WILD SPAIN

"TWO IBEX-HUNTERS."

(ESPAÑA AGRESTE)

RECORDS OF

SPORT   WITH   RIFLE,   ROD,   AND   GUN,
NATURAL   HISTORY   AND   EXPLORATION



BY
ABEL CHAPMAN, F.Z.S.
AUTHOR OF "BIRD-LIFE OF THE BORDERS"

AND

WALTER J. BUCK, C.M.Z.S., of Jerez

WITH 174 ILLUSTRATIONS, MOSTLY BY THE AUTHORS

LONDON
GURNEY AND JACKSON, 1, PATERNOSTER ROW
(Successors To Mr. Van Voorst)
1893

LONDON:
PRINTED BY WOODFALL AND KINDER,
70 TO 76, LONG ACRE, W.C.

IN "Wild Spain" we endeavour to describe a little-known land from a point of view hitherto almost unoccupied—that of the sportsman-naturalist. Many books have been written on Spain—some very good ones: but recent volumes chiefly confine themselves to the history, antiquities, architecture, &c., of the country, with their authors' impressions of the Spanish people. Such subjects find no place—save incidentally—in the present work, which systematically avoids the beaten track and essays to depict some of the unknown and more remote regions.

During more than twenty years the authors have undertaken sporting expeditions into various parts of Spain—chiefly in Andalucia, but including, at one time or another, nearly all the western provinces from the Mediterranean to Biscay. A love of wild sport has been, perhaps, the leading motive; but the study of natural history has hardly been of secondary importance. In pursuit of these twin objects we have spared neither time nor trouble, spending weeks—sometimes months—at a time, in the sierras and wildernesses of Spain, bivouacing wherever night overtook us, or the chances of sport might dictate, and camping-out on the glorious snow-clad cordilleras.

Our subjects are the wild-life and feræ naturæ of the Peninsula—including in the latter expression, by a slight stretch of the term, the brigand and the gypsy, with remarks on agriculture as cognate and supplementary. As far as convenient, the sequence of chapters follows the change of the seasons, commencing with spring-time. Hence the earlier part of the book is more concerned with natural history—though the pursuit of ibex and bustard may be followed in spring; while the latter half is more exclusively devoted to sport.

Long residence in Spain has afforded opportunities which are not available to the casual traveller. Especially is this the case with sport, of which we have, at times, enjoyed some of the best that Spain affords. But it should be remarked that many of the shooting campaigns herein described have been on private and preserved grounds; and, while we naturally select the more fortunate records, we pass over in silence many a blank day and fruitless effort. Nearly all ground on which large game is found, is preserved, with the exception of remote parts of the sierras, where wild pig and roe may be shot, and those higher mountain-ranges which form the home of ibex and chamois; moreover, while indicating in general terms the distribution of the various games and other animals, we have in many instances avoided naming precise localities.

In describing a foreign land, it is impossible entirely to avoid the use of foreign terms for which, in many cases, no precise equivalents exist in English: but, to minimize this drawback, we append a glossary of all Spanish words used herein. Conversely, lest Spanish readers should misinterpret the title of this book, we have added a translation in the terms España Agreste.

The illustrations consist of reproductions, either from photographs or from rough sketches in pen-and-ink and water-colours by the authors, whose only merit lies in their essaying to represent in their native haunts some of the least-known birds and beasts of Europe, several of which, it is probable, have never before been drawn from the life. If some of these sketches are not as satisfactory as we could have wished, the difficulties under which they were produced may serve as some excuse. At the last moment we have had some of them "translated" in London by Messrs. C. M. Sheldon and A. T. Elwes, and are also indebted to Miss M. E. Crawhall for several sepia-drawings made by her in Spain.

It had been our intention to append a list of the birds of Spain, with their Spanish names and short notes on each species; but this we find would exceed our limits, and moreover the blanks and "missing links" still remain so numerous that we have abandoned—or at least deferred—that part of our programme. This may explain a certain want of continuity or coherence, in an ornithological sense.

We are indebted to Lord Lilford and to Messrs. J. C. Forster and Ralph W. Bankes for several valuable notes and assistance, also to Admiral Sir M. Culme-Seymour for photographs taken in "Wild Spain"; while we cannot sufficiently express our gratitude to Mr. Howard Saunders, who has in the kindest manner gone through the proof-sheets, and whose long experience and intimate knowledge of Spain have been most generously placed within our reach. For any serious mistakes which may remain, the authors must be solely responsible.

December 31st, 1892.

AN OLD-WORLD CORNER OF EUROPE.

Andalucia and her Mountain-barriers.

Among European countries Spain stands unique in regard to the range of her natural and physical features. In no other land can there be found, within a similar area, such extremes of scene and climate as characterize the 400 by 400 miles of the Iberian Peninsula. Switzerland has alpine regions loftier and more imposing, Russia vaster steppes, and Norway more arctic scenery: but nowhere else in Europe do arctic and tropic so nearly meet as in Spain. Contrast, for example, the stern grandeur of the Sierra Nevada, wrapped in eternal snow, with the almost tropical luxuriance of the Mediterranean shores which lie at its feet.

Nor is any European country so largely abandoned to nature: nature in wildest primeval garb, untouched by man, untamed and glorious in pristine savagery. The immense extent of rugged sierras which intersect the Peninsula partly explains this; but a certain sense of insecurity and a hatred of rural life inherent in the Spanish breast are still more potent factors. The Spanish people, rich and poor, congregate in town or village, and vast stretches of the "campo," as they call it, are thus left uninhabited, despoblados—relinquished to natural conditions, to the wild beasts of the field and the birds of the air. Perhaps in this respect the semi-savage regions of the far East, the provinces of the Balkans and of classic Olympus, most nearly approach, though they cannot rival, the splendid abandonment of rural Spain. And as a nation, the Spanish people vary inter se in almost the same degree. It is, in fact, that characteristic of Iberia which is reflected in the picturesque diversity of the Iberians.

One cause which tends to explain these divergences, racial and physical, is the exceptionally high mean elevation of the Peninsula above sea-level. Spain is a highland plateau; a huge table-mountain, intersected by ranges of still loftier mountains, but devoid of low-land over a large proportion of its area, save in certain river-valleys and in the comparatively narrow strips of land, or alluvial belts, that adjoin the sea-board—chiefly in its southernmost province, Andalucia.

Few nations live at so great an average elevation. The cities of London, Paris, Berlin, St. Petersburg, all the Scandinavian capitals, and even Lisbon, stand at, or a little above, sea-level; Vienna, Moscow, and Dresden have elevations of only a few hundred feet; but Madrid is perched at 2,384 feet, with the snow-fields of Guadarrama overlooking the Puerta del Sol, while a large area of Central Spain, comprising the Castiles, Aragon and Navarre, is of even greater altitude. Thus Burgos stands at 2,873 feet; Segovia, 2,299; Granada, 2,681; and the Escorial at 3,686 feet.

These central table-lands, exposed to a tropical sun, become torrid, tawny deserts in summer; in winter—owing rather to rarefied air than to very low temperatures—they are subject to a severity of cold unknown in our more temperate clime, and to biting blasts from the Alpujarras, the Guadarrama, and other mountain ranges which intersect the uplands, and on which snow lies throughout the year, contrasting strangely in the dog-days with the pitiless heat of summer and the intensity of the azure background.

Of different type is the mountain region of the north—the Cantabrian Highlands bordering on Biscay, the Basque Provinces, Galicia and the Asturias, offshoots of the Pyrenean system. There the country is almost Scandinavian in type, with deeply rifted valleys, rapid salmon-rivers, and rushing mountain-torrents abounding in trout; and an alpine fauna including the chamois and bear, ptarmigan, hazel-grouse, and capercaillie. That is a land of rock, snow, and mist-wreath, of birch and pine-forest: abrupt and untilled, wind-swept and wet as a West Highland moor, the very antithesis of the smiling province which most concerns us now—Andalucia. This, more African than Africa, in spring, autumn and winter is a paradise, the huerta of Europe, low-lying and protected by the sierras of Nevada and Morena from the deadly breath of the central plateau; but in the four summer months an infierno, where every green thing is burnt up by a fiery sun, where shade is not, and where life is only endurable by discarding European habits and adopting those of Moorish or Oriental races.

AN ANDALUZ.

Naturally such contrasts of climate and country re-act upon the character of the denizens—be they human or feræ naturæ—of a land which includes within its boundaries nearly all the physical conditions of Europe and Northern Africa. But it is the peculiar mental cast and temperament of the Spanish race, as much as the physical causes alluded to, that have developed those clean-cut differences that to-day distinguish the various Iberian provinces. It is the self-sufficiency, the "provincialism," and careless unthinking disposition of the individual, as much as mountain-barriers, that have separated adjacent provinces as effectually as broad oceans.

A GRANADINO.

BASQUE PEASANT.

Though springing from a common root, i.e., the blend of Roman and Phœnician blood with the aboriginal tribes of Iberia, the vicissitudes of twelve centuries of history, with its successive foreign invasions and occupations, have materially modified the racial characteristics of the Spanish people. The Latin element still predominates, both in type and tongue: but Semitic, Aryan, and even Turanian strains are all present. The Spanish nation of to-day is composed rather of a congeries of heterogeneous peoples and provinces, once separate kingdoms, and still incapable of coherence or of fusion into a concrete whole, than of sections of a single race. Compare the sturdy and industrious, albeit somewhat phlegmatic, Galician, the happy despised bondsman, the hewer of wood and drawer of water of the Peninsula, with the gay and careless Andaluz who spurns and derides him: or the fiery temperament of aristocratic Castile and Navarre with the commercial instincts of Catalonia and the north-east. Probably the most perfect example of natural nobility is afforded by the peasant proprietor of pastoral Leon; then there is a pelt-clad, root-grubbing homo sylvestris peculiar to Estremenian wilds, who awaits attention of ethnologists. There are the Basques of Biscay—Tartar-sprung or Turanian, Finnic or surviving aborigines, let philologists decide; at any rate, a race by themselves, distinct in dress and habit, in laws and language, from all the rest. Reserved, but courteous and reliable, the Basques are dangerously ready for their much-prized fueros to plunge their country in civil war.[1] The differences which to-day distinguish these allied races are as deep and defined as those which stand between themselves and the foreigner of alien blood. But we are rambling, and must remember that in this chapter we only propose to deal with

Andalucia.

Often and well as in bygone days this sunny province has been described, yet the modern life and nineteenth-century conditions of rural Andalucia are now comparatively unknown—have fallen into oblivion amid the more ambitious and eventful careers of other countries. And, indeed, there is needed the genius of a Cervantes or a Ford adequately to depict or portray the quaint and picturesque ensemble of this old-world corner of Europe, so distinct from all the rest, and unchanged since the days of Don Quixote. Spain, the land of anomaly and paradox, is a complex theme not lightly to be understood or described by aliens, albeit possessed of that first qualification, the passport to every Spanish heart—a sympathetic nature. Around the country and its people, around everything Spanish, there hangs, in our eyes, a grace and an infinite charm; but it is a subtle charm, hardly to be described or defined in words of ours.

The very inertia, the mediæval conditions thinly veneered, which characterize modern Andalucia in an era of insensate haste and self-assertion, prove to some a solace and a fascination. There are not wanting minds which, amidst different environments, can enjoy and admire such primitive simplicity—stagnation, if you will—and find therein a grateful and refreshing change. In Southern Spain life is dreamed away in sunshine and in an atmosphere forgetful of the present, but redolent of the past. The modern Andaluz is content de s'écouter vivre, while the ancient chivalry of his race and his land's romantic history is evidenced by crumbling castle on each towering height; by the palace-fortresses and magnificent ecclesiastical fabrics of the middle ages: while the abandoned aqueducts, disused highways and broken bridges of the Roman period, attest a bygone energy.

Plate II. RELICS OF THE MOORS—RUINS OF THE WATCH-TOWER OF MÉLGAREJO. Page 6.

Andalucia is a land of vine-clad slopes and olivares; of boundless prairies and corn lands where rude old-world tillage leaves undisturbed the giant of European game-birds, the Great Bustard, pushed back by modern cultivation from northern fields; a land of vast trackless heaths aromatic of myrtle and mimosa, lentisk and palmetto, alternating with park-like self-sown woods of cork-oak and chestnut, ilex and wild olive, carpeted between in spring-time with wondrous wealth of flowers—lonely scenes, rarely traversed save by the muleteer. For Spain is a land where the mule and donkey still represent the chief means of transport—not yet, nor for many a year, to be displaced by steam and rail. Through every mountain-pass, along every glen of her sierras, across each scrub-clad plain and torrid dehesa, still file long teams of laden pack animals urged townwards by sullen muleteer: or, when returning to his pueblo among the hills, himself and beasts in happier mood, and sitting sideways on the hind-most, he sings his songs of love and wrong, no tune or words of modern ring, but those in which the history of his race is told; now sinking to a dirge-like cadence, anon in high-pitched protests of defiance—songs that ever have been sung since the Arab held his sway over a proud but conquered people. Truly the arriero is a type of rural Spain: his monotonous chant, and the gaudy trappings of his mule-team appearing and disappearing with every winding of the mountain-track, bespeak the spirit of the sierra. In all these and in a host of cognate scenes and sounds, in the grandeur of untamed nature, and in the freedom and inborn grace of a rarely favoured people, there springs a perennial charm to the traveller, a restful refreshing draught of laissez faire, and a glimpse into a long-past epoch that can hardly be enjoyed elsewhere in Europe. Here of old fierce fights were fought for this rich prize in soil and climate; its fabled fertility attracting hither in turn the legions of Rome, the Goths, and, last, the Moorish hordes, to conquer and to hold for seven hundred years.

FAIR SEVILLAÑAS.

The Province of Andalucia with its corn-plains and vineyards, orange and olive-groves, barren wastes and lonely marismas, covers a stretch of three hundred miles from east to west, and half that extent in depth; and is bounded—save on the Atlantic front—by an unbroken circle of sierras. Commencing at Tarifa on the south, the mountain-barrier is carried past Gibraltar and Malaga to the Sierra Nevada, whose snow-clad summits reach 12,000 feet; and beyond, on the east, by the Almerian spurs. Nestling in the lap of this long southern range lies the narrow belt of "Africa in Europe," above alluded to, where, secured from northern winds and facing the blue Mediterranean, grow even cotton and the sugar-cane; while the date-palm, algarrobo or carob-tree, the banana, quince, citron, lemon, and pomegranate, with other sub-tropical plants, flourish in this Spanish Riviera. Then, from the easternmost point of the province, the Sagres Mountains continue the rock-barrier to the point where the Sierra Morena separates the sunny life of Andalucia from the barrenness of La Mancha and primitive Estremadura. These grim and almost unbroken solitudes of the Sierra Morena form the entire northern boundary, continued by the Sierra de Aroche to the frontier of Portugal, and thence, by a lesser chain, to the Atlantic once more. The short coastline between Trafalgar and Huelva thus forms, as it were, the only opening to this favoured land, secure in a mountain-setting—the gem for which contending races fought for centuries, and from whose southernmost rock the British flag floats over the bristling battlements of Gibraltar.

To see Andalucia, the traveller must ride. In a wide and wild land, where distances are great and the heat greater, where roads, rail, and bridges exist not, the saddle is the only means of locomotion. In Spain nothing can be done on foot: in a land of caballeros even the poorest bestrides his borrico. The traveller becomes an integral part of his beast, and his resting-place, the village posada, is half-inn, half-stable, where he must provide for the needs of his four-footed friend before he thinks of his own. A ride through the wilder regions, and especially among the sierras, involves, however, an amount of forethought and provision that, to those unacquainted with the cosas de España, would be well nigh incredible. In the open country no one lives, and nothing can be obtained, or, at least, it is unsafe to rely on it for anything. Thus one is obliged to carry from the town all the necessaries of life—an elastic, indefinite expression, it is true. What serves amply for one man may imply discomfort and misery to another: still, there remains for all an irreducible minimum, and only those who have tested their requirements in the field know how numerous and bulky remains this absolutely indispensable "balance." First there is provend for the beasts; heavy sacks of grain, straw, &c., necessitating mules to carry them, and this, in turn, nearly doubling the quantity. Thus an expedition of a fortnight or so signifies nothing less than the transport of huge mule-loads of impedimenta, the most bulky of which are for the use of the beasts themselves: though the indispensables for their riders are considerable—bread, meat, eggs and oranges, skins of wine, and, in most cases, tents with all the paraphernalia of camp-outfit, cooking apparatus, and the rest.

Burdened with all this cargo, and in a rough country where each traveller makes his own road—since no others exist—progress is slow: through jungle, broken ground or wood, the wayfarer steers by compass, landmark, or instinct—sometimes by the lack of the latter, as he finds too late. Deep bits of bog and frequent lagoons must be circumvented, and rivers forded where no "fords" exist: an operation which, owing to the deep mud and treacherous ground bordering the sluggish southern rivers, often involves off-loading, carrying across in detail, and restowing on the other bank—a troublesome business, especially after dark.

In this land of surprises, the pays de l'imprévu, it is the unexpected that always occurs. Seldom does a ride through the wilder regions of Spain pass without incident. Thus once we were carried off as prisoners by the Civil Guard—not having with us our cédulas de vecindad—and taken forty miles for the purpose of identification: or the way may be intercepted by that fraternity whose ideas of meum and tuum are somewhat mixed; or, worse still, as twice happened to us, by a fighting bull. One toro bravo, having escaped in a frenzy of rage from a herd whose pasturage had been moved fifty miles up the country, was occupying a narrow cactus-hedged lane near his old haunts, and completely barred the way, attacking right and left all who appeared on the scene. Warning of the danger ahead was given us at a wayside shanty where the ventero and his wife had sought refuge on the roof. Nothing remained but to clear the way and rid the district of a dangerous brute already maddened by a wound with small shot. Leaving the horses in safety, we proceeded on foot to the attack, two of us strategically covering the advance behind the shelter of the cactus; while our cazador, José Larrios, boldly strode up the lane. No sooner had he appeared round a bend in the fence than the bull was in full charge. A bullet from the "flank gun," luckily placed, staggered him, and a second from José, crashing on his lowered front, at five yards, ended his career. When the authorities sent out next morning to bring in the meat, nothing was found remaining except the horns and the hoofs! On another occasion, when driving tandem into the town of P——, we met, face to face, a novillo or three-year-old bull which, according to a custom of tauromachian Spain, was being baited in the public streets. We only escaped by driving across the shrubberies and flower-beds of the Alameda. In the former case we received the thanks of the municipality: in the other, were condemned to pay a fine![2]

Another ride was saddened by finding on the wayside the body of a murdered man; his mule stood patiently by, and there we left them in the gloom of gathering night. On all the bye-ways of Spain, and along the bridle-paths of the sierras, one sees little memorial tablets or rude wooden crosses, bearing silent witness to such deeds of violence, according to Spanish custom:—

On more than one occasion our armed hunting-expeditions in the wilds have been mistaken—not perhaps without reason, so far as external appearances go—for a gang of mala gente; and their sudden appearance has struck dire dismay in the breasts of peaceful peasants and arrieros, with convoys of corn-laden donkeys, till reassured by the brazen voice of Blas or Antonio—"Olé, amigos! Aquí no hay mano negra, ni blanca tampoco!"—which we give in Spanish, as it is not readily translatable at once into English and sense. On two occasions in the Castiles has our advent to some hamlet of the sierra been hailed with joy as that of a strolling company of acrobats! "Mira los Titeres!—Here come the mountebanks!" sing out the ragged urchins of the plaza, as our cavalcade with its tent-poles, camp-gear, and, to them, foreign-looking baggage, filed up the narrow street.

It is, however, unnecessary here to recapitulate all the curious incidents of travel, nor to recount the difficulties and troubles by which the wayfarer in Spanish wilds may find himself beset—many such incidents will be found related hereinafter. Sport and the natural beauties of this unknown land are ample reward, and among the other attractions of Andalucian travel may be numbered that of at least a spice of the spirit of adventure.

This flavour of danger gives zest to many a distant ramble: of personal molestation we have luckily had but little experience, although at times associated in sport with serranos of more than dubious repute, for the Spaniard is loyal to his friend. At intervals the country has been seething with agrarian discontent and sometimes with overt rebellion. On more than one occasion the bullets have been whistling pretty freely about the streets, and the surrounding campiña was, for the time, practically in the hands of an armed, lawless peasantry. In addition to these exceptional but recurrent periods of turmoil and anarchist frenzy, there exists a permanent element of lawlessness in the contrabandistas from the coast, who permeate the sierras in all directions with their mule-loads of tobacco, cottons, ribbons, threads, and a thousand odds and ends, many of which have run the blockade of the "lines" of Gibraltar. The propinquity—actual or imaginary—of mala gente, often causes real inconvenience while camping in the sierra, such as the necessity of seeking at times the insectiferous refuge of some village posada instead of enjoying the freedom of the open hill; or of having to put out the fire at nightfall, which prevents the cooking of dinner, preparing specimens, or writing up notes, &c.

A CHOZA: THE HOME OF THE ANDALUCIAN PEASANT.

As the sinuous, ill-defined mule-track leaves the plain and strikes the rising ground, the signs of man's presence become rapidly scarcer; for none, save the very poorest, live outside the boundaries of town or village. For mile after mile the track traverses the thickets of wild olive and lentiscus; here a whole hillside glows with the pink bloom of rhododendron, or acres of asphodel clothe a barren patch; but not so much as a solitary choza, the rude reed-built hut of a goatherd, can be seen. Now the path merges in the bed of some winter torrent, rugged and boulder-strewn, but shaded with bay and laurestinus, and a fringe of magnificent oleanders; anon we flounder through deep deposits of alluvial mud bordered by waving brakes of giant canes and briar, presently to strike again the upward track through evergreen forests of chestnut and cork-oak.

The silence and solitude of hours—that perfect loneliness characteristic of highland regions—is broken at last by a human greeting so unexpected and startling, that the rider instinctively checks his horse, and grasps the gun which hangs in the slings by his side. But alarm is soon allayed as a pair of Civil Guards on their well-appointed mounts emerge from some sheltering thicket, and command the way. The guardias civiles patrol the Spanish hills in pairs by day and night, for it is through the passes of the sierra that the inland towns are supplied with contraband from the coast, and all travellers are subject to the scrutiny of these sharp-eyed cavalry. Yet, despite the vigilance of this fine corps and their coadjutors the carbineers, the smuggler manages to live and to drive a thriving trade. Possessing a beast of marvellous agility and tried endurance, he carries his cargo of cottons or tobacco—the unexcised output of Málaga or Gibraltar—across the sierras, by devious paths and break-neck passes which would appear impracticable, save to a goat; and this, too, generally by night.

Towns are few and far between among the mountains, and the rare villages often cluster picturesquely on the ridge of some stupendous crag like eagles' eyries: positions chosen for their strength centuries ago, and nothing changes in Spain. It is not considered safe for well-to-do people to live on their possessions of cork-woods and cattle-runs, and few of that class are ever to be seen in the sierras, while those whom business or necessity takes from one town to another naturally choose the route which is, as they term it, "más acompañado," i.e., most frequented, even though it be three times as long—in Spanish phrase, "no hay atajo sin trabajo." A wanderer from these veredas is looked upon with a suspicion which experience has shown is not ill-founded.

Plate III. PAIR OF CIVIL GUARDS—JEREZ. Page 14.

One evidence of human presence is, however, inevitably in sight—the blue, curling smoke of the charcoal-burners, the sign of a wasteful process that is ruthlessly destroying the silent beauties of the sierra. Every tree, shrub, or bush has to go to provide fuel for the universal puchero. No other firing is used for kitchen purposes; no houses, save a few of the richest, have fireplaces or cooking-apparatus other than the charcoal anafe—with its triple blow-holes, through which the smouldering embers are fanned with a grass-woven mat (see cut at p. 22)—and its accompaniments, the casuela and clay olla. The mountain forest is his only resource: yet the careless Andaluz never dreams of the future, or of planting trees to replace those he burns to-day.

Hence year by year the land becomes ever more treeless, barren, and naked; whole hill-ranges which only twenty years ago were densely clad with thickets of varied growth, the lair of boar and roe, are now denuded and disfigured. The blackened circle, the site of a charcoal-furnace, attests the destructive handiwork of man. If one expostulates with the carboneros, or laments the destruction wrought, their reply is always the same:—"The land will now become tierra de pan," or corn-land, of which there is already more than enough for the labour available.

In some upland valley one comes across a colony of carboneros who have settled down on some clearing under agreement with the owner to cut and prepare for market. These woodmen are either paid so much per quintal, or obtain the use of the land in return for clearing and reducing it into order for corn-growing. No rent is asked for the first five years, or if any be paid, a portion of the crop is usually the landlord's share. During the first few years, these disafforested lands are highly productive, the virgin soil, enriched by carbonized refuse, yielding as much as sixty bushels to the acre. The carboneros lead a lonely life, except when their sequestered colony is enlivened by the arrival of the arrieros with their donkey-teams, to load up the produce for the nearest towns.

