in winter. I have seen the Estanque Grande in the Retiro covered with ice several inches thick; but as all Madrid turned out to see the wonder and watch the foreigners skate, a thing that appeared never to have been seen before, it could not have been a very common occurrence.

Riding early in the morning in winter outside Madrid, even with the sun shining brightly and a cloudless sky, the cold was often intense, especially in the dells and hollows. We have often had to put our hands under the saddle to keep them from freezing, so as to be able to feel the reins, and if I were riding with the sun on the off-side, my feet would become perfectly dead to feeling. But what an air it was! Something to be remembered, and long before we reached home we were in a delicious glow. The horses, English thoroughbreds, enjoyed it immensely, and went like the wind. I have been in Madrid in every part of the year, and never found it unbearably hot, though one does not generally wait for July or August; but here again the lightness and dryness of the air seem to make heat much easier to bear. Numbers of Madrid people think nothing of remaining there all the summer through.



CHAPTER V

MODERN MADRID

Madrid has grown out of all knowledge in the last thirty years. No one who had not seen it since the time of Isabel II. would recognise it now, and even then much had been done since Ferdinand VII. had come back from his fawning and despicable captivity in France—where he had gloried in calling himself a "French prince"—to act the despot in his own country. The Liberal Ministers who, for short periods, had some semblance of power during the regency of Cristina had done a little to restore the civilisation and light established by Charles III., and wholly quenched in the time of his unworthy and contemptible successors. But even in 1865, the Alcala Gate, standing where the Plaza de la Independencia is now, formed one boundary of Madrid, the Gate of Atocha was still standing at the end of the paseo of that name, and the Gate of Sta. Barbara formed another of the limits of the city. The Museo was unfinished and only to be entered by a side door, encumbered with builders' rubbish and half-hewn blocks of stone. The Paseo of la Fuente Castellana ended the Prado, and not a house was to be seen beyond the Mint, or outside the Gate of Alcala.

All the town outside these barriers has arisen since; the magnificent viaduct across the Calle de Segovia, the Markets, the Parque de Madrid, the Hippodrome, the present Plaza de Toros, all are new. The old Bull Ring stood just outside the Alcala Gate, and all beyond it was open country; no casas palacias along the Fuente Castellana, no Barrio Salamanca. Madrid has, however, always been a cheerful, noisy, stirring city, full of life and the expression of animal spirits. In days not so very long past the streets were filled with picturesque costumes of the provinces, with gaily decorated mules and donkeys carrying immense loads of hay or straw, or huge nets filled with melons or pumpkins, almost hiding everything but the head and the feet of the animal; or a smart-looking "Jacket" man from the country districts would go whistling by, Asturians, Murcians, Gallegos, gypsies, toreros in their brilliant traje Andaluz—always to be recognised by their tiny pigtails of hair, and by their splendidly lithe and graceful carriage—all these jostling, singing, chaffing each other, while the jingling bells on innumerable horses, mules, donkeys, rang through the sunlit air, and made the Puerta de Sol and the streets branching from it a constant scene of life and gaiety. Now and then would come the deep clang of the huge bell of the draught oxen, drawing their Old-World carts, often with solid discs of wood for wheels, while the women of the lower class sported their brilliantly embroidered Manila shawls, chattered, and fluttered their gaily-coloured fans just like the other senoritas. Mantillas, even then, were only to be seen on old ladies; but the smart little velo coquettishly fastened with a natural flower adorned all the young girls—French millinery, which never suits a Spanish face, being kept for the evening paseo. It is a pity these national costumes have gone out of fashion. A Spanish girl with velo and fan is something quite superior to the same fascinating young person dressed after the style of Paris—with a difference; for there is always a difference.



Madrid, in fact, is becoming cosmopolitan, and is little to be distinguished from other capitals, except in the barrios bajos on the national fiestas, and wherever the country people, as distinguished from the Madrid work-people, congregate. These last are rapidly losing all picturesqueness, dressing just as the workers in any other capital dress. They are, perhaps, still no less gatos (cats), those of them at least who have had the honour of being born in La Corte, this being the name given them by their fellow country-people.

If it be meant as a term of reproach, the Madrileno has an excellent answer in giving the history of its origin. In the reign of Alfonso VI., during one of the many war-like operations of this King, he wished to take an important and difficult fortress, and had collected all his forces to attack it—the Madrilenos alone were late; it was, in fact, only the day before the assault was to take place that they arrived upon the scene. The King was furious, and when their leader approached his Majesty to know where the troops were to bivouac for the night, he replied that there was no room in his camp for laggards; pointing to the enemy's fortress, he added: "There will be found plenty of lodging for those who come too late for any other." Saluting his Majesty very courteously, the soldier withdrew, understanding thoroughly the indirect sneer at the valour of his troops; he went back to his regiment, summoned his officers and men, and repeated to them the King's word. One and all agreed that they would, in fact, seek their night's lodging just where the King had indicated. Impossible as the feat appeared, they instantly rushed to the attack of the formidable fortress with such irresistible dash that they succeeded in scaling the walls and entering it, pikes in rest. The King, who had run forward as soon as he heard of the attack, watched with delight his loyal Madrilenos climbing up the face of the masonry with extraordinary skill, and not a little loss.

"Look, look!" he cried to those near him. "See how they climb! They are cats!"

The other forces at once came to their assistance, the fortress fell into the King's hands before nightfall, and those who had been in "no hurry" to join the army found their lodgings within it, as his Majesty had contemptuously recommended them to do. His anger was forgotten in admiration and praise; and, from that time, all those born in Madrid have the right to call themselves gatos.

It is curious how the observation of those who know Spain intimately differs—one must suppose according to temperament. Thus Antonio Gallenga, the well-known correspondent of the Times, who really knew Spain well, has left it on record that the people are not musical, and that he never remembers to have heard any of them singing in the streets, or at their work. I do not know how this could have happened, unless our old friend did not recognise the singing he did hear as music, for which he might, perhaps, be forgiven. My own experience is that the people are always singing, more or less, if you agree to call it so. As the houses are almost all built in flats, many of the windows open into patios, or court-yards, large or small, as the case may be. You may reckon on always having two or three servants, male or female, at work in the patio, the women washing or scrubbing, the men probably cleaning their horses, carriages, or harness; but whatever else they may be doing, you may be quite certain they will all be singing, though it is equally certain that, by the greatest exercise of amiability, you could scarcely call the result a song; the words seem to be improvised as the performer goes on. There was a light-hearted groom in one of the patios of our flat, in the Calle Lope de Vega, who would continue almost without a break the whole day. An old friend who used to amuse himself by listening to this remarkable performer declared that if he started his song in the early morning with a stick that was thick enough, he would go on till midnight telling the world in general all the people he had killed with it, and the other wonders of Hercules it had performed.

The ditty always begins on a high note, and goes quavering irregularly downwards, with infinite twirls, shakes, and prolonged notes, these being sung to the exclamation "Ay!" Minor keys enter a good deal into this kind of performance, and the most remarkable part of it is that the singer, once having reached the bottom of the scale—for there is no end—is able to begin again on the same high note, and hit upon, more or less, the same variations a second time. If you have nothing better to do than to listen to some of these improvisatores, you will get a long, and more or less connected, history of some event; but it takes a long time—and, perhaps, is not often worth the expenditure. The songs which you hear to the accompaniment of the guitar are different from these, though the introduction of the "Ay!" and the frequent shakes and twirls are always there.

