It has long been the fashion to talk of the bigotry of the
Spaniards, and their mean jealousy of foreigners. This is true to
a certain extent: but it chiefly holds good with respect to the
upper classes. If foreign valour or talent has never received its
proper meed in Spain, the great body of the Spaniards are certainly
not in fault. I have heard Wellington calumniated in this proud
scene of his triumphs, but never by the old soldiers of Aragon and
the Asturias, who assisted to vanquish the French at Salamanca and
the Pyrenees. I have heard the manner of riding of an English
jockey criticized, but it was by the idiotic heir of Medina Celi,
and not by a picador of the Madrilenian bull ring.
Apropos of bull-fighters:- Shortly after my arrival, I one day
entered a low tavern in a neighbourhood notorious for robbery and
murder, and in which for the last two hours I had been wandering on
a voyage of discovery. I was fatigued, and required refreshment.
I found the place thronged with people, who had all the appearance
of ruffians. I saluted them, upon which they made way for me to
the bar, taking off their sombreros with great ceremony. I emptied
a glass of val de penas, and was about to pay for it and depart,
when a horrible looking fellow, dressed in a buff jerkin, leather
breeches, and jackboots, which came half way up his thighs, and
having on his head a white hat, the rims of which were at least a
yard and a half in circumference, pushed through the crowd, and
confronting me, roared:-
"Otra copita! vamos Inglesito: Otra copita!"
"Thank you, my good sir, you are very kind, you appear to know me,
but I have not the honour of knowing you."
"Not know me!" replied the being. "I am Sevilla, the torero. I
know you well; you are the friend of Baltasarito, the national, who
is a friend of mine, and a very good subject."
Then turning to the company, he said in a sonorous tone, laying a
strong emphasis on the last syllable of every word, according to
the custom of the gente rufianesca throughout Spain:
"Cavaliers, and strong men, this cavalier is the friend of a friend
of mine. Es mucho hombre. There is none like him in Spain. He
speaks the crabbed Gitano though he is an Inglesito."
"We do not believe it," replied several grave voices. "It is not
possible."
"It is not possible, say you? I tell you it is. Come forward,
Balseiro, you who have been in prison all your life, and are always
boasting that you can speak the crabbed Gitano, though I say you
know nothing of it - come forward and speak to his worship in the
crabbed Gitano."
A low, slight, but active figure stepped forward.
