devoted to sponging-house accommodation. The
custom, however, is not altogether due to fear
of thieves, but to fear of intrigue. Spanish
ladies not being allowed to see their lovers
with as much freedom as among ourselves,
make up for the restriction by private assignations.
Two or three unpolite proverbs are
in existence as to the amount of vigilance
that should be exercised over women; and
the iron bars in question are the proverbs put
into practice.

If asked what is the most prominent feature
of ordinary street life in Seville—as I
saw it before the present Revolution—the unhesitating
answer would be, soldiers. Supposing
that other towns are as liberally supplied with
defenders as the capital of Andalusia, her most
Catholic majesty must needs have had a good-sized
army. Anticipations of a pronunciamento
on a small scale may help, on occasion, to swell
the Seville garrison to a portentous size; but the
every-day aspect of the city is enough to drive a
stranger into a frenzy of perplexity, if he begin
to think where all the swarms of soldiers come
from—how they are paid and fed—and what
they do for their money. The last thing at
night and the first thing in the morning there
they are, prowling about in pairs: lean, and
gaunt, and hungry. Waspish waists and an
air of faded gentility are the characteristics of
the officers. If ribands and decorations be
any sign of valour, most of them must be perfect
lions in fight. An unprejudiced observer
might be inclined to think that a little more
bone and muscle would not detract from their
warlike capacities; but what they want in
height of body they make up in length of sword.
Privates, as well as officers, wear their side arms
at all hours of the day and night—an arrangement
that helps to swell the list of cutting and
wounding for which Seville is deservedly renowned.

A timely notice placarded in the patio of
the hotel announces that on such and such an
evening, Señor Somebody, with his company of
ladies and gentlemen, will execute all the favourite
national dances. The payment of a dollar
by a stranger, and of a quarter of that sum by a
more highly favoured native, introduces the
visitor into a long and dreary room, along the
sides of which are seated rows of gloomy-looking
individuals, who appear to be awaiting the commencement
of business, with the amount of
cheerfulness usually manifested by patients
in a dentist’s ante-room. The entrance of four
women in short petticoats, and the same number
of men in preternaturally tight small-clothes—
each of them a dancer of renown—fails to
arouse the company from its abject despondency.
But as the mysteries of the dance begin
to unfold themselves with a grace and dignity
that leave all conceivable ballets at a hopeless
distance, it turns out that most of the grim
spectators have castanets concealed beneath
their cloaks. As the pulse begins to quicken,
the castanets begin to play; first feebly, then
loudly, then madly. Some banjo-like guitars
catch the enthusiasm and set up a twanging
that speaks well for the strength of cat-gut.
The whole is crowned by a general stamping of
feet, in the midst of which half a dozen or so of
the spectators fling off their cloaks, rush into
the midst of the dance and display an activity and
vigour which are only to be surpassed by their
professional brethren. Is it pretty? somebody
may ask. That depends upon taste. The figures
of the dancers are graceful beyond all words;
but the din of the castanets, and the general
uproar are calculated to interfere with enjoyment.
In the open air, and with plenty of
space at command, the performance would be
charming enough, but none save the strongest
nerves ought to try the experiment under a
roof.

It is difficult to decide whether Spanish
Theatres are to be classed as places of entertainment,
or whether they should not be
regarded as partaking of the nature of a severe
penitential discipline. The air of depression that
pervades the audience, and the absence of anything
which could be interpreted as a symptom
of enjoyment, would favour the last supposition.
The men shroud themselves in their cloaks,
and lapse into a state of coma. The women
telegraph with their fans to favoured acquaintances,
and pay as much attention to the play as
they do to the admonitions of their duennas.
Tragedy, in an unlimited number of acts, seems
most in vogue, and best harmonises with the
woebegone aspect of the audience. A prompter
is ensconced in a little box in the middle of
the foot-lights, as in France and Italy, and as he
not only reads every word of the play in a key
that is audible half over the house, but tells the
actors where to stand, and what to do, the interest
of the drama does not flag from the audience
not knowing what is to come next. The one advantage
of theatre-going (next to a pretty and
well ventilated house) is that, judging by time,
full equivalent is given for your money. An
uniform charge is made for admission, but this
must be supplemented by a further sum, varying
according to the part of the house that is
chosen. The entire outlay need not exceed two
shillings.

There is one impression that a stranger can
hardly fail to bring away from the theatre,
which is, that Spanish ladies are the best
gloved women in the world. And so they
ought to be, when, besides the natural advantage
of well shaped hands, they make glove buying
part of the serious business of life. A Seville
glove shop is a curiosity. The counter is
adorned with a row of small cushions, the probable
use of which gives rise to a variety of
wild conjectures on the part of a stranger.
These are intended for ladies’ elbows to rest
upon, while the shop assistants (always men)
pull the gloves on for them. No lady would
dream of fitting herself with gloves, any more
than with shoes. As señoras rather pique
themselves upon not wearing the same gloves
more than once, the glove-filling operation has
to be often repeated. Whenever a row of women