The working Madrileno's ideal of happiness is to go a little way along one of the dusty caminos reales (highways) to some little venta, or tavern, or to take refreshments out in baskets. They will sit quite contentedly in the dust by the side of the road, or in a field of stubble or burnt-up grass, to eat and drink, and then the guitar comes into play, and the dancing begins. It is always the jota aragonesa, which is not so much dancing as twirling about slowly, and, it would almost seem, sadly; but there is always a circle of admiring lookers-on, who beat time with stamping of feet and clapping of hands, and watch the performance as eagerly as if there were something quite fresh and new about it. Occasionally, these parties go out by omnibus or tram, as far as they can, and then start their picnic repast, to be followed by the inevitable dance and song, just wherever they happen to be.

One of the most curious sights of Madrid is the great wash-tub of the Manzanares. As you descend the steep bluff on which the city stands, towards the river, you find the banks covered with laundresses, kneeling at short distances from one another, each scrubbing the clothes on one board, which slopes down into the water, while another board, fixed so as to stand out into the stream, or a little embankment made of sand, dams up the scanty supply of water she can obtain. As the Manzanares in summer is divided into a great number of small streams, this scene is repeated on the edge of each one, while the expanse of sand which occupies the centre of what ought to be the river-bed is one forest of clothes-props, with all the wash of Madrid hanging on the lines. On the banks the children, in the intervals of school, are playing bull-fights, or some of their innumerable dancing and singing games; the women are one and all performing the gradual descent of the gamut with variations called singing; and above all is the glorious sun, transfiguring all things, and throwing deep, purple shadows from the high plane-trees along the banks.

The road which runs along the bank of the Manzanares, at the farther side from Madrid, is a revelation to those who only know the plains through which the railway from the north passes, and which for the greater part of the year, except when the crops are growing, are quite as arid as we are accustomed to suppose. On the left lies the Casa de Campo, an immense extent of park, containing, on the high ground, some splendid specimens of the Scotch fir, and, in more sheltered spots, groves of beech, avenues of plane, and masses of the dark-leaved ilex, which grows to great perfection in this climate. The "Florida," another of the royal properties, lies to the right, and a splendid road shaded by majestic trees, and with wide, grassy margins, stretches away to the village of El Pardillo, where Longfellow established his quarters, and which he describes in his Outre Mer, and from that on to the forest, or whatever you may call it, of El Pardo, where there is a royal residence now but seldom used, you may ride for many hours and still find yourself in this wild park, which many of the inhabitants of Madrid have never seen. Here one can realise a little how the city may have once been a hunting lodge of the Kings, as we are told. The Pardo may be reached through the Casa de Campo, a gate at the extreme end of the principal drive leading into the forest.

Up on the high ground of the Casa de Campo there is a splendid view of Madrid, with the Palace crowning the steep bluff overhanging the Manzanares. It was in the "country house" itself, near the gate, that our "Baby Charles" is said to have climbed the high wall of the courtyard to get a glimpse of the Infanta whom he hoped to make his wife. When I knew the place intimately, on the very highest part of the Park was a large enclosure of the wild forest, railed in with high wooden palisading. Within this lived a flock of ostriches, belonging to the Crown. No one seemed to know anything about them, nor how long they had been there. What puzzled us much was how they were fed, or if they were left to cater for themselves. One thing I can answer for: they were very wild, and very ferocious; the moment they saw our horses coming up the hill they would run from all parts of the enclosure trying their best to get at us, striking with their feet and wings, and uttering gruesome shrieks. It was one of our amusements to race them, keeping outside their high fence while they strode over the ground, their necks stretched out, and their absurd wings flapping after the manner of a farmyard gander; but, with the best efforts, the horses were never able to keep up the pace for long; the birds invariably won, and we left them screeching and using language that did not appear to be parliamentary, when they found that the fence was the only thing that did not give in, as they craned their necks and stamped in their baffled rage. The horses, at first rather afraid of the birds, soon learned to enjoy the fun, and raced them for all they were worth. I do not know if this strange colony is still settled there.

A curious feature of Spanish country life to us are the goatherds. Where the large flocks of goats about Madrid pasture, I know not; but I have often seen them coming home in the evening to be milked, or starting out in the morning. The goatherd, clad in his manta, and carrying a long wand of office over his shoulder, and I think also a horn, stalks majestically along with all the dignity of a royal marshal of processions, and the goats follow him, with a good deal of lagging behind for play, or nibbling, if they should chance to see anything green. Still, they scamper after their generalissimo in the end, and meanwhile he is much too dignified to look back. Taking advantage of this, I have seen women come out of their cottages on the roadside and milk a goat or two as it passed; and from the way the animal made a full stop, and lent itself to the fraud—if such it were—it was evidently a daily occurrence.

In times not long past, if indeed they do not still exist, the dust-heaps outside Madrid were the homes of packs of lean, hungry dogs, great brindled creatures of the breed to be seen in Velasquez pictures; these animals prowled about the streets of Madrid in the early morning, acting as scavengers. When they became too numerous, the civil guards laid poison about at night in the dust-heaps before the houses, and the very early riser might see four or five of these great creatures lying dead on the carts which collect the refuse of Madrid before the world in general is astir. These wild dogs were disagreeable customers to meet when riding outside the city, until we learned to avoid the localities where they spent their days, for they would give chase to the horses if they caught sight of them, and the only thing to be done was to remain perfectly quiet until they tired of barking and returned to the dust-hills to resume their search for food.

The description of peasant life in Madrid would be incomplete if we left unmentioned the daily siesta in the sun of the Gallegos and lower-class working-men. On the benches in the Prado, on the pavement, in the full blaze of the sun, these men will stretch themselves and sleep for an hour or two after their midday meal. I have seen the Gallego porters make themselves a hammock with the rope they always carry with them—mozos de cuerda they are called—literally slinging themselves to the reja or iron bars of the window of some private house, and sleep soundly in a position that would surely kill any other human being. "Taking the sun" (tomando el sol) is, however, the custom of every Spaniard of whatever degree.

The casual visitor to Madrid is always struck with the number of carriages to be seen in the paseo; but the fact is that everyone keeps a carriage, if it be at all possible, and it is no uncommon thing for two or three pollos to join together in the expense of this luxury, and a sight almost unknown to us is common enough in Madrid—young men, the "curled darlings" of society, lazily lounging in a Victoria or Berlina in what is known as the "Ladies' Mile." The Madrid pollo is not the most favourable specimen of a Spaniard; the word literally means a "chicken," but applied to a young man it is scarcely a complimentary expression, and has its counterpart with us in the slang terms which from time to time indicate the idle exquisite who thinks as much of his dress and his style as any woman does or more. The Madrid pollo often is, or ought to be, a schoolboy, and the younger he is, naturally, the more conceited and impertinent he is. It is curious that with the feminine termination, this word (polla) loses all sense of banter or contempt; it simply means a young girl in the first charm of her spring-time.

