Dress any Englishman in such a garb and he will at once give you the idea of a hog in armour. In the first place he will lack the proper spirit to carry it off, and in the next place the motion of his limbs will disgrace the ornaments they bear. “And so best,” most Englishmen will say. Very likely; and, therefore, let no Englishman try it. But my Spaniard did not look at like a hog in armour. He walked slowly down the plank into the boat, whistling lowly but very clearly a few bars from a opera tune. It was plain to see that he was master of himself, of his ornaments, and of his limbs. He had no appearance of thinking that men were looking at him, or of feeling that he was beauteous in his attire;—nothing could be more natural than his foot-fall, or the quiet glance of his cheery gray eye. He walked up to the captain, who held the helm, and lightly raised his hand to his cap. The captain, taking one hand from the wheel, did the same, and then the stranger, turning his back to the stern of the vessel, and fronting down the river with his face, continued to whistle slowly, clearly, and in excellent time. Grand as were his clothes they were no burden on his mind. “What is he?” said I, going up to my friend Johnson with a whisper. “Well, I’ve been looking at him,” said Johnson—which was true enough; “he’s a — an uncommonly good-looking fellow, isn’t he?” “Particularly so,” said I; “and got up quite irrespective of expense. Is he a—a—a gentleman, now, do you think?” “Well, those things are so different in Spain that it’s almost impossible to make an Englishman understand them. One learns to know all this sort of people by being with them in the country, but one can’t explain.” “No; exactly. Are they real gold?” “Yes, yes; I dare say they are. They sometimes have them silver gilt.” “It is quite a common thing, then, isn’t it?” asked I. “Well, not exactly; that—Ah! yes; I see! of course. He is a torero.” “A what?” “A mayo. I will explain it all to you. You will see them about in all places, and you will get used to them.” “But I haven’t seen one other as yet.” “No, and they are not all so gay as this, nor so new in their finery, you know.” “And what is a torero?” “Well, a torero is a man engaged in bull-fighting.” “Oh! he is a matador, is he?” said I, looking at him with more than all my eyes. “No, not exactly that;—not of necessity. He is probably a mayo. A fellow that dresses himself smart for fairs, and will be seen hanging about with the bull-fighters. What would be a sporting fellow in England—only he won’t drink and curse like a low man on the turf there. Come, shall we go and speak to him?” “I can’t talk to him,” said I, diffident of my Spanish. I had received lessons in England from Maria Daguilar; but six weeks is little enough for making love, let alone the learning of a foreign language.