Chapter VI: Part 6

Punctuality is not a strong trait in the Spanish character, but punctuality will be observed to-day. At the hour and the minute appointed, the President enters his _palco_, the signal is given, and the proceedings commence. The procession, headed by two _caballeros_, habited in black velvet, moves slowly across the ring to the front of the President’s seat. The two _espadas_ in yellow and violet, and gold and green costumes respectively, follow the _caballeros_. After them come half-a-dozen stoutly-protected _picadores_, then eight _banderilleros_, gay with a profusion of silk sashes, short breeches, and variously-coloured hose, and the rear is brought up by a _posse_ of attendants, leading the mules, all bedecked in plumes and rich trappings, which are to drag off the carcases from the arena. The entrance of the glittering cavalcade is announced by a trumpet sound, and the President tosses the key of the _toril_ into the ring.

To the “new chum,” all this preliminary detail, commonplace and “circusy” as it is, is sufficient to strain the nerves, and expectancy changes to apprehension. The creak emitted by the opening of the heavy door of the _toril_ intensifies the feeling. The clutch of curiosity with which the entire concourse awaits the entrance of the first bull is contagious. Instinctively one strains forward and catches one’s breath. Toro does not keep us long in suspense. There is a momentary lull, and then the bull dashes from his dark cell into the glint of the Spring sunshine. The novelty of the environment staggers him for a moment. He hesitates in the centre of the ring, and looks wildly around him. The arena is empty, with the exception of three picadores, who sit rigidly in a row on their sorry hacks, waiting for the bull to recognise their presence.

Our first victim is a doughty warrior. He is as ignorant as the blindfold knackers--that would be dear at a pound a leg--of the fate in store for him. He may make a brave fight, kill horses, upset men, and leap the barriers with a heroic rush, but in twenty minutes his corpse will be coupled up to the mules, and fresh sand will be strewn on the red trail that will mark his last passage across the arena. The inevitableness of the outcome of the encounter, so far as the principal actor is concerned, is the least pleasing feature of the sport. The fox and the stag are

given a gambling chance, the grouse is not without hope, and the gladiator of the cock-pit may live to fight another day, but the bull is a doomed animal. Happily he is not capable of calculating the uselessness of his efforts. The horses stand but little better chance, and the _picadores_, despite their iron and leather greaves and spears, are paid to take risks.

The art of the _picador_ is displayed in the skill with which he avoids the charge of the bull, and turns him on to the next _picador_, who, in turn, will pass him on to the third. In this instance the manœuvre does not come off. The bull’s rush is met by the first _picador_ with the point, but the horse he strides is too ancient to obey with sufficient celerity the rider’s injunction to swerve, and horse and man are rolled over with the force of the impact. The wretched equine is lacerated on his opposing flank, but the spearman appears to be uninjured, and before the bull has completed his circuit of the ring, the horse is on his feet again, and the _picador_ is waiting for the next attack. The _toreros_, with their red _capa_, are immediately on the spot to draw the bull from his victim, but the bull is too eager to waste time on a fallen foe. The second and third horseman avoid his rush; and the bull, smarting from spear thrusts, and confused by the cheers, is inclined, in racing parlance, to “turn it up.” The first horse who crosses the line of sight is caught on the brute’s horns, and is so deeply impaled that the bull has to swerve at right angles to rid himself of his enemy. The second horse is impaled before the combatant can plant his spear in the bull’s neck. Steed and rider are lurched in the air, and fall heavily to the ground, and the momentary victor lowers his head again to the prostrate man, and rolls him over and over. _Toreros_ hasten to the spot to get him away, the people rise in their places, ladies lift their fans and avert their faces, while the air is filled with the usual murmur of lamentation which accompanies an accident. Both the other _picadores_ are unhorsed before the President gives the signal for them to retire. Act one of this most realistic of sporting melodramas is over.

The _banderilleros_ now come forward. They are costumed like Figaro, in the opera of “Il Barbiere de Sevilla,” and their hair is tied into a knot behind. To the English spectator, this part of the performance is the most fascinating and least abhorrent of the entire piece. The _banderillero_ inflicts no more pain on the bull than the humane angler deals out to the wily trout, and the agility and daring with which he addresses himself to his task is superb. His aim is to plant small barbed darts, or _banderillas_, on each side of the neck of the bull. The _chulos_, or apprentices, here open the ball by tantalising the animal, and working him up to a proper pitch of fury. Then the _banderilleros_ circle round him, and one, standing full in his line of flight, “defies” him with the arms raised high over his head. If the bull stops, as he is doing now, the man walks composedly towards him. Then the bull lowers his head and makes his rush, and the athlete, swerving nimbly to one side, pins in his _banderillas_ simultaneously. Again and again the maddened animal, frantic more from impotence than pain, makes his rushes from one tormentor to another. At each rush he receives further instalments of his hated decorations. Then one man bungles. He loses his nerve, or, failing to time the animal’s charge, shirks the onslaught. A howl of execration greets the exhibition, and the unfortunate baiter is tempted to more rash efforts. He seats himself in a chair, and waits with suicidal calmness the rush of the bull. Just as the animal’s horns are thrust beneath him he jumps lightly up, manipulating his darts with miraculous precision, while the chair is tossed high in the air.