Riding in the Row has always been a favourite pastime in Madrid, but to English ideas the pollo is more objectionable there than elsewhere, since his idea of riding is to show off the antics of a horse specially taught and made to prance about and curvet while he sits it, his legs sticking out in the position of the Colossus of Rhodes, his heels, armed with spurs, threatening catastrophe to the other riders. An old English master of foxhounds, who was a frequent visitor in Madrid, used to compare the Paseo of the Fuente Castellana at the fashionable hour to a "chevaux de frise on horseback." These gentlemen must not, however, be supposed to represent Spanish horsemanship. Ladies ride a good deal in the Paseo, but one cannot call them good horsewomen. To get into the saddle from a chair, or a pair of stable steps, and let their steed walk up and down for an hour or so in the Row, is not exactly what we call riding. If you hire a carriage in Madrid you are so smart that your best friends would not recognise you. A grand barouche and pair dashes up to your door, probably with a ducal coronet on the panels. The coachman and footman wear cockades, and the moment you appear they both take off their hats and hold them in their hands until you are seated in the carriage. This ceremony is repeated every time you alight, the coachman reverently uncovering as you leave the carriage or return to it, as well as the footman who is opening the door for you.

It is most comforting; royalty, I feel sure, is nothing to it! We will not look critically at the lining of the noble barouche, nor at the varnish on its panels, still less make disagreeable remarks about the liveries, which do not always fit their wearers—it is economical to have liveries made a good medium size, so that if the servants are changed the clothes are not;—one can always feel grateful for the polite and agreeable attendants. How oddly it must strike the Spaniards in England to notice the stolid indifference of "Jeames de la Plush," and the curt tap of his first finger on the brim of his hat as his lady enters her carriage or gives her directions!

All the mules, and most of the horses, ponies, or donkeys ridden by the "Jacket" men or country people are trained to pace instead of to trot; it is said to be less fatiguing on a long journey. The motion as you ride is, to our notions, very unpleasant, being a kind of roll, which at first, at any rate, gives one the feeling of sea-sickness. The animal uses the fore and hind feet together alternately, as he literally runs over the ground. It does not appear to be a natural pace, but is carefully taught, and, once acquired, it is very difficult to break the animal of it; his idea of trotting has become quite lost; nor is it a pretty action, nor one suited to show off good qualities—it has always something of a shuffle about it. If it has its advantages, except that stirrups may be dispensed with, they are not very apparent to those accustomed to the usual paces of an English horse. Personally, I disliked it particularly.

There have been many efforts to introduce racing, with its contingent improvement in the breed of horses, perhaps the earliest during the regency of Espartero; but these ended, as most things did in the old days when Spain was only beginning her long struggle for freedom, in failure and loss to the enterprising gentlemen—of whom the then Duque de Osuna was one—who spent large sums of money in the effort. The old race-course of that time lay somewhere in the low ground outside Madrid on the course of the Manzanares; many a good gallop I have had on it, though it was abandoned and forgotten long ago by the Madrilenos. At the present time horse-racing may be said to have become naturalised in Spain under the Sociedad del Fomento de la Cria Caballar (Society for the Encouragement of Horse-breeding), and all that concerns horsemanship is naturally improved and improving.

A good idea of Spanish horses may be gained by a visit to the Royal Mews in Madrid. There are the cream-coloured horses from the royal stud at Aranjuez, jacuitas from Andalucia, as well as the mountain ponies of Galicia. Those who have never seen the Spanish mule have no idea what the animal is—powerful, active, graceful, and almost impossible to injure. They are used in the royal stables and in those of the nobility, for night work, since they are so hardy as not to be injured by long waiting in the cold or wet. They are the correct thing in the carriages of the Papal Nuncio and all ecclesiastics, and are generally preferred to horses for long or difficult journeys. They are a great feature in the army; kept in splendid condition and of great size, they not only drag the heavy guns, but in the celebrated mountain artillery each mule carries a small gun on his back. A brigade of this arm would have been invaluable to the British in South Africa, having no doubt had its initiation in the guerilla warfare of Spain's frequent civil wars.

The clipping of mules and donkeys, which are also very superior animals to anything we know by that name, is in the hands of the gypsies, who have a perfect genius for decorating their own animals and any others committed to their manipulation. Only the upper part is shaved, or clipped to the skin, the long winter coat being left on the legs and half-way up the body. Generally, on the shoulders and haunches a pattern is made by leaving some of the hair a little longer; the figure of the cross with rays is not uncommon, but it is wonderful how elaborate and beautiful some of these patterns are, looking as if embossed in velvet on the skin. One day, passing a venta in a street in Madrid, we were attracted by a gaily-decked donkey standing outside. He had the words, Viva mi Amo (Long live my Master!), finished with a beautiful and artistic scroll pattern, in rich velvet across his haunches. While we stood admiring this work of art, the master within laughingly warned us that the ass kicked if anyone came near him. Perhaps the elaborate decoration was a practical joke!

The mules and donkeys which come in from the country are generally very picturesque, with a network of crimson silk tassels over their heads, and a bright-coloured manta thrown across their sleek, glossy backs. These mantas serve many purposes; they are made of two breadths of brightly striped and ornamented material of wool and silk, sewn up at one end, or sometimes for some distance at each end, like a purse; sometimes they are thrown across the mule to serve as saddle-bags, sometimes one end is used as a hood and is drawn over the master's head, while the remainder is thrown across his chest and mouth and over the left shoulder. The best of these mantas are elaborately trimmed at both ends with a deep interlacing fringe, ending in a close row of balls, and have a thick ornamental cord sewn over the joining. These, which are intended for human wraps and not as saddle-bags, are only sewn up at one end, so as to form something very like the old monkish hood. All the horses, mules, donkeys, and oxen wear bells: the oxen have generally only one large bronze bell, which hangs under the head; the others have rows of small jingling silver or brass bells round their collars or bridles.

These draught oxen are beautiful animals, mostly a deep cream in colour, with dark points, magnificent eyes, and a sphinx-like look of patience, as if biding their time for something much better to come. Their harness is not apparently irksome to them, and is not so heavy as one sees on the Portuguese oxen, for instance. They are coupled by a wooden bar across the head, and their driver, if such he can be called—rather, perhaps, the guide—walks in front with a long stick, possibly a wand of office, over his shoulder to show them the way. The dress of this functionary is picturesque: a wide-brimmed hat (sombrero), a shirt, short trousers to the knees, with gaiters of woven grass (esparto), a faja round his waist, and manta thrown over his shoulder if cold. He stalks majestically along, followed by his equally majestic bueyes, and one wonders of what all three are thinking as they trudge along the sun-smitten roads, regardless of dust or of anything else. The cars are rude enough, and the wheels sometimes solid discs of wood. Occasionally, a hood of bent pieces of wood covered with linen is fixed. Tame oxen, or cabestros, as they are called, play a very important part in the ganaderos and the bull-rings. They appear to be held in some sort of superstitious reverence, or strange affection, by the poor beasts who only live to make sport for men. In driving the bulls from one pasture to another, or bringing them into the towns, the cabestros are followed with unwavering faith by these otherwise dangerous animals; where the cabestro goes, clanging his great bell, the bull follows, and while under the charge of his domesticated friend he is quite harmless.



