en things go wrong, as they so
often do in travelling, or when the leisurely expenditure of time, which
is as natural to the Spaniard as it is irritating to our notions of how
things ought to move, will go infinitely farther to set things right
than black looks and a scolding tongue, even in an unknown language.

When English people come back from Spain complaining of discourtesy, or
what they choose to call insult, I know very well on whose head to fit
the accusing cap, and it is always those people whose super-excellent
opinion of themselves, and of their infinite importance at home, makes
them certain of meeting with some such experience among a people to whom
the mere expression "a snob" is by no means to be understood.

That railway travelling in Spain calls for a great exercise of patience
from those accustomed to Flying Dutchmen and such-like expresses is
quite true; though, by the way, many of the lines are in French hands,
and served by French officials. It may safely be said, however, even at
the present day, that those who are always in a hurry would do well to
choose some other country for their holiday jaunt. A well-known English
engineer, of French extraction, trying to get some business through in
Madrid, once described himself as feeling "like a cat in hell, without
claws." Perhaps the ignorance of the language, which constituted his
clawless condition, was a fortunate circumstance for him. But that was a
good while ago, and Madrid moves more quickly now.

Another characteristic of the Spaniard which awakens the respect and
admiration of those who know enough of his past and present history to
be aware of it is his courage: not in the least resembling the
excitement and rush of mere conflict, nor the theatrical display of what
goes by the name of "glory" among some of his neighbours; but the cool
courage, the invincible determination which holds honour as the ideal to
be followed all the same whether or not any person beyond the actor will
know of it, and an unquestioning obedience to discipline, which call
forth the ungrudging admiration of Englishmen, proud as we are of such
national stories as that of our own _Little Revenge, The Wreck of the
"Birkenhead,"_ or of "plucky little Mafeking," amongst hundreds of
others. Spaniards are rich in such inspiring memories, reaching from the
earliest days of authentic history to the terrible episodes of the late
war with America. The story of Cervera's fleet at