criticized, but it was by the 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 halfway 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_!” {176} “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_. {177a} 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; {177b} 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_ {177c} was. “_Vamos Inglesito_,” shouted Sevilla, in a voice of thunder; “answer the _monró_ 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.”