Fortunately for the Spanish forests, there are two circumstances that tend to limit their destruction. First there is the value of the cork-oak; for, besides its bark, which is stripped and sold every seven years, its crops of acorns fatten droves of shapely black swine during autumn and winter, and a substance is obtained beneath the bark which is used in curing leather. Hence the forests of noble alcornoques escape the ruthless hatchet of the carbonero. The other limit is the cost of transport which restricts his operations to within a certain distance of the towns which form his market. Beyond this radius the forests retain their native pristine beauty: under their shade are pastured herds of cattle, and a rude hut, built of undressed stones and thatched with reeds, forms the lonely casa of the herdsman. By day and night he guards his cattle or goats, often having to sleep on the hill, or under the scant shelter of a lentisco, for which he receives about eightpence a day, with an allowance of bread, oil, salt, and vinegar. His wife and children of course share his lonely lot, their only touch with the outer world being a chance visit, once or twice a year, to their native village.

Our rough friend, clad in leather or woolly sheepskin, is a sportsman by nature, and can "hold straight" on his favourite quarry, the rabbit, whose habits he thoroughly understands. The walls of his hut are seldom unadorned with an ancient fowling-piece: generally a converted "flinter," modernized with percussion lock, and having an enormous exterior spring for its motive power. When the long, honey-combed barrel has been duly fed with Spanish powder from his cork-stoppered cow's horn, the quantity settled by eye-measurement in the palm of his hand, a wisp of palmetto leaf well rammed home, and a similar process gone through with the shot from a leather pouch, he may be trusted to give a good account of darting bunny or rattle-winged red-leg. Poor fellow! the respect and love he bears for his old favourite receive a rude shock when the power of modern combinations of wood-powder, choke-bore, and Purdey barrels have been successfully and successively demonstrated. But it is only after repeated proofs that his lifelong faith in the unique powers of that old escopeta begins to shake.

Then it is a study to watch that bronzed and swarthy face, after a long and clean right-and-left, and deep is the concentrated expressiveness of the single untranslatable word he utters. The first opportunity is taken to have a quiet examination of the English gun and cartridges, and with what respect he handles these latest developments of power and precision! One cannot help fearing that upon his next miss some particle of mistrust may, with a sportsman's facility of excuse, find the fault in his old and trusted friend: or that his ever-ready explanation, "las polvoras estaban frias," i.e., the powder was cold! will be associated with treasonable doubts of his old Brown Bess. We hope not. Good, honest fellow, may he ever remain content and satisfied with the old gun, for it affords almost the only solace of his lonely life!

In this rough herdsman there beats the kindliest heart: there exist the best feelings of hospitality as he offers you, a brother sportsman, the shelter of his hut and a share of his humble fare, offered with the simple unaffected ease of an equal, and the natural grace characteristic of his class throughout the south of Spain.

Besides these humble and harmless inhabitants, the Spanish sierras have also ever afforded a refuge for the brigand and outlaw, and many deeds of murder and violence are associated with these wild regions. Until the year 1889 the mountain land was dominated by two famous villains known as Vizco el Borje and Melgarez, his lieutenant, who commanded a band of desperadoes, the scourge and dread of the whole southern sierra, from Gibraltar to Almería. Vizco el Borje held human life cheap: he stuck at no murder, though he sought not bloodshed, for his tactics were to take alive and hold to ransom. All sorts of tales are told of the courage and generosity of this Spanish Robin Hood. Vizco el Borje robbed only from the rich, and was profuse in the distribution of money and plunder among the peasantry. But whatever redeeming features may have existed in this robber chief, Melgarez, his lieutenant, is a very fiend of malice and cruelty, revelling in bloodshed and revolting butcheries.[4]

To those unacquainted with Spain, "la tierra de vice versâ," as they themselves call it, it must appear a mystery how this robber-band could remain at large, practical masters of great areas, in defiance of law and order, and of the civil and military power of Spain. But there is less difficulty for those who can see to read between the lines, in a land where, according to one of their own authors, every one has his price, that protection is afforded to the outlaws by those in place and power, on condition that they and their properties remain unmolested.[5]

In another chapter we will relate a couple of episodes which have occurred within our personal knowledge, and which will serve to illustrate the robbers' methods of procedure, and the condition of personal security among the sierras of Southern Spain.

A WATER-CARRIER.

Plate IV. DAUGHTERS OF ANDALUCIA. Page 19.

The wayfarer has been travelling all day across the scrub-clad wastes, fragrant with rosemary and wild thyme, without perhaps seeing a human being beyond a stray shepherd or a band of nomad gypsies encamped amidst the green palmettos. Towards night he reaches some small village where he seeks the rude posada. He sees his horse provided with a good feed of barley and as much broken straw as he can eat. He is himself regaled with one dish—probably the olla, or a guiso (stew) of kid, either of them, as a rule, of a rich red-brick hue from the colour of the red pepper, or capsicum in the chorizo or sausage, which is an important (and potent) component of most Spanish dishes. The steaming olla will presently be set on a low table before the large wood-fire, and, with the best of crisp white bread and wine, the traveller enjoys his meal in company with any other guest that may have arrived at the time—be he muleteer or hidalgo. What a fund of information may be picked up during that promiscuous supper—there will be the housewife, the barber and the Padre of the village, perhaps a goatherd come down from the mountains, a muleteer, and a charcoal-burner or two, each ready to tell his own tale, or enter into friendly discussion with the Inglés. Then, as you light your breva, a note or two struck on the guitar fall on ears predisposed to be pleased.

How well one knows those first few opening notes! No occasion to ask that it may go on: it will all come in time, and one knows there is a merry evening in prospect. One by one the villagers drop in, and an ever-widening circle is formed around the open hearth; rows of children collect, even the dogs draw around to look on. The player and the company gradually warm up till couplet after couplet of pathetic "malagueñas" follow in quick succession. These songs are generally topical, and almost always extempore: and as most Spaniards can—or rather are anxious to—one enjoys many verses that are very prettily as well as wittily conceived.

DANCERS WITH CASTANETS.

But the girls must dance, and find no difficulty in getting partners to join them. The malagueñas cease, and one or perhaps two couples stand up, and a pretty sight they afford! Seldom does one see girl-faces so full of fun and so supremely happy, as they adjust the castanets, and one damsel steps aside to whisper something sly to a sister or friend. And now the dance commences: observe there is no slurring or attempt to save themselves in any movement. Each step and figure is carefully executed, but with easy spontaneous grace and precision, both by the girl and her partner.

Though two or more pairs may be dancing at once, each is quite independent of the others, and only dance to themselves: nor do the partners ever touch each other.[6] The steps are difficult and somewhat intricate, and there is plenty of scope for individual skill, though grace of movement and supple pliancy of limb and body are almost universal and are strong points in dancing both the fandango and minuet. Presently the climax of the dance approaches. The notes of the guitar grow faster and faster: the man—a stalwart shepherd lad—leaps and bounds around his pirouetting partner, and the steps, though still well ordered and in time, grow so fast one can hardly follow their movements.

THE VILLAGE POSADA.

Now others rise and take the places of the first dancers, and so the evening passes: perhaps a few glasses of aguardiente are handed round—certainly much tobacco is smoked—the older folks keep time to the music with hand-clapping, and all is good nature and merriment.

What is it that makes the recollection of such evenings so pleasant? Is it merely the fascinating simplicity of the music and freedom of the dance; is it the spectacle of those weird, picturesque groups, bronze-visaged men and dark-eyed maidens, all lit up by the blaze of the great wood-fire on the hearth and low-burning oil-lamp suspended from the rafters? Perhaps it is only the remembrance of many happy evenings spent among these same people since our boyhood. This we can truly say, that when at last you turn in to sleep you feel happy and secure among a peasantry with whom politeness and sympathy are the only passports required to secure to you both friendship and protection if required. Nor is there a pleasanter means of forming some acquaintance with Spanish country life and customs than a few evenings spent thus at farm-house or village-inn in any retired district of laughter-loving Andalucia.

Late one March evening we encamped on the spurs of a great Andalucian sierra. Away in the west, beyond the rolling prairie across which we had been riding all day, the sun was slowly sinking from view, and to the eastward the massive pile of San Christoval reflected his gorgeous hues in a soft rosy blush, which mantled its snow-streaked summit. Below in the valley we could discern the little white hermitage of La Aina, once the prison of a British subject, a Mr. Bonnell, who, captured in 1870[7] near Gibraltar, was carried thither by sequestradores, and concealed in this remote spot till the stipulated ransom had been lodged by the Governor of Gibraltar in the consulate at Cadiz: an incident which led to unpleasant correspondence between the British and Spanish Governments, and which was luckily closed by the tragic deaths of all the offenders.

These miscreants had also formed a plan for an attack upon a private house at Utrera; but their intentions having become known (through treachery) to the Civil Guards, the latter surrounded the house, and drove the robbers into the patio, where a simultaneous volley terminated the careers of the whole crew. For advancing the ransom, £6,000 (which, after various adventures, involving more bloodshed, fell finally into the hands of a fresh robber-gang), the then Governor of Gibraltar was freely "hauled over the coals" in the House of Commons at the time.

Wild tales of similar bearing beguiled the dark hours in the gloom of the forest where our big fire burned cheerily. Despite a fine, warm, winter climate, the Andalucian atmosphere is chilly enough after sundown, and we were glad to draw up close around the blazing logs, where a savoury olla was cooking: and afterwards, while enjoying our cigarettes and that delicious "natural" wine of Spain which the British public, like a spoilt child, first cries for and then abuses.

Towards nine o'clock the moon rose, and we continued our journey along the dark defiles of the sierra, pushing a way through evergreen thicket, or silent forest, where the startling cries of the eagle-owl outraged the stillness of night. As far as one could see by the dim moonlight, our course alternated for a long distance between a boulder-strewn ravine and a glacis of smooth sloping rock, steep as a roof, and more suited to the nocturnal gambols of cats than for horsemen. But the Andalucian jaca is hardly less sure of foot, and in due course we emerged into a more level valley, where, after riding some miles beneath huge cork-oaks and ilex, we heard at length the distant challenge of our friend Gaspár's big mastiff, and soon the long ride was over, and we entered the portals of the rancho which for the succeeding week was to be our home.

Here we were confronted by a nuisance in the non-arrival of the commissariat. The pack-mules, despatched two days in advance, had not turned up. It transpired that the men, loitering away the daylight, as is the custom in Andalucia (and elsewhere), had lost the way in the darkness, almost immediately after leaving the last vestiges of a track, and had bivouaced among the scrub awaiting the break of day. Our resources for the night were thus limited to the scanty contents of the alforjas (saddle-bags). We had, however, each provided ourselves with a big sackful of chaff at the last outpost of the corn-lands—chaff, or rather broken straw, being the staple food of the Spanish horse; and these now formed our beds, though their softness decreased nightly by reason of the constant inroads on their substance made by our Rosinantes. Otherwise the naked stone-paved room was absolutely innocent of either furniture or food; yet we were happy enough, as, rolled in our mantas, we lay down to sleep on those long pokes.

"FURNITURE."

Early in the morning the mountaineers began to assemble in the courtyard of the rancho. Light of build as a rule, sinewy, and bronzed to a copper hue, looking as if their very blood was parched and dried up by tobacco and the fierce southern sun, and with narajas stuck in their scarlet waistbands, these wild men might each have served as a melodramatic desperado. Three brothers of our host had ridden up from a distant farm; there was old Christoval, the ready-witted squatter on the adjoining rancho, a cheery old fellow, carrying fun and laughter wherever he went; last came the Padre from the nearest hill-village (Paterna), whose sporting instinct had made light work of the long and early ride across the sierra to join our batida. Alonzo, the herdsman, who added to his pastoral knowledge an intimate acquaintance with the wild beasts of his native mountains, was placed in command of the beaters, a motley, picturesque group with their leathern accoutrements and scarlet fajas. Of dogs, we had four podencos, tall, stiff-built, wiry-haired "terrier-greyhounds," fleet of foot, trained to find and harass the boar, to force him to break covert, but yet so wary at feint and retreat as to avoid the sweep of his tusks. Then there was huge "Moro," Don Gaspár's half-mastiff, half-bloodhound, whose staunchness was tested of old, and others of lesser note.

OUR QUARTERS IN THE SIERRA.

Around our quarters were cultivated clearings of a few acres, fenced with the usual aloe and cactus: otherwise the landscape was one panorama of forest and evergreen brushwood, extending far up the mountain-sides, and towards the barren stony summits. These sierras of Jerez are of no great height relatively—perhaps 3,000 to 4,000 feet—and many of them bear unmistakable evidence of their long struggles with glacial ice in bygone ages—each tall slope consisting of a regular series of vertical bastions, or buttresses, alternating with deep glens in singular uniformity. Their conformation recalled the distant valleys of Spitsbergen, where we have seen the power of ice in actual operation, and carving out those grim Arctic hills after a precisely similar pattern. Here, however, dense jungle had for ages replaced the snow, and the wild boar now occupied strongholds where, possibly, the reindeer had once ranged in search of scanty lichen. For the season (March) the greenness of all foliage was remarkable; the oaks alone remained naked, and even from their leafless boughs hung luxuriant festoons of ivy and parasitic plants.

The upper end of our valley was shut in by the towering, transverse mass of the Sierra de las Cabras, which terminates hard by, in a fine abrupt gorge or chasm called the Boca de la Foz. It was to the deep-jungled corries which furrow the sides of this chasm that Alonzo had that morning traced to their camas some six or eight pig, including a couple of boar of the largest size, and this was to be the scene of our first day's operations.

A pitiable episode occurred while we were surveying our surroundings, and preparing for a start. From close behind, suddenly resounded a peal of strange inhuman laughter, followed by incoherent words; and through the iron bars of a narrow window we discerned the emaciated figure of a man, wild and unkempt of aspect, and whose eagle-like claws grasped the barriers of his cell—a poor lunatic. No connected replies could we get—nothing but vacuous laughter and gibbering chatter: now he was at the theatre and quoted magic jargon; now supplicating the mercy of a judge; then singing a stanza of some old song, to break off as suddenly into a fierce denunciation of one of us as the cause of all his troubles. Poor wretch! He had once been a successful lawyer and advocate, but having developed signs of madness, which increased with years, the once popular Carlos B—— was now reduced to the wretched durance of this iron-girt cell; his only share and view of God's earth just so much of sombre everlasting sierra as the narrow opening permitted. We were told it was hopeless to make any effort to ameliorate his lot—his case was too desperate. What hidden wrongs and outrage exist in a land where no judicial intervention is permitted between the "rights" of families and their insane relations (or those whom they may consider such), is only too much open to suspicion.

The day was still young when we mounted and set out for the point where Alonzo's report had led us to hope for success. The first covert tried was a strong jungle flanking the main gorge; but this, and a second batida, proved blank, only a few foxes appearing, and a wild cat was shot. Two roe-deer were reported to have broken back, and several mongoose, or ichneumon, were also observed during these drives, but were always permitted to pass. The Spanish ichneumon (Herpestes widdringtoni), being peculiar to the Peninsula, deserves a passing remark; it is a strange, grizzly-grey beast, shaggy as a badger, but more slim in build, with the brightest of bright black eyes, and a very long bushy tail. Owing to his habit of eating snakes and other reptiles (in preference, it would seem, to rabbits, &c.), the ichneumon stinks beyond other beasts of prey. A large black ichneumon happened to be the first game that fell to the writer's rifle in Spain, and was carefully stowed in the mule-panniers—never to be seen again; for no sooner were our backs turned, than the men discreetly pitched out the malodorous trophy.

As we approached our third beat—the main manchas, or thickets of the Boca de la Foz, the "rootings" and recent sign of pig became frequent, and we advanced to our allotted positions in silence, leaving the horses picketed far in the rear.

The line of guns occupied the ridge of a natural amphitheatre, which dipped sharply away beneath us, the centre choked with strong thorny jungle. On the left towered a range of limestone crags, the right flank being hemmed in by huge uptilted rocks, like ruined towers, and white as marble. One of us occupied the centre, the other guarded a pass among these pinnacle rocks on the right. While waiting at our posts we could descry the beaters, mere dots, winding along the glen, 1,500 feet below. The mountain scenery was superb; but no sound broke the stillness save the distant tinkle of a goat-bell; nor was there a sign of life except that feathered recluse, the blue rock-thrush, (in Spanish "solitario,") and far overhead floated great tawny vultures. Ten minutes of profound silence, and then the distant shouts and cries of the beaters in the depths beneath told us the fray had begun.

The heart of the jungle—all lentisk, or mimosa and thorn, interlaced with briar—being impenetrable, the efforts of our men were confined to directing the dogs, and by incessant noise to drive the game upwards. First a tall grey fox stole stealthily past, looked me full in the face and went on without increasing his speed; then a pair of red-legs, unconscious of a foe, sped by like 100-yard "sprinters"—a marvellous speed of foot have these birds on the roughest ground, and well are Spanish by-ways named caminos de perdices! Then the crash of hound-music proclaimed that the nobler quarry was at home. This boar proved to be one of those grizzly monsters of which we were specially in search; his lair a chaotic jumble of boulders islanded amid deepest thicket. Here he held his ground, declining to recognize in his noisy aggressors a superior force; and, though "Moro" and the boar-hounds speedily reinforced the skirmishers of the pack, the old tusker showed no sign of abandoning his stronghold. For minutes, that seemed like hours, the conflict raged stationary; the sonorous baying of the boar-hounds, the "yapping" of the smaller dogs, and shouts of the mountaineers, blended with the howl of an incautious podenco as he received his death-rip—all these formed a chorus of sounds which carried sufficient excitement to the sentinel guns above. Such and kindred moments are worth months of ordinary life.

The actual scene of war lay some half-mile below, hence no immediate issue was probable or expected; then came a crashing of the brushwood on my front, and a three-parts-grown boar dashed straight for the narrow pass where the writer barred the way. The suddenness of the encounter was disconcerting, and the first shot was a miss, the bullet, all but grazing his back and splashing on the grey rock beyond, and time barely remained to jump aside to avoid collision. The left barrel told with better effect: a stumble as he received it, followed by a frantic grunt as an ounce of lead penetrated his vitals, and the beast plunged headlong among the brushwood, his life-blood dyeing the weather-blanched rocks and dark green palmettos. There for a moment he lay, kicking and groaning; but ere the cold steel could administer a quietus, he regained his legs and dashed straight back. Whether that charge was prompted by revenge, or was merely an effort to regain the thickets he had just left, matters not; for a third bullet, at two yards' distance, laid him lifeless.

A STRAIGHT CHARGE.

Plate V. THAT OLD TUSKER. Page 31.

During this interlude, though it had only occupied a few moments, the main combat below was approaching its climax. The old boar had at length left his hold, and after sundry sullen stands and promiscuous skirmishes with the hounds, he took to flight. Showing first on the centre, he was covered for some seconds by a ·450 express; but not breaking covert, no shot could be fired, and when he at last appeared in view, he was trotting up the stony slopes on the extreme left. Here a rifle-shot at long range broke a fore-leg below the shoulder. This was the turning point: the wounded boar, no longer able to face the hill, wheeled and retreated to the thickets below, scattering the dogs and passing through the beaters at marvellous speed, considering his disabled condition. And now commenced the hue and cry and the real hard work for those who meant to see the end and earn the spoils of war. Soon "Moro's" deep voice told he had the tusker at bay, down in the defile, far below. What followed in that hurly-burly—that mad scramble through brake and thicket, down crag and scree—is impossible to tell. Each man only knows what he did himself—or did not do. We can answer for three; one of these seated himself on a rock and lit a cigarette; the others, ten minutes later, arrived on the final scene—one minus his nether garments and sundry patches of skin, but in time to take part in the death of as grand a boar as ever roamed the Spanish sierras.

First to arrive was Gaspár himself, familiar with every by-way and goat-track on the hills, and nervous for the safety of his hound; but only a few seconds before the denuded Inglés. In a pool of the rock-strewn brook, the beast stood at bay, "Moro's" teeth clenched in one ear and two podencos attacking in flank and rear. Gaspár elected to finish the business with the knife, fixed bayonet-wise, but the horn haft slipped from the muzzle, and a moment later two simultaneous bullets had closed the affair.

One by one the scattered guns turned up: some, who had taken a circuitous course, arriving before others whose ardour had led them to follow direct—so dense was the brushwood and rugged the sierra. A picturesque group stood assembled around the blood-dyed pool with its wild environment and bold mountain background; but rejoicings were tempered by the loss of two of our podencos, one having been killed outright, the other found in a hopelessly wounded condition at the point of the first conflict.

The boar proved a magnificent brute, one of the true grey-brindled type—de los Castellanos, weighing over 300 lbs. The wild-boars of the sierras run larger than those of the plains, some being said to reach 400 lbs. Beneath the outer grizzly bristles lies a reddish woolly fur.

We were soon mounted and steering for another mancha, where, late in the afternoon, two sows and a small boar were found and driven forward through the line of guns. One fell to a fine shot from our host's brother, the others escaping scathless. Night was already upon us ere the party re-assembled, and we rode off amidst the shadows of the forest-glades, to fight the battles of the day again and again round the cheery blaze in the courtyard of our mountain-home.

Plate VI. BUSTARDS ON THE BARRENS—WINTER. "A First Shade of Suspicion." Page 33.

A characteristic and withal a truly noble and ornamental object is the Great Bustard, on those vast stretches of silent corn-lands which form his home. Among the things of sport are few more attractive scenes than a band of bustards at rest. Bring your field-glass to bear on that gathering which you see yonder, basking in the sunshine, in full enjoyment of their siesta. There are four-or five-and-twenty of them, and how immense they look against the background of sprouting corn that covers the landscape: well may a stranger mistake them for deer or goats. Most of the birds are sitting turkey-fashion, their heads sunk among the feathers: others stand in drowsy yet half-suspicious attitudes, their broad backs resplendent with those mottled hues of true game-colour, their lavender necks and well-poised heads contrasting with the snowy whiteness of their lower plumage. The bustards are dotted in groups over an acre or two of the gently sloping ground, the highest part of which is occupied by a single big barbudo, a bearded veteran, the sentinel of the party. From his elevated position he estimates what degree of danger each living thing that moves on the open region around may threaten to his companions and himself. Mounted men cause him less concern than those on foot: a horseman slowly directing a circuitous course may even approach to within a couple of hundred yards of him before he takes alarm. It was the head and neck of this sentry that first appeared to our distant view, and disclosed the whereabouts of the game. He, too, has seen us, and is even now considering whether there is sufficient cause for putting his convoy in motion. If we disappear below the level of his range he will settle the point negatively; setting us down as only some of those agricultural nuisances which so often cause him alarm, but which his experience has shown to be generally harmless—for attempts on his life are few and far between.

Another charming spectacle it is in the summer-time to watch a pack of bustards about sunset, all busy with their evening feed among the grasshoppers on a thistle-covered plain. They are working against time, for it will soon be too dark for them to catch such lively prey. With quick, darting step they run to and fro, picking up one grasshopper after another with unerring aim, and so intent on their feed that the best chance of the day is then offered to their pursuer, when greed, for the moment, supplants caution, and vigilance is relaxed. But even now a man on foot stands no chance of coming near them; his approach is observed from afar, all heads are up above the thistles, all eyes intent on the intruder: a moment or two of doubt, two quick steps and a spring, and the strong wings of every bird in the band flap in slowly-rising motion. The tardiness and apparent difficulty in rising from the ground which these birds exhibit is well expressed in their Spanish name Avetarda,[8] and is recognized in their scientific cognomen of Otis tarda. Once on the wing, the whole pack is off, with wide swinging flight, to the highest ground in the neighbourhood.

Plate VII. WATERING THE CATTLE—SUMMER TIME. Page 35.

During the greater part of the year the bustards are far too wary to be obtained by the farm-hands and shepherds who see them every day; and so accustomed are the peasants to the sight of these noble birds that little or no notice is taken of them. Their haunts and habits not being studied, their pursuit is regarded as impracticable. There is, however, one period of the year when the Great Bustard falls an easy prey to the clumsiest of gunners. During the long Andalucian summer a torrid sun has drunk up every brook and stream that crosses the cultivated lands: the chinky, cracked mud, which in winter formed the bed of shallow lakes and lagoons, now yields no drop of moisture for bird or beast. The larger rivers still carry their waters from sierra to sea, but a more adaptive genius than that of the Spanish people is required to utilize these for purposes of irrigation. All water required for the cattle is drawn up from wells: the old-world lever with its bucket at one end and counterpoise at the other, has to provide for the needs of all. These wells are distributed all over the plains. As the herdsmen put the primitive contrivance into operation and swing up bucket after bucketful of cool water, the cattle crowd around, impatient to receive it as it rushes along the stone troughing. The thirsty animals drink their fill, splashing and wasting as much as they consume, so that a puddle is always formed about these bebideros. The moisture only extends a few yards, gradually diminishing till the trickling streamlet is lost in the famishing soil.

These moist places are a fatal trap to the bustard. Before dawn one of the farm-people will conceal himself so as to command at short range all points of the miniature swamp. A slight hollow is dug for the purpose, having clods arranged around, between which the gun can be levelled with murderous accuracy. As day begins to dawn, the bustard will take a flight in the direction of the well, alighting at a point some few hundred yards distant. They satisfy themselves that no enemy is about, and then, with cautious, stately step, make for their morning draught. One big bird steps on ahead of the rest: as he cautiously draws near, he stops now and again to assure himself that all is right, and that his companions are coming too—these are not in a compact body, but following at intervals of a few yards. The leader has reached the spot where he drank yesterday; now he finds he must go a little nearer to the well, as the streamlet has been diverted; another bird follows close; both lower their heads to drink; the gunner has them in line—at twenty paces there is no escape: the trigger is pressed, and two magnificent bustards are done to death. Should the man be provided with a second barrel (which is not usual), a third victim may be added to his morning's spoils.