Thunders of applause greet this venturesome feat, and the other _banderilleros_, warmed to their work by the plaudits of the public, vie with one another in deeds of coolness and “derring do.” One waits, alert but motionless, for the attacks of the charging bull, and as the galloping brute lowers his head to toss him, places his foot between the terrible horns, and is lifted clear over his onrushing enemy. Another, seizing hold of the lashing tail, swings himself along the bull’s side, and plants himself for one thrilling moment right between the horns.

I once saw a _banderillero_, in response to the jeers of the crowd, take the darts, which are about two feet long, break them across his knee, and plant the stumpy weapons, with unerring precision, on each side of the neck of the bull.

These feats appear to be fraught with infinite danger, and the agility with which the performers acquit themselves cannot be witnessed without a tremour of amazement and admiration. Several times the venturesome _chulos_ escape death as by a miracle: they sometimes seem so close to their end when they vault over the barriers to avoid the pursuing bull, that they appear to be helped over the fence by the bull’s horns. One bull exhibits at this stage of the proceedings an emphatic disinclination to continue the fight. He paws the ground when the darts are driven home, but makes no show of retaliation, and the hoots and opprobrious epithets that are hurled at him by the populace fail to inspire him to renewed efforts. Then the _banderillas de fuego_ are called for. These are arrows, provided with fire crackers, which explode the moment they are affixed in the neck. In a moment the spectacle, which had worked me up to a high pitch of excitement, becomes intensely distasteful. The tortured animal, driven mad with fright and pain, bounds across the ring in a series of leaps like a kid. The people scream with delight, and I mentally wonder what kind of “steadier” the Spaniard resorts to when his stomachic nerve is affected by a detail of the exhibition. The firework display had not lasted long when the last trumpet sounded, and the _espada_ walks forward to a storm of rapturous applause.

The _finale_ of the spectacle is approaching. The executioner comes alone: the bull, who has hitherto been tormented by a crowd of enemies, is now able to concentrate his whole attention on one object. _Toro_ has become exhausted with his previous exertions, and he moves without his old dash. The _espada_ studies his foe carefully, to judge the temper of the animal with which he has to deal. With his left hand he waves the _muleta_--the red cloak--to lure the beast into a few characteristic rushes and disclose his disposition. If he is a dull, heavy bull, he will be despatched with the beautiful half-volley; but if he proves himself a sly, dangerous customer, that is cunning enough to run at the man, instead of at the _muleta_, a less picturesque, but safer thrust must be employed. But our bull is neither sly nor leaden. He has recovered from his fright, and is quick to seize his opportunity to make a final effort before the stinging _banderilleros_ return to distract him. Once or twice he thrusts his horns into the unresisting cloak, then gathers himself together for a final rush. The swordsman raises the point of his glimmering Toledo blade; while every nerve of his sinuous, graceful body quivers with the absolute constraint and concentrated effort that hold him. The duellists are both of the same mind. The _espada_ has summed up his antagonist--he is _levantados_, the bold bull, a fit subject for _la suerte de frente_. The bull’s next rush is his last. The fencer receives the charge on his sword, which enters just between the left shoulder and the blade. The bull staggers, lurches heavily on to his knees, and rolls over, at the feet of his conqueror, vomiting blood.

The assembled multitude rend the air with their cheers, the men yell applause, and every face is distorted with excitement and enthusiasm. The only indifferent person in the building is the _espada_. With a graceful and unassertive turn of his wrist, he waves the sword over his fallen foe, wipes the hot blood from the blade, and turning on his heel, approaches the President’s box, and bows with admirable sang-froid. The team of jingling mules enter, and the dead bull is carried off at a rapid gallop. The _espada_ walks composedly away, without another glance at the result of his handiwork.

The superb imperturbability of these _espadas_ always fills me with admiration. They accept the plaudits of the spectators with the same unconcern with which they hear the execrations that fill the air if they do not at the first attempt inflict the _coup de grace_. During the first _corrida_ I attended, an _espada_ failed to aim at the precise spot, and the bull tore up the sand in agony. The populace insulted the swordsman with jeers and howlings, but he remained perfectly cool and collected, and nerved himself with as much composure to his second and successful thrust as if he had been practising with a sack of potatoes in an empty arena. When I had been witness to the death of two bulls, I remarked to my Spanish friend that I had seen as much as I desired, and was quite ready to quit the spot. But my companion was a friend of long standing: he could be firm without seeming discourteous. “No! no!” he said, “you kept me in the theatre last night until ‘Don Juan’ was played to the bitter end: you shall remain to-day to reward me for my exemplary patience and respect for your wishes.” I saw five other bulls done to death during the afternoon.

