into vanity and bombast, and it is true that one must not search in the
Parliament of Madrid for examples of genuine political eloquence; but
it is none the less true, as is universally conceded, that this
Parliament, among all those of Europe, is richest in oratory in the
general acceptation of that word. One should hear a discussion on some
important political measure which stirs the passions of the deputies. It
is a veritable battle! There are no longer speeches, but torrents of
words which drive the stenographers mad and confuse the heads of those
in the galleries. There are tones, gestures, violent expressions, bursts
of inspired eloquence, which remind one of the French Assembly in the
turbulent days of the Revolution. There one hears Rios Rosas, a most
violent orator, who rules the tumult with a roar; a Martos, an orator of
distinguished figure, who destroys by ridicule; a Pi y Margall, a
venerable old man, who terrifies by his gloomy predictions; a Colantes,
an indefatigable speaker, who crushes the Chamber under an avalanche of
words; a Rodriguez, who with marvellous flexibility of argument and
illustration pursues, entangles, and strangles his enemies; and, in the
centre of a hundred others, a Castelar, who conquers and enslaves both
friends and enemies by a flood of poetry and harmony. And this Castelar,
famous throughout Europe, is really the most perfect expression of
Spanish eloquence. He carries the cultivation of form almost to
idolatry; his eloquence is music; his argument a slave to his ear; he
says a thing or leaves it unsaid, or says it in one sense rather than
in another, according as it turns or fails to turn a period; there is a
harmony in his mind which he follows and obeys, and to which he
sacrifices everything that can possibly offend; with him a period is a
strophe, and one must hear him to believe that human speech without the
cadence of poetry and the aid of song is able to approach so closely to
the harmony of song and poetry. He is more of an artist than a
politician, and he has not only the genius, but the heart, of an
artist--the heart of a child incapable of anger or resentment. In all
his speeches no one can find a ground of offence; in the Cortes he has
never provoked a serious dispute of a personal nature; he never has
recourse to satire and never uses irony; in his most violent philippics
there is no touch of bitterness; and this is a proof of these
assertions: although he is a Republican, an opponent of all the
ministers, an aggressive journalist, a continual adversary to every one
who exercises any power, and of every one who is not a fanatic on the
subject of liberty, he has never had an enemy. Consequently, his
speeches are enjoyed and are not feared; his words are too beautiful to
terrify; his character too ingenuous for him to exercise a political
influence; he does not know how to fight, to conspire, and to accomplish
his ends through bribery; it is his function only to please and to
shine: his eloquence even at his grandest is tender, his most beautiful
speeches make one weep. To him the Chamber is a theatre. Like an
improvisatore, to have a full and serene inspiration he is obliged to
speak at a given hour, at a predetermined moment, and with a certain
period of time at his disposal. Accordingly, on the day when he wishes
to speak he makes his arrangement with the president of the chamber; the
president so disposes the business that his speech may begin when the
galleries are crowded and all the deputies are in their seats; his
papers announce his speech on the previous evening in order that the
ladies may procure tickets, for he must have popular attention. Before
speaking he is restless and cannot be still for an instant; he enters
the Chamber, goes out, comes back, turns to go out again, hurries along
the corridors, goes to the library to consult a book, rushes into a café
for a glass of water, seems to be stricken with fever: he imagines that
he will not be able to pronounce two words--that he will appear
ridiculous and be hissed: not a single idea of his speech remains clear
in his mind; he has confused and forgotten everything. “How is your
pulse?” his friends ask him with a smile. The solemn moment arrives; he
rises from his seat with bowed head, trembling and pale, like a man
condemned to death, resigned to lose in a single day the glory won in so
many years and with so great labor. At that moment his very enemies pity
his condition. He raises his head, casts a glance around, and says,
“_Señores!_” He is saved; his courage is renewed; his mind clears, and
his speech takes form again like a forgotten air; the president, the
Cortes, the galleries vanish; he feels only the irresistible flame which
burns within him--the mysterious force which sustains him. It is fine to
hear him say these words. “I no longer see the walls of the Chamber,” he
says; “I see distant lands and people never seen before.” He speaks hour
after hour, and not a deputy leaves the hall, not a person moves in the
galleries, not a voice interrupts, not a motion disturbs him; not even
when he transgresses the rules has the president courage to stop him; he
pictures at his pleasure the image of his republic clothed in white and
crowned with roses, and the monarchists do not rise in protest, for when
so clothed they too find her beautiful. Castelar is the ruler of the
Assembly; he thunders, lightens, sings, roars, and flashes like
fireworks, provokes laughter, calls forth shouts of enthusiasm, ends in
a tremendous tumult of applause, and disappears with head erect. Such is
the famous Castelar, professor of history in the university--a most
fertile writer on politics, art, and religion; a publicist who annually
receives fifty thousand francs from the journals of America; an
academician unanimously elected a member of the _Academia
española_--pointed out in the streets, hailed with joy by the people,
loved by his enemies, noble, vain, generous, and happy.
