seemingly full of contradictions, is one of an almost curious uniformity, strongly individual, and not easy to comprehend.

A significant quality of the Spaniard is his quietness—the grave enjoyment which he retains even under the influence of strong emotion, such as we have seen in the dances and in the national pastime of the bull-fight.  His countenance will keep its accustomed gravity even whilst his mind is inflamed.  The Spaniard has what one would like to call an active languor.  On the one hand we find in his character a deeply rooted dislike, which is almost a contempt, for useful work, with, on the other hand, a reserve of untiring energy and a special aptitude for violent and emotional action.

In Spain work is not the highest aim of life.  This is the reason why time is of so much less value.  It explains the tendency to delay everything to a convenient to-morrow—that annoying mañana with which the Spaniard cheerfully responds to every demand.

One of the first lessons I learnt in Spain was the unimportance of time.  We were staying in a country village off the beaten tracks of travel, and had to drive a long distance to meet the train which was to take us to Madrid.  When we arrived at the small wayside station, we found we had three hours to wait.  There was no waiting-room, no refreshments could be procured, and it was raining and very cold.  I felt angered at the discomfort and waste of time; but the Spaniards who were our companions accepted the delay with true philosophy.  They were genuinely distressed at my annoyance—the Spaniard is always courteous to the foreigner—but they did not at all share it.  They wrapped their great cloaks around them, and walked up and down the wind-driven platform for three hours, calmly indifferent.

I understood their acceptance of life on its own terms, which is the very root of the Spanish character, at once its strength and its weakness, the cause of its beauty and of its defects.

A charge of cruelty is often made against this people.  But the cruelty which one meets so often, and especially in the treatment of animals, is almost always misunderstood by the stranger.  It arises from a certain hardness of fibre, which makes the Spaniard indifferent to pain.  And if he is cruel to others, the Spaniard is also cruel to himself.  I know of no people who are as little careful of personal comfort.  Stoicism may be said to be the religion of the true Spaniard.  Every form of asceticism has been practised by him, and to-day there exist brotherhoods whose members flagellate themselves with special instruments made of sharp broken glass till the blood flows, just in the same way as the banderilleros prick the bulls in the ring.

The Spaniards have always shown an interest in blood and a satisfaction in shedding it.  Two centuries ago it was a common custom for lovers to scourge themselves in the streets during Holy Week, to win admiration from their mistresses.  The Spaniard still gains the approval of his women by feats of daring, and the bull-fighter is the idol of the people.

We find an expression of this insistence on pain in the Spanish pictures and sculpture.  Artists in no other country have depicted the sufferings of the Christ and the tortures of martyrs with the same delight of detail.  I recall the pictures of Zurbaran and Ribera, or those agonized images of the Christ by Juan Juni at Valladolid, in which sorrow is carried to a distortion that is almost caricature.  The Spaniard accepts these images; he clothes them with little embroidered skirts and lace petticoats with the naïveté of a child; to him they are the most poignant expression of his religious emotion.

It would seem, then, that in the Spanish character there is not only an indifference to pain, but an actual delight in the emotion of suffering, which prevents an understanding of cruelty.  It is the temperament that makes the martyr and the fanatic.  I remember on one occasion some boys were torturing a young bird, which one boy held by a string tied to its leg.  I offered to buy the bird for a few reales.  At once it was given to me, and I set it free.  But what was the result?  In less than an hour some twenty birds had been caught, fastened to strings, and were brought to me.  No payment was asked: the birds were a gift to the foreign señora.  The boys had not understood at all that I disliked their cruelty; they thought that I had a strange fancy for captive birds.

The incident is characteristic of what the stranger will meet constantly in Spain.  Your driver will flog his mules with the butt-end of his whip—yes, beat them till they fall.  If you remonstrate, he will smile, rarely will he be angry; but never will you make him understand.  Once during a long drive I gained respite for a team of mules at the cost of a bribe of two pesetas.  I know that driver pitied my foolishness.

Yet, let there be no mistake, the Spaniard is not without the tenderer emotions of humanity.  And, after all one has heard of Spanish cruelty, it is interesting to note the signs of gentleness and kindness that meet one in many unexpected ways.  I have never seen any other people so friendly with one another.  The home life of the people, be they rich or poor, is charming, with a standard of kindness that compares favourably with that of other countries.  Domestic crimes are comparatively infrequent.  The Spaniard is known for his considerate love for children, and the relations between parents and children are universally happy.  In no country does less stigma fall upon a child who is born out of wedlock.  One of the strongest impressions I gained during my stay in the Peninsula was the happiness of the charming children.  It is noteworthy that the first hospital for the insane was established in the country of the bull-ring.  The practice of allowing counsel to poor persons in criminal cases is of much older origin than in our own country.  The pest of beggars is another witness to this softness in their character; the Spaniard feels that it is inhuman to refuse alms.

It is when the Spaniard comes into personal relationships that his real native kindness appears.  For his friend he is ready to sacrifice his life—a quality which Strabo notes as belonging to the ancient Iberians.  You will often meet with a curious mingling of cruelty and kindness in the same individual.  I recall a characteristic incident.  An artist friend was sketching in a small town in the province of Old Castile, and upon one occasion was greatly annoyed by a lad who threw sand upon the wet canvas, thereby showing, I suppose, his