Large numbers of bustards are destroyed thus every summer. It is deadly work, and certain. Were the haunts of the birds more studied, bustards might be annihilated on these treacherous lines.

Another primitive mode of capturing the Great Bustard is also practised in winter. The increased value of game during the colder months induces the bird-catchers, who supply the markets with myriads of ground-larks, linnets and buntings, occasionally to direct their skill towards the capture of the avetardas. They employ the same means as for the taking of the small fry—the cencerro, or cattle-bell, and dark lantern. As most cattle carry the cencerro around their necks, the sound of the bells at close quarters by night causes no alarm to the ground birds. The birdcatcher, with his bright candle gleaming before its reflector and the cattle-bell jingling at his wrist, prowls nightly over the stubbles and wastes in search of roosting birds. Any number of bewildered victims can thus be gathered, for larks and such-like birds fall into a helpless state of panic when once focussed in the bright rays of the lantern.

When the bustard is the object of pursuit, two men are required, one of whom carries a gun. The pack of bustard will be carefully watched during the afternoon, and not lost sight of when night comes until their sleeping-quarters are ascertained. When quite dark, the tinkling of the cencerro will be heard, and a ray of light will surround the devoted bustards, charming or frightening them—whichever it may be—into still life. As the familiar sound of the cattle-bell becomes louder and nearer, the ray of light brighter and brighter, and the surrounding darkness more intense, the bustards are too charmed, or too dazed, to fly. Then comes the report, and a charge of heavy shot works havoc among them. As bands of bustards are numerous, this poaching plan might be carried out night after night: but, luckily, the bustards will not stand the same experience twice. On a second attempt being made, they are off as soon as the light is seen approaching. Hence the use of the cencerro is precarious, at least as regards the bustards.

Except for the two clumsy artifices above described, the bustards are left practically unmolested; their wildness and the open nature of their haunts defy all the strategy of native fowlers. Their eggs are deposited on the ground when it is covered with the green April corn: incubation and the rearing of the young takes place amid the security of vast silent stretches of waving corn. The young bustards grow with the wheat, and ere it is cut are able to take care of themselves. It is just after harvest that the game is most numerous and conspicuous. The stubbles are then bare, and even the fallows which during spring bear heavy swathes of weeds, have now lost all their covert. The summer sun has pulverized and consumed all vegetation, and, but for a few chance patches of thistles, charlock or aramagos, there is nothing that can screen the birds from view.

A more legitimate method of outwitting the Great Bustard is practised at this—the summer—period. After harvest, when the country is being cleared of crops, or when all are cut and in sheaf, the bustards become accustomed daily to see the bullock-carts (carros) passing with creaking wheel, on all sides, carrying off the sheaves from the stubbles to the era, or levelled ground where the grain is trodden out, Spanish-fashion, by teams of mares. The loan of a carro, with its pair of bullocks and a man to guide them, having been obtained from one of the corn-farms, the cart is rigged up with esteras—that is, an esparto matting is stretched round the poles which, fixed on the sides, serve to hold the load of sheaves in position. A few sacks of straw thrown upon the floor of the cart serve to save one, in some small degree, from the merciless jolting of this primitive conveyance on rough ground. One, two, or even three guns can find room in the carro, the driver lying forward, near enough to direct the bullocks and urge them on by means of a goad, which he works through a hole in the esteras.

At a distance this moving battery looks a good deal like a load of straw. The search for bustard now begins, and well do we remember the terrible suffocating heat we have endured, shut up in this thing for hours in the blazing days of July and August. Bustards being found, the bullocks are cleverly directed, gradually circling inwards, the goad during the final moments freely applied. When the cart is stopped, instantly the birds rise. Previous to finding game, each man has made for himself a hole in the estera, through which he has been practising the handling of his gun. So far as practice goes, his arrangements appear perfect enough; but somehow, when the cart stops, the birds rise, and the moment for action has arrived, the game seems always to fly in a direction you cannot command, or where the narrow slit will not allow you to cover them. Hence we have adopted the plan of sliding off behind just as the cart was pulling up, thus firing the two barrels with much greater freedom. We have enjoyed excellent sport by this means, and succeeded in bringing many bustards to bag during the day. And after a long summer-day shut up in this rude contrivance, creaking and jolting across stubble and fallow, a deep cool draught of gazpacho at the farm is indeed delicious to parched throats and tongues.

Another system by which the Great Bustard can be brought to bag is by driving, and right royal sport it affords at certain seasons. The most favourable period is the early spring—especially the month of March. The male birds are then in their most perfect plumage and condition, with the gorgeous chestnut ruff fully developed, and in the early mornings they present an imposing spectacle, as with lowered neck, trailing wings, and expanded tail, they strut round and round in stately circles—"echando la rueda"—before an admiring harem, somewhat after the fashion of the blackcock; though whether the bustard is polygamous is a question we discuss in another chapter. At this season (March) the corn is sufficiently grown to afford covert for the gunners, but not to conceal these great birds when feeding, i.e., about girth-deep.

GREAT BUSTARD—"ECHANDO LA RUEDA."

The system of the ojéo or bustard-drive is as follows:—The scene of operations must be reached as soon after daybreak as possible, which necessitates an early start and a long matutinal ride; for bustards feed morning and evening, and during the midday hours lie down for a siesta among the corn or rough herbage, when it is mere chance work finding them on so vast an area. Hence an early start is necessary. When likely corn-lands are reached, one man advances to reconnoitre: having descried a band of bustards and taken a comprehensive view of the surrounding country, he must at once decide on his line of action. The bustards are perhaps a mile away: the leader must therefore have a "good eye for a country"—much, in fact, depends on his rapid intuition of the lie of the land and local circumstances, his knowledge of the habits and flights of the birds, and his ability to utilize the smallest natural advantages of ground or cover—small indeed these are sure to be, invisible to untrained eye. The first great object is to bring the guns, unseen, as near the game as possible. If any miscalculation occurs, and the advancing sportsmen expose themselves for a moment, then, very literally, "the game is up" and the pack escapes unharmed. When the birds are found settled on a hillside, it is sometimes not difficult to place the guns on the reverse slope, and so near the summit that the sportsman, stretched full length on the earth, has the birds within shot almost before their danger is exposed. But it must be noted that the sight of the bustard is extraordinarily keen, and the slightest unusual object on the monotonous plain is sure to be detected. As a rule, if the gunner can see the bustards, they too will have seen him and will swerve from their course before approaching within range.

But, generally speaking (except during the spring-shooting), there is hardly a vestige of anything like covert for the gunner: sometimes by lucky chance, a dry watercourse may be available, or a solitary clump of palmettos—even a few dead thistles may prove invaluable. These two circumstances explain the numerous disappointments that attend bustard-driving on the corn-plains.

Time being allowed to place the guns, two or three men start to ride round the bustards at considerable distance, gradually approaching them from a direction which will incline their flight towards the hidden guns. Through long practice these men become very expert; more than once we have seen a pack of the most stiff-necked undrivable bustards turned in mid-flight by a judicious gallop—executed at the very nick of time—and directed right towards the guns; and we have also known birds so delicately treated that instead of rising before the slowly-advancing horsemen, they have quietly walked away and startled the sportsman by striding over a ridge within a few yards of his prostrate form.

Plate VIII. BUSTARD-DRIVING—THE PACK "COME WELL IN!" Page 40.

In speaking of hills, ridges, &c., the words are used in a relative sense. Broken ground is the exception in any district much affected by bustard; and therefore the most must be made of the slight undulations which these rolling plains afford. When a party of five or six guns are well placed, it is unusual for the pack to get away without offering a shot to one or more of the sportsmen. Strange to say, they not infrequently escape. We know not what the cause may be—whether the apparently slow flight—really very fast—or the huge bulk of the birds deceives, or otherwise—yet some of the best shots at ordinary driven game are often perplexed at their bad records against the avetardas. Long shots, it is true, are the rule: longer far than one dreams of taking at home—and such ranges require extreme forward allowance: yet many birds at close quarters are let off.

A memorable sight is a huge barbon, or male bustard, when he suddenly finds himself within range of a pair of choke-bore barrels—so near that one can see his eye! How he ploughs through the air with redoubled efforts of those enormous wings, and hopes by putting on the pace to escape from danger.

It is when only one man and his driver are after bustard that the cream of this sport is enjoyed. The work then resembles deer-stalking, for the sportsman must necessarily creep up very close to his game in order to have any fair chance of a shot. Unless he has wormed his way to within 150 yards before the birds are raised, the odds are long against success. Gratifying indeed is the triumph when, after many efforts, and as many disappointments, one at length outmatches them, and secures a heavy bag by a single right-and-left.

By way of illustration, we give, in the next chapter, descriptions of bustard-shooting, (1) driving with a party in the ordinary way, and (2) Stalking and driving to a single gun.

Such, roughly described, are the two chief recognized systems of shooting the Great Bustard: i.e., driving, which can be practised at any period of autumn, winter, or early spring, but which is most effective in March, when the growing crops afford sufficient "blind"; and shooting from the cart, which is only available during, or just after, harvest.

There remains, however, another method by which this game may be brought to bag—one which we may claim to have ourselves invented and brought to some degree of perfection—namely:

Bustard-shooting single-handed.

At one period of the year (about May), just before the corn comes into ear, and when the male bustards are banded together, they are much more accessible, the corn being high all around them, and the guns more easily concealed. But the objections from a farmer's point of view are obvious, and we have rarely followed them under these conditions, though it is a favourite period with Spanish sportsmen.

We have frequently been asked by the country people to try our hands at their ambuscades by the wells (above described), and often caused surprise by declining to kill bustards in this way. It was, in fact, because we did not enjoy any of the means in vogue with the natives, that we resolved to try what could be done single-handed; and by sticking to it and hard work, have since accounted for many a fine barbon, and enjoyed many an hour's exciting sport with others not brought to bag, and which probably still roam over the Andalucian vegas to give fine sport another day.

On foot nothing could be done single-handed, but by the aid and co-operation of a steady old pony, success was found to be possible. As soon as the country is cleared of corn (about July or August), bustard pass the mid-day hours sheltering from the sun in any patch of high thistles or palmetto that may grow on the bare lands or stubbles. We have also found them, during mid-summer, under olive-trees, but never in any cover or spot where they could not command all the space for many gunshots around. Having been disturbed in their siesta—generally about a couple of hundred yards before the horseman reaches them—the birds stand up, shake the dust from their feathers, and are all attention to see that the intruder has no evil designs upon them. Ride directly towards them and they are off at once; but if approach be made cautiously and circuitously, the bustards, though suspicious and uneasy, do not rise but walk slowly away, for they are reluctant to take wing at this hot time. It is needless to add that the intense heat is also a severe test of endurance to the bustard-shooter. By keeping one's own figure and the pony's head as much averted as possible—advancing sidelong, crab-fashion, so to speak, and gradually circling inwards, one may, with patience, at length attain a deadly range,—seldom near, but still near enough to use the heavy AAA mould-shot with fatal effect, for the bustard, despite his bulk, is not a very hard or close-feathered bird, and falls to a blow that the grey goose would laugh at. When the nearest point is reached—and one learns by experience to judge by the demeanour of the game when they will permit no nearer approach—the opportune moment must be seized; the first barrel put in smartly on the ground, and more deliberate aim taken with the second as they rise.

The hotter the day, the nearer one can get. Much depends on the horse: if he does not stop dead the chance is lost, as the bustards rise directly on detecting a change in the movements of horse and man. With practice my pony became very clever, and came to know as well as his rider what was going on, so that after a time, we could rely on getting three or four shots a day and seldom returned without one bustard, frequently two or three. During one year (his best) the writer bagged sixty-two bustards to his own gun.

We make it a rule to accept no shot at any very risky distance, finding that, if not scared, the birds do not fly so far, and are more accessible on a second approach. Sometimes there occur lucky spots where, as one is slowly drawing round on them, the bustards walk over the crest of a ridge, and disappear. This is a chance not to be lost—slip from the saddle, run straight to the ridge, and surprise them, as they descend the reverse slope, with a couple of barrels ere they have time to realize the danger. Dips and hills, as before remarked, are not frequent on the haunts of bustards, but we have chanced on such localities more than once. Upon one occasion we bagged a brace of the largest barbones we ever saw by such a piece of good luck.

A blazing sun is a great assistance, making the birds lazy and disinclined to exert themselves. As an instance of this we remember being after bustard one day in September—an intensely hot day even for Spain, and with a fiery sun beating down on the quivering plains. Though well protected by a thick felt helmet and wearing the lightest of light summer clothes, the heat was almost more than one could endure. We had unsuccessfully ridden over some thousands of acres of stubble and waste—it was on the historic plains of Guadalete where Roderic and the Arabs fought—when at length we were gratified by observing three bustards walk out of a cluster of thistles. After twice circling round them, we saw that at eighty or ninety yards' distance, they would stand it no longer: so turning in the saddle, gave them both barrels, but without effect, as they sailed away about a mile and settled. On a second approach, as they rose at 200 yards, it looked as though they were impracticable, but doubting if there were other birds in that neighbourhood, we kept on, and followed them in this second flight, which this time was shorter. Again they rose wild—wilder than ever, at fully 800 yards. They came down upon a patch of the barley-stubbled plain where we were able to mark their position to a nicety, for they pitched close to a sombrajo, or sun-shade for cattle (a thatch of palmetto spread on aloe-poles). On approaching the place, and not seeing the bustards afoot, we concluded they were resting after their repeated flights; but having reached almost the exact spot, we could still see nothing of them. This was perplexing. We knew they could not have risen, for our eyes had never left the spot where they had settled. What could have become of them?... All at once we saw them, squatting flat within thirty yards of us, each bird pressed close down with his neck stretched along the ground. All trouble was now rewarded. It was not a chance to be risked by shooting from the saddle: and as we slid to the ground, gun cocked, and facing the birds, we felt it was the best double rise at big bustards that ever man had. As we touched the ground, they rose: one fell dead at forty yards, a second, wheeling back, showed too much of his white breast to be let off; the third flew far beyond view, and the only regret, for a moment, was that there were no treble-barrelled breech-loaders. Half an hour later we fell in with a band of young bustards, which allowed us to approach near enough to drop one; so that evening the old pony had a good load to carry home.

GREAT BUSTARDS—AN APRIL DAWN.

The two following examples of fortunate days will serve to illustrate the system of bustard-shooting as practised on the corn-lands of Southern Spain, and convey some idea of the haunts and habits of this noble game-bird, in a region where they still remain abundant.

The rendezvous was at the Cortijo de Jedilla, a farm lying some twelve miles away, and the hour fixed was nine o'clock on an April morning. This, along a road that resembled the remains of an earthquake, necessitated an early start. For near three hours we rattled and jolted along in the roomy brake, that lurched at times like a cross-channel steamer, to the merry-jingling bells of a four-in-hand mule-team.

At the hour appointed our ponies and people stood around the broad-arched entrance of the cortijo, all under the direction of old Blas, the keen-eyed mountaineer, equally at home on rugged sierra, or bestriding bare-backed his restive colt, and intimately acquainted with every inch of the wide country around. Blas had left home long before daybreak on that lovely spring morning, and after covering the four leagues across the plains at a hand-gallop, had already—like swift Camilla—scoured all the cultivated lands around the cortijo, in search of the big birds while yet they were busy seeking their matutinal feed. He received us with the gratifying intelligence that he had marked tres bandadas—three packs of bustard. In a few minutes we were mounted, the guns slung in the fundas, and away.

Blas led the file of horsemen towards the nearest band. We were a party of four, with a contingent of six mounted hands under Blas' directions in the ticklish work of driving. Presently the bustards are descried, their lavender heads and lighter necks visible, through the glasses, above the biznagas (visnaya of Linnæus) on a hillside some 1,000 yards away.

Their position, on a hill of so gentle a slope as to command all the plain around, was most difficult to surround; however, as a forlorn hope, and rather with the object of moving them to more favourable ground, we rode slowly past them on the north, at about 300 yards, the birds perking their heads and taking the most lively interest in the string of horsemen. When the nature of the land afforded a cover from the birds' view, we rode round to the southern side, but always at too great a distance to promise anything like a fair chance of getting the birds over us.[9] Our four guns, however, now spread out along the slope, covering among them some quarter-mile of possible flight. The men, riding round to the northern side again, opened out in line, and slowly came in towards the common centre. At first the pack came straight for the guns; but the leader, flying higher than the rest, caught sight of a foe—of No. 1 gun lying full length on the soil—swerved, and took with him the whole pack, out of shot on the extreme right. The latter fact our inexperienced friend in that quarter did not comprehend, for he let drive a couple of quick and useless barrels. Worse than useless! for, as we watched the splendid birds streaming away into space across the valleys of spring corn, we knew that our chance at that bandada was gone—at least for the day.

The second band required a good deal of finding: although Blas was confident he had correctly localized them, we could descry no bustards anywhere in that neighbourhood. At length one of our scouts brought us good news; the birds had walked more than a mile from where Blas had seen them in the early morning. We now waited for him to reconnoitre, and he soon reported that they were basking in the sun amidst a sea of shooting barley—a fact we shortly verified with our field-glasses. Not only were they so favourably placed for a stalk that we would be able to "horseshoe" the four guns behind them at almost certain distance, but the drivers (by a long detour) would also get well in at the front of their position unseen. The two centre guns were placed in the valley at the foot of the green slope, while the two flanking guns were enabled, by the favouring ground, to creep well up the hillside—a disposition which would leave the birds wholly enclosed at their first flight. The central posts had also the advantage of a rank growth of weeds along the hollow, which effectually concealed them from view. It was a short affair. The writer (left flank) soon heard the whirr of heavy wings: the game passed between him and the opposite flanking gun, out of shot of either, but "entering" beautifully to the centre. Both guns rose to watch the tableau. Straight as a line passed forward the huge barbones—some five-and-twenty of them, the resplendent plumage of rich orange and contrasting black and white set off against the green background; their great swollen necks appeared almost disproportionately heavy, even for those broad pinions and (seemingly) leisurely flight. But bustards, like all heavy game, travel vastly quicker than appears to be the case, as the sequel proved.

Plate IX. GREAT BUSTARDS AMONG THE SPRING CORN. Page 48.

Now they are on the very fringe of the darker green of the hollow; our centre guns have them at their mercy. Don't they see them? Yes; two figures rise from the rank weeds, and flashing barrels enfilade the flock. One, two, three, four reports ring out; but ... not a bird comes down, the frightened monsters spread asunder, winging a quicker flight in all directions. One huge barbudo behind the rest wheels back and almost gives us a chance as he takes the hill in reverse; but he sees the danger and passes to the right, swerving in his course too near our vis-à-vis, and before we hear the report we can see the ponderous mass of 30lbs. of bustard collapse. He is struck well forward, in head and neck, and pitches heavily earthwards, splitting his broad chest as it rebounds from the unyielding soil. We had—and that by sheer chance—a single head to show for this carefully-planned drive.

Our young friends in the valley were sad indeed, but over such things let us draw the veil. The drivers, too, had witnessed their failure. It may be safer rather to leave their feelings to the sympathetic reader to imagine than to describe. Old Blas declared they had "llenado el ojo de carne"—that the huge bulk of the birds had concealed from over-anxious eyes the rapidity of their flight. After lunch what had appeared a catastrophe became a jest.

An unsuccessful manœuvre followed, and we had to ride afar to seek fresh bandadas. After traversing leagues of corn-land—at this season as lonely as an African desert,—we descried a considerable pack, and again luck favoured us as to site. An arroyo, or stream, ran along the valley below—one of those small rapid currents that, in winter, tear deep and narrow gulleys, and in the summer become quite dry, save in a few of the deeper pools or favoured corners which resist the heat and afford nesting homes for the mallard and drinking resorts for the bustard. Now, there was water all along, and tall reeds and canes grew several feet in height. Could we place the guns along this ditch the drive was secure. The question was, Would the birds allow a mounted group to pass so near? We tried and succeeded. Witness's luck placed him in a cane-brake, whence he could watch every movement of the bustards at leisure. On rising, the pack bore straight to the gun on the left. Luckily (for us), this "point-gun," in his undue anxiety, showed too soon—before the birds had come well in. The pack swung in our direction, right along the line, giving a chance to both centre guns (only one of which was taken advantage of), and then bore straight for the writer, well overhead, and not over 60 feet high—an embarras de richesse.

The first and second shots, with the 12-bore, stopped a pair of what appeared the biggest of the pack, coming in—right and left—and then, picking up a single 4-bore, there followed the further satisfaction of pulling down a third old male at very long range. These three superb birds weighed 93lbs.—a notable shot, probably without parallel in sporting annals.

Before night we found twice more, and each of the batidas added a bird to the bag, the result of the day's sport being seven noble barbones, or male bustard, now in the fullest glory of their splendid spring plumage.

Thus ended a successful day, on which Fortune had favoured us, on several occasions, in finding the game in accessible situations. Such good luck does not always, nor even often, await the bustard-shooter; and even when it does, there still remains the real crux—the quick intuition of the requisite strategical movements and their successful execution.

The chimes of San Miguel were already ringing out the summons to even-song. Graceful figures in dark lace and mantillas hurried across the palm-shaded Plaza, as two Ingléses (sus servidores de ustedes) rode out of the city on an April afternoon.

It was rather for a ride than with any special sporting object in view that we set out. Yet, as is always the case in Spain, the guns were slung behind the saddle, and we remembered that, only a few days before, one of us had encountered a band of thirteen bustards—a dozen of which should still be basking on the green corn-lands of Santo Domingo, within a league of the octroi boundary.

The binoculars, however, swept the swelling grounds without disclosing any occupants more important than a group of grey cranes and a pair of partridges indulging in vernal flirtations, careless of a kite which hovered hard by.

THE BUSTARD-SHOOTER—TRIUMPH!

Beyond the corn-land lay undulated manchones, or fallows, clothed with a short growth of grass and thistles, and here on the summit of a flat-crowned knoll, a mile away, we descried a band of eight bustards. Hardly could a more unfavourable spot be selected. Their sentries commanded every visible approach, and we advanced in Indian file to reconnoitre, with the conviction that any operation must be in the nature of a forlorn hope. But a skill and rapid perception of the least advantage, worthy of a field-marshal, were at work, directed against the hapless eight. Riding circuitously around the game, we had approached as near as prudence allowed—some 300 yards, when an almost imperceptible depression served for a few moments to screen us from their view. Hardly had the last head sunk below the sky-line than one of the two guns rolled out of the saddle, passing the reins to his companion, who, in ten more yards, had reappeared to the already suspicious bustards. By the invaluable aid of a tiny furrow, worn by the winter's rains, but barely a foot in depth, No. 1 managed to worm a serpentine progression to the shoulder of the hill,—a point some 100 yards up the gentle slope, and barely twice that distance from the game,—while No. 2, slowly encircling the birds at 200 yards radius, gradually contracting and in full view, gained the reverse of the hill. Twice the big sentry had given the warning to "be ready"; as often the hunter widened his course till suspicion was allayed. Critical moments these, when success or failure depend upon a thread: upon instant diagnosis of what is passing in one's opponent's mind, divining, so to speak, his intentions before he has actually perfected them, or even decided himself.

So perfect in this encounter was the strategy—so complete the ascendency of mind over instinct—and the keenest instinct of all, that of self-preservation—that in due time the intervening space had been diminished, yard by yard, almost to the fatal range. Presently the still hesitating birds are little more than one hundred yards away—the great sentinel some five yards nearer. Now: mark well every movement of his—there is the signal at last: his stately head is lowered—slowly lowered some six inches while he still watches intently. Now he takes a rapid step forward—he is going. But hardly have the huge wings unfolded than the rider has sprung to his feet, and a couple of charges of "treble A" crash together into that broad back and lowered neck. The distance is great—near 100 yards—but mould-shot and cold-drawn steel barrels have done it before, and will do it again: back to earth, which he had barely quitted, returns the stricken monarch of the plain, blood staining his snowy breast, and one great pinion hanging useless by his side.

Plate X. ANCIENT DRAW-WELL ON THE PLAINS. Page 52.

The seven survivors wing away straight towards the point where the other gun lies hidden in the dry drain-head. Mark! Now the leading barbon checks his flight as he sees the flash of barrels beneath: but it is all too late, and down he, too, comes with a mighty crash, to earth. A third, offering only a "stern shot," continues a laboured flight, his pinion-feathers sticking out at sixes and sevens, and soon pitches on the verge of a marshy hollow where storks are dotted about in search of frogs. It was an awkward place, and necessitated moving him again: indeed, this bird gave no small trouble to secure. The sun had already set, and night drew on apace, ere the final shot, ringing out amidst gathering gloom, told that he, too, had been added to the spoils of that glorious afternoon.

NOTES ON HIS HISTORY: HIS BREEDS AND REARING: AND HIS LIFE UP TO THE "ENCIERRO,"—i.e., THE EVE OF HIS DEATH.

We trust the reader may not fear that he is about to suffer once more the infliction of the oft-described Spanish bull-fight. We have no intention so far to abuse his patience. The subject is exhausted: has been dilated upon by almost every visitor to this country, though nearly always with inaccuracy and imperfect knowledge.