While we are on the subject of political eloquence let us glance at
literature.
Imagine a hall in the Academy full of noise and confusion. A crowd of
poets, novelists, and writers of every sort, nearly all of them having a
French air in their expression and manner, although very studious to
conceal it. They are reading and declaiming from their own works, each
one trying to drown the voice of the others, to the end that he may make
himself heard by the people who crowd the galleries, while they, on
their part, put through the time by reading the papers and discussing
politics. Now and then a clear, sonorous voice rises above the tumult,
and then a hundred voices burst forth together from one corner of the
room, crying, “He is a Carlist!” and a flood of hisses drowns
the cry; or, on the other hand, “He is a Republican!” and another
flood of hisses from the other side drowns the clear, sonorous
voice. The academicians crush their papers into balls, throw
them at each other, and shout in each other’s ears,
“Atheist!”--“Jesuit!”--“Innovator!”--“Weathercock!”--“Traitor!”
By listening attentively to those who are reading one may catch
harmonious stanzas, well-turned periods, powerful phrases: the first
effect is agreeable; the prose and poetry are indeed full of fire, life,
flashes of light, and happy comparisons, drawn from everything that one
hears and sees in the sky, the earth, and the sea; and it is all dimly
lighted with the colors of the Orient and richly clothed in Italian
harmonies. But, alas! it is literature only for the eyes and the ears;
it is only music and painting; on rare occasions the Muse drops a gem of
thought in the midst of a shower of flowers, and of this bright shower
there remains only a lingering perfume in the air and the echo of a
dying murmur on the ear.
Meanwhile one hears in the street the shouts of the people, the firing
of guns, and the beating of drums; at every moment some artist deserts
the ranks and goes to wave a banner among the crowd; they separate in
twos and threes and in larger groups and go to swell the crowd of
journalists; the turmoil and the continuous turning of Fortune’s wheel
dissuade the most industrious from lengthy works; it is in vain that
some solitary figure in the crowd cries, “In the name of Cervantes,
stop!” A few strong voices are raised above this clamor, but they are
the voices of men who hold themselves apart, many of whom will soon make
that voyage from which there is no return. There is the voice of
Hartzenbusch, the prince of the drama; the voice of Breton de las
Herreros, the prince of comedy; the voice of Zorilla, the prince of
poetry; there is the Orientalist, Gayangos; the archeologist, Guerra; a
writer of comedies, called Tamayo; a novelist, Fernand Caballero by
name; Amador de los Rios, a critic; Fernandez y Gonzalez, a novelist;
and a host of other able and productive writers. In the midst of these
there still lives the memory of Quintana, the great poet of the
Revolution; of Espronceda, the Byron of Spain; of a Nicasio Gallego, a
Martinez della Rosa, and a duke di Rivas. But the tumult, the disorder,
and the discord burst through like a torrent and engulf everything.
To leave allegory, Spanish literature finds itself in a condition
similar to ours--a group of illustrious writers whose powers are
failing, but who have had two grand sources of inspiration, religion and
love of country, or both in one--men who have left a distinct and
enduring mark in the field of art; and, on the other hand, a body of
young men who are groping their way forward, asking what it is they have
to do, rather than actually doing it, wavering between faith and doubt;
either possessing faith without courage or taught by custom to simulate
it when they have it not; not even certain of their own language, and
vacillating between the academies, which cry, “Purity!” and the people,
who cry, “Truth!”--hesitating between the weight of traditions and the
need of the moment; thrust aside by the thousands who give fame or
spurned by the few who seal it; obliged to think in one way and to write
in another--to conceal their inmost self, to let the present escape so
as not to break with the past, to steer as best they can between
opposing obstacles. Good fortune may be able for a few years to keep
their names afloat amid the torrent of French books which is pouring in
upon the country. Hence arises the discouragement, first to their own
individual effort, and then to the national genius; and from this follow
imitation which sinks into mediocrity, and the abandonment of the
literature of broad scholarship and large hopes for the ease and
profitable scribbling for the newspapers.
