[Illustration:  DRAGGING OUT THE DEAD BULL]

Every night, after his turn at the circus was over poor old Pizarro used to walk home alone under my balcony, open his stable door with his own latch-key, or at least his trunk, and put himself to bed like any Christian.

One of the most fashionable amusements in Madrid is to attend on the morning of the bull-fight while the espadas choose the particular bulls they wish to have as enemy, and affix their colours, the large rosette of ribbon which shows which of the toreros the bull is to meet in deadly conflict.  The bulls are then placed in their iron cages in the order in which they are to enter the arena.  The fashionable ladies and other aficionados of the sport then drive back to Madrid to luncheon and to prepare for the entertainment of the afternoon.

CHAPTER VIII

THE PRESS AND ITS LEADERS

Perhaps there are few countries where the influence of the Press is greater than in Spain, and this is largely due to the fact that while the journals are read by everyone, for a great number of the people they form the only literature.  The free library is not yet universal in the country, though, doubtless, in the near future it may become general.  In the meantime, every imaginable shade of political opinion has its organ; even the Bull-Ring has at least two excellently illustrated newspapers:  and the extra sheets, printed hastily and sold immediately after the corrida has terminated, have an enormous sale.  Deserving of mention is the curious little paper known as the “Night-cap of Madrid,” because it is supposed to be impossible for anyone to go to rest until he has read the late edition, which comes out not long before midnight.  It is said to have no politics, and only pretends to give all the news of the world.  There are many illustrated papers, both comic and serious.  The charmingly artistic little Blanco y Negro, beautifully gotten up, is at the head of all the more dignified illustrated journals of the country.  There are no kiosks; the papers are sold by children or by old women in the streets, and the Madrid night is rent by the appalling cries of these itinerant vendors of literature.  For the Spanish newspaper is always literature, which is a good deal more than can be said for some of the English halfpenny Press.  Whatever may be the politics of the particular journal, its Castellano is perfect; perhaps a little stilted or pompous, but always dignified and well-written.

The journalists of Madrid have a special facility for saying with an air of extreme innocence what they, for various reasons, do not care to express quite openly.  Allegories, little romances, stories of fact full of clever words of “double sense” make known to the initiated, or those who know how to read between the lines, much that might otherwise awaken the disagreeable notice of the censor, when