It is customary for such writers to condemn the bull-fight[10] in toto on account of its cruelty: to denounce it without reservation, as a barbarous and brutal exhibition and nothing more. The cruelty is undeniable, and much to be deprecated; the more so as this element could, to a large extent, be eliminated. But, despite the fate of sacrificed horses, there are elements in the Spanish bull-fight that the British race are accustomed to hold in esteem—the qualities of pluck, nerve, and coolness in face of danger. To attack in single combat, on foot, and with no weapon but the sword, a powerful and ferocious animal, means taking one's life in one's hand, and relying for safety and final triumph on cool intrepid pluck, on a marvellous activity and truth of hand, eye, and limb, and on a nerve which not the peril even of the supreme moment can disturb.

There are doubtless balanced minds which, while in no way ignoring or exculpating its cruelties, can yet recognize in the toréo an unrivalled exhibition of human skill, nerve, and power, and can distinguish between the good and the bad among its heterogeneous constituents.

The bull-fight, as a spectacle, has often been described: but no English writers have attempted to trace its origin and history; to explain its firm-seated hold on the affections of the Spanish people, and to show how their keen zest for the national sport goes back to the days of chivalry. Nor has anything been written of the agricultural, or pastoral side of the question, and of the picturesque scenes amidst which the earlier stages of the drama are enacted, on broad Iberian plain and prairie: of the feats of horsemanship and "derring do" at the tentaderos, or trials, and later at the encierro on that hot summer morning when the gallant toro bravo is lured for ever from his native pastures, and led by traitor kin within the fatal enclosure of the arena.

The custom of the toréo, if not the art, is so ancient, its origin so lost in the mists of time, that it is difficult to fix the precise period at which bull-fighting was first practised. There is written evidence to show that encounters between men and bulls were not infrequent at the time of the Arab invasion in the eighth century, and it may be accepted that it was this eastern race that gave the diversion its first popularity.[11] It is proved beyond doubt that at the Moorish fêtes encounters with bulls were one of the chief sports, and when, centuries later, the Arab was finally driven from Spanish soil, they left behind them their passion for these conflicts, as they left many of their industries and many words of their language. Wherever the expelled Arabs may now be, it is at least certain that the bull-fight has taken root in no other land outside of Spain.[12] During the interludes of war, when the opposing forces of Moor and Christian made peace for a while, the inauguration of a truce was celebrated by a bull-fight, whereat knights of both sides rivalled each other in the tauromachian fray. The heroic Cid, el Campeador (obiit, A.D. 1098) signalized the contests of the eleventh century, himself taking the chief part. His graceful horsemanship in the arena was as favourite a theme for song and sonnet as even his redoubtable deeds in the field. The ever-popular ballad of Don Rodrigo de Bivar is still heard in the mountain villages.

So frequent and of such importance had these fiestas become that, after the termination of Moorish dominion, Queen Isabel I. of Castile prohibited them by edict in all her kingdoms: but the edict proved waste paper. Alarmed by witnessing a corrida at which human blood was shed, her Catholic majesty made strenuous efforts to put down bull-fighting throughout the land: but the national taste was too deeply implanted in the breasts of a warlike and powerful nobility, whom she was too prudent to offend. In a letter to her Father Confessor in 1493, she declares her intention never again to witness a corrida, and adds:—"Y no digo defenderlos (esto es prohibirlos) porque esto no era para mi á solas"—which is to say, that her will, which could accomplish the expulsion of the Moor and the Jew, was powerless to uproot the bull-fight.

Plate XI. BULLS ON THE PLAINS. Page 57.

The power of the papacy was alike invoked in vain. In 1567 a papal bull issued by Pius V. prohibited all Catholic princes, under pain of excommunication, from permitting corridas in their dominions; a similar punishment for all priests who attended them, and Christian burial was denied to all who fell in the arena. Not even these terrible measures availed, and succeeding Pontiffs were fain to relax the severity of the bulas of their predecessors, since each successive prohibition was met by the magnates of the land arranging new corridas. At length the time arrived when masters of theology at Salamanca ruled that clerics of a certain rank might licitly attend these spectacles.

Isabel's grandson, Charles I., killed with his own hand a bull in the city of Valladolid, during the festivities held to celebrate the birth of his eldest son, afterwards Philip II.; and, later, during the reigns of the House of Austria, to face a bull with bravery and skill, and to use a dexterous lance, was the pride of every Spanish noble.

It was a gay and imposing scene in those days when the lidia, or tournament, took place—held in the largest open square of the town, around which were erected the graded platforms whence Damas and Caballeros, in all the bravery of mediæval toilet and costume, watched the performance.

The people were permitted only a servile share in these aristocratic fiestas. The knight, mounted on fiery Arab steed, was armed only with the rejon, or short sharp lance of those days, five feet in length, and held at its extreme end. At a given signal he sallied forth to meet the bull, which, infuriated by sight of horse and rider, dashed from his trammels and went straight to the charge. The first blow of his horns, if driven home, meant death: and the horseman's art lay in avoiding the impact by a well-timed move to the left: at the same moment, by an adroit counter-move, empaling with his lance the lower neck: and so delivering the thrust as to clear himself and horse from the rebound of the bull. This manœuvre required dexterity, coolness, and strength of arm: and when successful was graceful in the highest degree, eliciting, as the rider curvetted away from his worsted and enraged antagonist, the loudest applause, and dark-eyed Damas, with flashing glances of pride and sympathy, would throw flowers to the valiant Paladin.

When the bull fell dead from a single thrust enthusiasm knew no bounds: to administer this fatal stroke in masterly style was the ambition of the flower of Spanish youth.

If dismounted, the knight, by established rule, must face the bull on foot, sword in hand. He was allowed the assistance of his slaves or servants, who, at the risk of their lives, "played" the brute till an opportunity was afforded for a death-thrust from their master's sword. It is in this phase of the fight that we trace the origin of several of the suertes which are practised in the modern Corrida de Toros.[13]

With the accession of the Bourbons to the Spanish throne came a change. These rude encounters were little in harmony with the elegance and effeminacy of the French court. So coldly were they regarded that, by slow degrees, the Spanish nobility withdrew themselves from the arena. Then, as Gallic manners and customs prevailed and extended beyond court circles till adulation of the French monarch became a creed, the Spanish gentry abandoned their ancient sport.

But the hold of the national pastime on the Moro-hispanic race was too firm-set to be swept away by alien influence, however strong: and when thus abandoned by the patricians, by the hidalgos and grandees of Spain, the sport of bull-fighting was taken up by the Spanish people. It was at this period (towards the end of the eighteenth century) that the Corridas de Toros, as now practised (with slight variations), were established and organized. Bull-rings and paid matadores took the place of the city square and the knight. Many additions to the original corridas were inaugurated, and the sport assumed more diversified and even more dangerous forms.

The first professional matadors were the brothers Juan and Pedro Palomo, followed by the celebrated names of Martinez Billon (el Africano), Francisco Romero and his son Juan, José Delgado Candido (better known as Pepe Hillo), who died in the Plaza of Port St. Mary on the 24th June, 1771, and, later on, Rodriguez Castellares, Geronimo Candido, son of José (Pepe Hillo), who fell mortally wounded at Madrid, 11th May, 1802, and many more of high tauromachian fame.[14]

Most of the Plazas de Toros, or bull-rings, of the first class, were erected at this period—that at Madrid in 1741, at Seville, 1768, at Aranjuez, 1796, Saragoza, 1764, Puerto S^ta. Maria, 1771, Ronda, 1785, and Jerez de la Frontera, 1798.

The master-hand who directed and perfected this reorganization, on popular lines, of the national fiesta, after the Bourbon influence had alienated the aristocracy from their ancient diversion, was Pepe Hillo: who established the rules and etiquette and drew up the tauromachian code of honour, written and unwritten, which, in the main, prevails at the present day. None more fully recognize the ability and prowess of this 'gran maestro' of old than the famous matadors who are to-day the highest living exponents of tauromachian art—men such as Frascuelo, Lagartijo and Mazzantini, whose names are household words from the Bidasoa to the Mediterranean.

Andalucia has always been, and still remains, the province where the love of the bull and all that pertains to him is most keenly cherished, and where the modern bull-fight may to-day be seen in its highest perfection and development. It provides both the best bull-fighters and most valued strains of the fighting bull. It may be added that the Andalucian nobility were the last of their order to discontinue their historic pursuit: and when, during the darker days of this sport, the Royal order of the Maestranza de Sevilla was created by Philip V., it was conceded in the statutes that members of the order could hold two corridas with the long lance annually outside the city walls. Three gentlemen subsequently received titles of exalted nobility of this order in respect of brilliant performances with the lance.

Though Andalucia is the stronghold both of the Toro and of the Toreador—the scene of the popular bull-fighting opera of Carmen is appropriately laid at Seville—yet the oldest of all the Spanish herds is pastured in the rough country around Valladolid, in Old Castile. This caste has been in existence since the fifteenth century: from it the old nobility selected their bulls, and it furnished the kingly contests of Philip and Charles III. This herd is known as El raso del Portillo, and, though entitled to pre-eminence in respect of antiquity, yet several of the more modern breeders command higher prices. The ever-increasing demand has driven the cost of a "warrantable" five-year-old bull up to £70 or £80. To succeed in uniting the various qualities required in an animal of this value, great judgment in breeding and a considerable outlay are necessary.

Plate XII. THE MORN OF THE FIGHT—BULLS IN THE TORIL. (Miura's Breed.) Page 61.

At the age of one year, the young bulls are separated from the heifers, each animal branded on the side with the insignia of its herd, and on the neck with its number therein, and turned out loose on the plains to graze with its companions of similar age and sex. When the youngsters have passed another year, their critical time has arrived, and their first trials for mettle and fighting qualities take place. The brave are set aside for the Plaza: the—comparatively—docile destroyed, at least by scrupulous breeders; while from the chosen lot a further selection is made of the sires for perpetuating the breed. From the moment the fighting bulls are selected, they are treated with the utmost care, and for two years more roam at liberty over the richest pasturage of the wide unfrequented prairies. At four years old they are moved into the cerrados, or enclosures—fields of great extent, surrounded by a wooden stockade and double ditch. The cerrado they never leave till bound for the Plaza. Should pasture fail through drought or deluge, they are fed on tares, vetch, and maize—even with wheat. Their début in public must be made in the highest possible condition. The bulls should be, at the time, not less than five nor more than seven years old.

While thus grazing at large on the open plain, the bulls are in charge of herdsmen over whom is the official known in Castile as mayoral, in Andalucia as conocedor, assisted by his ayudante. These two spend their lives in the saddle, each carrying the long "garrocha," or lance, as a defensive weapon. The herdsmen go on foot, each armed with a sling, in the use of which they are adepts.

To return to the two-year-old point in the bull's life—that is, as we have stated, the critical stage in his existence, for then his "trial" takes place.

It is also an important period for the owner, for upon the proportion of good-mettled, "warrantable" beasts depends the profit and reputation of the herd. It is customary for the owner and his friends to be present at these tentaderos or trials: and a bright and picturesque scene they afford, thoroughly typical of untrodden Andalucia, and of the buoyant, careless exuberance and dare-devil spirit of her people.

Nowhere can the exciting scenes of the tentadero be witnessed to greater advantage than on the wide level pastures which extend from Seville to the Bay of Cadiz. Here, far out on the spreading "vegas," carpeted with rich profusion of wild flowers and pasturage, where the canicular sun flashes yet more light and fire into the fiery veins of the Andaluz—here occurs the first scene in the drama of the Toréo. For centuries these flowery plains have been the scene of countless tentaderos, where the "majos,"—young bloods,—generation after generation, revel in feats of skill, courage, and horsemanship. Both good riding and staying power are often called into requisition by those taking an active part in the operations.

The night before the trials take place, the usually quiet and sequestered Estancia (or rancho) is a scene of unwonted revelry. The owners of the herd and many friends—all aficionados of the sport—have come up from the distant town to take part in the selection of the morrow—as this work commences at early dawn, the night must be spent on the spot. The rude walls of the rancho resound with boisterous hilarity, dance and song succeed each other, to the vigorous notes of the guitar—sleep is not to be thought of, good humour, gaiety, and no small admixture of practical joking pass away the night, and by the first of the daylight all are in the saddle. The two-year-old-bulls have previously been herded upon a part of the estate which affords the best level ground for smart manœuvre and fast riding, and here the duty of keeping the impetuous beasts together—no easy task—is allotted to skilled herdsmen armed with long garrochas—lances of some four yards in length, with short steel tips. As just mentioned, it is no easy work to keep the young bulls together, for they are anxious to break away and dart off to join their friends in the distance. When all is ready the herdsmen allow one bull to escape across the flat open country, pursued by two horsemen who are awaiting the moment, garrocha in hand. These men rival each other to place the first lance and to turn the bull over. This is effected by planting a blunt-tipped garrocha, on the bull's off-flank, near the tail, when a powerful thrust, given at full speed, overthrows him: but obviously the feat requires a good eye, a firm seat, and a strong arm. Immediately the bull is over, with his four feet in the air, another horseman, who has ridden close behind, comes up. He is armed with a more pointed lance, and is called el tentador. On rising, the bull finds this man between him and his companions in the rodéo, to whom he would now fain return. He immediately charges the obstacle, receiving on his shoulder the garrocha point; thrown back for a moment, and smarting under this first check to his hitherto unthwarted will, he returns to the charge with redoubled fury, but only to find the horse protected as before: the pluckier spirits will make a third or a fourth attack, but those which freely charge twice are passed as fit for the ring.

Sometimes the young bull declines to charge the tentador, submitting quietly to his overthrow, and only desiring to escape. He does not get off without a second fall; but if, after this, he still refuses to charge, he is at once condemned—doomed to death, or at best a life of agricultural toil. A note is taken of each selected bull (its colour, size, and shape of horns, and general appearance); and each is entered in the herd-book, under a particular name—such as Espartero, Cardinillo, Linares, Flamenco, and the like. By these names they are known, and at the end publicly described in the flaming "posters" and advertisements of the Corrida at which they are to make their final appearance.

Nor is there anything modern in this individualizing of the champions of the arena. In the Moorish ballads ("The Bull-Fight of Gazul"), so happily translated by Lockhart, we find the "toro bravo" had his name in those days:—

It often happens, when a bull is singled out from the rodéo, that he does not take to his heels as expected, but charges the nearest person, on foot or mounted, that he may see. Then look out for squalls! The danger must be averted, when it is averted, by skill and experience; but it seldom happens that one of these trial-days passes without broken bones or accidents of some kind or other. The men engaged in these operations have, of course, no shelter of any kind; but the Spanish herdsmen, when taken at disadvantage, are adepts in the use of their jackets, with which they give "passes" to the bull, who always follows the moving object. A smart fellow, when caught in the open, can thus keep a bull off him for several moments, giving time for the horsemen to come up to the rescue. Even then it is no unusual occurrence to see horsemen, horse and bull all rolling together on the turf in one common ruin. A bright-coloured scarf or mantle will always draw away the bull from his prostrate foe; otherwise there would soon be an end of tentadores, bull-branders, and bull-fighters too, for the matter of that.

Each animal in the herd is put through the tests we have described, the proportion selected varying according to the excellence and purity of the strain: and then, for three years longer, the selected bulls continue to lead a life of ease and abundance upon the smiling Andalucian vega.[15]

Skill in handling the garrocha, and the ability to turn over a running bull, are accomplishments in high esteem amongst Spanish youth. Names now famous in politics or diplomacy (Don Luis Albereda, for example, late Spanish Minister at St. James's, the Duke of San Lorenzo, and many more), are still mentioned in Andalucia as past experts in the records of this southern diversion—a fame analogous to that of our foremost steeple-chase riders at home.[16]

The tentadero at the present day affords opportunity for aristocratic gatherings, that recall the tauromachian tournaments of old. Even the Infantas of Spain enter into the spirit of the sport, and have been known themselves to wield the garrocha with good effect, as was, a few months ago, the case at a brilliant fête champêtre on the Sevillian vegas, when the Condesa de Paris and her daughter, Princess Elena, each overthrew a sturdy two-year-old; the Infanta Eulalia riding "á ancas," or pillion-fashion, with an Andalucian nobleman, among the merriest of a merry party.

Plate XIII. THE ENCIERRO. Page 65.

At length, however, the years spent in luxurious idleness on the silent plains must come to an end. One summer morning the brave herd find grazing in their midst some strange animals, which appear to make themselves extremely agreeable to the lordly champions, now in the zenith of magnificent strength and beauty. The strangers grazing with them are the cabrestos (or cabestros, in correct Castilian), the decoy-oxen sent out to fraternize for a few days with the fighting race, preparatory to the encierro, or operation of conveying the latter to the town where the corrida takes place. Each cabestro has a large cattle-bell, of the usual Spanish type, suspended round its neck, in order to accustom the wild herd to follow the lead of these base betrayers of the brave. Shortly the noble bulls will be lured in their company away from their native plains, through country paths and byeways, to the entrance of the fatal toril.

An animated spectacle it is on the eve of the corrida, when, amidst clouds of dust and clang of bells, the tame oxen and wild bulls are driven forward by galloping horsemen and levelled garrochas. The excited populace, already intoxicated with bull-fever and the anticipation of the coming corridas, lining the way to the Plaza, careless if in the enthusiasm for the morrow they risk some awkward rips to-day.

Once inside the lofty walls of the toril, it is easy to withdraw the treacherous cabestros, and one by one to tempt the bulls each into a small separate cell, the chiquero, the door of which will to-morrow fall before his eyes. Then, rushing upon the arena, he finds himself confronted and encircled by surging tiers of yelling humanity, while the crash of trumpets and glare of moving colours madden his brain. Then the gaudy horsemen, with menacing lances, recall his day of trial on the distant plain, horsemen now doubly hateful in their brilliant glittering tinsel. No wonder the noble brute rushes with magnificent fury to the charge.

A BULL-FIGHTER.

What a spectacle is presented by the Plaza at this moment!—one without parallel in the modern world. The vast amphitheatre, crowded to the last seat in every row and tier, is held for some seconds in breathless suspense: above, the glorious azure canopy of an Andalucian summer sky: below, on the yellow arena, rushes forth the bull, fresh from his distant prairie, amazed yet undaunted by the unwonted sight and the bewildering blaze of colour which surrounds him. For one brief moment the vast mass of excited humanity sits spell-bound: the clamour of myriads is stilled. Then the pent-up cry bursts forth in frantic volume, for the gleaming horns have done their work, and buen toro! buen toro! rings from twice ten thousand throats.

The bull-rings are mostly the property of private persons, though some are owned by corporations, others by charitable institutions, and the like. The bull-fights themselves, however, are always in the hands of an empresario, who hires the building at a rent, supplies the bulls and troupe, and takes the whole arrangements in his own hands and for his own account.

The cost of a modern bull-fight in Andalucia ranges from £1,100 to £1,200. Six bulls are usually killed, their value averaging £70. The Espada, or Matador, receives on the day from £120 to £200, including the services of his cuadrilla or troupe, which consists of two picadors, three banderilleros, and a cachetero. As there are always two matadors with their respective cuadrillas engaged, this makes in all fourteen bull-fighters. The cost of the horses is about £120 to £200, a variable quantity, depending so much on the temper and quality of the bulls. Against this, there are from ten to twenty thousand seats to be let in the ring, the prices of which vary from a peseta or two in the Sol or sunny side, up to a couple of dollars or more in the Sombra.[17]

The president of the corrida is usually the alcalde or mayor of the town—sometimes the civil governor of the province, always some person of weight and authority, though the alcalde is responsible for the orderly conduct of the corrida, even should he delegate the presidential chair to some one of higher authority. He is required to examine the bulls before the fight: that is, to see that they bear the brand of the herd advertised, and have no visible defect; then he must inspect the horses; even the banderillas and the garrochas, the points of which latter must be shortened as autumn approaches. Till the alcalde appears in his tribune, the fight may not commence, and during the spectacle he orders the incoming of each bull, the time which the picadors shall occupy with their lances: he directs the trumpets of his attendant heralds to sound the changes in the fight, when banderilleros succeed picadors, and for the final scene, when the matador steps alone upon the arena, with scarlet cloak and gleaming sword.

AN ESPADA, OR MATADOR.

It will thus be seen that the presidential function involves a fairly deep knowledge of all the arts and etiquette of tauromachian science. Under intelligent direction, accidents in the ring and tumults amongst dissatisfied multitudes are avoided—without it, the reverse.

We have now traced in brief outline the life-history of our gallant bull; we have brought him face to face with Frascuelo and his Toledan blade; there we must leave him. But, in concluding this chapter, may we beg the generous reader, should he ever enter the historic circle of the plaza, to go there with an open mind—without prejudice, and unbiassed by the floods of invective which have ever been let loose upon the Spanish bull-fight.

Let critics remember, if only in extenuation, what the spectacle represents to Spain—a national festival, the love of which we have shown to be ineradicable, ingrained in Spanish nature by centuries of custom and tradition. Let them reflect, too, that those brutal domestic scenes which disgrace so many a home among the poor of other lands are, in the land of the bull-fighter, unknown. Lastly, let them remember that upon untrained eyes there must fall flat many of the finer passes, much of the elaborate technique and science of tauromachian art: points which are instantly seized and appreciated by Spanish experts—and in Spain all are experts. This is lost to the casual spectator, who perceives less difficulty in the perilous vol-á-pié than in the simpler, though more attractive, suerte de recibir, and a thousand other technical details.

Andalucia may roughly be subdivided into four main regions, unequal in extent, but of well-marked physical characters and conformation. These are the sierras, and the rolling corn-lands, at both of which we have already glanced. Then there are the dehesas—wild, uncultivated wastes or prairies, of which more anon. Lastly, there are the marismas.

We have in English no equivalent to the Spanish "marisma," and these regions are so peculiar, both physically and ornithologically, as to require a short description. Geologically, the marismas are the deltas of great rivers, the alluvial accumulations of ages, deposited, layer upon layer, on the sea-bottom till the myriad particles thrust back the sea, and form level plains of dry land. The struggle between rival elements does not terminate, but the attacks of the liquid combatant only seem to result in still further assuring the victory of terra firma, by banking up between the opposing forces an impregnable rampart of sand. The latter, overlying the margin of the rich alluvial mud, is thus capable, in its hollows and deeper dells, of sustaining a luxuriant plant-life, which in turn serves to fortify and consolidate its otherwise unstable consistency.[18]

The largest of the Spanish marismas, and those best known to the authors, are those of the Guadalquivir. If the reader will look at a map of Spain, there will be noticed on the Lower Guadalquivir a large tract totally devoid of the names of villages, &c. From Lebrija on the east to Almonte on the west, and from the Atlantic almost up to Seville itself, the map is vacant. This huge area is, in fact, a wilderness, and in winter the greater part a dismal waste of waters. For league after league as one advances into that forbidding desolation, the eye rests on nothing but water—tawny waters meeting the sky all round the horizon. The Guadalquivir intersects the marisma, its triple channel divided from the adjacent shallows and savannahs by low mud-banks. The water of the marisma is fresh, or nearly so—quite drinkable—and has a uniform depth over vast areas of one or two feet, according to the season. Here and there slight elevations of its muddy bed form low islands, varying from a few yards to thousands of acres in extent, covered with coarse herbage, thistles and bog-plants, the home of countless wild-fowl and aquatic birds. In spring the water recedes; as the hot weather sets in it rapidly evaporates, leaving the marisma a dead level of dry mud, scorched and cracked by the fierce summer sun. A rank herbage springs up, and around the remaining water-holes wave beds of tall reeds and cane-brakes.

In winter the marshy plains abound with wild-fowl, ducks, geese, and water-birds of varied kinds; but of the winter season in the marisma, its fowl and fowlers, we treat fully hereafter.

The spring-months abound in interest to the naturalist. Imagination can hardly picture, nor Nature provide, a region more congenial to the tastes of wild aquatic birds than these huge marismas, with their silent stretches of marsh-land and savannahs, cane-brake and stagnant waters, and their profusion of plant and insect life. Here, in spring, in an ornithological Eden, one sees almost daily new bird-forms. During the vernal migration the still air resounds with unknown notes, and many of those species which at home are the rarest—hardly known save in books or museums—are here the most conspicuous, filling the desolate landscape with life and animation. The months of February and March witness the withdrawal of most of the winter wild-fowl. Day after day the clouds of Pintails and Wigeon, of Shovellers, Pochards, and Teal, and fresh files of grey geese wing their way northwards; while their places are simultaneously being filled by arrivals from the south. April brings an influx of graceful forms and many sub-tropical species, for which Andalucia forms, roughly speaking, the northern limit; while in May is superadded a "through transit," which renders the bird-life of that period at times almost bewildering.