Although not to be compared with an ordinary _corrida_ as a display of skill, and capacity, and artistic finish, a Royal bull-fight, such as Madrid saw on the occasion of the coronation of King Alfonso XIII., is more interesting as being a revival of the sport as it was originally practised. Bull-fighting to-day is a purely professional business, but in the knightly days of ancient Spain it was employed as a means to teach the chivalrous youth the use of arms. In those days, mounted _caballeros_ encountered the bulls in the ring with lances alone--a more dangerous pastime than is bull-fighting in its modern sufficiently hazardous form. Then the combatants were mounted on good horses, and their business was to save them and turn the bull, to kill the bull if possible, but, at the risk of their own lives, to protect their steeds from injury. It is recorded that in one _Fiesta de Toros_ at the beginning of the sixteenth century, no less than ten young knights lost their lives. The corrida, _Real con Caballeros en plaza_--a Royal bull-fight with gentlemen in the arena--on the olden lines, that was held on May 21st, 1902, in Madrid, was fought by young officers and scions of noble families, who were attired in the gorgeous costumes of Spanish knights of the reign of Philip IV., and attended by their pages and grooms wearing the dress of the same period, and displaying the colours of the noble house which they served. On that occasion, the _Paseo de las Cuadrillas_, or preliminary procession of the bull-fighters across the arena to the strains of military music, was a most imposing sight. The _Padrinos_, the grandees who acted as supporters or godfathers of the knights, accompanied the fighters, followed by their mediævally-clad retinues, to the foot of the Royal box, and presented them to the King. The spectacle was strikingly brilliant, but the display was not to be compared with a professional bout. The horses of the cavaliers had evidently not been sufficiently trained for their work, and the best riding in the world could not bring them off scathless. Let me condense an account of the scene to convey an impression of what the present-day bull-fight has been derived from.

When the procession had withdrawn, leaving only the _chulos_ and the gallant _caballeros_ in the arena, the door of the _toril_ swung on its heavy hinges, and a splendid specimen of a bull, dungeoned for several hours previously in utter darkness, darted into the light of day, tearing up the ground with its hoofs, and ploughing the air with its horns. Suddenly, a horseman and his prancing steed vaulted into the centre of the ring--the charger, with flowing mane, full-veined ears and shapely head slanted forward--to meet the onrush of the goaded bull. The second _picador_ seeing the bull worried and dazed by the tantalising assistants, scudded past on a swift, white racer, sitting gracefully in his saddle, and then turning deftly as he passed the great brute, plunged his lance into his neck, and whirled aside to avoid possible pursuit. But by sheer accident, the bleeding steer dashed off in the same direction, caught the horse in the hindquarters, raising it on its forelegs and endangering the equilibrium of the rider.

Before the scampering bull had time to recover from the compact, the second _caballero_, dashing up, had planted his lance deep into its neck. The white horse, stung with pain, made a wild rush, but was brought to hand by splendid horsemanship, and his rider urged him along, to inflict another wound in the animal’s head. Then two _toreros_ advanced, beguiling and wearying the bull. By the time the bull had received the fifth lance in his neck, and the white steed had been twice wounded, the edge was taken off the keen thirst for violent emotions, and another _torero_ unfolded his red _capa_, waved it to and fro until the bull swooped down upon him, and a moment later he was sprawling in the sand seemingly gored by the infuriated animal. The next minute the wounded steer tottered, dropped on its forelegs, and turned over on the sand, and a knife put a speedy end to its sufferings.

The second bull, a black massive creature, appeared listless and faint, and made little effort to defend itself. It made one successful attack on the white charger; and, then, at the signal from the King, an amateur _espada_ stepped forward. The attempt was a miserable failure. The young swordsman dedicated, in a few well-chosen words, the death of the bull to his sovereign, and after a dozen passes with the red _capa_, plunged the gleaming blade of Toledo steel into the animal’s neck, but so ineffectually that a storm of hisses resounded through the ring. The second attempt was still more awkward, the sword entering but a few inches. The sword was pulled out, and another effort, made amid groans and hisses, proved equally unsuccessful.

Although the madness had died out of the expiring brute’s eyes, and his forelegs were bending under him, the inexperienced _torero_ seemed unable to put him out of pain. However, he grasped the short, sharp knife, and unsteadily taking aim, plunged it into the neck. Another failure. Yells, groans, shrieks, whistling, and hissing marked the anger of the crowd. The _espada_ may be a paid professional, or the greatest noble in Spain, but in the ring he is judged by the rules of the ring, and his bungling is recognised with the most poignant scorn to which failure could be subjected. He again grasped the sword; and, spurred by the vitriolic exclamations of the public, sheathed it in the bull’s neck. The animal stood still and tottered, his forelegs bent, his head sank upon the moist, red sand, his hind feet quivered, and a flourish of trumpets announced that life was extinct.

It is curious to find, in talking with learned enthusiasts on the relative merits of the bull-fighters, what diversity of opinion exists; but all parties are agreed upon the unrivalled skill and daring of the mighty Frascuelo. In his day, for death’s whistle summoned him from the arena in the height of his fame, Frascuelo was regarded as the greatest _matador_ that Spain had ever seen; and Spaniards, in debating the subject of the bull-ring, never indulge the hope that his equal will ever arise to shed a new glory on the National sport. Frascuelo is dead, and his famous rival, Guerra, or Guerrita--to give him his professional name--has long since cut off his _coleta_, and lives in well-earned retirement at Córdova. But the school of fighters, who claim Frascuelo as their master--the fearless, dare-devil _toreros_, who scorn to concede a yard of ground to the bull, and do all their fighting at close quarters--is widely popular; and if their terribly dangerous methods are attended by frequent casualties, the intoxicating applause that rewards the accomplishment of a brilliant coup is, apparently, ample compensation for the risks that it entails. But the wildest appreciation of a successful feat does not exempt the most popular performer from the furious condemnation of the multitude when his scheme miscarries. The allowances made by a Spanish audience at the ring-side are of the most grudging nature. I once travelled from Barcelona to Madrid in the company of Bombita-Chico--the boy Bombita--who, although he was barely recovered from an unfortunate encounter with a tricky bull eight days before, was on his way to take part in a grand _corrida_ that was to be held in the capital. He was--as his name denotes--no more than a lad, with large, strong hands that sparkled with jewels, while a formidable anchor about five inches long, set with magnificent diamonds, dangled from his watch-chain. I saw him again in the arena a few days later. He seemed nervous, and was, it appeared to me, a little perturbed by the demonstration that welcomed his reappearance in the ring after his accident. Ill fortune allotted him a troublesome animal, and his kill, while creditable enough to untutored eyes, lacked the grace and finish that the critical spectator requires. Bombita was their own Boy of Madrid, and because of his recent misfortune they forgave him, but they did not cheer him; and the lad walked out of the arena amid a silence that could be felt.

