idiotic heir of Medina Celi, and not by a picador of the Madrilenian bull ring. Apropos of bull-fighters:—Shortly after my arrival, I one 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 peñas, 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 {128} was? “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.”