There are many capitals in which the high aristocracy, the lords and ladies, the sons and daughters of nobility, constitute the most remarkable and the most interesting part of the population.This is the case at Vienna, and more especially at London.Who can rival the English aristocrat in lofty stature, in dignified bearing, in strength of hand, and valour of heart? Who rides a nobler horse? Who has a firmer seat? And who more lovely than his wife, or sister, or daughter? But with respect to the Spanish aristocracy, the ladies and gentlemen, the cavaliers and senoras, I believe the less that is said of them on the points to which I have just alluded the better.I confess, however, that I know little about them; they have, perhaps, their admirers, and to the pens of such I leave their panegyric.Le Sage has described them as they were nearly two centuries ago.His description is anything but captivating, and I do not think that they have improved since the period of the sketches of the immortal Frenchman.I would sooner talk of the lower class, not only of Madrid but of all Spain.The Spaniard of the lower class has much more interest for me, whether manolo, labourer, or muleteer.He is not a common being; he is an extraordinary man.He has not, it is true, the amiability and generosity of the Russian mujik, who will give his only rouble rather than the stranger shall want; nor his placid courage, which renders him insensible to fear, and at the command of his Tsar, sends him singing to certain death.* There is more hardness and less self-devotion in the disposition of the Spaniard; he possesses, however, a spirit of proud independence, which it is impossible but to admire.He is ignorant, of course; but it is singular that I have invariably found amongst the low and slightly educated classes far more liberality of sentiment than amongst the upper.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.
* At the last attack on Warsaw, when the loss of the Russians amounted to upwards of twenty thousand men, the soldiery mounted the breach, repeating in measured chant, one of their popular songs: "Come, let us cut the cabbage," &c.
Apropos of bull-fighters:- Shortly after my arrival, Ione 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.He was in his shirt sleeves, and wore a montero cap; his features were handsome, but they were those of a demon.
He spoke a few words in the broken Gypsy slang of the prison, inquiring of me whether I had ever been in the condemned cell, and whether I knew what a Gitana * was?
* Twelve ounces of bread, small pound, as given in the prison.
"Vamos Inglesito," shouted Sevilla in a voice of thunder;"answer the monro in the crabbed Gitano."I answered the robber, for such he was, and one, too, whose name will live for many a year in the ruffian histories of Madrid; I answered him in a speech of some length, in the dialect of the Estremenian Gypsies.
"I believe it is the crabbed Gitano," muttered Balseiro.
"It is either that or English, for I understand not a word of it.""Did I not say to you," cried the bull-fighter, "that you knew nothing of the crabbed Gitano? But this Inglesito does.
I understood all he said.Vaya, there is none like him for the crabbed Gitano.He is a good ginete, too; next to myself, there is none like him, only he rides with stirrup leathers too short.Inglesito, if you have need of money, I will lend you my purse.All I have is at your service, and that is not a little; I have just gained four thousand chules by the lottery.
Courage, Englishman! Another cup.I will pay all.I, Sevilla!"And he clapped his hand repeatedly on his breast, reiterating "I, Sevilla! I - "