Mazantini, now grown old and heavy, was in his day an undoubtedly fine _matador_. There are some that still regard him as the head of his profession. But the majority, remembering what he was, regret that he has not gone into honourable retirement. But Mazantini cannot tear himself away from the fascination of the arena, although his appearances grow less frequent every year. Conejito, who was wounded in Barcelona in the spring of 1903, is generally regarded as the most accomplished _matador_ now before the public; but Fuentes is, _par excellence_, the best all-round man. For, with the exception of the _picador_ business, Fuentes plays every part in the piece. Other _espadas_ have their assistants, who play the bull with their _capas_, and stand by while the _banderilleros_ ply their infuriating darts. It is only when the bull has been prepared for the slaughter by the other performers that the _matador_ comes forward to put the finishing touch to the grim tragedy. Fuentes, on the other hand, on special occasions--of which the _corrida_ which I attended in Madrid was one--keeps his assistants entirely in the background; he takes the stage when the _picadores_ leave it, and keeps it to the end. So close does he keep to the bull, that during the _corrida_ in Madrid, of which I am writing, he seldom allowed the animal to be a dart’s length away from him. On one occasion his _capa_ got caught so tightly on the bull’s horns that he tore it in jerking it away; and at another time the bull stopped dead, with his forefeet on the hated sash. As a _banderillero_, Fuentes is without equal in Spain. He frequently works with darts that have previously been broken short, and he uses them sparingly. Yet the encounter between the _banderillero_ and the bull when Fuentes is on the scene is the most thrilling part of the whole performance. It is a contest between human intellect and brute intelligence--a duel between mind and matter. Fuentes does not avoid the bull, but by exerting some magnetic power he repulses the animal and compels it to halt. When the bull charges, in response to his “defiance,” he waits with the _banderillas_ suspended above his head until the animal is within a few yards of him. Then he deliberately, but without haste, lowers one arm until the arrow is on a level with the brute’s eyes. The bull wavers in his onslaught, slows up, and stops dead within a foot or two of the point. Sometimes Fuentes walks backwards, while the bull glares at him with stupefied impotence, until he escapes the eyes that

hold him, and gallops away. Again and again the _banderillero_ taunts his enemy to attack him, only to arrest his charge and force him to turn from his deadly purpose by the irresistible power of his superior mentality. The crowd follows this superb exhibition with breathless interest, and in a silence that is more eloquent of admiration than the wildest cheers would be. But the end is nearly reached. Fuentes grasps his stumpy darts and advances against his bewildered antagonist, who waits his approach with sulky indifference. The man’s arms are flung up with a gesture of exasperating defiance, and when the bull makes his final rush, his opponent, instead of stopping him, steps lithely on one side, and the brute thunders past him with the two galling arrows firmly implanted in his huge neck. Fuentes has already moved to the side of the ring. The bull turns and charges back at him. The _banderillero_ glides gracefully over the sand, but his pace is not equal to that of his infuriated pursuer. The distance between them decreases rapidly; in half-a-dozen yards he will be upon him. Fuentes glances over his shoulder and, without changing his pace, doffs his cap and flings it in the bull’s face. This stratagem only arrests the rush of the brute for a moment, but it gives the man time to reach the barrier, where he receives his _muleta_ and sword from an attendant and returns to complete his task.

All the kings of the bull-ring have their own particular feats or strokes, which the Spaniards appreciate as Englishmen revel in Ranjitsinhji’s acrobatic hitting, or Morny Cannon’s inimitable “finishes.” Bombita-Chico’s speciality in playing his bull is to kneel in the arena and allow the animal to charge through the _capa_ which is held within three feet of the ground. The nerve required for this feat fires the audience with enthusiastic approval. The tale is told of a _torero_, whose name I have forgotten, who gained distinction by his exceptional skill in facing the bull with the long vaulting pole, known as the _salto de la garrocha_. With this instrument he would goad the bull on to the attack. When the brute was in full gallop he would, timing his movements to the instant, run a few yards to meet him, and swing himself high into the air at the end of his pole. The oncoming bull would charge the pole, the grounded end would be tossed upwards, and the _torero_ would drop lightly to the ground and make good his escape. On one occasion the man performed his risky “turn” at a moment when the attention of a royal lady was attracted from the arena, and she sent an attendant to the expert to command him to repeat it. In vain the poor fellow protested that it was impossible for him to accomplish the same feat again with the same bull. The lady’s desire had been expressed. “But it is more than my life is worth,” argued the athlete. “It is the lady’s wish,” responded the attendant. The _torero_ bowed, and “I dedicate my life to Her Royal Highness,” he said. The attempt fell out as he foretold. The bull charged and stopped dead. The man vaulted aloft, his body described a half circle, and fell--on the horns of the bull. He was dead before the attendants could entice the animal from his victim.

