Estremadura, the old Duke of Alva's palace,
for instance—the oak-wood where Pizarro
drove his swine, or the white belfry and
cypresses of the Carmelite convent: no;
what I see is two sorts of country, both
desert, lonely, and barren; one sheep-track,
thyme, cistus, and crop-eared grass; another
oak-woods and swine walks.

If your eye could pierce those beech woods
there to the right, you would see the countless
herds of swine that at night thunder back to
the dirty villages of the kind-hearted, lazy,
pork-loving, sausage-eating Estremadurans.
As for the lower plains out of sight, they are
noisy with the incessant droning-chirping of
the locust and cicala, which the peasant burns
in heaps and even institutes religious
processions with bell, book, and candle to exorcise.
And as the kaleidoscope can only play its
own set of tunes, can only show you one aspect
of the year, I tell you that in April all the
country is dusty, and alive with thousands of
sheep returning in flocks of enormous extent
to the cool hills, from whence in October they
had come with great bands of shepherds and
dogs to seek the warmer plains. The great
festivals of Estremadura are the sheep-shearing
in May, and the pig-killing in November,
always something to do, in winter the lambing;
in March, the marking and tail cutting,
and in September, the daubing the sheep with
red ochre, to make the wool fine. But I
must not stop all day basking in the purple
thyme of the Estremaduran sheep-walks,
that plague and the sword have since the
Moor left all but returned to desert. I shake
the kaleidoscope again, and the scene changes
to Leon.

SECOND SHAKE.

I AM staring on the green wooded hills and
fiery dusty plains of Leon. Those little toy
towns of stone are the Leonese cities. Leon,
Salamanca, and Valladolid. Recollections of
Moorish and French storming forays, of horse
and foot rise around me, I see the great
whirlpools of corn, and the slopes where the
sour wine grows. I see the pastures where
the herdsmen direct the cattle with stones
from their slings, just such as knocked out
Don Quixote's jaw-teeth when he mistook a
flock of sheep for an army of infidels, and
rode down among them lance in rest. I see
the tepid trout-streams, hot enough to boil
the fish, and the great golden seas of corn,
that roll in summer round Zamora. Again I
hear the creaking wooden wheels, and see the
mules toil at the simple plough. Shall I
forget the simple, hospitable Leonese, who
still talk of Wellington as " the great Lord,"
and love Englishmen for his sake. Shall I
forget their clean, comfortable farm-houses,
where the herdsmen were centaurs, and the
cattle-branding was a feast of good things,
where castanets, and fifes, and drums, set the
peasant feet dancing. Shall I forget the
strange dress of the charro, or country beau,
that is to be seen about Ciudad Rodrigo—the
low, broad-brimmed hat, large as an umbrella,
the rich embroidered shirt, with the gold
bossy brooch; the low, square waistcoat of
pounced and figured velvet, cut low to show
the wonderful shirt even below the waist;
the square silver buttons, too, of that marvellous
waistcoat, and the quaint cross ribbons;
the jacket open like a South American's at the
elbow, and edged with black velvet, rich and
soft; the broad belt instead of the red webby
sash, long, dark cloth gaiters, embroidered
below the knee, large silver buckles in his
shoes, a javelin, patriarchal stick, in his right
hand, and a cloak over his shoulder; and
here, too, even in the mud hovels, in the plains
near Valladolid, we see that enchanted
creature, the charra, or Leonese belle, the
caramba in her black shining hair, which is
covered by the square cloth mantilla, fastened
by a silver brooch; the hood richly embroidered.
As for the little red velvet bodice
that clasps her round, it is adorned with a
patch-work of patterned bugles, which run
about in flowery knots all round her bosom;
her wrist-cuffs are worked with gold thread;
her sash ties behind; her petticoat is scarlet
as a geranium, if it is not purple as a pansy;
her apron is like an old-fashioned sampler,
starred with quaint birds and flowers: her
handkerchief is embroidered with gold; and
she wears chains of coloured stones, which
have come down to her as heir-looms. For all
that, he and she are honest and simple as heart
could wish them; and if you sleep in the
charro's cottage, though it be but of unbaked
brick, and you are weary of the dusty plains
and dreary bare hills of Leon, and long to pass
over even to the cold damp Asturias, still you
will not easily forget the good people's
hospitality, their towers of four-post beds, the
clean, fringed sheets, and the regal pillows,
embroidered with lions and castles. Again
I fancy myself riding through the salt, dust-
smoke of the Leon plains, and see the herds
tossing their horns, and bellowing as the
stones from the herdsmen's slings turn them
left or right. But I must on to Gallicia, the
rainy coast country of Gallicia, whose ports,
Vigo and Coruña, have often listened to
the voice of English cannon.

THIRD SHAKE.

YES, this is Gallicia, the country that the
Minho divides from Portugal, and whose
shores run down to the Bay of Biscay. It is
from the snowy mountains, green meadows,
and chestnut forests, which bears and wolves
still haunt, that the Madrid porters and the
Lisbon water-carriers come. Here you see
the women ploughing or turning the distaff
under a hedge, hard, rugged, and ugly; the
men, strong, hardy, boorish, and rude, you
meet in every coasting vessel with bundle in
red handkerchief and green umbrella, returning
home with their Portuguese earnings.
This is the country of contrasts—from the