The description of peasant life in Madrid would be incomplete if we left unmentioned the daily siesta in the sun of the Gallegos and lower-class working-men.  On the benches in the Prado, on the pavement, in the full blaze of the sun, these men will stretch themselves and sleep for an hour or two after their midday meal.  I have seen the Gallego porters make themselves a hammock with the rope they always carry with them—­mozos de cuerda they are called—­literally slinging themselves to the reja or iron bars of the window of some private house, and sleep soundly in a position that would surely kill any other human being.  “Taking the sun” (tomando el sol) is, however, the custom of every Spaniard of whatever degree.

The casual visitor to Madrid is always struck with the number of carriages to be seen in the paseo; but the fact is that everyone keeps a carriage, if it be at all possible, and it is no uncommon thing for two or three pollos to join together in the expense of this luxury, and a sight almost unknown to us is common enough in Madrid—­young men, the “curled darlings” of society, lazily lounging in a Victoria or Berlina in what is known as the “Ladies’ Mile.”  The Madrid pollo is not the most favourable specimen of a Spaniard; the word literally means a “chicken,” but applied to a young man it is scarcely a complimentary expression, and has its counterpart with us in the slang terms which from time to time indicate the idle exquisite who thinks as much of his dress and his style as any woman does or more.  The Madrid pollo often is, or ought to be, a schoolboy, and the younger he is, naturally, the more conceited and impertinent he is.  It is curious that with the feminine termination, this word (polla) loses all sense of banter or contempt; it simply means a young girl in the first charm of her spring-time.

Riding in the Row has always been a favourite pastime in Madrid, but to English ideas the pollo is more objectionable there than elsewhere, since his idea of riding is to show off the antics of a horse specially taught and made to prance about and curvet while he sits it, his legs sticking out in the position of the Colossus of Rhodes, his heels, armed with spurs, threatening catastrophe to the other riders.  An old English master of foxhounds, who was a frequent visitor in Madrid, used to compare the Paseo of the Fuente Castellana at the fashionable hour to a “chevaux de frise on horseback.”  These gentlemen must not, however, be supposed to represent Spanish horsemanship.  Ladies ride a good deal in the Paseo, but one cannot call them good horsewomen.  To get into the saddle from a chair, or a pair of stable steps, and let their steed walk up and down for an hour or so in the Row, is not exactly what we call riding.  If you hire a carriage in Madrid you are so smart that your best friends would not recognise you.  A grand barouche and pair dashes up to your door, probably with a ducal coronet on the panels.  The coachman and footman wear cockades, and the moment you appear they both take off their hats and hold them in their hands until you are seated in the carriage.  This ceremony is repeated every time you alight, the coachman reverently uncovering as you leave the carriage or return to it, as well as the footman who is opening the door for you.