Lagartijo, Lagartijillo, Mazantini, and Montes all have their distinguishing methods of attacking and despatching the bull, but none of these are capable of the feat by which Guerrita was wont to throw the bull-ring into transports of deafening enthusiasm. In the ordinary way, the _espada_ having taken the measure of his adversary, receives him standing sideways, and having thrust his sword at arm’s length between the left shoulder and the blade, leaps aside as the bull blunders forward on to his knees and falls to the earth. But Guerrita advanced his left arm across his body and waved his _muleta_ under his right uplifted arm. When the bull lowered his head at the charge he passed the sword over the animal’s horns and plunged the blade into the vital spot behind the shoulder. In other words, he stopped the brute and killed him while his head was under his arm; and so closely were the duellists locked in that last embrace, that Guerrita’s side was frequently scratched by the bull’s horns. One may lecture, write, and preach against the barbarity of bull-fighting; but so long as Spain can breed men of such amazing nerve, and skill, and dexterity that they can successfully defy death and mutilation to provide their countrymen with such lurid sport, so long will bull-fighting continue to flourish in Spain.

The Picture Gallery, Madrid.

In returning to the subject of the Museo of Madrid, and its priceless treasures, my object is not to pen a dissertation on Spanish art, but to add a few lines by way of an accompaniment to the excellent photographs of some of the principal pictures which I am privileged to reproduce. In a collection which contains numerous canvasses by Rubens, Vandyke, and Rembrandt, no less than forty of Titian’s best productions, ten pictures by Raffaele, including the _Spasimo_, considered by many to be his greatest work, and, among the Dutch and Flemish specimens, more than 200 of Teniers alone, the artist is concerned almost entirely with the masterpieces of the Spanish school. Here are sixty paintings of the superb Velasquez, who was Court painter under Philip the Fourth; nearly as many pictures by that gentle and serene genius Murillo; and many magnificent specimens of the fiery temperament of Goya. Here are miracles of art from the sixteenth-century genius of Antonio Moro and Coello to Valdés Leal and Lopez of but a century ago. The catalogue of this collection would make a formidable appendix to a book of this size; an adequate appreciation could not be contained in two such volumes. The most famous gems of the Madrid gallery are familiar not only to students, but to the men in the streets of every city of the world--even Goya’s “Family of Charles IV.,” the least known of the few that I have selected for reproduction, has been copied by scores of enthusiasts. The passionate, fulminating genius of Goya, which found its supreme nourishment in the spectacle of the bull-fight, and its highest expression in scenes of war, and blood, and laceration, was scarcely at home as a courtier. He brought the terrible realism of his execution scenes and battle pieces to the portraiture of the Royal Family, and the members of the family of Charles IV. will, consequently, go down to posterity as the most unamiable and unattractive group of royalties that has ever been put on canvas. The faces are worse than plain, they are hideous; but the details are treated in the artist’s vigorous and effective style, and the whole composition compels a belief in his fidelity to nature.

From among the profusion of masterpieces by which Velasquez is represented I have passed over the dignified, serene, and powerful picture of Æsop, in favour of the huge and

dramatic painting of the Surrender of Breda--the latter a superb achievement, both in colour and design. “The Surrender of Breda” is regarded as the noblest of the works of Velasquez, and is, perhaps, one of the finest historical pictures in the world. “Such a masterpiece,” says the Chevalier D’Avillier, “must be seen; it cannot be described.” It is usually known in Spain as _Les Lanzas_ from the upright lances that cut the sky. A celebrated art critic has written of the picture, “never were knights, soldiers, or national character, or the heavy Fleming, the intellectual Italian, and the proud Spaniard, more nicely marked even to their boots and breeches. Observe the genial countenance of Spinola, who (the model of a high-bred, generous warrior) is consoling a gallant but vanquished enemy (Justin of Nassau). It is interesting to recall the fact that Spinola took Breda in 1826, and died five years afterwards, broken hearted at Philip the Fourth’s treatment, exclaiming, ‘_Me han quitado la honra!_’ (They have robbed me of my honour!)” The head placed on the extreme right of the picture, with a plumed hat shading his finely-chisseled brow, is that of Velasquez himself, who has in other of his pictures introduced his personality. In _La Familia_ the artist has represented himself painting the Royal Family of Philip IV., and in it the painter stands before his easel, brush and palette in hand. On his breast is the red cross of Santiago: and tradition has it that the King painted in the decoration in order, as he declared, “to finish the picture.”

By his works in the Velasquez Gallery alone must the great artist be judged. Outside Madrid the painter is apt to be judged by a few gloomy figures, conceived in a stiff, gloomy style, and attired in staid, gloomy costumes; whereas his fertile genius composed a whole gallery of types and examples ranging from kings to beggars, from warriors to clowns, from martyrs to drunkards--all vigorous, living, speaking presentments. Velasquez was, as his pictures in the Museo teach us, a painter of real personages, a chronicler of what he saw, a surprisingly faithful depicter of humanity; but one must go to Madrid to realise and properly appreciate the genius of the master, for it might almost be said that the entire produce of his brush is contained within these walls.