But before attempting to fill in the details, it is necessary to explain the mode of travel and the methods by which these wildernesses can be investigated. Uninhabited and abandoned to wild-fowl and flamingoes, and lying remote from any "base of operations," the exploration of the marismas is an undertaking of some difficulty. They cannot, owing to their extent, be worked from any single base; hence, thoroughly to explore them and penetrate their lonely expanses, necessitates a well-equipped expedition, independent of external aid, and prepared to encamp night after night among the tamarisks or samphire on bleak islet or barren arenal. Some of our earlier efforts, twenty years ago, resulted in total failure. Setting out by way of the river, the light launches suitable for the shallow marisma proved unequal to the voyage up the broad Guadalquivir; while, on the other hand, the larger craft in which that exposed estuary could be safely navigated were useless in the shallows. One attempt was frustrated by sunstroke; on another our Spanish crew "struck" through stress of weather, leaving us at a lonely spot some thirty miles beyond Bonanza with no alternative but to submit, or go on alone. We had, however, some reward for this enforced tramp in discovering the Dunlin (Tringa alpina) nesting at a point over a thousand miles south of any previous record of its breeding-range. Finally, we chartered at San Lucar a large fishing-yawl, bound up-river, and after a long day in that malodorous craft, beating up against wind and stream, and with our three punts in tow, we at length succeeded in launching them on the waters of the middle marismas.

FISHING BOAT ON THE GUADALQUIVIR.

The geese and wigeon had entirely disappeared—this was early in April—but passage-ducks still skimmed in large flights over the open waters. These were chiefly Mallards, with Pintails and Pochards (both species), a few Teal, Garganey, and probably other species. We also shot Shovellers out of small "bunches," and among the deep sluices of some abandoned salt-pans (salinas), where we spent the first night, three or four Tufted Ducks, and a pair of Pochards. I killed a single Scoter drake as late as April 13th, and was shown as a curiosity a Cormorant which had been killed by some fishermen on the river a day or two before.

One cannot go far into the marisma without seeing that extraordinary fowl, the Flamingo, certainly the most characteristic denizen of the wilderness. In herds of 300 to 500, several of which are often in sight at once, they stand like regiments, feeding in the open water, all heads under, greedily tearing up the grasses and water-plants that grow beneath the surface. On approaching them, which can only be done by extreme caution, their silence is first broken by the sentries, which commence walking away with low croaks: then the whole five hundred necks rise at once to full stretch, every bird gaggling his loudest as they walk obliquely away, looking back over their shoulders as though to take stock of the extent of the danger. Shoving the punt a few yards forward, up they all rise, and a more beautiful sight cannot be imagined than the simultaneous spreading of their thousand crimson wings, flashing against the sky like a gleam of rosy light. Then one descends to the practical, and a volley of slugs cuts a lane through their phalanx.

In many respects these birds bear a strong resemblance to geese. Like the latter, Flamingoes feed by day: and quantities of grass, etc., are always floating about the muddy water at the spot where a herd has been feeding. Their cry is almost indistinguishable from the gaggling of geese, and they fly in the same chain-like formations. The irides of the oldest individuals are very pale lemon-yellow: the bare skin between the bill and the eye is also yellow, and the whole plumage beautifully suffused with warm pink. In the young birds of one year (which do not breed) this pink shade is entirely absent, and even their wings bear but slight traces of it. The secondaries and tertiaries of these immature birds are barred irregularly with black spots, and their legs, bills and eyes are of a dull lead colour. In size flamingoes vary greatly: the largest we have measured was fully six feet five inches—there are some quite seven feet—while others (old red birds) barely reached five feet.

The further we advanced into the marisma the more abundant became the bird-life. Besides ducks and flamingoes, troops of long-legged Stilts in places whitened the waters, and chattering bands of Avocets swept over the marshy islets: around these also gyrated clouds of Dunlins in full breeding-plumage: smaller flights, composed of Kentish plovers and Lesser Ring-dotterel mixed, with Redshanks and Peewits: the two latter paired. One morning at daybreak, a pack of two hundred Black-tailed Godwits pitched on an islet hard by our camp, probably tired with a long migratory journey, for these wary birds allowed two punts to run almost "aboard them," and received a raking broadside at thirty yards.[19] On April 11th we obtained a single Grey Phalarope (Phalaropus fulicarius), swimming like a little duck on an open arroyo, and the Sanderling, Green and Common Sandpipers, were all abundant, together with Ruffs and Reeves, though in mid-April the former still lacked the full nuptial dress. Greenshanks and Knots we did not meet with then; though a month later (in May) swarms of both these species, together with Whimbrels, Grey Plovers, and Curlew-Sandpipers, all in perfect summer plumage, poured into the marisma, to rest and recruit on their direct transit from Africa to the Arctic.

On April 8th the Pratincoles arrived, and thenceforward their zigzag flight and harsh croak were constantly in evidence all over the dry mud and sand, where they feed on beetles. In 1891 we observed a "rush" of these birds, some arriving, and others passing over high, almost out of sight, on the 11th of April. Sometimes a score of these curious birds would cast themselves down on the bare ground all around one, some with expanded wings, and all lying head to wind, much as a nightjar squats on the sand. Pratincoles resemble terns when standing, but run like plovers, and on summer evenings, with the terns, they hawk after insects like swallows. Their beaks have a very wide gape which is bordered with vermilion.

Another conspicuous bird-group in the marisma are the herons, of which seven or eight species are here, more or less numerous. Besides the Common and Purple Herons, the Buff-backed, Squacco, and Night Herons, Egrets, Spoon-bills, and Glossy Ibis are also found, and several of one kind or the other can generally be descried on the open marsh—the first-named often perched on the backs of the cattle or wild-bred ponies of the marisma, ridding them of the ticks and "warbles," or embryo gadflies which burrow in the poor brutes' hides. The rush-girt arroyos, or stagnant channels, were dotted with these most elegant birds, some actively feeding, plunging their heads under to catch the darting water-beetles as they dive, others resting quiescent in every graceful pose. Here is a description of such a spot:—April 29th. Lying this morning in the punt, well hidden among thick tamarisks, in the arroyo del Junco Real, we had no less than twelve interesting species within 200 yards: ducks of four kinds dipped and splashed on the open water, viz.:—Mallards, Garganey, Marbled Duck, and one pair of handsome, heavy-headed "Porrones" (Erismatura leucocephala). Sundry Stilts, Egrets, and four Squacco Herons stalked sedately in the shallows—one of the latter presently perching on a broken bulrush within ten yards of the boat. A group of Avocets slept standing, each on one leg, on a dry point; and further away, two Spoonbills were busy sifting the soft mud with curious revolving gait. Coots and Grebes (Podicipes nigricollis) kept dodging in and out among the flags and aquatic plants, and a Marsh-Harrier, whose mate was sitting in an adjoining cane-brake, soared in the background. This is not counting the commoner kinds, nor several others which we afterwards observed close by: the above were all in sight, mostly in shot, at one spot.

The Coots and Mallards have eggs in March, the Purple Heron early in April: on the 9th we found the first nest, merely an armful of the long green reeds bent down, and containing one blue egg. The other herons nest very late—in June.

One other bird-group remains to be briefly mentioned—the Larinæ. In so congenial a resort they are, of course, in force: but in early April few gulls, beyond the British species, are noticeable[20]—of others, anon. The Whiskered Tern (Hydrochelidon hybrida) came in swarms during the first days of April, followed on the 13th by the Lesser Tern, and at the end of the month by H. nigra, the Black Tern, all of which abound, gracefully hovering over every pool or reed-choked marsh. The larger Gull-billed Tern (Sterna anglica) is also common in summer in the marisma, where we have taken the eggs of all four species.

The utter loneliness and desolation of the middle marismas are a sensation to be remembered. Hour after hour one pushes forward across the flooded plain, only to bring within view more and yet more vistas of watery waste and endless horizons of tawny water. On a low islet in the far distance stand a herd of cattle—mere points in space: but they, too, partake of the general wildness, and splash off at a galop while yet a mile away. Even the horses or ponies of the marisma seem to have reverted to their original man-fearing state, and are as shy and timid as any of the feræ naturæ. After long days on the monotonous marisma, one's wearied eyes at length rejoice at a vision of trees—a dark green pine-grove casting grateful shade on the scorching sands beneath. To that oasis we direct our coarse: but it is a fraud, one of Nature's cruel mockeries—a mirage. Not a tree grows on that spot, or within leagues of it, nor has done for ages—perhaps since time began.

Upon a dreary islet we land to form a camp for the night: that is, to arrange our upturned punts around such scanty fire as can be raised from a few armfuls of tamarisks and dead thistles—all that our little domain produces—assisted by a few pine-cones, brought for the purpose in the boats. Dinner is cooked in the little block-tin camp-stove, or sarten prusiano, as the Spaniards call it, which only demands a modicum of lard and a sharp fire to reduce a rabbit or a duck to eatable state within a few minutes. The fare which can be obtained by the gun at this season is meagre enough: ducks or plovers are sorry food for hungry men, though a hare, shot on a grassy savanna, is acceptable enough; nor are the eggs of coot or peewit to be despised. Later, we experimented on many oological varieties, especially Stilt's and Avocet's eggs. The latter are excellent, boiling pale yellow and half opaque, like those of plover: but the Stilt's eggs are too red in the yolk to be tempting. Our men were not so squeamish: but then they did not even stick at the eggs of Kites or Vultures. After all, it is safer to rely in the main on Australian mutton, tinned ox-tongues from the Plate, or indigenous "jamon dulce;" but the difficulties of transport in tiny lanchas forbid one's being entirely independent of local fare.

The memories of our earliest experiences in the Spanish marismas, in April, 1872, do not fade. The glorious wild-life fascinated and exhilarated, while youthful enthusiasm ignored all drawbacks. But in later years it is perhaps excusable if a slight doubt of the bliss of campaigning in winter may temporarily arise when one is awakened in the middle watches of the night by sheer penetrating cold, finds the fire burnt out, the trusted Españoles all asleep, and the tail of a big black snake sticking out from under one's bed, or the poke of straw which is serving the purpose.

The night of April 10th we spent at Rocío, a squalid hamlet clustered around the chapel of Nuestra Señora del Rocío, an ancient shrine visited yearly at the vernal festival by faithful pilgrims. We were tired of the cold and comfortless nights sub Jove in the marisma, where upturned punts afforded scant shelter from the piercing winds of the small hours, and where the chill exhalations of night kept one awake listening to the chorus of frogs and flamingoes and the melancholy boom of the bittern. It was hardly a change for the better, for a more wretched ague-stricken spot we have seldom beheld, and in the dirty little posada man and beast were reckoned exactly equal in relation to the "accommodation" they require. The bed provided was a dirty mat of esparto grass, six feet by two, unrolled and laid on the bare ground: but the mosquitoes and other insect plagues made sleep impossible, and the night was spent in skinning the day's captures. The four-league tramp, however, through sandy, scrub-covered plains, was a relief from the monotonous marisma, and there were fresh birds for a change. The low, soft, double note of the Hoopoe was ubiquitous; brilliant Bee-eaters, Rollers, and Golden Orioles flashed like jewels in the sunshine, amidst the groves of wild olive and alcornoque: Southern Grey Shrikes (Lanius meridionalis) mumbled their harsh "wee hāte" from some tree-top or tall shoot of cistus, and Turtle-doves actually swarmed—all these birds (except the shrikes) newly returned from African scenes. We also observed a pair of Lesser Spotted Woodpeckers, and a single Azure-winged Magpie—the only occurrence of the latter we had then met with in this district, though further inland it is common near Coria del Rio, and towards Córdova it becomes plentiful. Near Rocio, also, we obtained the Red-backed Shrike, a species not previously recorded from Southern Spain.

Another interesting bird seen and shot this day for the first time was the Great Spotted Cuckoo (Coccystes glandarius), and shortly afterwards, while sitting at lunch during the mid-day heat, a female Hen-Harrier, which slowly passed within very long shot, and caused me to upset my last bottle of Bass. This was the latest date on which we saw this strictly winter-visitant to Andalucia, none remaining to breed, though it is plentiful enough in winter, and frequently observed while snipe-shooting.

Plate XIV. BOOTED EAGLE—Female, shot 11th April, 1872. Page 81.

Early next morning (April 11th) we started to explore the wooded swamps called La Rocina de la Madre—a nasty place to work: consisting of thousands of grassy tussocks, each surrounded by bog, in some places moderately firm and safe, in others, apparently similar, deep and dangerous, and everywhere swarming with leeches. In the centre of the open marsh, surrounded by quaking-bog and a dense growth of aquatic vegetation, rose a thick clump of low trees, whose snake-like roots were growing out of the black and stagnant water. These trees were occupied, some laden, with hundreds of stick-built nests, the abodes of the southern herons some of which we have already mentioned—Egrets, Squaccos, Buff-backs, Night-Herons, and the like: but nearly all this group nest very late (in June), and the colony was at this season tenantless. In subsequent years we have obtained in these wooded swamps the eggs of all the European herons: though it is not every summer that they repair thither to breed. In very dry seasons none are to be seen, but after a rainy spring, these heron-colonies of the marisma are indeed a wondrous sight—an almost sufficing reward for enduring the heat, the languor-laden miasmas, and the fury of the myriad mosquitos and leeches which in summer infest these remote marshy regions.

Climbing across the gnarled tree-roots to the other end of the thicket, we found a larger nest, and just as we emerged on the open, its owner, a female Booted Eagle, passed within reach as she slowly quartered the marsh, and fell to a charge of No. 2. This small, but compact and handsome species, has been confounded with the Rough-legged Buzzard; but no one who has seen Aquila pennata on the wing could mistake it for anything but an eagle. The nest proved empty, after a difficult climb up a briar-entwined trunk: but on the following day we found another, in the first fork of a big cork-tree, containing one white egg. Three is the full number laid by the Booted Eagle.

In another part of the wood was a nesting colony of the Black Kite (Milvus migrans), several of which soared high overhead. These birds hardly commence domestic duties in earnest before May, but after some trouble I succeeded in shooting a fine adult: also a pair of Purple Herons, of which we found three nests, and a single Roller (Coracias garrulus) from her nest in a broken stump, which contained one egg. After this we were obliged to beat a retreat, for the swarming hordes of leeches had developed so strong a taste for the bare legs of our two men that a return to terra firma became necessary.

The whole region for many a league around Rocío is one dead-flat plain—dry scrubby brushwood or stagnant marsh and marisma. To the northward, in the farthest distance are discernible the dim blue outspurs of the Sierra de Aracena; but beyond its charms to naturalist or sportsman, the district has few other attractions. After spending ten days in the wilderness, we set our faces homewards, and were not sorry on the third evening, after re-traversing the waste, to sight once more the white towers and lustred domes of San Lucar de Barameda.

On a bright May morning we set out for a fortnight's sojourn in the western marismas. For the last few miles the route lies through broken woodlands, all wrapt in the glory of the southern spring-time. There is no lack of verdure here at mid-winter—not even the deciduous trees are ever really bare: but in May the whole plant-world is fresh-clad in brightest garb and beauty—it is worth staying a moment to examine such prodigal luxuriance. Before us, for example, is a grove of stone-pines, embedded to their centres amidst dark green thicket; through the massed foliage of lentiscus and briar shoots up a forest of waving bamboos, tall almost and straight as the pines themselves; the foreground filled with the delicate mauve of rosemary, with giant heather and heaths of a dozen hues, all wrestling for space, with clumps of pampas-grass and palmetto, genista, butcher's-broom, and wild fennel. Here a mass of abolága, or Spanish gorse, ablaze with golden bloom; an arbutus blanched with waxen blossoms, or the glossy foliage of mimosa; there the sombre tones of the ilex are relieved by the pale emerald of a wild vine entwined upon the trunk. Even the stretches of grey gum-cistus have become almost gaudy with their pink, white, and pale yellow flowers. The air breathes of vernal perfumes, and the infinite chorus of spring bird-notes—the soft refrain of Goldfinch and Serin, Nightingale, Hypolais polyglotta, Orphean and other warblers, the dual note of Hoopoe, and flute-like carol of Golden Orioles, mingled with the harsher cries of Woodchat and Bee-eater, and on all sides the 'voice of the Turtle was heard in the land.'

The sun was high in the heavens ere we cleared the fragrant pinales; yet in the last rushy glade we rode suddenly into a herd of wild pig; females with their half-grown young—probably the exigencies of the season explained their being astir at so unusual an hour. Shortly afterwards the writer almost trod on two boars, deeply slumbering in an isolated thicket—one an old tusker, grizzly with age, and looking almost white as he trotted away across the dunes.

Presently, through a vista of the forest, we sighted the marisma, its muddy expanse to-day blue as the Mediterranean. An animated scene lay before us; the wastes were thronged with bird-life. The horizon glistened with the sheen of Flamingoes in thousands, and the intervening space lay streaked and dotted with flights and flotillas of aquatic fowl. The nearer foreshores, fringed with rush and sedge and dark stretches of tamarisk, were peopled with Storks and Herons, Egrets, Spoonbills, Stilts, Avocets, and other waders. While breakfasting under a spreading pine, we observed commotion among our feathered neighbours—the whole multitude had risen on wing as a single Booted Eagle swept over the scene.

Plate XV. PINTAILED SAND-GROUSE: FEMALE. (Pterocles alchata.) Page 85.

Rambling along the shore, we obtained many beautiful specimens by stalking, including most of those above named, as well as a pair of Marbled Ducks, a wild-cat, and other "sundries." Presently we observed with the glass a score or so of Knots, in full red summer-plumage, busily feeding rather far out. While creeping to them, a Marsh-Harrier rose from some rushes close at hand; I knocked him down and found he was lunching on a Knot. The latter we could not see again—though later in the month they were in thousands—but made out a "bunch" of Greenshanks feeding a little further on, one of which fell to a long shot—an immature bird. Curiously, we found no adults here, though in March they were numerous in some disused salinas beyond Tangier, but no young ones. The adults are distinguishable by their whiter appearance at a distance.

Our course lay across a wide bight of the marisma, which projects into the land. Crossing this, nearly knee-deep in mud and water in many parts, we fell in with three packs of Sand-Grouse (Pterocles alchata). They were excessively wild, flying fast and high, something like teal, anon like plover, and uttering a chorus of harsh croaks. On the open marsh we almost despaired of outmanœuvring them. We stuck to them, however, and, after many failures, obtained some beautiful specimens of both sexes, and well worth the trouble they were; for no bird we have ever seen rivals the Pin-tailed Sand-Grouse for delicacy of pencilling and the harmonious contrasts of infinite colours in its plumage. In the females especially, the spring-plumage is so variegated as to defy description, the patterns, so to speak, being as elaborate as the tints. Briefly, her back is finely reticulated with yellows and browns, blacks and maroons of various shades, all relieved by clean-cut bars of pale blue. Her head is speckled above the black line which passes through the eye; below that, the cheeks and throat are plain buff, and the chest clear bright chestnut, doubly margined with black and with a pale blue band above. In the male the features of the spring-plumage are a black throat, and a line of that colour through the eye. The pale sage-green back is covered with large lemon spots, some of which extend to the scapulars and tertiaries. The eye-circlets and eyelids are bright blue in both sexes, and at all seasons: of their winter-dress and habits we write elsewhere; but no description or sketch of ours can do adequate justice to this gem among birds.

The name of sand-grouse is not appropriate, for they are in no sense grouse, and are never found on sand—always on mud, and when shot their feet and bills are generally covered therewith. There is another and larger species, the Black-bellied Sand-Grouse (Pterocles arenarius), which is not found here, but is very abundant in parts of the upper marisma, towards Seville, and especially in the so-called Isla Menor, where we have shot several when bustard-driving, and found a nest with three long elliptic eggs on May 28th, besides seeing several others found by our men. These birds—in Spanish Corteza—nest on the bare pasturages of the upper marisma, and also on the high central plateaux of Spain, in Castile, La Mancha, &c., a very different region. The Pin-tailed species is known as Ganga, signifying a bargain, in reference to its edible qualities.

STILTS—HOVERING OVERHEAD.

After heavy rains in April, the mud and water in the marisma were unpleasantly deep for either riding or walking—we had now abandoned the punts; and on the low islands many thousands of eggs had been destroyed by the rising of the water. A great variety of birds were now nesting, Stilts and Avocets being, perhaps, the most conspicuous. We found a few eggs of both on the mud-flats to-day (May 5th), but a few days later they were in thousands. The Stilts make a fairly solid nest of dead black stalks of tamarisk, &c., and lay four richly-marked eggs, all arranged points inwards; the Avocet's eggs are larger and lighter in colour, and these birds seldom have any nest at all, the three eggs merely laid at random on the bare cracked mud, often an inch or two apart. Three is the usual complement.

AVOCETS.

A most curious picture do these singular birds present, either while flying past or hovering overhead on quick-beating pinions, with their absurdly long legs extending far behind like dead straws. The Avocet is much the more sprightly and game-like of the two, with his shrill pipe and elegant flight, now rapid and "jerky," now skimming low on the water. But we never tire of watching the quaint actions and postures of the Stilts, troops of which stalk sedately in the shallows close at hand. So extremely long are the legs of this bird that, with their short necks, they cannot reach down to the ground, nor pick anything up therefrom. They are consequently only to be seen feeding in water about knee-deep, for which purpose their peculiar build specially adapts them, picking up seeds, insects and aquatic plants from the surface.[21]

We found many nests of Peewit and Redshank, those of the latter by far the best concealed, always in some thick clump of grass or samphire. Such familiar notes sound strangely incongruous amid the exotic bird-medley around, and the fact of their remaining to nest so far south is an ornithological curiosity. Birds which are at once inhabitants of the extreme north of Europe, and yet capable of enduring the summer-heats of the Andalucian plains, set at nought one's ideas of geographical distribution. As already mentioned, we also found in April the Dunlin nesting on the lower Guadalquivir, and our friend Mr. W. C. Tait has detected the Common Sandpiper remaining to breed on the Lima and Minho in Portugal.

There also lay scattered on the dry mud many clutches of smaller eggs belonging to two other species, the Kentish Plover and Lesser Ring-dotterel. The latter, less common, were only beginning to lay, choosing the drier, gravelly ridges of the islets. The eggs of the Kentish plover we had found as early as April 14th, and in May many were already much incubated. Neither of these make any nest—nothing but a few broken shells—and some eggs were deposited in a hollow scratched in dried cattle-droppings. On these islands were also many nests of the Spanish Short-toed lark (Calandrella bætica, Dresser—a species peculiar to this region), artlessly built of dry grass, and placed in small hollows like a dunlin's, sometimes among thistles, as often on bare ground without covert. We found the first eggs on May 9th. On the larger grassy islands there also breed the Calandra, Crested and Short-toed Larks, with Ortolan, Common and Reed-buntings.

May 8th, 1872.—A remarkable passage of waders occurred to-day: the banks of the Guadalete swarmed with bird-life, some of the oozes crowded with plovers, &c., as thick as they could stand. A mixed bag included whimbrels, grey plovers, ring-dotterel, curlew-sandpiper, sand-grouse, &c. Many of the Grey Plovers were superb specimens in perfect black-and-white plumage, and the Curlew-Sandpipers in richest rufous summer-dress. Unfortunately, the attractions of the Great Bustard, several of which were also in sight, proved irresistible: but I had the satisfaction of riding home that evening with my first bustard slung to the alforjas. The next day, as is often the case, hardly a passage-bird was to be seen, and my bag only contained a pair of Grey Phalaropes, and a female Montagu's Harrier.

GREY PLOVERS—SUMMER-PLUMAGE.

May 9th, 1883.—The effects of dawn over the vast desolations of the marisma were specially beautiful this morning. Before sunrise the distant peaks of the Serrania de Ronda (seventy miles away) lay flooded in a blood-red light, and looking quite twice their usual height. Half an hour later the mountains sank back in a golden glow, and long before mid-day were invisible through the quivering heat-haze and the atmospheric fantasies of infinite space. Amid a chaotic confusion of mirage-effects, we rode out across the level plain—at first across dry mud-flats, partly carpeted with a dwarf scrub of marsh-plants, in places bare and naked, the sun-scorched surface cracked into rhomboids and parallelograms, and honeycombed with deep cattle-tracks made long ago when the mud was moist and plastic. Then through shallow marsh and stagnant waters, gradually deepening. Here from a rushy patch sprang three yeld hinds from almost underfoot, and splashed off through the shallows, their russet coats gleaming in the morning sunlight. Gradually the water deepened: mucha agua, mucho fango! groaned Felipe; but this morning we intended to reach the very heart of the marisma: and before ten o'clock were cooking our breakfast on a far-away islet whereon never British foot had trod before, and which was literally covered with Avocets' eggs, and many more.

Here, while I was busy selecting, numbering, and preparing some of the most typical clutches, Felipe, whom I had sent to explore another islet close by, came up with five eggs, which he said he thought must be gull's. I saw at a glance he was right, and jumping up, espied among the clamorous crowd of marsh-terns, avocets, stilts, pratincoles, and other birds overhead, a single pair of strangers—small, very long-necked gulls. These I promptly knocked down, and at once recognized as Larus gelastes, one of the rarest of the South European gulls, and of whose breeding-places and habits comparatively little was known. Only a few days before I had received a letter from Mr. Howard Saunders especially enjoining me to keep a strict look-out for "the beautiful pink-breasted, Slender-billed Gull"; we therefore at once commenced a careful investigation of all the islands in sight, never dreaming but that our two gulls and the five eggs were duly related to each other. It was therefore with no small surprise that shortly afterwards I found another gull's nest containing two very different eggs (white ground, spotted with black and brown like those of Sterna cantiaca), from which I also shot a female L. gelastes.[22] This time, however, there was no room for doubt: for the bird while in its death-throes actually laid a third egg in the water—a perfectly coloured and developed specimen, the exact counterpart of the two in the nest. Then, to make assurance doubly sure, I found on skinning the first pair of gulls that the female contained a fourth perfectly developed specimen of this very distinct egg. This of course placed the identity of the eggs of L. gelastes beyond doubt: it was, however, equally certain that the first five eggs (which were dull greenish or stone-colour, faintly spotted with brown) belonged to some other species. Accordingly I returned to the first-named islands, and at once perceived two or three pairs of small black-hooded gulls: these had doubtless been overlooked in the morning, mixed up as they were among numbers of gull-billed terns and other birds. They would not allow approach within shot, so I was obliged to risk a long chance with wire-cartridge. The bird was "feathered," but escaped at the moment. Two days afterwards, however, on a second visit, I found it lying dead, and recognized it by the jet-black hood and strong bill as Larus melanocephalus, another of the rarer gulls, and presumably the owner of one of the first two nests. Those of the slender-billed gull, it should be added, were composed of yellow flags, the nests of L. melanocephalus of black tamarisk-stalks and other dark materials. To obtain in a single morning the nests of two of the rarest of European breeding birds was a measure of luck that rarely falls to the lot of an ornithologist: though the discovery, made a few hours later, of the breeding quarters of the flamingoes, appears to carry more ornithological kudos—quantum valeat.

