how a corporate unity; you realise, with a
kind of indeterminate fear, the many-headed beast of savage instincts
and of ruthless might. No crowd is more picturesque than the Spanish,
and the dark masculine costume vividly contrasts with the bright
colours of the women, with flowers in their hair and _mantillas_ of
white lace.

But also the tremendous vitality of it all strikes you. Late arrivals
walk along looking for room, gesticulating, laughing, bandying jokes;
vendors of all sorts cry out their goods: the men who sell prawns,
shrimps, and crabs' claws from Cadiz pass with large baskets: '_Bocas,
bocas!_'

The water sellers with huge jars: '_Agua, quien quiere agua? Agua!_'{c}
The word sings along the interminable rows. A man demands a glass and
hands down a halfpenny; a mug of sparkling water is sent up to him. It
is deliciously cool.

The sellers of lottery tickets, offering as usual the first prize:
'_Premio gordo, quien quiere el premio gordo_';{d} or yelling the number
of the ticket: 'Who wants number seventeen hundred and eighty-five for
three _pesetas_?'

And the newsboys add to the din: '_Noticiero! Porvenir!_' Later on
arrives the Madrid paper: '_Heraldo! Heraldo!_'

Lastly the men with stacks of old journals to use as seats: '_A perra
chica, dos periodicos a perra chica!_'{e}

Suddenly there is a great clapping of hands, and looking up you find the
president has come; he is supported by two friends, and all three, with
comic solemnity, wear tall hats and frock coats. They bow to the public.
Bull-fighting is the only punctual thing in Spain, and the president
arrives precisely as the clock strikes half-past four. He waves a
handkerchief, the band strikes up, a door is opened, and the fighters
enter. First come the three _matadors_, the eldest in the middle, the
next on his right, and the youngest on the left; they are followed by
their respective _cuadrillas_, the _banderilleros_, the _capeadors_, the
_picadors_ on horseback, and finally the _chulos_, whose duty it is to
unsaddle dead horses, attach the slaughtered bull to the team of mules,
and perform other minor offices. They advance, gorgeous in their
coloured satin and gold embroidery, bearing a cloak peculiarly folded
over the arm; they walk with a kind of swinging motion, as ordained by
the convention of a century. They bow to the president, very solemnly.
The applause is renewed. They retire to the side, three _picadors_ take
up their places