Murillo, with his placid inspiration, which found its outlet in simple and noble elegance of outline, in benign and consoling expressions, and a sweetness of eye and lip on saintly faces that defies description, is represented here in all his glory. Murillo was unequalled in the art of representing the Divine idea in his saints and madonnas, and Spain has rightly named him “The Painter of the Conceptions.” Of the four wonderful “conceptions” that are to be seen in the Museo of Madrid, I have

chosen for reproduction two that all the world has acclaimed to be the most wonderful imaginings of soulful beauty and tender youthfulness that man has given to the world. Devout in purpose and idea, tender and exquisite in execution, his picture of the Sacred Family--called the _Pajarito_ from the little bird held in the Christ’s hand--is one of the most purely devotional pictures of the youthful Saviour in existence. An altarpiece, known as _La Porciuncula_, from a plot of ground near Assisi, where Christ appeared in a vision to St. Francis, is in the artist’s best style, and _El Divino Pastor_ is another most characteristic and most popular of the master’s works.

Murillo’s heart was divided between beggars and babyhood--he seems to have taught the Spaniards benevolence towards the one and devotion to the other. Most of the beggar-boy pictures have been transferred to foreign collections, but remains the Holy Families and the cherub-peopled Annunciations. Of those Andalusian cherubs a charming American author, Katharine Lee Bates, has written, “Such ecstatic rogues as they are! Their restless ringlets catch azure shadows from the Virgin’s mantle; they perch tiptoe on the edges of the crescent moon; they hold up a mirror to her glory and peep over the frame to see themselves; they pelt St. Francis with roses; they play bo-peep from behind the fleecy folds of cloud; they try all manner of aerial gymnastics. But a charm transcending even theirs dwells in these baby Christs that almost spring from the Madonna’s arms to ours, in those Christs that touch all boyhood with divinity. The son of the Jewish carpenter, happy in his father’s workshop with bird and dog; the shepherd lad whose earnest eyes look toward his waiting flock; the lovely playmates, radiant with innocent beauty, who bend together above the water of life--from these alone might Catholic Spain have learned the sacredness of childhood. But Spain first showed Murillo the vision that he rendered back to her.”

Murillo’s baby Christs are indeed an inspiration, for “they

touch all boyhood with divinity,” as his Virgin’s waken all souls to adoration. De Amicis, the Italian writer whose appreciations of Spain it is a pleasure to read and a privilege to quote, says of Murillo that he is “not only a great painter, but has a great soul; is more than a glory; is, in fact, an object of affection in Spain; he is more than a sovereign master of the beautiful, he is a benefactor, one who inspires good actions; and a lovely image which is once found in his canvasses is borne in one’s heart throughout life with a feeling of gratitude and religious devotion. He is one of those men of whom an indescribable prophetic sentiment tells us that we shall see them again; that the meeting with them is due to us like some prize; that they cannot have disappeared for ever, they are still in some place; that their life has only been like a flash of inextinguishable light, which must appear once more in all its splendour to the ages of mortals.” In transcribing his general impressions of the pictures in the Museo of Madrid, De Amicis pathetically comments: “It is one of the most dolorous consequences of a charming journey, this finding one’s mind full of beautiful images, and the heart a tumult of intense emotions, and only being able to give expression to so small a portion of them! With what profound disdain I could tear up these pages when I think of those pictures! Oh, Murillo; oh, Velasquez; oh, poor pen of mine!” Yet these are the artistic bewailings of a writer who has comprehended as much of, and expressed more faithfully the charm and soulfulness of Murillo than any living critic.

Viva el Rey.

On the 17th of May, 1902, Queen Maria Christina relinquished the Regency she had sustained so faithfully and unfalteringly for upwards of sixteen years, and Alfonso XIII., or to give his name in full, Alfonso Leon Fernando Maria Santiago Pidro Pascual Marcian Antonio, appeared before his subjects for the first time in the character of ruler as well as King. The eyes of all Europe were directed to Madrid on that day of sunshine and rejoicing, and perhaps in England more than in any country in the world was the nobility and pathos of the Queenly figure, and the brilliant promise given by the young King, most sympathetically appreciated. Queen Christina had devoted her life to her duty; to the service of Spain and the task of fitting her son for the high destiny to which he was born. The difficulty of that task cannot be over-estimated. Taken from the cloistered and secluded life in the Convent of Hochradin in Bohemia, the young Abbess-Princess, who from her earliest years was remarkable for the gravity of her character and her singular piety, was suddenly thrust into the fierce light that beats about a throne to secure a union between the two great Catholic families of the Hapsburgs and the Spanish Bourbons. Married in 1879, Queen Maria Christina enjoyed six years of complete happiness. Handsome, young, and brave, King Alfonso XII. proved a faithful and a devoted husband. His early death left her an alien in a strange land to govern a people who regarded her, if not with dislike, at least with suspicion. The Spanish have no reason to love Austria, and the mere fact of the Queen Mother being an Austrian by birth was sufficient

to excite a feeling of distrust. But the brave Queen outlived the popular want of confidence, and won the admiration and respect of her subjects.