May 11th.—The Pratincoles are now beginning to lay—one or two eggs in each nest: but subsequently we got them in baskets-full. Some of these eggs when freshly-laid have a beautiful purplish gloss. Three is their complement, and they make hardly any nest, merely a few broken chips of shells. We also found to-day, on the marismas of Guadalete, two nests of the Montagu's Harrier, each with five or six eggs, mere outlines of broken twigs arranged on the bare soil, one among low scrub, the other in the corn. The Marsh-Harrier breeds much earlier. We found this year three nests at the end of March—much more solid structures, built of dead flags, &c.: one was in standing corn, another on the ground in a cane-brake, the third on the top of a dense bramble-thicket, fifteen feet high—a very awkward place to get at. Occasionally, where there was much water, we have found the Montagu's Harrier also nesting in brushwood, three or four feet above the ground. In the water beneath are strewn skulls of rabbits, vertebræ of lizards, &c.

IN THE MARISMA—STILTS.

Later, again, are the Terns: the Whiskered and Black species (Hydrochelidon hybrida and H. nigra) breed in colonies both in the open marisma and on the lagoons of the Coto Doñana, building their nests far out on the lilies and floating water-weeds. All these lay three eggs, those of the Whiskered Tern mostly greenish with black spots, a few olive-brown. The eggs of the Black Tern are much smaller, and of a rich liver-brown, heavily blotched with black. The larger Gull-billed Tern (Sterna anglica) breeds only on the islets of the marisma. I obtained their eggs, and those of the Lesser Tern (S. minuta) on my first visit on the 23rd of May.

These islands which we have just described lay some six or eight miles from the low shores of the marisma, and at that distance no land whatever was in sight. The coup d'œil therefrom presented an extraordinary scene of desolation. The only relief from the monotony of endless wastes of water were the birds. A shrieking, clamouring crowd hung overhead, while only a few yards away the surface was dotted with troops of stilts sedately stalking about, knee-deep—in no other situation do their long legs permit them to feed. Further away large flights of smaller waders flashed—now white, now dark,—in the sunlight. Most of these were ring-dotterels, dunlins, and curlew-sandpiper, the two latter in full summer-plumage. A marsh-harrier, oologically inclined, was being bullied and chased by a score of peewits: and now and then a little string of ducks high overhead would still remind one of winter. Beyond all these, the strange forms of hundreds of flamingoes met one's eye in every direction—some in groups or in dense masses, others with rigidly outstretched necks and legs flying in short strings, or larger flights "glinting" in the sunshine like a pink cloud. Many pairs of old red birds were observed to be accompanied by a single white (immature) one. But the most extraordinary effect was produced by the more distant herds, the immense numbers of which formed an almost unbroken white horizon—a thin white line separating sea and sky round a great part of the circle.

But this chapter is long enough, and we must reserve for another the rest of our experiences among the flamingoes.

An incident occurred during our exploration of the marismas in the spring of 1883 which illustrates the desolate and unknown character of these wildernesses, and also brought to light a curious fact in natural history. Far away on the level plain I noticed two large animals evidently watching me. They were certainly not deer, which in spring often wander out into the marisma, but never so far as to where I then was. They stood too high on their legs for deer, and had a much greater lateral width as they stood facing me—their contour, in fact, somewhat resembled a couple of the long-stemmed, conical-topped, stone-pines, which are so characteristic of the adjoining woodlands. But there was something in their appearance even at the distance that prompted an attempt to reach closer quarters—there was a distinct game-look about them. I changed my cartridge for ball, and attempted an approach with all available caution, lying flat in the saddle and advancing obliquely by long "tacks," besides using the patero's, or native duck-shooter's, device of stopping at intervals to give the horse an appearance of grazing. But it was no use: while still a quarter of a mile away, the strangers simultaneously wheeled about and made off with shambling gait. Then for the first time, when their broad-sides were exposed to view, I saw that they were two camels, one much larger than the other.[23] Probably no one who reads this will be more surprised than was the writer at the apparition of the long-legged, long-necked, hump-backed pair; but there was no room for mistake, for a camel is like nothing else in creation.

Plate XVI. THE SPANISH WILD CAMELS—OUR FIRST SIGHT OF A PAIR IN THE MARISMA. Page 94.

The camels appeared to have no great pace, and for some distance I pursued them, but it was hopeless. Between us lay an arroyo, one of those wide stagnant channels that in spring intersect the dry parts of the marisma in all directions; and before getting clear of this, splashing through some hundred yards of mud and water, the bactrians were far away, scudding across a dead-level plain that extended to the horizon.

I had heard on my first visit to this wilderness (in 1872) of the existence of camels therein, and that they had lived there wild for forty years or more, but was as incredulous as perhaps some of our present readers may be, and as some certainly were when I first mentioned the fact in the Ibis, in January, 1884, though then corroborated by Mr. Howard Saunders, one of the joint-editors, in the following foot-note:—"I saw a small herd of these feral camels in the Coto de Doñana, on the 3rd of May, 1868; but, finding that my statement as to the breeding of the crane in that neighbourhood was received with much incredulity, I kept the apparition of the camels to myself. I possessed the eggs of the crane to convince the sceptics, but I could not have produced a camel." Shortly afterwards the statement was somewhat contemptuously criticized by an anonymous writer in The Field, who claimed to be himself acquainted with the marismas, and ridiculed the idea of camels existing there in a wild state. "The startling statement," wrote Inhlwati, "as to the existence of wild camels in the neighbourhood of Seville or Lebrija has taken me and my friends who know that country well by utter surprise; and that camels should have been roaming about there and breeding, so to speak, as perfectly wild animals in a state of nature, seems to us utterly incredible.

"The marismas in the summer time are covered with cattle, and of course they are accompanied everywhere by their herdsmen; and, so to speak, every foot of open ground is more or less under daily inspection. And, as the camel is a grazing animal, it would naturally be found in the more open parts of these marismas or marshes, where they could hardly have avoided detection and, as a certain consequence, capture or death for so long a period as you mention.

"So valuable an animal would be such a prize to the poor Spanish peasants, that they would turn out to a man to obtain it; and there are, besides, too many English sportsmen at Seville and Jerez to allow the chance of so novel a chase to slip through their hands unnoticed.

"I may mention that a company is in existence for the drainage and better utilization of these marismas of Lebrija, and I can hardly imagine that such animals as camels could have escaped the notice of their surveyors and staff during their detailed surveys of the district.

"I may add, that my friend, the Belgian Consul at Seville, happens to be with me now, and quite agrees with what I have said. It would be very interesting if you could obtain any further news about these strange wanderers."

To this the following foot-note was appended by the Editor of The Field:—"It is somewhat strange that our correspondent should ask for further information respecting animals whose existence he regards as 'utterly incredible.' But the statement has not been made that there are wild camels anywhere near Seville. The districts explored by Mr. Abel Chapman are far removed from human habitation, and are not those in which herds of domestic cattle are ever seen. The fact that Mr. Chapman described for the first time the singular nests of the flamingo, which exists there in colonies, that have never before been figured [see next chapter], proves that neither Inhlwati nor his friend can know the country well, and that 'every foot of ground' cannot possibly, as he states, 'be open to daily inspection.' The fact that the camels have been observed on different occasions by two well-known naturalists—men trained to the close and accurate observation of animals, who both give their names—should have entitled their remarks to a different reception."

We have inserted the above extracts in full partly because they are a good example of the reckless way some people are prone to rush into print, and who, because they may have some acquaintance with a subject, think they are thereby entitled to speak as with complete knowledge. The marismas of Lebrija are, as a matter of fact, many miles away on the other side of the Guadalquivir.

No doubt it is a "startling statement" that wild camels are roaming at large in Europe, or anywhere else—it would hardly seem more incredible if a herd of hippopotami were reported in the Upper Thames. The camel has never within historic times been known to exist in a wild state: it has always been the servant of man, a beast of burden and domesticity.[24] More than this, a certain physical disability or cause has been alleged to exist, which, if correct, would render their permanent continuance, in a natural state, an impossibility. Nor could any region be well conceived so ill-adapted—indeed repulsive—to the known habits and requirements of an animal always associated with arid sandy deserts, as the Spanish marismas, which, always marshy, are subject to actual inundation during six months out of the twelve.

The discussion had, at any rate, the merit of evoking the following additional information respecting the Spanish camels, their introduction and habits. First I will quote a letter from my co-author, dated from the Coto Doñana, March 1st. "Dear Chapman,—Your letter has reached me here, where we are shooting deer for the last time this season. I am glad I happened to be on the spot, having an opportunity of asking the guardas and others for the facts respecting the camels, which I hope will be sufficient to convince the sceptics of their existence here and of the truth of your observation, which I am surprised to hear has been called in question.

"The camels were brought here first from the Canary Isles by Domingo Castellanos, Administrador to the Marques de Villa Franca, in 1829, he intending to make use of them in the Coto for transporting timber, charcoal, &c. The descendants of this Domingo, the two brothers Barrera of Almonte, now own the fifty or sixty animals which make the marisma lying between the Coto proper and the Guadalquivir their feeding-ground. They seldom appear on the wooded parts, remaining winter and summer in the marisma, moving with the greatest ease in winter through the mud and water, from one island to another, occasionally coming to the woods to pasture on the tops of the young pines.

"You know, from your flamingo experiences, how vast a waste is comprised between the borders of the Coto and the river (Guadalquivir) which accounts for the camels being seldom seen except by herdsmen and others (Mr. Abel Chapman, to wit) whose business may take them out into the watery wilderness. Manuel Ruiz, conocedor of the Villa-Vilviestre herd,[25] now tells me that at about three-quarters of a league from the Cerro-Trigo he saw yesterday three females with their young, which he judged to be about twenty days old.

"I can send you any further particulars required, and if the unbelievers will not swallow your camel, we must do what Mr. Saunders did with the doubted specimen [of the crane's egg], and bring before them a Spanish-born camel, hump and all. Nothing is easier. Sport pretty good so far—five stags, four pigs, two lynxes."

We are also kindly privileged to quote the following statement of Lord Lilford's personal observation of the wild camels:—"I was not aware till I saw Saunders' note at the end of your paper and read the subsequent correspondence in The Field, that any one doubted the existence of camels in a virtually wild state in the marisma. I once saw four or five of them together at a vast distance, and, in 1872, came across their 'spoor' several times when exploring the marismas of the Coto. Their existence is perfectly well known to many people at San Lucar, and, no doubt, also at Jerez. I heard of them first in 1856.... What Mr. Buck says of the habits of the camel is, as far as I can remember, pretty much what I heard from several of the guardas of the Coto in 1872.... My son reminds me of what I had quite forgotten, viz., that he and our doctor saw some camels in the marisma somewhere on the proper right of the western branch of the Guadalquivir last May (1888), when I was confined to my ship by an attack of gout in the right hand."

Plate XVII. WILD CAMELS—THROUGH THE BINOCULARS Page 98.

Lastly, we quote the following from a "Catalogue of the Mammalia of Andalucia," by Don Antonio Machado y Nuñez, published at Seville in 1869:—"The first camels, which were introduced with the object of breeding them, came from the Canary Islands, and in a few years became a herd of about eighty. In 1833, a few years after introduction, they were used as beasts of burden and transport in the province of Cadiz, employed in the carriage of materials used in making the high road from Port St. Mary to San Lucar de Barrameda (more than thirty years ago), and also in conveyances to Arcos, Jerez, Chichlana, and other towns. But some untoward accidents on the roads through horses being frightened at the sight of such strange animals,[26] and the necessity of separating them from horses in the yards, combined with other matters easy to remedy, caused them to fall into disuse as beasts of burden and carriage, and thus the economy and advantages obtained by their introduction were lost. They were then used for agricultural purposes, and some lands which Don Rafael de Barrera holds are at this time (1869) cultivated by the aid of camels, which are used for ploughing and other agricultural work."

At the present time the descendants of these camels live and nourish in the marismas in a wholly wild state, and since the sequestration of the Messrs. Barrera are practically ownerless.

We have fallen in with them on several subsequent occasions. On January 6th, 1888, we descried a herd of nineteen, of various sizes, all dreamily ruminating, knee-deep in the marisma, each form reflected in the still water beneath. Our whole shooting-party (including seven or eight Englishmen) enjoyed the sight, the herd remaining in view during the half-hour we spent at lunch on the edge of the marisma. With powerful field-glasses we brought the camels close up, and watched them putting their heads down as though grazing on the grasses beneath the surface. Presently they moved on to a rushy islet some three miles from the shore: hard by stood a rosy troop of flamingoes, and the intervening waters were dotted with numberless fleets of ducks and geese. It was a unique spectacle, one that could hardly be matched outside this out-of-the-world corner of Europe.

In 1890, and again several times in the spring of 1891, we fell in with camels. On March 5th we rode within 500 yards of eight, two of which were about the size of sheep. In appearance they are very shaggy beasts, and vary much in colour, some being of a light tawny hue, while others are very dark brown, but all seem grey about the neck.

On one of these occasions a curious incident occurred. It was in December, 1890—an intensely cold and dry season, almost unprecedented in Spain for the severity of the frost—when, in mid-marisma, leagues from water or covert, and specially on the look-out for camels, a keen eye detected in the far distance a roving fox. All dismounted, and letting the horses graze, hid behind them and awaited his approach. Then, with only a single podenco, or hunting-dog, Frascuelo by name, and after a straight-away chase of five or six miles at top-speed over a sun-dried plain, bare and level as a billiard-table, we fairly rode bold Reynard down, and killed him.

As evidence of the "staying powers" of the camel, our friend Antonio Trujillo tells us that some years ago he came on one stuck in a bog. For six days he was unable to reach the spot, and daily watched the poor beast helplessly floundering. On the seventh day he found it possible to assist the camel to escape. All around within reach of the poor creature's mouth, he found that the very earth was eaten away. Yet when helped to regain firm ground, the camel walked quietly away, apparently but little the worse, and was soon browsing heartily on the tops of some young pine-trees.

It is, perhaps, worth adding, in reference to the antipathy shown by horses towards camels, that when during the night bands of the latter have occasionally strayed from the marismas to the vicinity of our shooting-lodge of Doñana, at once a commotion has broken out in the stables, though placed in an enclosed square. All at once the horses have begun shrieking, kicking, and displaying every sign of fear, which could only be explained by their detecting the effluvia of some passing camels.

Though Flamingoes are found in many of the countries bordering on the Mediterranean, and their rosy battalions are familiar to Eastern travellers through Egypt and the Suez Canal, yet their mode of nesting, and especially the manner in which birds of so singular a form could dispose of their extremely long legs while incubating, has remained an unsettled question. Till within the last decade, in default of more recent observations, sundry ancient fables have passed current. Dampier described the nests of flamingoes seen by him two hundred years ago—in September, 1683—on one of the Cape de Verde Islands, as being high conical mounds of mud upon which the female sat astride ("Voyages," i., pp. 70, 71); and for two centuries this cavalier position has been accepted as history, no further observations having been made, though flamingoes have nested irregularly in various parts of Europe—even in France (in the marshy Camargue, the delta of the Rhone), and in Southern Spain.

In the latter country several efforts have been made by naturalists to obtain more precise knowledge of the breeding habits of the flamingo, especially by Lord Lilford and Mr. Howard Saunders, but, from various causes, without definite results. "The heat on those plains in June, when the flamingoes are said to nest," wrote the latter, "is something tropical, and it is no joke to wander for days over a district as large as our 'Eastern Counties,' on the chance of stumbling upon a colony of flamingoes somewhere or other." The element of chance, however, is a potent factor, and it eventually fell to the writer's lot to discover that for which other and better naturalists had sought in vain. The following is a narrative of our explorations in the marisma in the spring of 1883:—

The first encounter with flamingoes that year had a somewhat ludicrous result: after riding all day across the wastes, we had arrived towards sunset within sight of our quarters for the night, when a herd of these birds was observed feeding in a reed-girt creek. They seemed unusually favourably placed for a stalk—for these wary fowl seldom approach within shot of the slightest covert; but on reaching the outermost rushes, the pack was seen to be at a hopeless range, and rose immediately on my appearance. To my surprise, a "treble A" wire-cartridge nevertheless dropped four—three falling direct to the shot, and a fourth "towering" and falling dead a little further out. One tall fellow was only winged, and seeing that he was walking right away from me, and getting into deeper water, Felipe took my horse and rode round to cut him out. Meanwhile the short twilight was over, and darkness overtook us some distance out in the dreary marisma. In the gloom I mistook the bearings, and only, after splashing about for a time that seemed eternal, managed to reach the shore, laden with three huge birds, wet through, hungry, and hopelessly lost. For a mile or two I struggled on through thorn and tangled brushwood, till at last, coming suddenly upon a herd of sleeping beasts—bulls, for all I could tell—I gave it up, and decided to weather out the night in the jungle, with the sand for a couch, and a flamingo for a pillow. Great was the relief, about midnight, to hear a distant shot; I responded with a fusillade, and shortly afterwards B——, with Felipe, and Trujillo's mighty frame loomed through the darkness, and the duress was at an end.

FLAMINGOES ON FEED.

During the month of April we searched the marisma systematically for the breeding-places of the flamingoes: but though we explored a large area, riding many leagues in all directions from our base through mud and water, varying from a few inches to three or even four feet in depth, yet we could see, at this season, no sign of nests. Flamingoes there were in plenty, together with ducks, divers, waders, and many kinds of aquatic birds already described: but the water was still too deep—the mud-flats and new-born islets not sufficiently dried for purposes of nidification, and as far as we could see the only species which had actually commenced to lay were the purple herons, coots, Kentish plovers, peewits, and some others.

Of the flamingoes themselves we secured several more lovely specimens; during two mornings devoted to shooting them, we bagged eight, six adults in rich rosy plumage, and two immature. Flamingoes are always shy and watchful birds, and their great height gives them a commanding view of threatening dangers: but there are degrees in intensity of wildness, and despite the unquestionable difficulty of flamingo-shooting, we would certainly not place these long-necked birds in the first rank among impracticable wild-fowl. Wild geese, for example, many of the duck-tribe, and nearly all the larger raptores far exceed them in incessant vigilance and downright astuteness. Flamingoes, however, will not, as a rule, permit of approach by the ordinary Spanish method of the stalking-horse, or cabresto: while the treacherous pony is still two gunshots away, the warning croak of the sentries is given, and at once the whole herd start to walk away, opening out their ranks as they move off. The method we found most effective to secure them was by partially surrounding a herd with a line of mounted men, who rode far out beyond them and then drove them over our two guns, each concealed behind his horse and crouching knee-deep in water. Of all the dirty work that wild-fowling in its many forms necessitates, this flamingo-driving takes the palm. It is mud-larking pure and simple, man, horse, and gun alike encased in a clinging argillaceous covering like the street-Arab amphibians below London Bridge.

It is a fine sight to see a big flight of flamingoes, say five hundred, coming well in to the gun—entrando bien á la escopeta! The whole sky is streaked with columns of strange forms, and the still air resounds with the babel of discordant croaks and cries. How wondrously they marshal those long uniform files, bird behind bird without break or confusion, and how precisely do those thousand black wing-points beat in rapid regular unison! Flamingoes are not "hard" birds: their feathers being loose and open, and the extremely long necks a specially vulnerable part, they may be brought down from a considerable height even with small shot. One evening, while collecting specimens of small birds on the open marsh, the writer killed a pretty right-and-left at flamingoes with No 6. Happening to see them on the wing a long way off, I lay down flat among the low samphire-scrub and presently had them (five) right overhead. Both these birds fell stone-dead. On another occasion, many years before, at the Veta Lengua, our four barrels, each loaded with nine treble-nesting slugs, brought down three fine flamingoes from a herd rising at upwards of 180 measured paces. But having obtained specimens, we did not further molest these singular birds.

A RIGHT-AND-LEFT AT FLAMINGOES.

Flamingoes were not the sole attraction: the desolate region around abounded with wild life, furred and feathered, and many a pleasant bye-day was put in among the "vermin." One morning we rode out to some distant thickets where a neighbouring herdsman—half peasant, half poacher—complained that a family of lynxes were working havoc among his kids. Our friend, a man of square iron-knit frame, with the eyes and claws of an eagle, rode before us, no less than eleven wire-haired podencos (hunting-dogs) made fast to his saddle-bow by cords of twisted esparto. The first thicket tried held a lynx, which, disturbed by the podencos, bolted at speed right between us and rolled over with a dose of "treble A" about her lugs. From this one small mancha the dogs put out, besides the lynx, several partridge and rabbits, a Montagu's harrier, and a pair of mallards! This lynx was a female, a full-grown and handsome example of Felis pardina, much infested (as are most of the scrub-haunting animals) with ticks, especially about the head: but it was not much more than half the size of an enormous male which we subsequently found. Unluckily, half our pack were then wasting their energies on a big boar, which, after trotting close up to where the writer stood, turned back with a valedictory grunt and disappeared. The rest of the pack had meanwhile driven the lynx to the outside of the thicket, where we had already viewed him and regarded his fate as sealed; when, with sudden fury, the big cat turned on his foes, and scattering the podencos with some tremendous fore-arm blows, made good his escape to the fastnesses of the Algaida de la Pez.

SPANISH LYNX.

Some years afterwards the writer killed a magnificent male lynx, one of the largest and most beautifully marked we have ever seen, at this mancha—probably the same beast.

These scrub-clad plains abounded with tall grey foxes (Vulpes melanogaster) and mongoose (Herpestes widdringtoni), with genets, badgers, and wild-cats, of all of which we shot specimens. Three wild-cats we bagged by moonlight, from screens placed to command an open glade where rabbits are wont to pursue nocturnal gambols. Waiting in ambush beneath the star-strewn heavens, in the silent brilliance of the southern night, no sound save the churring of nightjars, or the whistle of stone-curlew, broke the stillness: bats and small owls flicker in uncertain flight against the dark sky, and across the glade rabbits glide like phantoms: presently a larger shadow announces their deadly enemy, the Gato montés. Two of these wild-cats were males, large and powerful brutes, weighing 9½ and 10¼ lbs. respectively, and tinged with warm chestnut colours beneath. The big lynx we could not weigh, being beyond the limit of the spring-balance. He probably reached near half a hundredweight. But we must return to our flamingoes.

During the month of April, as already mentioned, all efforts to discover their breeding-places proved futile. It was clearly too early in the season, and the writer now lost nearly a week through a smart attack of ague, brought on by constant splashing about in comparatively cold water with a fierce sun always beating down on one's head. In May, however, we had better luck. Further to the eastward flamingoes had always been most numerous, and once or twice we observed signs, early in May, that looked like the first rude beginnings of architecture. We have already described the archipelago of islets that lay far towards the eastern shore, and on which we had found the rare gulls, and such a variety of waders and other aquatic birds breeding (p. 93), together with the immense numbers of flamingoes that lined the horizon. We must now return to those bird-islets, to the scene where we broke off at the end of Chapter VII on the afternoon of the 9th of May.

A TOILET IN THE WILDERNESS.

As there stated, the immense aggregations of flamingoes in those middle marismas, surrounded the horizon in an almost unbroken line. But, on examining the different herds narrowly with the binocular, there was an obvious dissimilarity in the appearance of certain groups. One or two in particular seemed so much denser than the others: the narrow white line appeared at least three times as thick, and in the centre looked as if the birds were literally piled upon each other. Felipe suggested that these birds must be at their pajeréra, or breeding-place, and after a long wet ride we found this was so. The water was very deep, the bottom clinging mud: at intervals, for a hundred yards or so, the laboured plunging of the mule was exchanged for an easier, gliding motion—he was swimming. The change was a welcome relief to man and beast: the sensation of sitting a swimming animal is not unpleasant, but it will give some idea of the labours undergone in these aquatic rides in the marismas in May, 1883, if we add that a fine mule, a powerful beast worth £60, succumbed to the effects of the fortnight's work.

On a nearer approach, the cause of the peculiar appearance of the herd from a distance became clearly discernible. Many of the birds were sitting down on a low mud-island. Some were standing upon it: and others again were standing in the water. Thus the different elevations of their bodies formed what had appeared a triple or quadruple line.

