One thing, at least, is promising among so much that might be put down as “words, words”:  a general agreement as to the wisdom of making the best of the present situation, opposing a firm resistance to any attempt at a return to absolutism on the part of the monarchy, or domination in temporal matters by the Church; but no change, no more pronunciamientos, no more civil wars.  Whenever the political parties of a country merge their differences of opinion in one common cause, the end may be foreseen.  This was what happened in 1868; and if the party of Romero Robledo is what it represents itself to be and holds together, we may hope to see the reign of the young Alfonso XIII. open with good auguries this year (1902), as it seems to be certain that he is to attain his majority two years in advance of the usual time.

The life, political career, and retirement of Emilio Castelar is one of the most pathetic pictures in history, and one altogether Spanish in character.  It was after Amadeo had thrown down his crown, exclaiming, “A son of Savoy does not wear a crown on sufferance!” that the small party of Republicans—­which Prim had said did not exist, and which had in fact only become a party at all during the disastrous period of uncertainty between the expulsion of Isabel II. and the election of the Italian prince—­edged its way to the front, and Castelar became the head of something much worse than a paper constitution—­a republic of visionaries.  Don Quijote de la Mancha himself could scarcely have made a more pure-intentioned yet more unpractical President.  Castelar, with his honest, unsophisticated opinions and theories, his unexampled oratory, which is said to have carried away crowds of men who did not understand or hear a word that he said, with the rhythm of his language, the simple majesty and beauty of his delivery, launched the nation into a government that might have been suited to the angels in heaven, or to what the denizens of this earth may become in far distant aeons of evolution—­a republic of dreams, headed by a dreamer.  The awakening was rude, but it was efficient.  When Castelar found that in place of establishing a millennium of peace and universal prosperity, he had let loose over the land all the elements of disorder and of evil, he had the greatness to acknowledge himself mistaken:  his own reputation never troubled him, and he admitted that the Cortes, from which he had hoped so much, worked evil, not good.  It is said that he himself called on General Pavia, the Captain-General of Madrid, to clear them out.  The deputies—­Castelar had withdrawn—­sat firm:  “Death rather than surrender,” they cried.  Pavia, however, ordered his men to fire once down the empty lobbies, and the hint was enough:  the Cortes dispersed, and Pavia, had he so minded it, might have been military dictator of Spain.  But he had no such ambition, though there were not wanting those who ascribed it to him.

[Illustration:  THE ESCURIAL]