A few months after the death of Alfonso XII., the infant King--he was King from the first breath of life that he drew--“the only child born a king since Christ”--was presented to the great officials and grandees of Spain, lying upon a silver salver. The thrill of the first cry of “Viva el Rey!” that rose outside the Palace of Madrid on May 17th, 1886, and were renewed with tempestuous enthusiasm on May 17th, 1902, has never died in the hearts of the Spaniards. The Divine right of kings is not an unmeaning formula in Spain, in spite of all past history; and to the people who so ardently desired him, the circumstances of Alfonso’s birth gave their King a peculiarly Heaven-sent character. From the moment of his birth he has been hedged about by restrictions and precautions. The hopes of the Royalists and of men of all parties who believe that only monarchical government is possible for Spain have been centred in him, and his every look and action has been watched with a most intense anxiety, rising from the conviction that only the life of this one-time delicate lad stood between Spain and the chaos of revolution.

The weakness of the infant King added to the unparalleled trials that were laid upon the Queen. She has had, in addition, to meet the unquenchable hate of the two political factions--the Carlists, who still dream of a successful coup on behalf of the Pretender; and the Radicals, who would found the Red Republic. She has had to meet the menace of risings in the Carlist North and labour troubles in the Republican South. She has seen Spain drained in men and money in a futile effort to subdue the Cuban Rebellion. More recently still her heart has been wrung by the appalling disasters of the war with America. She saw the gallant army of Spain defeated, its heroic fleet annihilated; Cuba, Porto Rico, and the Philippines--the last remnants of what had once been the greatest Colonial Empire in the World--torn from the Crown of Spain. The Queen Regent bore these terrible misfortunes with dauntless courage; and her wisdom, prudence, and ability enabled her to save the dynasty and to see the Crown placed on the head of the son she so dearly loves.

Under his mother’s untiring care the little King threw off his infant ailings. He had the usual illnesses of childhood, one of so severe a character that it cost the country many days of painful suspense. But, like many other delicate children, he grew in health and strength as the years went by, and his subjects were soon able to assure themselves that it was no weakling that would sit on the throne of Spain. It is a matter of history that he opened his first Cortes in his nurse’s arms at

the age of one; at two years old he sat on a throne to open the Exhibition of Barcelona, and from his earliest years he was taught the lesson of responsibility. Efforts have been made before now to bring up a future ruler of a country in ignorance of his or her coming power, and in subjection to temporary guardians. With Alfonso XIII. the opposite plan was very wisely followed. He has always been the King, subject to no will but his mother’s; and even in his childhood there must have been borne upon his mind some perception of the idea which all the pomp and ceremony surrounding him portended, and some knowledge that he himself was the embodiment of that idea. Until the age of seven, his time was spent between the Palace of Madrid and the Palace of Miramar in San Sabastian, under the immediate eye of his mother and his sisters. Thereafter, in conformity with the traditions of the Court of Spain, he was obliged to have a separate establishment of his own, and his education was entrusted to a distinguished officer of the Royal Household, General Sanchis, assisted by three officers and a staff of professors. His Majesty proved an apt scholar, mastering English, French, and German, each of which he speaks fluently, and obtaining a wide and deep knowledge of the history of his own country. He was also instructed in the elements of law, political economy, and the theory of Government--branches of study for which he showed a very marked aptitude. Like every true Spaniard, the King early disclosed a passionate fondness for the army, and three days in the week he was regularly instructed in military drill and exercises in company with a number of young Spanish nobles. He early became an accomplished fencer, a capital shot, a good swimmer, and an excellent horseman. He has an admirable seat and great pluck and judgment, and never looks better than he does on horseback. In the extensive stables of the Palace, which contains a very varied collection of steeds from all countries, there is scarcely a horse which he has not ridden.

What manner of King was it that on his 17th birthday made his first official appearance as the Constitutional ruler of Spain? Accomplished as a scholar and a musician, and a fine all-round athlete, we know also of him that, thanks to heredity and careful training, he has developed a manliness and resolution of character which promise to stand him in good stead in the future. “Tall and slender,” to quote the description of a writer who was in a position to picture His Majesty with accuracy, “graceful in movement in spite of the length and looseness of his limbs, the King has inherited, not only the mobile features, but also very much of the charm of manner, the _bonhomme_ and easy grace, which made Alfonso XII. so dear to his friends. He is no lover of ceremonious etiquette; but, simple and familiar as he prefers his intercourse to be, he shows a rare tact in one so young in never forgetting, or permitting others to forget, that he is King. Above all, he is Spanish to the backbone; and for this he owes much to his aunt, the Infanta Isabel, the widowed Countess of Girgenti, who has particularly devoted herself to the task of making her nephew a good Spaniard. The Infanta Isabel is deservedly one of the most popular women in Spain; she possesses a rare knowledge of even the intricate mazes of its political life, as well as an absolute and innate sympathy with many national characteristics. Other reasons, too, have contributed to make Alfonso XIII. a good Spaniard. There is no greater incentive to patriotism than national suffering; and it was at the most impressionable age that he learnt, day by day, to listen to the tale of the disasters that were befalling his country. In this connection, it may be added that he shows signs of becoming a keen soldier, and has shown a lively interest in the military life by which he is immediately surrounded. His brother-in-law, the husband of the Infanta, known now by courtesy as the Prince of Asturias, fully shares this inclination, and has proved the best of comrades to the King in that as well as in other pursuits.”