On reaching the spot we found a perfect mass of nests. The low, flat, mud plateau was crowded with them as thickly as its space permitted. These nests had little or no height above the flat surface of mud—some were raised an inch or two, a few might be five or six inches in height; but the majority were merely circular bulwarks of mud barely raised above the general level, and having the impression of the bird's legs distinctly marked upon them. The general aspect of the plateau was not unlike a large table covered with plates. In the centre was a deep hole full of muddy water, which, from the gouged appearance of its sides, appeared to be used as a reservoir for nest-making materials.

Scattered all round this main colony were numerous single nests, rising out of the water and evidently built up from the bottom. Here and there two or three of these were joined together—"semi-detached," so to speak: these separate nests stood six or eight inches above water-level, and as the depth was rather over a foot, the total height of the nests would be some two feet or thereabouts, and their width across the hollow top some fifteen inches. None of these nests as yet contained any eggs, and though I returned to the pajaréra on the latest day I was in its neighbourhood (May 11th) they still remained empty. On both occasions many hundreds of flamingoes were sitting on the nests, and on the 11th we had a good view of them at close quarters. Linked arm-in-arm with Felipe, and crouching low on the water to look as little human as possible, we approached within some seventy yards before their sentries showed signs of alarm: and at that distance, with the glass, observed the sitting birds as distinctly as one need wish. The long red legs doubled under their bodies, the knees projecting as far as, or beyond the tail, and their graceful necks neatly curled away among their back-feathers like a sitting swan, with the heads resting on their breasts—all these points were unmistakable. Indeed, as regards the disposition of their legs, it is hardly necessary to point out that in the great majority of cases (the nests being hardly raised above the level of the mud) no other position was possible—to sit astride on a flat surface is out of the question.

FLAMINGOES AND NESTS.

Still none of the crowded nests contained a single egg. How strange it is that the flamingo, a bird which never seems happy unless half-way up to his knees in water, should so long delay the period of incubation: for, long before eggs could be laid and hatched in these nests and the young reared, the full summer-heats of June and July would have set in, the water would have entirely disappeared, and the flamingoes would be left stranded in the midst of a scorching desert of dry, sun-baked mud.

Being unable myself to return to the marisma, I sent Felipe back there on the 26th of May, when he obtained eggs—long, white and chalky, some specimens extremely rough. Two is the number laid in each nest. In 1872 the writer obtained eggs taken on May 24th, which is therefore, probably, about the average date of laying. Owing to the late period at which incubation takes place, we have not had an opportunity of examining the young flamingoes when newly-hatched, or of endeavouring to solve the biological problems which appear to cluster round their adolescent anatomy. In June and July, 1872, the writer spent some time in the marisma, but unfortunately was not aware, at that time, of the interest attaching to these points.

According to native accounts, very few young flamingoes are ever reared in Spain. Though in wet seasons eggs are laid in thousands (they are sold by boatloads in the neighbouring villages), yet few, if any, of the young Spanish flamingoes reach maturity—possibly by reason of their lateness in nesting, and the rapid changes in the state of the water in the marisma.

In the spring of 1891, after an exceptionally severe winter in Spain, and with comparatively little water in the marisma, flamingoes were remarkably scarce, and we believe that none bred in Andalucia that year.

Since the author's description of the nesting habits of the flamingo first appeared in the Ibis (January, 1884), its accuracy has been corroborated by independent observations made on the West Indian island of Abaco by His Excellency (now Sir) H. H. Blake, when Governor of the Bahamas. The value of the corroboration is enhanced by the fact that the above-named gentleman was unaware at the time he wrote that the long-vexed question had already, three years previously, been solved: and his graphic description in the Nineteenth Century for December, 1887, is, as regards facts, almost identical with the present writer's account of a similar scene narrated in the Ibis for January, 1884.

Plate XVIII. FLAMINGOES ON THEIR NESTS. Page 112.

One other point before we leave the flamingo and its haunts. We have seen it stated that the brilliant colours of the flamingo do but reflect the brilliancy of its environment—that these bright colours have been acquired through the æsthetic tastes of the bird and by "selective preference"; then, proceeding to enlarge on a "fascinating theory," its expounder goes on from particular to general, and to demonstrate that this Darwinian principle is generally operative in ornithic coloration. Whether birds in general have or have not æsthetic tastes in the matter of coloration or ornament, we are not prepared to say: but to our less imaginative minds it is a question whether there exists in nature a shred of real evidence in support of such a hypothesis. The flamingo truly has a brilliant plumage, but never a brilliant environment. No one who has been intimately acquainted with these birds in their haunts could have conceived such a sentiment; for anything less brilliant than the bleak and tawny monotony which characterizes the chosen homes of the flamingo it would be impossible to imagine. The flamingo itself, indeed, is the one solitary speck of pure bright colour amidst the broad leagues of mud and muddy water which it so conspicuously ornaments. Other birds are there, it is true, but to them the same remark applies. They, also, are as bright, pure and conspicuously different from their environment as are the flamingoes. What more exquisite examples of bright, spotless beauty amidst strongly contrasted surroundings than the stilts and avocets, the lovely southern herons, egrets and spoonbills, the gulls and marsh-terns? These are but a handful of examples fatal to such a theory, and they could easily be multiplied indefinitely.

That many brilliant bird-forms affect brilliant surroundings, that the fauna of the cold and colourless north in general lacks the gorgeous hues of certain denizens of the tropics, or, again, that many creatures possess hues assimilated to the general tone of their destined haunts—all these are facts which we readily recognize. But are such facts much more than coincidences? Or is it wise to deduce any binding rules or axiom therefrom? As regards protective assimilation in colour, that is quite a different thing: its advantages are self-evident, and its application more or less universal throughout the animal-world, but it is hardly to the point. Protective coloration we recognize and understand—it is an every-day phenomenon—but æsthetic tastes in colour we utterly reject.

The composition of the human mind is undoubtedly speculative: and to those of deep thought, as distinguished from others the bent of whose energies tends rather towards action, the temptation to theorize—to venture on the dangerous regions of inference and deduction—appears irresistible. The contemplative thinker formulates theories the apparent beauty of which fascinate his imagination. Collateral evidence which seems to substantiate, is, in general, not difficult to find—that of a negative or prejudicial character is not sought. Then with a mind unconsciously biassed in favour of a preconceived idea, it may happen that probabilities are mistaken for facts, evidence for proof: and thus a new hypothesis is duly launched, based on ten, fifty, or a hundred adduced circumstances, the whole of which may be merely coincidences, and exceptions to the rule if applied to the millions of unadduced cases, and perhaps, even in relation to the particular examples cited, of no direct bearing in the sense in which it is sought to apply them.

As an example of the class of theories alluded to, we have read that the colours of the sea-gull tribe are dark above and light below in order, on the one hand, that they may escape the searching scrutiny of the eagle soaring above, and, on the other, avoid alarming their finny prey beneath. If there was anything in this idea, it would, at least, be a hard case for those sea-birds not so coloured, and it should be added that of the birds which are so coloured several species take three or four years to attain adult dress. How do they survive those earlier years? But a very slight acquaintance with the subjects in life shows that there is actually nothing in it. Lying in one's gunning-punt, the whitest-breasted gulls, as viewed from below against the lightest of cloud backgrounds, are seen as clearly as if the bird's colour was actually black. Every detail of form and movement is clearly distinguishable—the clean-cut wings and tail, legs pressed close up under the latter, the pointed head turning from side to side as it searches the waters. Its colour makes no difference, and is no factor at all. Then from high above, from the heights of a sea-cliff, what man of even moderate vision cannot distinguish with equal ease the movements of the black-backed gull from those of the pale herring-gull and paler tern? And both eagles and surface-swimming fish are infinitely keener of vision than the sharpest-eyed of our kind.

These remarks are penned from no love of argument, nor inspired by invidious motive, but simply with a view to get at facts and thereby advance the interests of science: that is, of true knowledge.

The existence of the brigand, it would appear, is desirable in order to cast a glamour of heroism over the adventures of travellers in foreign lands. Many Peninsular tourists mention encounters with "brigands," and according to some books on Spanish travel, their authors were frequently experiencing hair-breadth escapes from these gentry, who were, of course, bristling as to their persons with deadly weapons—as is, in fact, nearly every harmless peasant or goatherd one may meet in the wilds. The tendency to overcolour is, perhaps, natural to imaginative writers; but it is a mistake to rush to the other extreme, and to deny in toto the survival of this fraternity in modern Spain.

In his "Gatherings from Spain"—one of the best books ever written—Ford draws a picture of Spanish brigandage, actual and imaginary, and diagnoses the whole status of these "men of the road," as it existed in his day, with a knowledge and terseness that cannot be excelled. And although Ford wrote fifty years ago, yet his remarks stand substantially correct at the present day; the only change of importance being that measure of reclamation which half a century of equal laws has succeeded in effecting in the prowling gitano or gypsy, in Ford's day a lawless pariah, the curse of rural Spain.

Though nowadays the traveller may, and probably would, traverse Iberia in every direction without personal molestation, yet the race of José Maria, the Jack Sheppard of the Peninsula, whose safe-conduct was more effective than that of his king, is not extinct, though, like other rapacious animals, his home is now confined to mountain-fastnesses, whence he only emerges to seize by a sudden coup some opportunity for plunder, of which his satellites have sent him notice—for, by profuse generosity and terrorism, the ladron en grande holds the sparse hill-peasantry in a bond of allegiance.

Putting on one side the conventional and highly-coloured notions that pass current, the condition of bandolerismo, or brigandage, at the present day may be thus defined:—There is first the noble outlaw, or "professional" robber-king, a rare and meteoric personage, of whom anon; and there are the sneaking petty pilferers who rob as opportunity serves, or as their wild environment almost suggests. These voltigeurs of the road are normally peasants, goatherds, or mere good-for-nothings; content to confine their energies to minor larcenies, and whose poor ambitions soar no higher than relieving solitary wayfarers of their watches, loose cash, &c., as happened to a friend of ours while traversing the sierras between Paterna and Alcalá. Though a fight is no part of these footpads' tactics, yet in favourable situations a single hidden scoundrel may command the way, and dominate a dozen travellers who know not whether that sudden summons to halt and lay down their loose goods and chattels proceeds from one or from a score of assailants, concealed amid the tumbled rocks and dense underwood of a narrow pass. And, after all, it is probably wiser, if caught in such a trap, to lose a few dollars than to risk life.

Very different is the character of the noble robber-chief, or ladron en grande. In this man who leads the lawless, and, by force of predominant will, controls and commands a cut-throat gang, but ill-disposed either to subjection or discipline, there are qualities that, rightly directed, might attain any object sought—qualities of moral force, courage, and an iron will, that one cannot but admire. Men of this calibre appear but at intervals; for "nature is chary in the production of such specimens of dangerous grandeur." Such a man was José Maria; and of late years a fine example has been afforded by the notorious outlaw, Vizco el Borje, of whose methods of procedure the following incident, as narrated to us almost in the words of its principal victim, will serve to give a good idea.

At the little mountain-village of Zahrita it is the custom to celebrate the annual festival of its patron saint, San Antonio, by an amateur bull-fight, a performance at which the smartest of the young bloods of the village take the principal parts. For many years it had been the habit of the owner of the neighbouring pasturages to provide the bulls for this annual function free of charge; and on the eve of the festival the son of the well-to-do proprietor, Don Pedro de M——, was, with his steward Diego, and a herdsman, engaged in selecting some of the most fiery and active young bulls. Both were dismounted, and, rein in hand, were walking round the herd, when they were suddenly arrested by a sharp summons to halt and surrender. Then, turning round, they found themselves face to face with the muzzles of three levelled guns bearing upon them—the three mounted men having stolen up behind and taken them unawares. Resistance under such circumstances was out of the question. The guns of both Pedro and his servant hung in their saddle-slings, but any movement in that direction would have brought instant fire upon them. Before they had well recovered from their surprise, one of the brigands coolly dismounted and took possession of both their guns, the other pair meanwhile each keeping his man well "covered." The unlucky Pedro was now completely at the mercy of his aggressors. At the order of one of these, evidently the chief, the prisoners remounted and followed his lead, the others closing in behind, and precluding all chance of escape, except at the risk—or certainty—of being shot down. The guide took a line leading towards the higher sierra, and avoiding the frequented track. Arrived in a densely close thicket, the cavalcade halted, and one man was sent forward to reconnoitre. A shrill whistle was heard in that direction, and presently nine other horsemen rode in. The captives were now ordered to dismount, their eyes were closely bandaged, and they were informed that their lives depended on implicit obedience to orders, and that it was better for them to see nothing and to hear less—the latter an almost unnecessary injunction, since hardly a word had been spoken. For hours the captives were led forward, their horses stumbling along a rocky ascent, and they presently knew, by the absence of brushwood, that they had reached the higher regions of the sierra; then a halt was ordered, they were assisted to dismount, and led on foot along a passage whose echoing sounds told them it was subterranean. Here, in an extensive cavern, probably the long-abandoned workings of a Roman mine, his eyes were unbandaged, and Pedro found himself in the presence of his three original assailants. The only furniture in the cave consisted of a few empty boxes; on one of these glimmered a flickering wick in a saucerful of oil. The robber-leader drew up another box for a seat, and producing writing materials, ordered Pedro to write to his dictation as follows:—"My dear father, I am in the power of sequestradores, who make good plans and bind fast. It is madness to put Government on their track—they will escape and you will lose your son. Your secrecy and money at once free me. You can send the silver by Diego, our steward, who bears you this. Let him appear on the mountain-road between Grazalema and El Bosque, riding a white donkey, and bringing ten thousand dollars." ... At this point the prisoner, who had so far written as directed, stopped short, and point-blank refused to demand such a sum—declaring he would not take from his brothers any part of their patrimony, and that the only sum he would accept of his father was such as might fall to him as one of a numerous family. The fairness of this, and the undaunted attitude of Pedro, seemed to please the brigand, who declared, with a shake of his hand, that whatever bargain was struck should be honourably adhered to. The sum of 6,000 dollars was then inserted, the missive signed and sealed, and Diego, who had remained blindfold, was led to a point in the sierra which was familiar to him, his eyes unbandaged, and told to make the best of his way with the note to Jerez. This, as the dawn was just breaking, he had no difficulty in doing before night.

After Diego's departure, the chief invited his captive to sup with him and join in a borracha (skin) of wine, under whose influence the bandit became more genial, and related certain facts concerning his personal history. He had formerly been an officer of carabineros, but being dismissed for some, as he held, trifling fault, all means of subsistence were denied to him, and losing caste step by step, there had gradually developed in his breast an intense hatred of all social arrangements, which had finally led to his present state of outlawry. First he had been a smuggler, but, as the Spanish proverb runs,—

Little by little his revolt against law and order led him into further excesses and more outrageous acts of crime. The daring courage and character of the man had attracted rogues of lesser calibre to his side, and now Vizco el Borje was the acknowledged chief of the party of plunder and anarchy.

The following night another party of robbers arrived: the captive was again blindfolded, and the dark journey resumed. For three days and nights the same course was pursued—the brigands each morning at dawn going to ground in a fresh earth. An amusing incident occurred during one of these nocturnal marches. The cavalcade was suddenly brought to a stop, and the words passed down the line—Civiles, civiles! The prisoner now hoped that his deliverance was at hand; the chief ordered his band to close up their ranks—the prisoner being removed some yards to the rear—and to prepare to fire. During the panic, and amidst the clicking of locks, Pedro took the opportunity of slightly raising his bandage. The robbers were halted on a narrow ledge of the mountain-side—a sheer rock-wall behind and a precipitous slope below making any lateral movement impossible. A direct retreat was of course available, but this did not commend itself to the chief, who, under the shadow of the cliff, had the approaching horsemen at a disadvantage. The clatter of hoofs sounded nearer and nearer, and as the first beast appeared on the ledge it was evident there had been a false alarm. The heavily-laden transport of a gang of smugglers advanced along the narrow track, and as they slowly filed past the robber-troop, the only words that passed were Buenas noches! and the reply Vayan ustedes con Dios! Good night, and God go with you!

CIVIL GUARDS.

On the second night Vizco had left his captive, saying he had other work in hand: but, a day or two afterwards, Pedro received a message from him, stating that, owing to the vigilance of the authorities, no opportunity had offered itself of meeting Diego and the white donkey at the appointed tryst: and instructing him again to write to his father, with fresh directions to forward half the stipulated ransom to Grazalema, where means would be found of receiving it—the other half to be borne by the white donkey to a freshly-appointed spot among the hills. Overjoyed at receiving this second assurance that his son still lived, the father, though an old man, set off at once, with six hundred pounds in cash, on the long ride to Grazalema. Then for two days he hung about its precipitous streets in an agony of suspense almost unendurable. No one spoke to him till the third morning, when a man leading a pony laden with the rough woollen cloth which is made in Grazalema and forms the staple industry of the little town, accosted him as he passed with the words—"Follow me." The pony was stopped before a small shop wherein some of the same woollen cloths were exposed for sale: and passing through into the small back-room, the old father found a man seated whose appearance was that of a cloth-pedlar—men who with their sturdy ponies carry on a trade or barter of these coarse woollens throughout the sierras.

After the customary Andalucian exchange of civilities, the pedlar, looking the old man straight in the face, said, "Have you the three thousand dollars? You know this?" and he produced Pedro's pencil-case. The money was at the posada, and soon the old man, ripping up the stuffing of his saddle, returned to the pedlar's shop with that sum. The money was counted out, and Vizco el Borje, springing on top of that honest-looking freight of coarse cloth, was soon clear of the streets of Grazalema and steering his pony to some well-known mountain-lair.

While these events were occurring in Grazalema poor Diego was wearying of his long-delayed assignation. For three days he and his white donkey hung about the remote spot which had been indicated: and at last, on the third evening, as he was entering the village of Benocaz, a goatherd said, "At the well beyond the village you will find a woman in black who will direct you to those you seek." He passed along the line of white casitas which form the only street of Benocaz, and by the old Moorish draw-well beyond sat a woman in black. As directed by the goatherd, he addressed her, "Que hora es?" and the reply, "Las doce," was what he had been told to expect. The woman at once struck over into the hills till she reached a well-worn track and directed Diego to follow this till accosted by a shepherd. He did as he was bidden and after two hours' rough riding over the dark hill, heard the same words, "Que hora es?" "Las doce," he replied, and was piloted by this new guide to a cavern, in which, to his intense joy, he found his young master, alive and well. The money was at once paid over, and though at first the brigands refused to release their captive on the ground that only half the stipulated sum had been brought, yet suspense did not last long, for during the night a messenger from Vizco arrived, announcing the due payment of the other half, and instructing the robbers at once to set free their prisoners, and to place them on a road which they would know. And on the following evening, after a captivity of fifteen days, Pedro rode once more into the city of Jerez.

Since the above was written Vizco el Borje has died—died as a robber-chieftain should die, by the rifle-ball. Several times, towards the end, his life was only saved by his magnificent pluck and resource. But at last, while campaigning in the Sierra Morena, not far from Córdova, his whereabouts became known to the authorities—presumably through treachery—and after a series of desperate deeds of bravery, the bold brigand was finally surrounded, all retreat cut off, and Vizco el Borje fell with five bullets in his body.

We now give a brief history of a robber of the other type—and, incidentally, of the vagaries of judicial justice in Spain.

Agua-Dulce lacked the character of the noble brigand; but was so successful in a long course of perpetual petty robberies, and in invariably escaping justice when caught, that he had become a terror to the neighbourhood of Jerez. To the simple folk whose duties took them to the sequestered farmsteads or along the lonely veredas, or bridle-tracks, leading towards the sierras, there appeared to be something "uncanny" about this raterillo. Agua-Dulce was one of those men who acquire much fame without having done anything to justify it. As a robber, he was of the meaner sort, fertile in resource in planning his small crimes, and relying more on effrontery than bravery to avoid capture. His victims were almost exclusively poor charcoal-burners, or arrieros returning from the town with their hard-earned gains—three or four to twenty dollars, received for weeks of toilsome labour—the very class whom Vizco el Borje subsidized, and by judicious generosity made subservient to his more exalted schemes. Thus the very men who, nolens volens, became allies and satellites of Vizco, were Agua-Dulce's habitual victims and bitterest enemies.

It is from the lips of Antonio Sanchez, formerly of the Municipal Guard of Jerez de la Frontera, and now retired on pension, that we have the following account of the career and death of the miscreant known as Agua-Dulce. Sanchez was, moreover, the man who slew him.

Agua-Dulce was suspected of having various accomplices: his favourite defence was to prove an alibi, and his success in throwing the authorities off the scent by this means pointed to combinations which were not visible on the surface. At the hour when the particular robbery with which he was charged had been committed, Agua-Dulce showed that he was in the town and had saluted this or that functionary. And these latter were always ready to support his defence as witnesses. Among other unacknowledged alliances, Agua-Dulce was reputed to enjoy the protection of a certain magistrate of influential position in Seville, who was stated to be on terms of intimacy with his sister, a woman of remarkable beauty.

The following occurrence, which refers to, perhaps, the only robbery of magnitude carried out by Agua-Dulce, was cited by Sanchez in proof of the above report. A sum representing nearly six hundred pounds, all, curiously enough, in the smallest gold coin, had been taken from Don Juan Malvido of Jerez. A few days later, Agua-Dulce was discovered in a wine-shop of the Calle Cruz Vieja, dividing with two other men a large quantity of these same small gold coins. He was arrested and imprisoned. The judge at that time was one Alvarez, who was, however, absent from his post on account of illness; the interim authority being Don Juan Cerron, a man of upright and intrepid principle, who believed that now sufficient evidence was forthcoming to bring home to the villain his crime, and secure at length the condign punishment he had so often deserved. When the prisoner was asked to explain how he became possessed of so much small gold, he replied it was the proceeds of a certain business he had just effected in Seville. For the purpose of ascertaining the truth of this, the judge commissioned an inquiry (puso un exhorto) to be made at Seville. The reply was a demand for the prisoner's presence in that city—doubtless to learn from Agua-Dulce's lips how the exhorto could be answered favourably to his cause!

The Jerez deputy-judge roundly refused to allow this. Then it was that the invalid judge was ordered—no matter what the state of his health—to return at once to his post. Though seriously ill, he complied with the request, and next morning from the Magisterial chair ruled that Agua-Dulce should be sent to Seville. A few days later the reply to the exhorto arrived—in terms entirely favourable to the prisoner, and no doubt inspired by him. No charge could now be sustained. The papers were sealed up, and Agua-Dulce once more set at liberty, the small gold coins, which every one was morally certain had proceeded from the Malvido robbery, being returned to him.

For some years after this Agua-Dulce continued his course of petty robbery and outrage without especial incident, but with increasing audacity and immunity. Of a lady named Varela he had demanded three thousand dollars under threat of destroying the valuable stock of mares upon her farm of Vicos. Of Don Antonio Diaz, of Paterna, he had requisitioned a thousand dollars under similar terms: and a large number of donkeys belonging to Don José Calero, also of Paterna, who had refused his extortions, were found with their throats cut. Lastly, from a farm-steward at Romanina he had taken a small sum of money, his gun, and cartridge-belt. The authorities in this last (minor) case had clear evidence against Agua-Dulce and were keenly on his track.

The crimes of the miscreant (all these having occurred within a few days) were thus assuming alarming proportions, and two amongst the Municipal Guard of Jerez swore they would put an end to him. On the 23rd of May these two, Antonio Sanchez and José Salado, were returning towards Jerez after several days of fruitless search, when, passing the ford of the Alamillo (a preserve belonging to the Duke of San Lorenzo), a woman informed them that Agua-Dulce had been at work only an hour or two before, and had taken all he possessed from a poor carbonero. This decided them to remain in the neighbourhood, and shortly afterwards, while riding through the coverts of El Espinar, they observed two men, armed with guns, running between the trees.

The mounted guards gave chase, overhauled the men, and demanded their surrender. The reply was prompt—a couple of shots: meeting the simultaneous fire of the guards. No sooner, however, had the latter fired than Salado fell dead from his horse, for Agua-Dulce's bullet had gone true. Sanchez leaped from his saddle and, seeing that one robber was done for, went for the other, whom he now recognized as Agua-Dulce. A hand-to-hand struggle was imminent, but the bandit availed himself of the thick lentisk-covert, and contrived to put some distance between himself and his assailant. Both knew it was a duel to the death. Second shots were exchanged, and this time Agua-Dulce was wounded. Sanchez again called on him to surrender, but again the reply was a bullet, which narrowly missed a vital spot. A second ball now struck the robber in the side, bringing him to the ground. While Sanchez reloaded, the wounded desperado managed again to rise to his feet and drew a pistol from his belt: but he was just not quick enough, and ere he could aim, a bullet from Sanchez's barrel had perforated him from chest to shoulder.

NOTES ON ITS NATURAL HISTORY, HAUNTS, HABITS, AND DISTRIBUTION.

The ibex, or wild goat, has a wide range throughout the Alpine regions of the old world: and wherever it is found, from Spain to the Himalayas, takes a chief place amongst the beasts of chase. Few pictures, indeed, does the animal-world present more perfect than an old ibex-ram,[27] with his thick-set, game-like form, his hoary coat and flowing beard, and those massive, widely-curving horns—no trophy more dear to the big-game sportsman, and few so hard to secure.

