ince in their day; moreover, Pizarro and Cortes owe their birth
to this forgotten land. The inhabitants of the southern provinces of
Spain differ wholly from those of Castile and the north--they have much
more of the Eastern type; in fact, the Valenciano or the Murciano of the
_huerta_, the well-watered soil which the Moors left in such a high
state of cultivation, in manners and appearance are often little
different from the Arab as we know him to-day.

From the gay Andaluz we derive most of our ideas of the Spanish peasant;
but he is a complete contrast to the dignified Castilian or the brusque
Montanese. From this province, given over to song, dancing, and outdoor
life, come--almost without exception--the bull-fighters, whose graceful
carriage, full of power, and whose picturesque costume, make them
remarkable wherever seen. Lively audacity is their special
characteristic. _Sal_ (salt) is their ideal; we have no word which
carries the same meaning. Smart repartee, grace, charm, all are
expressed in the word _Salada_; and _Salero_ (literally, salt-cellar) is
an expression met with in every second song one hears.

Ole Salero! Sin vanidad,
Soy muy bonita, Soy muy Sala!

is the refrain of one of their most characteristic songs, _La moza e
rumbo_, and may be taken as a sample:--

Listen, Salero! without vanity,
I am lovely--I am Salada!

During the _Feria_ at Seville, the upper classes camp out in tents or
huts, and the girls pass their time in singing and dancing, like the
peasantry.

The Valencians are very different, being slow, quiet, almost stupid to
the eye of the stranger, extremely industrious, and wrapped up in their
agricultural pursuits. They fully understand and appreciate the system
of irrigation left by the Moors, which has made their province the most
densely populated and the most prosperous in appearance of all Spain.

A curious survival exists in Valencia in the _Tribunal de las Aguas_,
which is presided over by three of the oldest men in the city; it is a
direct inheritance from the Moors, and from its verdict there is no
appeal.

Every Thursday the old men take their seats on a bench outside one of
the doors of the cathedral, and to them come all those who have disputes
about irrigation, marshalled by two beadles in strange, Old-World
uniforms. When both sides have been heard, the old men put their heads
together under a cloak or _manta_, and agree upon their judgment. The
co