Such was the Royal youth who stood by his mother’s side when the Queen-Regent of Spain presided at her last Cabinet Council in the Palace in Madrid. Sixteen and a-half years before she had been seated in the same vast State hall waiting to receive all the Diplomatic Corps and the message of condolence that they were bringing. Señor Zarco del Valle, introducer of Ambassadors at the Spanish Court, describes her appearance as she sat, crushed by grief and despondency, her face and eyes swollen by the tears she had shed. Her hands lay loosely in her lap and trembled. The sight of the forlorn widow was so heartrending that Señor del Valle hesitated long before he pronounced the official words, “Madam, may I announce to your Majesty His Eminence the Apostolic Nuncio?” Scarcely had the words crossed his lips than Maria-Christina started and stood upright before him, a Queen and a ruler from head to foot, her forehead erect, a fire of resolution burning in the depths of her brown eyes. The late Señor Sagasta, who was then Prime Minister of Spain, was still her chief Minister when she received the official farewells of the Councillors. Señor Sagasta, in the course of an eloquent address, recalled the day when the Queen, who then barely knew him, did honour to his loyalty, and, trembling and weeping at the loss of her Consort, so fresh in her memory, she placed her confidence in him. Sixteen years and a-half elapsed since that day, during which the Queen was sacrificing her youth, a slave to duty and a jealous guardian of her children. She had suffered so much, finding at last compensation in the happiness of the King. He, a grateful and loving son to his mother, on receiving the carefully-guarded deposit of Royal power, would receive therewith a moral education which assuredly he would never forget in all the trials of his life.

The Queen listened to Señor Sagasta’s words with increasing emotion, and finally was moved to weeping. But, recovering herself, she responded, and, in thanking Señor Sagasta, said that she had ever had the earnest desire to do right, even though she might not always have been right; and she ever felt profound love for Spain in return for the kindnesses that had always been heaped upon her. She hoped that the statesmen before her assembled, and those who could and might become Councillors of the Crown, would help her son as effectively as they had helped her.

THE KING’S CARRIAGE.]

On the following day the formal enthronement of Alfonso XIII. as King of Spain was accomplished; a chapter in the history of the Spanish Monarchy was closed and a fresh epoch was begun. The young Monarch made his appearance before his subjects under the happiest conditions. Madrid looked its best beneath the bright sun and cloudless skies which fortunately attended the whole course of the city’s festivities. The procession was one of those picturesque and impressive displays in which the Spanish as a people know how to excel. The young King’s demeanour was an engaging mixture of boyish self-possession and boyish delight, together with traces of a maturer air of resolution, which were especially apparent when he recited the oath of enthronement before his Congress. From that body he had a magnificent and remarkable reception. The crowds in the streets vied with their Parliamentary representatives in their acclamations as the King left the Congress, and these unmistakable signs of a loyalty deep and true were received by the King with manifest pleasure. The whole day of rejoicing was one which must live long in the memory of both subjects and Sovereign.

So, amid sounds of universal rejoicing, the young King entered upon his task with all the promise of youth and under fair auspices, and nowhere than in this country was the hope more cordially felt that the unbounded enthusiasm with which he had been proclaimed would be the prelude to a long, ever-brightening record of loyal co-operation between the Sovereign and his subjects, of re-awakened national energies, of solid and enduring gains of domestic unity and progress, and of the attainment of the indomitable aspiration of a noble people.

In every respect these high hopes are being realised. The King’s popularity, based on the solid foundation of respect for wise authority and administration, of his frank, generous, and engaging personality, is growing daily. He has gained the confidence as he won the hearts of his subjects, and it is safe to assert that at no period of recent history has the throne of Spain been more secure, or the future of the country more full of promise. The renaissance of the Spanish nation has commenced; her commercial prosperity is steadily and surely increasing; and with the ever-lessening evil of domestic friction, the expansion of her trade, and the development of her natural and mineral resources, the boundless possibilities before Spain are assuming definite and tangible form.

Mining.

The history of mining in Spain would fill a dozen books, each twelve times as large as the present volume, and even then only the half, if so much of the story, would be told. It would form a narrative that would combine tragedy and romance, and present a moral as stern as humanity has ever been asked to peruse. The mineral wealth of the Peninsula was responsible for the origination of the African slave trade, for the demolition of Carthage, for the decline of Rome, for the sacrifice of lives innumerable, for tortures unspeakable, for crimes that are without parallel in the annals of the world. In ancient times Spain was ravaged, plundered, and depopulated to provide Carthage with the spoils that were to make her the prey of the Romans, who, in their turn, were to be lulled by wealth and luxury into the deadly sleep of degeneracy that precedes decay.

It is probable that the beginning of the history of precious metals may be traced back to India, although it is commonly assigned to Greece about 900 B.C.; but the earliest specific mention of gold or silver mining in European history is derived from the story of Cadmus, a Phoenician, who mined for copper and gold in Thrace in 1594 B.C., or thereabouts. Jason, another Phoenician, journeyed as far west as Sardinia in search of precious metals in 1263 B.C.; and it is known that the Phoenicians were working the gold placers of the Guadalquiver previous to 1100 B.C. The means of winning the gold--the only mineral that was exploited in those days--were both limited and arduous, and some time between 1200 and 500 B.C. (it is impossible to compute the period more exactly) the auriferous resources of Spain were thought to be exhausted. The results of Phoenician mining enterprise must have been considerable, for about B.C. 500 Darius, of Persia, undertook and successfully executed a military expedition against Phoenicia for the purpose of acquiring the metallic treasure, which its adventurers had carried away from Spain. Some portion of this hardly-won stock of bullion found its way back to Europe some two centuries later when Alexander the Great plundered Persia.