At one time, the bulls used to be driven to the bull-ring outside Madrid in specially made roads sunk some fifteen feet below the level of the fields, and paved. Along these the pastor, or shepherd, and picadores, armed with long lances, went with the cabestros and the herd of bulls to be immolated. I have frequently met this procession when riding, either in the early morning or late evening, outside Madrid; but so long as the cabestros are present, there is nothing to fear, for the bulls are perfectly quiet and harmless. Once, however, riding with a friend, I had a disagreeable and exciting adventure. We were quietly walking our horses along the Ronda de Alcala, when we heard an immense amount of shouting, and suddenly became aware that we ourselves were the objects of the excitement, waving of hands, screaming, and gesticulating. Before we had time to do more than realise that we were being warned of some terrific danger in wait for us round the corner of the high wall, some little distance in advance, two picadores on horseback, armed with their long pikes, galloped round the corner, also shouting wildly to us, and pointing across the fields as if telling us to fly, and almost at the same moment the whole drove of bulls, tearing along at a terrific rate, without cabestros, appeared, charging straight towards us. We did not need a second hint. At one side of the road was the old wall of Madrid, at the other a high bank with a wide ditch beyond it. Without a word, we put our horses at the bank,—they had realised the situation as quickly as we had,—jumped the ditch at a flying leap from the top of the bank, and were off across a field of young wheat. Once only I looked behind, and saw a magnificent black bull, with his tail in the air—a signal of attack—on the top of the bank over which I had just leaped, preparing to follow me. Long afterwards, as it seemed, when my horse slackened his pace, I found myself alone in a wide plain, neither bulls nor fellow-rider to be seen. His horse had bolted in another direction from mine, and we heard afterwards that the picadores had galloped in between me and the sporting bull and turned him back. Eventually, the cabestros appeared on the scene, and the poor misguided bulls were inveigled into the shambles for the fiesta of the morrow. How they had ever managed to break away or gain the public road at all, we were never able to learn.



CHAPTER VI

THE COURT

During the reign of Don Alfonso XII., except during the interval when the melancholy death of his first beloved Queen, Mercedes, plunged King, Court, and people into mourning, Madrid was gayer than perhaps it has ever been. No one loved amusement better than the young King, who was only seventeen when the military pronunciamiento of Martinez Campo called him to the throne from which his mother had been driven seven years previously. He had taken his people, and indeed all the world, by storm, for from the first moment he had shown all the qualities which make a ruler popular, and Spain has never had a young monarch of so much promise. He had the royal gift of memory, and an extraordinary facility in speaking foreign languages; it was said that the Russian and the Turkish envoys were the only ones with whom he was unable to converse as freely in their languages as in his own. He was an excellent speaker, always knew the right thing to say, the best thing to do to gain the hearts of his people, and to make himself agreeable to all parties and all nationalities alike. He was the first King of Spain to address his people de usted in place of de tu, a mark of respect which they were not slow to appreciate; he was a modern, in that he would go out alone, either on foot or riding, allowed applause in his presence at the theatres, unknown before, and himself would salute those he knew from his box. He gave audience to all who asked, was an early riser, devoted to business when it had to be performed, was an enthusiast in all military matters, and, perhaps better than all in the eyes of his people, he was devoted to the bull-ring. Extremely active, resolute, firm, fond of all kinds of active sports, such as hunting and shooting, equally fond of society, picnics, dances, and all kinds of entertainments, he seemed destined to become the idol of his people, and to lead his beloved country back to its place in Europe. His death, when only twenty-seven, changed all this. Queen Maria Cristina has been a model wife, widow, mother, and Regent. She was devoted to her husband, and though it was said at first to be a political marriage, contracted to please the people, it was undoubtedly a happy one. The Queen has scarcely taken more part in public life during her sad widowhood than Queen Victoria did. She has devoted herself to her public duties as Regent and to the education and care of her children.

Alfonso XIII., born a king after his father's death, has always been rather a delicate boy; his mother has determined that his health and his education shall be the first and chief care of her life, and nothing turns her from this purpose. If she has never been exactly popular, she has at least the unbounded respect and admiration of the people. She does not love the "bulls," and, therefore, she is not Espanola enough to awaken enthusiasm; she keeps the boy King too much out of sight, so that his people scarcely know him, even in Madrid; but this is the very utmost that anyone has to say against her, while all shades of politicians, even to declared Republicans, speak of her with respect and with real admiration of her qualities of heart and mind.

All Court gaieties are, however, at an end. Once a year or so a ball at the palace, a formal dinner, or reception, when it cannot be avoided—that is all, and for the rest the Queen is rarely seen except at religious ceremonies or state functions, and the King, never. He is supposed to take his amusements and exercise in the Casa de Campo, and rarely crosses Madrid.

Numerous stories used to be told of his precocity as a child, and of his smart sayings; sometimes of his generosity and sympathy with the poor and suffering. Now one is told he is somewhat of a pickle, but fables about royalty may always be received with more than a grain of salt. One of the stories told of him, which ought to be true, since it has the ring of childhood about it, is well known. When a small boy, his Austrian governess, of whom he was very fond, reproved him for using his knife in place of a fork. "Gentlemen never do so," she said. "But I am a King," he replied. "Kings, still less, eat with their knives," said the governess. "This King does," was the composed reply of the child.

The etiquette of the Spanish Court, although it was much modified by Alfonso XII., is still very formal. A perfectly infinite number of mayordomos, caballerizos, gentiles hombres de casa y boca, ujieres, alabarderos, monteros, aides-de-camp, Grandes de Espana de servicio, ladies-in-waiting, lackeys, servants, and attendants of every possible description abound. A man going to an audience with royalty uncovers as he enters the Palace. First, he will find the alabardero de servicio placed at the entrance of the vestibule; farther on, more alabarderos. Whenever a Grande de Espana, a prelate, a grand cross, or a title of Castile passes, these guards strike the marble floor with their arms—a noise which may well cause the uninitiated to start. Three halls are used for grouping, according to their rank, those who are about to be presented: first, the saleta, where ordinary people—all the world, in fact—wait; next, the camara, for those who have titles or wear the grand cross; third, the antecamara, reserved for the Grandes of Spain, and gentiles hombres en ejercio. The Grandes of Spain, chamberlains of the King, share between them the service of his Majesty. They are called in rotation, one day's notice being given before they are expected to attend in the Palace. In the ante-chamber of the King there is always the Grande in waiting, the lady-in-waiting on the Queen, two aides-de-camp, and a gentil hombre del interior (the last must not be confounded with the gentiles hombres en ejercicio, who have the right to enter the ante-chamber). There are, of course, equerries (caballerizos) who attend, as ours do, on horseback, when the King or Queen goes out; but the most essentially Spanish attendants are the Monteros de Espinosa, who have the exclusive right to watch while Royalty sleeps. These attendants must all be born in Espinosa; it is an hereditary honour, and the wives of the existing Monteros are careful to go to Espinosa when they expect an addition to their family, as no one not actually born there can hold the office. At the present time this guard is recruited from captains or lieutenants on the retired list.