Alone among so many ruins stands the theatre. The new dramatic
literature lacks the marvellous invention, the splendid form, and the
pristine impress of the nobility and grandeur of the old, which was the
expression of a people who ruled Europe and the New World. Still less
does it possess the incredible productiveness and the endless variety;
but, in compensation, it possesses a more wholesome influence, a deeper
observation, a finer delicacy, and a greater degree of conformity to the
true scope of the theatre, which is to purify manners and to ennoble the
heart and mind.
In all the forms of literature, moreover, as in the drama, in the
novels, the popular songs, the poems, and histories, there always lives
and rules the sentiment which informs the literature of Spain more
powerfully indeed than any other European literature, from the first
rude lyrics of Berseo to the noble martial hymns of Quintana--the
sentiment of national pride.
And here it is appropriate to speak of the Spanish character. The
national pride of the Spaniards is still so great to-day, after so many
misfortunes and so grave a fall, that the stranger who lives among them
is doubtful whether they are the Spaniards of three centuries ago or the
Spaniards of the nineteenth century. But it is an inoffensive pride, a
pride which runs to harmless rhetoric. They do not depreciate the other
nations which seem to rise higher than themselves. No; they respect,
praise, and admire them, but show a feeling of superiority which draws a
clear inference contradictory to their praise. They are benevolent
toward other nations, with that benevolence which Leopardi justly
remarks is peculiar to men full of self-conceit, who believe that they
are admired by all, and love their avowed admirers because they think
that a duty attendant upon the superiority with which they imagine fate
has blessed them. Surely there has never existed in the world a people
with greater enthusiasm for their history than the Spanish. It is
incredible. The boy who shines your boots, the porter who carries your
valise, the mendicant who begs for alms, raises his head with flashing
eyes at the names of Charles V., Philip II., Hernando Cortez, and Don
John of Austria, as if they are heroes of his own time, and as if he had
witnessed their triumphal entry into the city only the day before. The
people pronounce the word _España_ with an accent like that with which
the Romans of the most glorious times of the Republic would have
pronounced _Roma_. When they speak of Spain modesty is thrown aside,
even by men of extremely modest nature, without the least indication in
their faces of that exaltation because of which one may sometimes pardon
intemperate speech. They boast in cold blood, from habit, without being
conscious of so doing. In the speeches of Parliament, in the newspaper
articles, in the writings of the Academy, they speak of the Spanish
people without circumlocution as a nation of heroes, the great nation,
the wonder of the world, the glory of the ages. It is a rare thing to
hear any one speak or read a hundred words before an audience without
sooner or later recognizing the burden of the song in Lepanto, the
Discovery of America, or the War of Independence, the mention of which
always elicits a burst of applause.
And it is precisely this tradition of the War of Independence that
constitutes to the Spanish people a powerful inherent force. One who has
never lived in Spain for a long or short period cannot believe that a
war, however fortunate and glorious, could leave to the people so
steadfast a faith in their national valor. Baylen, Victoria, San
Marcial, are throughout Spain even more potent traditions than are
Marengo, Jena, and Austerlitz in France. Even the martial glory of the
armies of Napoleon, seen through the War of Independence, which shrouds
it like a veil, appears to the eyes of the Spanish less splendid than
to any other people in Europe. The idea of a foreign invasion provokes
among the Spaniards a smile of proud disdain; they do not believe it
possible to be conquered in their own country; one should hear the tones
in which they speak of Germany when it is rumored that the emperor
William has determined to uphold the throne of the duke d’Aosta with his
arms. And doubtless if they were obliged to fight a new war of
independence, they would fight, possibly with less fortunate success,
but with a bravery and constancy equal to those which they once so
marvellously displayed. 1808 is the ’93 of Spain; it is a date which
stands out before the eyes of every Spaniard in letters of fire; they
glory in it, from the women and the boys to the babies who are just
learning to lisp; it is the war-cry of the nation.
And they have a similar pride in their writers and artists. The beggar,
instead of saying _España_, says sometimes the _country of Cervantes_.
