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 cofradiÁ 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:

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 (5d.) 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 RomerÍa 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-fÉ, 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 grÂce 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 anÆsthetic. 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 CÓrdoba. 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 CÓrdoba 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 CÓrdoba, 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 CÓrdoba mourn the loss of their 'SeÑor 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 £4000 or £5000 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 CÚchares, 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 MadrileÑos. 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.

Every night, after his turn at the circus was over poor old Pizarro used to walk home alone under my balcony, open his stable door with his own latch-key, or at least his trunk, and put himself to bed like any Christian.

One of the most fashionable amusements in Madrid is to attend on the morning of the bull-fight while the espadas choose the particular bulls they wish to have as enemy, and affix their colours, the large rosette of ribbon which shows which of the toreros the bull is to meet in deadly conflict. The bulls are then placed in their iron cages in the order in which they are to enter the arena. The fashionable ladies and other aficionados of the sport then drive back to Madrid to luncheon and to prepare for the entertainment of the afternoon.