In the ante-chamber of each member of the Royal Family two of these take their place at eleven o'clock; they never speak, never sit down, but pass the whole night pacing the room, crossing each other as they go, until morning relieves them from what must be rather a trying watch. At eleven o'clock each evening there is a solemn procession of servants and officials in imposing uniforms down the grand staircase of the Palace; every door is closed and locked by a gentleman wearing an antique costume and a three-cornered hat, and having an enormous bunch of keys. From that time the Palace remains under the exclusive charge of the Monteros de Espinosa. Although this is the official programme, it is to be hoped the hour is not a fixed one. It would be a little cruel to put the Royal Family to bed so early, without regard to their feelings; especially as Madrid is essentially a city of late hours, and the various members of it would have to scamper away from opera, or in fact any entertainment, as if some malignant fairy were wanting to cast a spell at the witching hour of midnight. There are some curious superstitions, however, about being abroad when the clocks strike twelve, which we must suppose do not now affect the Madrileno.

While the old church of Atocha was still standing, the Court, with a royal escort, or what is called escadron de salut, all the dignitaries of the Palace in attendance, guards, outriders, etc., in gorgeous array, drove in half state (media gala) across Madrid and the paseos to hear the salut "sa'nt" on Saturday. The Queen Regent and her daughters, but not often the King, now visit in turn some of the churches, but without the old state or regularity.

Since the death of Alfonso XII., many of the purely Spanish customs of the Court have been modified or discontinued. Although the late King was credited with a desire to reduce the civil list, and to adopt more English customs, he was to some extent in the hands of the Conservatives, who had been the means of his restoration, and when he went forth to put an end to the Carlist insurrection and finish the civil war, which had laid desolate the Northern provinces and ruined commerce and industry for some seven years, it was at the head of a personal following of over five hundred people. Nor was the Court much, if any, less numerous when the Royal Family removed in the summer to the lovely Palace of St. Ildefonso at La Granja—that castle in the air, which has no equal in Europe, hanging, as it does, among gardens, forests, rivers, and lakes, three thousand eight hundred and forty feet above the level of the sea.

The Queen is Austrian, and she has never gone out of her way to conciliate the people by making herself really Spanish. This she has left to the Infanta Isabel, the eldest sister of Alfonso XII. For many years before the birth of her brother, the Infanta Isabel was Princess of Asturias, as heiress apparent of the Crown. With the advent of a boy, she became, of course, only Infanta, losing the rank which she had held up to this time. Being but a child at the time, she perhaps knew or cared little for any difference it may have made in her surroundings. She shared in the flight of the Royal Family to France in 1868, and her education was completed in Paris. When the whirligig of Spanish politics called her brother Alfonso, who at the time was a military student at Sandhurst, to the throne from which his mother had been driven, Princess Isabel returned with him to Madrid, and was once more installed in the Palace, above the Manzanares, as Princess of Asturias. This rank remained hers during the short episode of her brother's marriage to his cousin Mercedes, and the melancholy death of the girl Queen at the moment when a direct heir to the throne was expected. Once more, when the daughter of Alfonso's second wife, the present Queen Regent, was born, the Infanta Isabel became her title, and she took again the lower rank.

Nothing in history is more pathetic than this first marriage of Alfonso XII. and its unhappy termination. The children of Queen Isabel and those of her sister, the Duquesa de Montpensier, had been brought up together, and there was a boy-and-girl attachment between the Prince of Asturias and his cousin Mercedes. When Alfonso became King, almost as it seemed by accident, and it was thought necessary that he should marry, the boy gravely assured his Ministers that he was quite willing to do so, and in fact intended to marry his cousin. Nothing could be more inopportune, nothing more contrary to the welfare of the distracted country! From the time that the notorious "Spanish marriages" had become facts, the Duke of Montpensier had been an intriguer. The birth of heirs to the throne of Spain (it is useless to go back to those long-past scandals) had completely upset the machinations of Louis Philippe and his Ministers. So long as Don Francisco de Assis and the Spanish nation chose to acknowledge the children as legitimate, there was nothing to be done. The direct hope of seeing his sons Kings of Spain faded from the view of the French husband of the sister of Isabel II., but he never for one moment ceased to intrigue. Although loaded with benefits and kindness by the Queen, Montpensier took no small part in the revolution which drove her from the country. Topete, and Serrano—who had once been what the Spaniards called Pollo Real himself—were bound in honour to uphold his candidature for the vacant throne; their promise had been given long before the pronunciamiento at Cadiz had made successful revolution possible. Prim alone stood firm: "Jamas, jamas!" (Never, never!) he replied to every suggestion to bring Montpensier forward. In those words he signed his own death-warrant. His actual murderers were never brought to justice, ostensibly were never found; but there never was a Spaniard who doubted that the foul deed was the result of instigation.



To have Mercedes as Queen Consort, was to bring her father once more within the limits of practical interference with national politics. To all remonstrance, however, the young King had one answer: "I have promised," and the nation, recognising that as a perfectly valid argument, acquiesced, though with many forebodings. The marriage took place, and within a few months the girl Queen was carried with her unborn child to the melancholy Panteon de los Principes at the Escorial.

The marriage of the Infanta Isabel with Count Girgenti, a Neapolitan Bourbon, was an unhappy one, and she obtained a legal separation from him after a very short matrimonial life. Spaniards have a perfect genius for giving apt nicknames. Scarcely was the arrangement for the marriage made known when the Count's name was changed to that of Indecente. He fought, however, for Isabel II. at Alcolea, which was at any rate acting more decently than did Montpensier, who had furnished large sums of money to promote the rising against his confiding sister-in-law, and, in fact, never ceased his machinations against every person and every thing that stood in his way, until death fortunately removed him from the arena of Spanish politics, his one overmastering ambition unfulfilled. He had neither managed to ascend the throne himself, nor see any of his children seated there, except for the few months that Mercedes, "beloved of the King and of the nation," shared the throne of Alfonso XII.

The Infanta Isabel, except for the episode of her exile in France, has always lived in the Royal Palace of Madrid, having her own quarters, and her little court about her. At times she has been the butt of much popular criticism, and even dislike, but she has outlived it all, and is now the most popular woman in Spain. It must have required no common qualities to have lived without discord—as a separated wife—with her brother and her younger sisters; then with Queen Mercedes, her cousin as well as sister-in-law; again, during the time of the King's widowhood and her own elevation to the rank of Princess of Asturias, and, finally, since the second marriage of her brother, and his untimely death, with Maria Cristina and her young nephew and nieces.

One thing is to be said in favour of Isabel II. Deprived of all ordinary education herself, as a part of the evil policy of her mother, she was careful that her own children should not have to complain of the same neglect. One and all have been thoroughly educated: the Infanta Paz, now married to a Bavarian Archduke, has shown considerable talent as a poetess; and the Infanta Isabel is universally acknowledged to be a clever and a cultivated woman, inheriting much of her mother's charm of manner, and noted for ready wit and quick repartee. Her popularity, as I have said, is great, for she is careful to keep up all the Spanish customs. She is constantly to be seen in public, and, above and beyond all things, she never fails in attendance at the bull-fight, wearing the white mantilla. This alone would cover a multitude of sins, supposing the Infanta to be credited with them; but there has never been a breath of scandal connected with her. She is very devout, and never fails in the correct religious duties and public appearances. At the fair, and on Noche buena, she fills her carriage with the cheap toys and sweetmeats which mean so much to Spanish children, and she must be a veritable fairy godmother to those who come within her circle. She takes a close personal interest in many sisterhoods and societies for the help of the poor. In a word, she is muy simpatica and muy Espanola. What could one say more?

