Corpus Barga has told me that when Señor Groizard, a relative of his, was ambassador to the Vatican, Leo XIII once inquired of him, in a jargon of Italo-Spanish, in the presence of the papal secretary, Cardinal Rampolla: "Does the Señor Ambasciatore speak Italian?" "No, not Italian, although I understand it a little." "Does the Señor Ambasciatore speak English?" "No, not English, I do not speak that," replied Groizard. "Does the Señor Ambasciatore speak German?" "No German, no Dutch; not at all." "No doubt then the Señor Ambasciatore speaks French?" "French? No. I am able to translate it a little, but I do not speak it." "Then what does the Señor Ambasciatore speak?" asked Leo XIII, smiling that Voltairian smile of his at his secretary. "Then Señor Ambasciatore speaks a heavy back-country dialect called Extramaduran," replied Rampolla del Tindaro, bending over to His Holiness's ear. The Spanish press has made a resolution, now of long standing, to speak nothing but a back-country dialect called Extramaduran. _Our Journalists_ Our journalists supply the measure of our journals. When the great names are those of Miguel Moya, Romeo, Rocamora and Don Pío, what are we to think of the little fellows? Speaking generally, the Spanish journalist is interested in politics, in theatres, in bull fights, and in nothing else; whatever is beyond these, does not concern him. Not even the _feuilleton_ attracts his attention. A wooden, highly mannered phrase sponsored by Maura, is much more stimulating to his mind than the most sensational piece of news. The Spanish newspaper man is endowed with an extraordinary lack of imagination and of curiosity. I recall having given a friend, who was a journalist, a little book of Nietzsche's to read, which he returned with the remark that he had not been able to get through it, as it was insufferable drivel. I have heard the same opinion, or similar ones, expressed by journalists of Ibsen, Schopenhauer, Dostoievsky, Stendhal and all the most stimulating minds of Europe. The wretched Saint Aubin, wretched certainly as a critic, used to ridicule Tolstoi and the illness which resulted in his death, maintaining that it was nothing more than an advertisement. The most benighted vulgarity reigns in our press. Upon occasion, vulgarity goes hand in hand with an ignorance which is astounding. I remember going to a café on the Calle de Alcalá known as la Maison Dorée one afternoon with Regoyos. Felipe Trigo, the novelist, sat down at our table with a friend of his, a journalist, I believe, from America. I have never been a friend of Trigo's, and could never take any interest either in the man or his work, which to my mind is tiresome and commercially erotic, besides being absolutely devoid of all charm. Regoyos, who is effusive by nature, soon became engaged in conversation with them, and the talk turned upon artistic subjects, in which he was interested, and then to his travels abroad.