No writer in the world has ever gained such popularity among his own
people as the author of _Don Quixote_ in Spain. I believe that there is
not a peasant or a shepherd from the Pyrenees to the Sierra Nevada, from
the coast of Valencia to the hills of Estremadura, who if asked about
Cervantes will not reply with a smile of complacence, “He is the
immortal author of _Don Quixote_!” Spain is perhaps the country where
the anniversaries of the great writers are most generally celebrated;
from Juan de Mena to Espronceda, each one has his solemn day, when they
offer at his tomb a tribute of song and flowers. In the squares, the
cafés, the railway-carriages, wherever you are, you hear lines of the
famous poets repeated by all sorts of people; he who has not read them
has heard another read; he who has not heard them read repeats the
quotation as a proverb learned from others; and when any one repeats a
verse, they all prick up their ears. Any one who knows a little Spanish
literature may make a journey in that country with the assurance of
always having something to talk about and something with which to
inspire sympathy wherever and in whatever company he may happen to be.
The national literature is truly national.
The defect of the Spanish which from the first strikes the stranger is
this--that in their estimate of the affairs, the men, and the
achievements of their time and their country they over-estimate their
measure, if one may so speak. They exaggerate everything, they see
everything, as it were, through a lens that magnifies to vast
proportions. For a long time they have had no immediate part in the
common life of Europe, and hence they have lacked opportunity for
comparing themselves with other states and of judging themselves by such
comparison. On this account their civil wars, the wars in America,
Africa, and Cuba, are to them not what the little war of 1860 and ’61
against the Papal army, or even the revolution of 1860, are to us, but
what we regard the great Crimean War and the wars of 1859 and of 1866.
They speak of the combats--which exalt the Spanish armies in those wars,
sanguinary doubtless, but not great--as the French speak of Solferino,
the Prussians of Sadowa, and the Austrians of Custozza. Prim, Serrano,
and O’Donnell are generals who in comparison dwarf the most illustrious
commanders of other countries. I remember the to-do made at Madrid over
the report of the victory gained by General Merriones over four or five
thousand Carlists. The deputies in the lobby of the Cortes exclaimed
emphatically, “Ah! Spanish blood!” Some even said that if an army of
three hundred Spaniards had found itself in the position of the French
in 1870, it would have marched straight to Berlin. Certain it is, that
one cannot doubt the valor of the Spanish, which has been proved on so
many occasions, but one may safely assert that there is a great
difference between disorganized Carlists and Prussians in battle
array--between the soldiers of Europe, to speak more comprehensively,
and the soldiers of Africa--between great pitched battles, where
canister sweeps away its thousands, and the combats of ten thousand
soldiers on either side with great disparity in equipment and
discipline. And as they speak of war, so they speak of everything else;
and this is true not only of the common people, but of the upper
classes as well. They lavish high-sounding praises upon their writers;
they give the title of _grande poeta_ to many whose names are never
heard outside of Spain; adjectives of exalted sublimity and wonder are
current coin given and taken without the least doubt of its value as
legal tender. One may say that Spain regards and judges everything like
an American, rather than a European, people, and that it is separated
from Europe by an ocean instead of the Pyrenees, and joined to America
by an isthmus.
In other points how similar they are to us! To hear the people talk of
politics, one would think one was in Italy: they do not argue, they
express opinions; they do not censure, they condemn; a single argument
is enough for any judgment, and to form an argument an inference alone
is sufficient. As for this minister, he is a rascal; that one, a
traitor; and this one a hypocrite: they are all a pack of thieves. One
has sold the trees in the gardens of Aranguez; another has robbed the
Escurial of its treasures; a third has drained the coffers of the state;
a fourth has sold his soul for a bag of money. They have lost all faith
in the very men who have had a hand in all the political movements of
the last thirty years; even among the lowest people there is creeping in
a spirit of discouragement which gives rise to the expressions that one
hears very often and on every side: “Poor Spain! Unhappy country!
Wretched Spaniards!”
But the violence of the political passions and the fury of the civil
struggles have not changed the foundation of the ancient Spanish
character. Only that part of society known as the political world, only
this is corrupt; the people, though always inclined toward those blind
and at times savage impulses of passion which betray the mingling of the
Arabian and Latin blood, are good and loyal and capable of magnanimous
action and sublime bursts of enthusiasm. “The honor of Spain” is still a
motto which quickens every pulse. And, moreover, their manners are frank
and refined; perhaps less polished, but certainly more amiable and
ingenuous, than those for which the French are praised. Instead of
smiling at you, they offer you a cigar; instead of paying you a
compliment, they press your hand, and are more hospitable in actions
than in protestations. Nevertheless, the forms of address still preserve
their ancient courtliness; the gentleman says to the lady, “I am at your
feet;” the lady to the gentleman, “I kiss your hand.” Among themselves
the gentlemen sign their letters Q. B. S. M.--_que besa sus manos_ (I
kiss your hands), like a servant to his master; only friends say
_Adios_; and the people preserve their affectionate salutation, _Vaya
Usted con Dios!_ (God be with you!), which is worth more than all the
kissing of the hands.
