Yet even to-day few foreigners realize that they may cross and recross the Peninsula from north to south and from east to west in perfect security. They will meet with no cloak-and-sword episodes; their adventures must be of another order. It is true that the Spaniard can use his knife, but the knife comes into play in quarrels of cards and love and jealousy, in which the passing traveller can have no part. Those, however, who measure culture by comfort, and wish to journey as consistent first-class passengers through life, should certainly narrow their Spanish travels to the round of a few cities-- “Erret et extremos scrutetur alter Iberos,” and, however rapid and conventional, a journey that includes the Alhambra, the Mosque of Córdoba, the Cathedrals of Seville, Toledo, and Burgos,[46] and the picture-galleries of Seville and Madrid, can scarcely be said to have been in vain. But to know Spain and the Spaniards it is necessary to go further afield, to the small towns and villages of Andalucía and Castille, for here, rather than in the larger towns, is to be found the true spirit of the race. Some five thousand villages are still to be reached only by bridle-paths, and in these there has been little change since Cervantes went his rounds collecting taxes; so that for those who care to leave the beaten track there still remain many unexplored districts, and much first-hand knowledge to glean of the country and its inhabitants. To many, no doubt, Spain is the country of dance and song and sun-burnt mirth, of the flutter of fans and the flash of dark eyes; the country of the bull-fight and the white mantilla and carnations in the hair; of Roman ruins and Moorish palaces set in groves of myrtle and orange; of-- “Cloaked shapes, the twanging of guitars, A rush of feet and rapiers clashing, Then silence deep with breathless stars, And overhead a white hand flashing.” and if any shadows fall across the picture they are those of the brigand and the priest-inquisitor. Then comes the inevitable reaction. Those who visit Spain find that it is for them indeed _un pays de l’imprévu_. The former image in their mind soon perishes, and they cry out upon this “ciel insalubre,” this-- “pays endiablé; Nous y mangions, au lieu de farine de blé, Des rats et des souris et pour toutes ribotes Nous avons dévoré beaucoup de vieilles bottes.” But, to judge from many books published about Spain, most European countries would seem to have entered into a league to look upon the Peninsula solely as a land of a poetical unreality, its inhabitants divided into inquisitors, monks, brigands, and conspirators, lending-- “the colour of romance To every trivial circumstance.”