If it be meant as a term of reproach, the Madrileno has an excellent answer in giving the history of its origin.  In the reign of Alfonso VI., during one of the many war-like operations of this King, he wished to take an important and difficult fortress, and had collected all his forces to attack it—­the Madrilenos alone were late; it was, in fact, only the day before the assault was to take place that they arrived upon the scene.  The King was furious, and when their leader approached his Majesty to know where the troops were to bivouac for the night, he replied that there was no room in his camp for laggards; pointing to the enemy’s fortress, he added:  “There will be found plenty of lodging for those who come too late for any other.”  Saluting his Majesty very courteously, the soldier withdrew, understanding thoroughly the indirect sneer at the valour of his troops; he went back to his regiment, summoned his officers and men, and repeated to them the King’s word.  One and all agreed that they would, in fact, seek their night’s lodging just where the King had indicated.  Impossible as the feat appeared, they instantly rushed to the attack of the formidable fortress with such irresistible dash that they succeeded in scaling the walls and entering it, pikes in rest.  The King, who had run forward as soon as he heard of the attack, watched with delight his loyal Madrilenos climbing up the face of the masonry with extraordinary skill, and not a little loss.

“Look, look!” he cried to those near him.  “See how they climb!  They are cats!”

The other forces at once came to their assistance, the fortress fell into the King’s hands before nightfall, and those who had been in “no hurry” to join the army found their lodgings within it, as his Majesty had contemptuously recommended them to do.  His anger was forgotten in admiration and praise; and, from that time, all those born in Madrid have the right to call themselves gatos.

It is curious how the observation of those who know Spain intimately differs—­one must suppose according to temperament.  Thus Antonio Gallenga, the well-known correspondent of the Times, who really knew Spain well, has left it on record that the people are not musical, and that he never remembers to have heard any of them singing in the streets, or at their work.  I do not know how this could have happened, unless our old friend did not recognise the singing he did hear as music, for which he might, perhaps, be forgiven.  My own experience is that the people are always singing, more or less, if you agree to call it so.  As the houses are almost all built in flats, many of the windows open into patios, or court-yards, large or small, as the case may be.  You may reckon on always having two or three servants, male or female, at work in the patio, the women washing or scrubbing, the men probably cleaning their horses, carriages, or harness; but whatever else they may be doing, you