With the warm, generous nature of this people it is impossible to spend
a month in Madrid without making a hundred friends, even though one does
not seek them. Think how many one might make if one did seek them! This
was my case. I cannot say that they were real friends, but I was
acquainted with so many persons that it did not seem at all like being
in a foreign city. Even the illustrious men are very easy to approach,
and hence there is no need, as elsewhere, of a pile of letters and
messages from friends in order to meet them. I had the honor of knowing
Tamayo, Hartzenbusch, Guerra, Saavedra, Valera, Rodriguez, Castelar, and
many others, some famous in letters and some in the sciences, and I
found them all alike--open, cordial, fiery; men with silvered hair, but
with the eyes and voices of young men of twenty; passionately devoted to
poetry, music, and art; cheerful and animated, with a fresh, ringing
laugh. How many of them did I see, as they read the lines of Quintana or
Espronceda, grow pale, weep, and spring to their feet as though touched
by an electric spark, revealing their whole soul in a radiant glance!
What youthful spirits! What ardent hearts! How delighted I was to see
and hear them--to belong to that same poor Latin race of which we now
say such hard things! and how happy I was in the thought that to a
greater or less degree we are all formed in the same mould, and that,
although we may accustom ourselves, little by little, to envy the
qualities of others, yet we are never wholly successful in obliterating
our own!
After three months and more of sojourning in Madrid I was obliged to
take my departure, in order that I might not be caught by the summer in
Southern Spain. I shall always remember that beautiful May morning when
I left, perhaps for ever, my dear Madrid. I was going to see Andalusia,
“the promised land” of travellers, the ideal Andalusia, whose wonders I
had so often heard sung by poets and romancers in Italy and Spain--that
Andalusia for whose sake, I may say, I had undertaken the journey; and
yet I was sad. I had passed so many happy days in Madrid! I was leaving
so many dear friends! On my way to the station to take the noon train I
passed along the Alcalá, saluted from a distance the gardens of the
Recoletos, passed the Museum of Painting, stopped to take a last look at
the statue of Murillo, and reached the station with an aching heart.
“Three months?” I asked myself a few moments before the train started.
“Have three months passed already? Has it not been a dream? Yes, it
seems as if I have been dreaming. Perhaps I shall never again see my
good landlady, nor Señor Saavedra’s little daughter, nor the sweet,
serene face of Guerra, nor my friends of the Café Fornos, nor any one
else. But what is this? Shall I not return? Return! Oh, no! I know well
that I shall not return. And so ... farewell, my friends! farewell,
Madrid! farewell, my little room in the street of Alduana!” At this
moment my heartstrings seem to be breaking and I must hide my face.
END OF VOL. I.
* * * * *
INDEX.
A.
Abdelasio reconstructs the Alcazar of Seville, ii. 121.
Abdurrahman I. builds the mosque of Cordova, ii. 68.
Abdurrahman I. builds Medina Az-Zahra, ii. 88;
his happy days, ii. 89.
Abencerrages, Hall of the, Alhambra, ii. 209.
Abrantes, duke d', at the bull-fights, 209.
Absolutist party, 96.
Academy, a dream of the, 280.
Academy of San Fernando, Madrid, 193.
Acquasola gardens, Genoa, 10.
Alameda, Granada, ii. 188, ii. 241.
Alarcon y Mendoza, Juan Ruiz de, dramatist, 169.
Alarmed travellers, ii. 9, ii. 55.
Albaicin at Granada, ii. 244;
courtyard in, ii. 246;
fortune-telling, ii. 253;
government of, ii. 255;
ignorance in, ii. 256;
Parisian quarter, ii. 245;
squalor of, ii. 251.
Albornoz, Gil Carillo de, tomb of, Toledo, ii. 29.
Alcaiceria, Granada, ii. 241.
Alcala street, Madrid, 156, 168.
Alcanadre, Roman aqueduct at, 91.
Alcantara, bridge of, Toledo, ii. 18.
Alcazar de San Juan, ii. 259;
of Seville, ii. 120;
of Toledo, ii. 39.
Alcayde of Saragossa's bold republicanism, 83.
Aleardi Gaetano, on the can-can, 171.
Alfonso and the Cid, 121.
Alfonso the Wise, MSS. of, ii. 118;
tomb of, ii. 109.
Alfonso VIII. defeats the Moors at las Navas de Tolosa, ii. 61.