A gala procession in Madrid is something to be remembered, if it be only for the wealth of magnificent embroideries and fabrics displayed. The royal carriages are drawn by eight horses, having immense plumes of ostrich feathers, of the royal colours, yellow and red, on their heads, and gorgeous hangings of velvet, with massive gold embroideries reaching almost to the ground; the whole of the harness and trappings glitter with gold and silk. The grooms, leading each horse, are equally magnificently attired, their dresses being also one mass of needlework of gold on velvet. Equerries, outriders, and military guards precede and surround the royal carriages, and the cavalcade is lengthened by having a coche de respecto, caparisoned with equal splendour, following each one in which a royal person is being conveyed. Behind come the carriages of the Grandes, according to rank, all drawn by at least six horses, with trappings little, if at all, inferior to those of the Court, and each with its enormous plume of gaily-coloured ostrich feathers, showing the livery of its owner. In addition to all this grandeur, the balconies of the great houses lining the route of the processions display priceless heirlooms of embroideries, hanging before each window from basement to roof. If these ancient decorations could speak, what a strange story they might tell of the processions they have seen pass! In honour of the victories over the Moors; of the heroes of the New World; of the miserable murders of the Autos-da-fe; of the entry of the Rey absoluto, to inaugurate the "Terror," on to the contemptible "galas" of Isabel II., supposed to keep the people quiet; and, almost the last, the entry of Alfonso XII., after he had put an end to the Carlist war! On the day of rejoicing for "La Gloriosa" there was no such display, although all Madrid was en fete. It was the triumph of the people, and their heirlooms do not take the form of priceless embroideries.

In former days the receptions at the Palace were known as besamanos (to kiss hand). On Holy Thursday the Royal Family and all the Court visit seven churches on foot—at least, that is the correct number, though sometimes not strictly adhered to. As no vehicular traffic is allowed on that day or on Good Friday, the streets where the royal procession pass are swept and laid with fresh sand. The ladies are in gala costume, and drag their trains behind them, all wearing the national mantilla. All Madrid also visits its seven or less number of churches, passing without obeisance before the high altars, on which there is no Host,—as the people will tell you su Majestad is dead,—and after the funcion is over there is a general parade in the Puerta del Sol and the Carrera de San Geronimo, to show off the smart costumes of the ladies, while the officers sit in chairs outside the Government offices and smoke, admiring the prospect.



CHAPTER VII

POPULAR AMUSEMENTS

Nothing strikes one so much in studying the popular customs and pleasures of Spain as the antiquity of them all. Constantly one finds one's self back in prehistoric times, and to date only from the days when Spain was a Roman province is almost modernity. No one can travel through Spain, or spend any time there, without becoming aware that, however many other forms of recreation there may be, two are universal and all-absorbing in their hold on the widely differing provinces—dancing and the bull-ring. In the Basque Provinces, the national game of pelota, a species of tennis, played without rackets, is still kept up, and is jealously cultivated in the larger towns, such as Vitoria, San Sebastian, and Bilbao. In Madrid at the present time it is played in large courts built on purpose, and attracts many strangers. To view it, however, as a national sport, one should see it in some of the mountain villages, where it is still the great recreation for Sundays and religious fiestas. The working-classes also play at throwing the hammer or crowbar. This is more especially the case in the Northern provinces, where the workmen are a sound, healthy, and sober race, enjoying simple and healthy amusements, and affording an excellent example to those of countries considering themselves much more highly civilised.

Pigeon-shooting, which was a great favourite with the late King Alfonso XII., and was made fashionable among the aristocracy in Madrid by him, is a very old sport—if it deserves the name—among the Valencians. Near La Pechina, at Valencia, where the great tiro de las palomas takes place, was found, in 1759, an inscription: Sodalicium vernarum colentes Isid. This, Ford tells us, was an ancient cofradia to Isis, which paid for her culto. Cock-fighting is still practised in most of the Spanish towns, as well as in Valencia, the regular cock-pits being constantly frequented in Madrid; but it is looked upon as suited only to barrio's bajos, and is not much, if at all, patronised even by the middle classes. It is said by those who have seen it to be particularly brutal; but it was never a very humanising amusement when practised by the English nobility not such a very long time back.

Whatever amusements, however, may be popular in the towns, or in particular provinces, the guitar and the dance are universal. So much has been written about the Spanish national dances that an absurd idea prevails in England that they are all very shocking and indecent. It is necessary, however, to go very much out of one's way, and to pay a good round sum, to witness those gypsy dances which have come down unchanged from the remotest ages. As Ford truly says, "Their character is completely Oriental, and analogous to the ghawarsee of the Egyptians and the Hindoo nautch." "The well-known statue at Naples of the Venere Callipige is the undoubted representation of a Cadiz dancing-girl, probably of Telethusa herself." These dances have nothing whatever in common with the national dances as now to be seen on the Spanish stage. They are never performed except by gypsies, in their own quarter of Seville, and are now generally gotten up as a show for money. Men passing through Seville go to these performances, as an exhibition of what delighted Martial and Horace, but they do not generally discuss them afterwards with their lady friends, and to describe one of these more than doubtful dances as being performed by guests in a Madrid drawing-room, as an English lady journalist did a short time ago in the pages of a respectable paper, is one of those libels on Spain which obtain currency here out of sheer ignorance of the country and the people.

Wherever two or three men and women of the lower classes are to be seen together in Spain during their play-time, there is a guitar, with singing and dancing. The verses sung are innumerable short stanzas by unknown authors; many, perhaps, improvised at the moment. The jota, the malaguena, and the seguidilla are combinations of music, song, and dance; the last two bear distinct indications of Oriental origin; each form is linked to a traditional air, with variations. The malaguena is Andalusian, and the jota is Aragonese; but both are popular in Castile. All are love-songs, most of them of great grace and beauty. Some writers complain that some of these dance-songs are coarse and more or less indecent; others aver that they never degenerate into coarseness. Quien sabe? Perhaps it is a case of Honi soit qui mal y pense. In any case, throughout the length and breadth of Spain, outside the wayside venta, or the barber's shop, in the patios of inns, or wherever holiday-makers congregate, there is the musician twanging his guitar, there are the dancers twirling about in obvious enjoyment to the accompaniment of the stamping, clapping, and encouraging cries of the onlookers, and the graceful little verse, with its probably weird and plaintive cadence:

Era tan dichoso antes De encontrarte en mi camino! Y, sin embargo, no siento El haberte conocido.

I was so happy before I had met you on my way! And yet there is no regret That I have learned to know you.

The malaguena and the seguidilla, which is more complicated, are generally seen on the stage only in Madrid, where they must charm all who can appreciate the poetry of motion. The dance of the peasant in Castile is always the jota Aragonesa. The part the tambourine and the castanets play in these dances must be seen and heard to be understood: they punctuate not only the music, but also the movement, the sentiment, and the refrain. The Andaluces excel in playing on the castanets. These are, according to Ford, the "Baetican crusmata and crotola of the ancients": and crotola is still a Spanish term for the tambourine. Little children may be seen snapping their fingers or clicking two bits of slate together, in imitation of the castanet player; but the continuous roll, or succession of quick taps, is an art to be learned only by practice. The castanets are made of ebony, and are generally decorated with bunches of smart ribbons, which play a great part in the dance.

