Spanish tragedy, even when the Cid spouts, is wearisome; the language is stilty, the declamation ranting, French, and unnatural; passion is torn to rags. The _sainetes_, or farces, are broad, but amusing, and are perfectly well acted; the national ones are disappearing, but when brought out are the true vehicles of the love for sarcasm, satire, and intrigue, the mirth and mother-wit, for which Spaniards are so remarkable; and no people are more essentially serio-comic and dramatic than they are, whether in _Venta_, _Plaza_, or church; the actors in their amusing farces cease to be actors, and the whole appears to be a scene of real life; there generally is a _gracioso_ or favourite wag of the Liston and Keeley species, who is on the best terms with the pit, who says and does what he likes, interlards the dialogue with his own witticisms, and creates a laugh before he even comes on. [Sidenote: NATIONAL DANCES.] The orchestra is very indifferent; the Spaniards are fond enough of what they call music, whether vocal or instrumental; but it is Oriental, and most unlike the exquisite melody and performances of Italy or Germany. In the same manner, although they have footed it to their rude songs from time immemorial, they have no idea of the grace and elegance of the French ballet; the moment they attempt it they become ridiculous, for they are bad imitators of their neighbours, whether in cuisine, language, or costume; indeed a Spaniard ceases to be a Spaniard in proportion as he becomes an _Afrancesado_; they take, in their jumpings and chirpings, after the grasshopper, having a natural genius for the _bota_ and _bolero_. The great charm of the Spanish theatres is their own national dance--matchless, unequalled, and inimitable, and only to be performed by Andalucians. This is _la salsa de la comedia_, the essence, the cream, the _sauce piquante_ of the night’s entertainments; it is _attempted_ to be described in every book of travels--for who can describe sound or motion?--it must be seen. However languid the house, laughable the tragedy, or serious the comedy, the sound of the castanet awakens the most listless; the sharp, spirit-stirring click is heard behind the scenes--the effect is instantaneous--it creates life under the ribs of death--it silences the tongues of countless women--on n’écoute que le ballet. The curtain draws up; the bounding pair dart forward from the opposite sides, like two separated lovers, who, after long search, have found each other again, nor do they seem to think of the public, but only of each other; the glitter of the gossamer costume of the _Majo_ and _Maja_ seems invented for this dance--the sparkle of the gold lace and silver filigree adds to the lightness of their motions; the transparent, form designing _saya_ of the lady, heightens the charms of a faultless symmetry which it fain would conceal; no cruel stays fetter her serpentine flexibility. They pause--bend forward an