Alfonso XII., favored by the Moderate party, 96.
Algaba, ii. 118.
Algeciras, Gulf of, ii. 168.
Alhambra, arabesques, ii. 197, 208, ii. 210, ii. 211;
baths, ii. 211;
cabinet of Linderaja, ii. 209;
Charles V.'s palace, ii. 192;
Court of Lions, ii. 201;
Court of Myrtles, ii. 194;
fascination of, ii. 205;
Gate of Justice, ii. 192;
grounds of ii. 190;
Hall of Abencerrages, ii. 209;
Hall of Barca, ii. 197;
Hall of Divans, ii. 210;
Hall of Justice, ii. 206;
Hall of Oranges, ii. 209;
Hall of the Ambassadors, ii. 198;
Hall of the Two Sisters, ii. 207;
Mirador de la Reina, ii. 212, ii, 215;
mosque, ii. 216;
paintings in, ii. 207;
Patio de la Reja, ii. 212;
realization of a dream, ii. 200;
situation of, ii. 190;
Tower of Commares, ii. 196;
Tower of the Ambassadors, ii. 196;
vastness of the, ii. 217;
view from, ii. 213.
Ali Pacha, relics of, 176.
Almago, Melchiorre, republican journalist, ii. 243.
Almansa, plain of, ii. 260.
Almansur builds Zahira, ii. 89.
Almodovar, castle of, ii. 99.
Altimura, Count d', possesses the fiscal accounts of Gonzalez di
Cordova, ii. 237.
Alvarez, Gen., house of, at Gerona, 16.
Amadeus at Gerona, 16;
at Logroño, 85;
at Madrid, 166, 194;
at Saragossa, 82;
at the bull-fights, 213;
at Valencia, ii. 262;
character of, 201;
courage of, 199;
court-life of, 194;
encourages bull-fights, 223, 235;
hostility of the newspapers to, 93, 200;
hostility of the soldiery to, 204;
prejudice against, 15, 33, 80.
Ambassadors, Hall of the, Alhambra, ii. 198;
at Seville, ii. 124;
Tower of the, Alhambra, ii. 196.
Amusements, 168.
Andalusian characteristics, 36;
dialect, ii. 93;
scenery, ii. 61, 100, ii. 177;
women, ii. 79, ii. 93, ii. 126.
Angels, convent of, Granada, ii. 238.
Ansurez, Pedro, tomb of, 137.
Aosta, duke d'. See Amadeus.
Aqueduct, Roman, at Segovia, 124.
Arabesques in the Alhambra, beauty of, ii. 197;
intricacy of design, ii. 197, ii. 208, ii. 210, ii. 211.
Aranjuez, arrival at, ii. 10;
gardens, ii. 12;
historic associations, ii. 11;
royal palace, ii. 11;
suburbs of, ii. 10.
Argamasilla de Alba, birthplace of Don Quixote, ii. 58.
Argensola, the brothers, 72;
sonnet by, 73.
Arjonilla, ii. 62.
Armory, royal, at Madrid, 174.
Arragon, decay of, 52;
dialect of, 54;
independence of, 49;
mountains of, 48.
Artillery museum at Madrid, 180.
Asturia, prince of, title instituted, 98.
Atocha, Church of Our Lady of, Madrid, 166, 204;
street of, Madrid, 174.
Avilo, 124.
"Awaiting her in heaven," ii. 227.
Ayala, d', dramatist, 169.
B.
Banderillas, de fuego, 226.
Barber of Seville, house of the, ii. 132.
Barcelona, arrival at, 20;
cafés, 30;
carnival masqueraders, 22;
Catalonian peculiarities, 35;
cathedral, 24;
cemetery, 27;
Cervantes on, 42;
circus, 235;
dialect, 21;
foreign hotel waiters, 20;
palaces, 26;
revolutionary proclivities, 35;
Roman ruins, 26;
streets, 22;
suburbs, 22;
theatre, 40;
women of, 41.
Baretti, Giuseppe, 206; ii. 82.
Barili, Anton Giulio, travelling companion, 10.
Batista, Juan, architect of the Escurial, 260.
Beatrice, Queen, tomb of, ii. 109.
Beggary, modest, 135.
Berruguete, Alonzo, carvings by, at Toledo, ii. 25;
at Valladolid, 146.
Berseo, poet, 283.
Blanca, Florida, tomb of, Seville, ii. 109.
Boabdil's helmet, 176.
Boccanegra, paintings by, at Granada, ii. 229.