How The Rage For Scribbling Tempts People At The
Present Day To Write About Lands And Nations Of Which They Know
Nothing, Or Worse Than Nothing.
Vaya!
It is not from having seen
a bull-fight at Seville or Madrid, or having spent a handful of
ounces at a posada in either of those places, kept perhaps by a
Genoese or a Frenchman, that you are competent to write about such
a people as the Spaniards, and to tell the world how they think,
how they speak, and how they act! Spain's chivalry sneered away!
Why, there is every probability that the great body of the Spanish
nation speak, think, and live precisely as their forefathers did
six centuries ago.
In the evening the blacksmith, or, as he would be called in
Spanish, El Herrador, made his appearance at the door of Lopez on
horseback. "Vamos, Don Jorge," he shouted. "Come with me, if your
worship is disposed for a ride. I am going to bathe my horse in
the Tagus by the bridge of Azeca." I instantly saddled my jaca
Cordovesa, and joining him, we rode out of the village, directing
our course across the plain towards the river. "Did you ever see
such a horse as this of mine, Don Jorge?" he demanded. "Is he not
a jewel - an alaja?" And in truth the horse was a noble and gallant
creature, in height at least sixteen hands, broad-chested, but of
clean and elegant limbs. His neck was superbly arched, and his
head towered on high like that of a swan.
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