The popular instrument in the Basque and Northern provinces is the bagpipe, and the dances are quite different from those of the other parts of Spain. The zortico zorisco, or "evolution of eight," is danced to sound of tambourines, fifes, and a kind of flageolet—el silbato, resembling the rude instruments of the Roman Pifferari—probably of the same origin.

Theatrical representations have always been a very popular form of recreation among the inhabitants of the Iberian continent, from the days when the plays were acted by itinerant performers, "carrying all their properties in a sack, the stage consisting of four wooden benches, covered with rough boards, a blanket suspended at the back, to afford a green-room, in which some musician sang, without accompaniment, old ballads to enliven the proceedings." This is Cervantes's description of the national stage in the time of his immediate predecessor, Lope de Rueda.

The Spanish zarzuela appears to have been the forerunner and origin of all musical farce and "opera comique," only naturalised in our country during the present generation. The theatres in all the provinces are always full, always popular; the pieces only run for short periods, a perpetual variety being aimed at by the managers—a thing easily to be understood when one remembers that the same audience, at any rate in the boxes and stalls, frequent them week in, week out. In Madrid, with a population of five hundred thousand inhabitants, there are nineteen theatres. With the exception of the first-class theatres, the people pay two reales (5 d.) for each small act or piece, and the audience changes many times during the evening, a constant stream coming and going. Long habit and familiarity with good models have made the lower class of playgoers critical; their judgment of a piece, or of an actor, is always good and worth having.

The religious fiestas must also count among the amusements of the people in Spain. Whether it be the Holy Week in Seville or Toledo, the Romeria of Santiago, the Veladas, or vigils, of the great festivals, or the day of Corpus Christi, which takes place on the first Thursday after Trinity Sunday—at all these the people turn out in thousands, dressed in their smartest finery, and combine thorough enjoyment with the performance of what they believe to be a religious duty. There is little or no drunkenness at these open-air festivities, but much gaiety, laughter, fluttering of fans, "throwing of sparks" from mischievous or languishing eyes—and at the end always a bull-fight.

Here we touch the very soul of Spain. Take away the bull-rings, make an end of the toreros, and Spain is no longer Spain—perhaps a country counting more highly in the evolution of humanity as a whole, but it will need another name if that day ever comes, of which there does not now seem to be the remotest possibility. All that can be said is that to-day there is a party, or there are individuals, in the country who profess to abhor the bull-fight, and wish to see it ended; it is doubtful if up to this time any Spaniard ever entertained such an "outlandish" notion. The bull-fight is said to have been founded by the Moors of Spain, although bulls were probably fought with or killed in Roman amphitheatres. The principle on which they were founded was the display of horsemanship, use of the lance, courage, coolness, and dexterity—all accomplishments of the Arabs of the desert. It is undoubtedly the latter qualities which make the sport so fascinating to English aficionados, of whom there are many, and have caused the fiestas de toros to live on in the affections of the whole Spanish people. In its earliest days, gentlemen, armed only with the rejon, the short spear of the original Iberian, about four feet long, fought in the arena with the bulls, and it was always a fair trial of skill and a display of good horsemanship.

When the fatal race of the French Bourbons came to the throne, and the country was inundated with foreign favourites, the Court and the French hangers-on of the kings turned the fashion away from the national sport, and it gradually fell into the hands of the lower classes, professional bull-fighters taking the place of the courtly players of old, and these were drawn from the lowest and worst ranks of the masses; the sporting element, to a great extent, died out, and the whole spectacle became brutalised. Pan y toros (bread and bulls) were all the people wanted, and, crushed out of all manliness by their rulers, and taught a thirst for cruelty and bloodshed by the example of their religious autos-da-fe, the bull-fight became the revolting spectacle which foreigners—especially the English—have been so ready to rail against as a disgrace to the Spanish nation, while they rarely let an opportunity escape them of assisting as interested spectators at what they condemned so loudly, and they quite forgot their own prize-ring, and other amusements equally brutal and disgraceful. If the corrida de toros was ever as bad as it has been described by some, it has improved very much of late years, and most of its revolting features are eliminated. The pack of dogs, which used to be brought in when a bull was dangerous to the human fighters, has long been done away with. The media luna, which we are told was identical with the instrument mentioned in Joshua, is no longer tolerated to hamstring the unfortunate bull; and if a horse is gored in the fair fight, there are men especially in attendance to put him out of his misery at once. It is doubtful whether the animal suffers more than, or as much as, the unhappy favourites, that are sent alive, and in extremest torture, to Amsterdam and other foreign cities, to be manufactured into essence of meat and such-like dainties, after a life of cruelly hard work in our omnibuses and cabs has made them no longer of use as draught animals.

The bull-fighter of to-day is by no means drawn from the dregs of the people; there is, at any rate, one instance of a man of good birth and education attaining celebrity as a professional torero. He risks his life at every point of the conflict, and it is his coolness, his courage, his dexterity in giving the coup de grace so as to cause no suffering, that raise the audience to such a pitch of frenzied excitement. I speak wholly from hearsay, for I have myself only witnessed a corrida de novillos—in which the bulls are never killed, and have cushions fixed on their horns—and a curious fight between a bull and an elephant, who might have been described as an "old campaigner," in which there was no bloodshed, and much amusement. My sympathies always went with the bull,—who, at least, was not consulted in the matter of the fight,—as I have seen the popular espada, with his own particular chulo, a mass of white satin and gold embroidery, driving out to the bull-ring on the afternoon of a fiesta, bowing with right royal grace and dignity to the plaudits of the people. I was even accused of having given the evil eye to one well-known favourite as he passed my balcony, when I wished, almost audibly, that the bull might have his turn for once in a way that afternoon. And he had; for the popular espada was carried out of the ring apparently dead, the spectators came back looking white and sick, and I felt like a very murderess until I learned later that he was not dead. All Madrid, almost literally, called to inquire for him daily, filling books of signatures, as if he had been an emperor at least. Personally, I was more interested in his courage after the event and the devotion of his chulo, who never left his side, but held his hands while the injured leg was cut off, in three separate operations, without any anaesthetic. Eventually, he completely recovered, and was fitted with an admirable mechanical cork limb in place of the one removed in three detachments; and my sense of evil responsibility was quite removed when I heard that his young wife was delighted to think that he could never enter the bull-ring as a fighter again, and her anxieties were at an end.



It is quite impossible to over-estimate the popularity of the toreros with the Spanish people. They are the friends and favourites of the aristocracy, the demi-gods of the populace. You never see one of them in the streets without an admiring circle of worshippers, who hang on every word and gesture of the great man; and this is no cult of the hour, it is unceasing. They are always known for their generosity, not only to injured comrades, but to any of the poor in need. Is there a disaster by which many are injured—flood, tempest, or railway accident? Immediately a bull-fight is arranged for the sufferers, and the whole cuadrilla will give their earnings to the cause. Not only so, but the private charities of these popular favourites are immense, and quite unheard of by the public. They adopt orphans, pay regular incomes to widows, as mere parts of every-day work. They are, one and all, religious men; the last thing they do, before entering the arena with their life in their hands, is to confess and receive absolution in the little chapel in the Bull-Ring, spending some time in silent prayer before the altar, while the wife at home is burning candles to the Virgin, and offering her prayers for his safety during the whole time that the corrida lasts. Extreme unction is always in readiness, in case of serious accident to the torero, the priest (mufti) slipping into the chapel before the public arrive on the scene.

Rafael Molina Lagartijo, one of the veterans of the bull-fighters, and an extreme favourite with the people for many years, died recently, after living for some time in comparative retirement in his native Cordoba. Some idea of the important place which these men occupy in Spanish society may be gathered from the numerous notices which appeared in the newspapers of all shades of political opinion after his death. I quote from the article which appeared in the charming little illustrated Blanco y Negro, of Madrid, on the favourite of the Spanish public. In what, to us, seems somewhat inflated language, but which is, however, quite simple and natural to the Spaniard, the writer began his notice thus:

"He who has heard the magic oratory of Castelar, has listened to the singing of Gayarre, the declamation of Cabro, has read Zorilla, and witnessed the torear of Lagartijo, may say, without any kind of reservation, that there is nothing left for him to admire!" Having thus placed the popular bull-fighter on a level with orators, authors, and musicians of the first rank, the writer goes on to describe the beauties of Lagartijo's play in words which are too purely technical of the ring to make translation possible, and adds: "He who has not seen the great torero of Cordoba in the plenitude of his power will assuredly not comprehend why the name of Lagartijo for more than twenty years filled plazas and playbills, nor why the aficionados of to-day recall, in speaking of his death, times which can never be surpassed.... The toreo (play) of Lagartijo was always distinguished by its classic grace, its dignity and consummate art, the absence of affectation, or struggle for effect. In every part of the fight the figure of Rafael fell naturally into the most graceful attitudes; and for this reason he has always worn the rich dress of the torero with the best effect. He was the perfect and characteristic type of a torero, such as Spanish fancy has always imagined it. Lagartijo died with his eyes fixed on the image of the Virgen de los Dolores, to whom he had always confidently committed his life of peril, and with the dignity and resignation of a good man."

The article was illustrated with numerous portraits of Don Rafael: in full torero dress in 1886; his very last photograph; views of him in the courtyard of his home in Cordoba, and outside the Venta San Rafael, where he took his coffee in the evening, and others. The notice concludes by saying that his life was completely dedicated to his property, which he managed himself, and he was looked upon as the guardian angel of the labourers on his farm. Probre Rafael! "The lovers of the bull-fight are lamenting the death of the torero, but the poor of Cordoba mourn the loss of their 'Senor Rafael.'"



The wives of the toreros are generally celebrated for their beauty, their wit, and their devotion to their husbands—indeed, the men have a large choice before them when choosing their helpmates for life. To their wives is due much of the making and all the keeping up of the elaborate and costly dress of the torero. They are, as someone has said, "ferociously virtuous," and share in the open-handed generosity of their husbands. The earnings of a successful torero are very large. In some cases, they make as much as L4000 or L5000 a year of English money, during the height of their popularity, and retire to end their days in their native and beloved Andalucia.

Whatever may be said by foreigners of the brutalising effect of the Spanish popular game, it certainly has no more effect on those who witness or practise it than fox-hunting has on Englishmen, and it is doubtful whether there is any more cruelty in one sport than in the other. The foxes are fostered and brought up for the sole purpose of being harried to death, without even a semblance of fair play being allowed to them, and if a fox-hunter risks his life it is only as a bad rider that he does so. There is no danger and certainly no dignity in the English sport, even if it indirectly keeps up the breed of horses.

A curious incident is related by Count Vasili as having happened in the Bull-Ring in Madrid some years ago during a corrida of Cuchares, the celebrated espada. It is usual during fiestas of charity to enclose live sparrows in the banderillas which it is part of the play to affix, at great risk to the torero, in the shoulders of the bull; the paper envelope bursts, and the birds are set at liberty. Crossing the arena, one of the men carelessly hit at a bird turning wildly about in its efforts to escape, and killed it. "In my life," says the Count, "I have never seen such a spectacle. Ten thousand spectators, standing up, wildly gesticulating, shouting for death on the 'cruel torero'; nay, some even threw themselves into the arena, ready to lynch the heartless creature!"

Horse-racing may now be said to have been fairly established in Spain in most of the great centres, and the Hippodrome in Madrid is little behind one of England's popular race-courses in its crowds, the brilliant dresses of the ladies, and the enthusiasm evoked; but whether it will ever supersede the really national fiesta is to be doubted. The upper classes also affect polo, tennis, and croquet, and go in a good deal for gymnastics, fencing, and fives.

Cycling does not appear to commend itself greatly to the Spanish idea of recreation. Bicycles are, of course, to be seen in the large and more modern towns, but they are never very numerous, and as far as ladies are concerned, may be said to have made no way.

I have referred to a curious spectacle several times presented in Madrid, chiefly in fiestas for charitable purposes, where an elephant was introduced into the Bull-Ring to fight, in place of the usual cuadrilla of men. This was an old elephant named Pizarro, a great favourite of many years' standing with the Madrilenos. He was an enormous animal, but one of his tusks had been broken off about a third from the tip, so that he had only one to use in warfare or as protection. He was tethered in the centre of the arena, by one of his hind legs, to a stump about twelve inches high. Then the bulls were let out one at a time. Meanwhile, Pizarro was amusing himself by eating oranges which were showered on him by his admirers on the benches. With the greatest coolness he continued his repast, picking up orange after orange with his trunk, all that he was careful to do being to keep his face to the bull, turning slowly as his enemy galloped round the ring trying to take him in flank. At last the bull prepared to charge; Pizarro packed away his trunk between his tusks, and quietly waited the onslaught. The bull rushed at him furiously; but the huge animal, quite good-naturedly and a little with the air of pitying contempt, simply turned aside the attack with his one complete horn, and as soon as the bull withdrew, a little nonplussed, went on picking up and eating his oranges as before. Bull after bull gave up the contest as impossible, and contentedly went out between the cabestros sent in to fetch them. At last one more persistent or courageous than the others came bounding in. Pizarro realised at once that for the moment he must pause in eating his dessert; but he became aware at the same time that in turning round to face the successive bulls, he had gradually wound himself up close to the stump, and had no room to back so as to receive the attack. The most interesting incident in the whole affray was to watch the elephant find out, by swinging his tethered leg, first in one direction and then in another, how to free himself. This he did, first by swinging his leg round and round over the stump, then by walking slowly round and round, always facing the bull, and drawing his cord farther and farther until he was perfectly free: then he was careful only to turn as on a pivot, keeping the rope at a stretch. Finally the bull charged at him with great fury; stepping slightly aside, Pizarro caught him up sideways on his tusks, and held him up in the air, perfectly impotent and mad with rage. When he considered the puny creature had been sufficiently shown his inferiority, he gently put him down, and the astonished and humbled bull declined further contest. The fighting bulls of Spain are wonderfully small in comparison with English animals, it should be said.