The Spanish Peninsula can boast an ibex peculiar to itself, a noble beast not to be found elsewhere than on Iberian soil. Till recently, we shared the opinion that two forms of ibex existed in Spain—the Pyrenean type, and the slightly divergent Capra hispanica of the southern sierras: but further experience and a comparison of heads from various points, have convinced us that (except in the matter of size) there is no material difference between the Spanish races of wild goats. No difference, that is, greater than might naturally be looked for as between isolated colonies, separated one from another during centuries—for the ibex of Nevada or of Gredos is as effectually divided from his kind in the Pyrenees as though wide oceans rolled between.

Differences in habits, haunts, and food are well known to produce, during extended periods, corresponding differences in form: but so far as we are able to judge, the only material variation between the so-called Capra pyrenaica, of the north, and the C. hispanica, of Southern and Central Spain, is that of size. The Pyrenean ibex is a larger animal: but the horns are almost, though not quite, identical in form with those from the Sierra Nevada[28]: while both differ most materially from the well-known horns of the typical ibex, the Capra ibex of the Alps and of Central Europe.

These differences will be seen at a glance in the photographs and rough sketches we annex. Briefly, the horns of the true ibex bend regularly backwards and downwards in a more or less uniform, scimitar-like curve: while those of all Spanish goats, after first diverging laterally, become re-curved both inwards and finally upwards. That is, while in the one case the horns present a simple circular bend, in the Spanish ibex they form almost a spiral.[29]

A minor point of difference consists in the form of the annular notches, or rings. These in the Alpine ibex run more or less straight around, encircling the horn in front roughly like steps in a ladder: while in Capra hispanica they run obliquely in a spiral ascent. These annulations indicate the age of the animal—one notch to each year: but the count must stop where the spiral ends. Beyond that, there is always the lightly-grooved tip which does not alter.

The horns of the female ibex are weak and comparatively short—only some six or seven inches in length, not unlike those of the chamois, but not so sharply hooked. These do not grow annually: hence there is not the ready index of age afforded by the horns of the rams. It is, perhaps, unnecessary to add that the horns of goats are permanent, and not cast yearly as is the case with deer.

The following are the maximum dimensions of the heads of male ibex, measured by the authors—all from the central and south-Spanish sierras.

Through the kindness of the late Sir Victor Brooke, we are also enabled to give the following measurements of his three best Pyrenean ibex heads.

Sir Victor Brooke wrote:—"A. This was a very grand old ibex: but the points were broken and his horns rubbed smooth with age. The Pyrenean ibex are much larger beasts than those from the southern sierras."

The natural home of the ibex may be defined as exclusively amidst the summits of the wildest rock-mountains and most alpine spots upon earth—subject, however, to such, apparently accidental, variations of this general rule, as will be found hereinafter mentioned. Here their hollowed hoofs and marvellous agility enable them to traverse, at full speed, ice, crag, and precipice that seem absolutely impassable, and to mount rock-walls where no visible foothold exists, throwing into heart-breaking insignificance our puny efforts to encompass them. If a man's heart swells with the pride of strength—if he flatters himself that he is master of all the beasts of the field and of the arts of field-craft, let him try a campaign with the wild-goats—verily there is no sublunar undertaking better calculated to take the conceit out of him. Mere figures give but a poor idea: to say that the favourite haunts of ibex lie at altitudes of 8,000 to 10,000 feet, is hardly any real criterion of the difficulties and hardships of their pursuit. Suffice it here to say that the mere ascent to such heights occupies well-nigh a whole day: even when encamped among the fringe of the snow, the climb-out to the summits may still require two or three hours of the hardest work.

SPANISH IBEX, OLD RAM—SIERRA DE GREDOS.

Ibex are found throughout the highlands of the Peninsula, from Pyrenees to Mediterranean, but not continuously—their haunts being distinct and separated by intervening plains. They inhabit all the Pyrenees[30] and are comparatively numerous on the hills round Andorra (Pyrénées orientales). In the south their great strongholds are the Sierras Nevada and Morena, where herds of twenty, thirty, or even fifty, may sometimes be seen together. Besides these main southern haunts, the ibex have several detached colonies in the hill-ranges of Andalucia and Estremadura. Along all the elevated cordillera of Central Spain, the ibex find a congenial home: but their chosen stronghold is in the extensive Sierra de Gredos. This elevated point is the apex of the long Carpeto-Vetonico range which extends from Moncayo through the Castiles and Estremadura, forming the watershed of the Tagus and Douro; it separates the two Castiles, and passing the frontier of Portugal, is there known as the Serra da Estrella, which (with the Cintra hills) extends to the Atlantic seaboard. Along all this extensive cordillera there is no more favourite ground for the ibex than its highest peak, the Plaza de Almanzor, 10,000 feet above sea-level. During the winter and early spring the wild goats have a predilection for the southern slopes towards Estremadura: but in summer and autumn large herds, often numbering dozens, and especially the noble rams, make their home in the environs of Almanzor and the lonely alpine lakes of Gredos.

Our personal experiences of the Spanish ibex are limited to four points—two in the southern sierras, and two on the central cordillera: in three of which the habits of the goats exhibited some very remarkable variations. These, however, we describe more particularly when treating of ibex-shooting in other chapters.

SPANISH IBEX, OLD RAM, SIERRA NEVADA. (Front view)

The ibex is strictly nocturnal in its habits, passing the day at rest, either on the snow-fields or amidst the most rugged and inaccessible ground within its reach, and only descending to lower levels to feed after sun-down. This habit never varies. In the more elevated cordilleras, where, even in summer, there remain great expanses of snow and glacier-ice, the wild goats retire at dawn to the heights, spending the day on some bare rock or among the crevices of crags islanded in the snow-field, and always guarded from danger of surprise by sentries, who hold watch and ward from some commanding point. Here, except sometimes during the hottest days of July and August, they are all but inaccessible—it is impossible to "turn their flank," for they have, behind them, vast breadths of snow impassable to man: while the vigilance of their sentries simply mocks the stalker—even if their position is not physically inexpugnable. The only systematic method employed by native hunters, at such times, is the unsatisfactory one of waiting, at dusk, to "cut them out" in the passes by which they are accustomed to descend to their feeding-grounds—a bitterly cold and most uncertain undertaking, to say nothing of its danger, for after sun-down the soft snow freezes into a solid ice-sheet, cutting off the hunter's retreat along the steep slope of the sierra.

The ibex of these higher sierras never descend to the level where pines, high brushwood, or indeed any covert can grow. Their home is on the snow and rock, and they only descend as far as that zone of moss, heath, and stunted alpine vegetation which intervenes between the snow-line and the highest levels of conifer or tree-growth. Their food consists of the bloom and shoots of various alpine shrubs, grasses and flowers—the Spanish gorse, broom, rosemary, and piorno, as well as certain narcissi, mountain-berries, and the peasants' scant crops of rye-grass. For this latter luxury they are tempted to come down rather lower: but under no circumstances, not even in winter, are the ibex of Gredos or Nevada found in the forests or amongst covert of any kind.

Such, in outline, are the habits of the ibex of the higher sierras. But ibex also exist on mountain-ranges of much lesser elevations, and there their habits differ widely. Some of these lower hills are covered with brushwood to their very crests—one has pines on its summit, at 4,800 feet. Here the ibex cannot, of course, disdain the shelter of the scrub, and even frequent the forests at much lower elevations. We have hunted them in ground that looked far more suitable for roe-deer, and have even seen the "rootings" of pig overlapping the feeding-grounds of the goats.

SPANISH IBEX. OLD RAM. (Side view.)

In such situations, the ibex form regular "lairs" amidst the fastnesses of broom, gorse and thorny abolága, on the bloom of which they browse by night, without having to descend or to shift their quarters at all. On these lower hills the ibex owe their safety—and survival—exclusively to the rough and intercepted nature of the ground, over-grown for miles with forest and matted brushwood; and, in some degree, to their own comparatively small numbers.[31]

A third very distinct habitat we have described in detail elsewhere. Here, on an isolated mountain, detached from the adjoining sierras, and affording neither the refuge of snow-fields nor jungle, the mother-wit of a segregated band of ibex managed to discover a sanctuary scarcely less secure. As elsewhere described, they simply shut the door on pursuit by betaking themselves into the clefts and crannies of a hanging rock-wall some three miles long and 2,000 feet high. To these eagle's eyries no other terrestrial being could follow, nor human power dislodge the astute montéses, whose beards, for all we know, were shaking with laughter as they gazed down upon their discomfited enemies.

In this case, the ibex may almost be said to have "gone to ground"; for they actually sought shelter, when hard pressed, in the caves and ravines with which the face of these precipices were serried. This seems opposed to all one's ideas of what ought to be the habits of a wild goat; but it well illustrates the pre-eminently astute nature of the animal.

Plate XIX. ON THE CRAGS OF ALMANZÓR. Page 137.

Were it otherwise—were it not for this reasoning sagacity in utilizing the natural resources of each locality—in short, adapting their habits to the necessities of the case, the existence of these isolated colonies of ibex, on limited terrain, would be impossible. Even as it is, their survival is, we fear, in some cases, only a question of years, for the tiradores of the sierra hunt them in season and out. The serrano hunts rather for the pot than for sport, and spares neither sex nor age. With all his sportsman-like qualities and skill in his craft, our friend is not truly a sportsman. He is, we fear, but a butcher at heart; meat is what he seeks; to him a female is only a less desirable quarry than her lord in the ratio of her smaller weight—about one-fourth less. It is the same with everything; with partridge, a covey at a shot, as they run up in file to the traitor reclamo; with bustard, to massacre a pair as they stoop to drink at a water-hole in the thirsty summer days; with trout, to decimate a river by poisoning the streams, tipping in a cart-load of quicklime, or blowing up a pool by dynamite—such are the cherished objects of our friend, the Spanish cazador; and yet, despite it all, we like him, and are never happier than during the hours we spend in his company around the camp-fire.

In form and build, the ibex represents the very perfection of combined power and action—if physical adaptation counts in the struggle for the "survival of the fittest," the wild goat need hardly fear extinction. His thickset frame, broad front, and prominent eyes, with well-poised neck, clean quarters, and the light muscular legs set well within his short round barrel, all bespeak qualities which admirably adapt him to the hard, strange life assigned by nature to the wild-goat.

During the summer months, the ibex feast luxuriously on the abundant crop of mountain-grasses, flowering shrubs and rush, which at that season clothe the Alpine solitudes; and, later, on the various berries and wild fruits of the hills. By autumn they are in their highest condition—the long black beards of the old rams fully developed, and their brown coats long, glossy, and almost uniform in colour. At this period the rutting season takes place—in October; and the machos fight furiously for the assembled harems—rearing on hind legs for a charge, the crash of opposing horns resounds afar across the glens and corries of the sierra. Even in spring their combative instinct survives; we have watched, in April, a pair of veterans sparring at each other for an hour together.

The young ibex are born in April, and soon learn to follow their dams—graceful little creatures, like brown lambs, easily captured if the mother is shot, but not otherwise. One is the usual number, but two is not infrequent. It is a curious fact that the kid remains with its dam upwards of a year—that is, till after a second family has been born. Consequently it is usual, in spring, to see the females in trios—the mother, her yearling daughter, called the chivata, and the new-born kid, or chivo. Though, as just stated, there are often two young, yet we have never seen more than one chivata with each female ibex—possibly it is only the female kids that remain so long with their dams. In May the chivatas are conspicuously smaller than the adult females, but their horns are nearly as large.

At this season (April-May) the ibex are changing their coats; the males have almost entirely lost their flowing beards, and in colour assume a hoary, piebald appearance, especially on cheeks and forequarters, contrasting with the darker portions above and behind. The muzzle is warm cream-colour, and the lower part of the leg (below the knee) prettily marked with black and white; on the knee, a callosity, or round patch of bare hard skin. The horns of yearling males are larger and heavier than those of adult females.

Though it is the custom of the hill-shepherds during summer to drive out their herds of goats to pasture on the higher ranges of the sierra, where they must sometimes come in contact with their wild congeners, yet no inter-breeding takes place; nor can the race of wild ibex be reduced to domesticity. The hunters frequently capture the young ibex—it is sometimes given as an excuse for killing the dam—yet they rarely survive long in captivity, and never mate with the domestic goat. In May we could not hear of a single wild kid of the previous year's capture that had survived the twelvemonth in any of the hill-villages of Gredos. The form of the horns in the domestic goat is essentially different; they are much flatter, thinner, and not a quarter as large as those of the wild ibex. The latter can hardly have been the progenitor of the race of goats now domesticated in Spain.

The smell of a dead ibex is specially strong and unpleasant—an old male stinks far worse than a vulture; yet little or no trace of this remains after cooking. Their flesh is firm and brown, fairly good eating, but without any special flavour or individuality—that is, when subjected to the rude cookery of the camp.

OLD OLIVE TREES—NEAR TALAVERA.

Twenty-six hours on the railway—at first with the comparative luxury of a Pullman-car: the last seven crawling across the Castilian plain, towards the frowning ridges that look down on Talavera, whereon our Iron Duke repulsed nearly twice his numbers of French, and turned the tide of war: then thirty odd miles in a diligence, and finally a five-league mountain-scramble on mules—this it costs us to reach the home of the Castilian ibex.

Night was closing in and sleet descending in driving sheets, when at length, round a projecting spur, we sighted our destination. The hamlet hung on the steep slope of the sierra, whose snow-clad heights and jagged peaks, towering away into cloud-land, gave us a fair forecast of the labours in store. As for the village—a more picturesque, rumble-tumble maze of quaint, shapeless hovels, all pitched down apparently at random, with their odd chimneys, odd balconies and projecting gables, all wood-built, it would be hard for fancy to depict, or for artist to discover. And the natives—the light-framed, lithe mountaineers, clad in the short majo jackets, tight knee-breeches and cloth gaiters, with smart sky-blue waist-coats, brass-buttoned, and crimson fajas: the women enveloped in brilliant mantas of grass-green or scarlet, and with short petticoats that displayed rounded limbs, bare to the knee—verily we seemed to have fallen upon some surviving vestige of Goth or Moor, all unknown to the world, hidden away in these recesses of the sierra.

Plate XX. Page 141. THE HOME OF THE IBEX—A SKETCH IN THE SIERRA DE GREDOS.

Such things, however, had but a platonic interest for men weary, drenched and travel-worn: and a terrible shock remained in store, when, upon a low paneless barn, we deciphered, in hieroglyphic symbols, the word posada. At the moment of our observing the ill-boding sign, a pig was in the act of entering the portals.

Nothing, however, remained but to make the best of it. The cold was intense, and in the deluge of rain and sleet outside, it was impossible to erect our tent, even had a level site existed. We had with us, however, on this campaign, a genius, and with magic skill Vicente transformed the uncouth den: order replaced chaos: our bedsteads were erected, basins, towels, soap, even chairs and a table appeared as by legerdemain: while a savoury olla with two brace of quarter-pound trout from the burn below, and a stoup of good red wine, stood before us.

We soon had the local hunters collected around us, all old friends—Magdaléno, the crack shot of the sierra, Claudio, Juanito, and little Ramon: but their reports were not encouraging.[32] The snow on the heights was still impassable: Almanzor and the Lagunas de Gredos were inaccessible, and these regions formed, we knew, the madre—the true home of the ibex. The system of the ojéo, or mountain-drive, was only practicable as yet (May) on three or four limited areas of the sierra: but there also remained open to us the resource of stalking the ibex. Of this sport we will speak later; but we decided at first to adopt the plan of montería, or big beats.

The first day's batida embraced a huge natural amphitheatre of rock, seven or eight miles in circuit, as roughly depicted opposite. Our men had left before dawn to gain the furthest flank, and we followed soon after, to climb out to the peaks directly above. At first we ascended on little shaggy mules, without saddle, stirrups, or bridle—only a single cord to the nose-halter and a padded roller to sit on. The upward route was as follows: one day will serve to describe all. On the lower slopes (8,000 to 4,000 feet), rough pine forest, gradually opening out, and giving place to a zone of brushwood and coarse vegetation: above, another zone, of esparto and wiry grass interspersed with patches of a peculiar gorse and rosemary scrub, and the piorno, a tough green shrub, whose bleached limbs closely resemble human skeletons. Here and there one could imagine that the rugged slope had been, at no remote period, the scene of a bloody battle.[33] Above this level, plant-life rapidly grows scarcer and more alpine—the bleaberry and gentian, stunted heaths and piornos, with beds of purple saxifrage, white and violet crocuses, and a yellow narcissus, the two last right up to the snow.

The riding here grew worse and worse: the little mules scrambled like cats over the naked rocks, but at last even they could no further go, and were left, picketed in rock-stalls, on some hanging shelf. Now came a terrible scramble on foot—hardly a step but needed to be made good by hand-hold also, and then we reached the lower snows. Treacherous ground this, here frozen into miniature glaciers, there soft and "rotten," or, worst of all, hollowed beneath, precipitating one in a moment upon cruel rocks below. Here several minor accidents, and one of a more serious nature occurred: but after all we prefer the snow to the penultimate zone above—the region of naked rock-matrix (in Spanish canchos corridos), where smooth slippery faces of granite left no hold either for the snow, or for feet, though clad in hempen-soled alparagatas; and every crevice filled level with frozen striæ of snow. Mass above mass towered these monoliths of living granite, veined and streaked with the narrow snow-lines: and beyond them, stretching away for leagues, came the snow-fields of Gredos, imposing in the majesty of a contemporary glacial epoch, and the silence of everlasting ice.

We had high hopes of success in this first batida, for the ground covered was of great extent, traversed by many ravines and corries, and had not been disturbed since the preceding autumn. Yet it proved blank: only a single ibex (male) was enclosed, and it escaped on the right, to snow-fields beyond our reach.

This operation had lasted four hours, during which the cold had been intense, a bitter blast blowing with hurricane-force through the rock-passes where we held guard, as through a funnel. At intervals the wind came laden with fine snow or jagged crystalline icicles which ricochetted from the rocks like things of life. At one period—the climax of the storm—if a hundred ibex or wolves had filed past the writer's post, his fingers were too benumbed by exposure to have handled the rifle. The ascent had also occupied four hours—the apparent altitude (by aneroid) being nearly 8,000 feet—and the return to the spot fixed for our camp would require two more. Hence no time remained for further operations that day, and we returned, sad and empty-handed, to camp.

Two blank days followed, and on the third a hurricane of wind, rain, and driving mist forbade all hope of sport. The first beat next morning was again blank, no ibex being seen; but a second, though covering a much smaller area, enclosed a band of eleven. These, when first viewed, were coming in directly towards the guns, and held this course till lost to sight in an intervening ravine. Shortly afterwards the upper flank of the beaters crested the further ridge, and at once, we saw, they opened out their line, extending upwards towards the snow. These men had already seen that the goats, true to their natural instincts, were seeking to gain the higher ground: and a marvellous sight ensued—to watch, through the binoculars, these hardy mountaineers fairly racing with the fleet-footed ibex, and striving, by sheer speed and strength of limb and lung, to head their flight, and cut off their retreat to the snow-sanctuaries above.

At first one could not believe that biped, however specially organized, could possibly cope, in simple activity, with the wild-goats on their native rocks. Yet, when the game emerged from the gorge, it became evident that the flank-movement had, at least to some extent, succeeded: for the now-alarmed animals, though still tending upwards, had abandoned the idea of direct escape in that direction, and were now ascending the rocks in a slanting course which pointed very little beyond our own positions. The writer, who occupied the upper post, at the foot of some terrific canchos, which, in cold blood, had seemed insuperable, now, in the excitement of the chase, found means—nescio quos—to surmount the obstacle and gain a "pass" beyond, by which, it seemed likely, the game might seek escape. More nimble still, our friend Magdaléno had ere this, with winged feet, reached a yet greater height: and here, as the ibex, scudding upwards with surprising speed, passed in straggling file, his single ball struck fair a lordly ram, and threw back the rest in dismay. Quickly followed from below the double crack of an "express": but these bullets, fired at 200 yards, produced no perceptible effect.

Turned from their first point, the ibex, now separate and scattered, when next they appeared, were heading, some for the snow-fields direct, others for the lower passes: in one of which a five-year-old male offered a chance, at eighty yards, to the ambushed "Paradox"—a chance that was not declined, though only attained at the end of a severe scramble of 200 yards across the rocks. The hollow-fronted ball struck on the ribs, and traversing the vitals, "mushroomed" itself against the shoulder-blade. Presently, from the heights above, rang out three or four reports in quick succession—the upward-bound contingent of ibex were running the gauntlet of our driving-line. A male and two females offered long or random shots to the mountaineers. One of the latter was reported hit—though the pair were followed by a chivo, or kid, only ten days old!—but no tangible result was secured by this fusillade.

OUR FIRST OLD RAM—SIERRA DE GREDOS.

Meanwhile the stricken macho had descended to the depths of the glen, where he was presently descried by our scouts stretched on the shelf of a jutting crag, a mile below. How human eye managed to detect so small an object amidst so vast a chaos of broken ground, rocks, screes, and scrub-clad patches, passes understanding: but soon a long "wing" thrown out, turned the flank of his position, and the noble beast, aroused once more by the rattle of a rifle-ball on the rocks, made a final effort to escape, which was terminated by a "Paradox" bullet at twenty yards' distance. This, our first old ibex-ram, carried a handsome, massive head; but its symmetry was marred by one of the points being broken. The undamaged horn measured rather over twenty-eight inches.

So passed the days with varying incident, which it boots not to recount in detail; sometimes we saw game, more often the reverse. One element alone remained permanent and changeless—the daily labour was extreme. Strength and physical powers were taxed—aye, strained, almost to the breaking point, and in these contests of lung and limb the wild-goat necessarily held the advantage.

One morning, wind and weather being favourable, it was proposed to double-bank our beaters—that is, to drive two separate valleys at once towards a single dividing spur.[34] The ascent to-day followed the ridge of a deep garganta, or rock-abyss, embedded among pines, on one of which was superimposed a pile of branches and sticks—the home of a pair of Black Vultures (Vultur monachus). It was almost a solitary tree—one of the few that survived above the pine-zone, finding root-hold in a crevice of the hanging rock: a flat-topped, wind-tormented tree, its spreading branches distorted by the weight of winter's snows. Hard by the nest sat one of these colossal birds, not 200 yards away, though to have reached the spot, across the gorge, might have occupied an hour. An "express" bullet was sent whistling past his monkish cranium; slowly the great wings unfolded, and the vulture flapped heavily down the ravine.

Vultures are comparatively scarce in this part of Spain—far more so than in Andalucia. We only noticed one small colony in the Sierra de Gredos; and of its six or eight pairs, our beaters, who passed close below their eyries, declared that two were of the black species. The Black Vulture is not known to nest either gregariously or on rocks: yet we have twice in Andalucia noticed them apparently doing both these things—associated with Griffons—but without, on either occasion, reducing the observation to proof. The above statement, however, tends to confirm the fact. Bird-life, as in most mountain-regions, was not abundant here. Buzzards soared over the pines, and the song of our common thrushes and blackbirds rang through the woods as at home. Higher up were ring-ousels and redstarts, wheatears (Saricola aurita and S. stapazina), black chats (Dromolœa leucura), skylarks and titlarks—all these breeding. Besides these, we also observed the Egyptian Vulture, the Alpine pipit (Anthus spipoletta), and Alpine accentor (Accentor collaris), both common, the blue thrush, rock-thrush, nuthatch, and Dartford warbler: and on May 10th, at 5,500 feet, after a stormy night, picked up, in a disabled state, a pretty little bluethroat (Cyanecula wolfi, Brehm) of the unspotted variety, with entirely blue gorget. This little wanderer had doubtless perished by the severities of weather encountered in crossing this lofty range on his passage to the north. During an afternoon's trouting in a hill-burn on May 13th, the following additional species were observed (altitude 5,000 feet)—ortolans, cirl-and corn-buntings, stonechats, wagtails, crag-martins, and sandpiper.

Ravens and choughs tenanted the crags, and the red-legs were met with very high up. Both in this sierra, in Nevada, and other alpine ranges, we have kept a strict look-out for ptarmigan, but not a sign of them have we met with. They are unknown to the cazadores of the sierras, and it appears certain that none exist in Spain, save in the Pyrenees.

On some precipitous rocks adjoining one of our posts to-day was an eyry of some large bird of prey—either a lammergeyer or some eagle, whose young brood kept up a plaintive, chattering wail while we were there. The spot, however, was inaccessible owing to deep snow and tremendous canchos which intervened. One day, close to the snow-line, we came across a fat, blue-grey little beastie, apparently of the dormouse tribe (Liron, in Spanish), but he got to earth, or rather rock, ere we could capture him.[35] But we must return to our ibex.

Though, as regards venison, this day's operations proved fruitless, yet it remains memorable for the magnificent spectacle afforded of the wild ibex on his native heights. As the beaters, looking at the distance like mites or fleas, gradually drew in towards the peaks of "El Cumbrasco," a herd of eight ibex were observed slowly picking an upward course towards the picachos del cañon. Disturbed, apparently, by some goatherd below, these ibex never offered any promise of a shot; yet the spectacle they presented, while still wholly careless of danger, the easy grace of every movement and spring-like step as they bounded from rock to rock, was one of those rare views of wild life one seldom enjoys and never forgets.

The ibex took the snow about midway between our two lines, and on the glacier-foot, below the "Cannon Rock," they halted as though to court admiration—the grand wide sweep and graceful curve of the horns carried by two old rams set off in sharply defined outline against the snowy background.

Plate XXI. Page 143. IBEX-HUNTING—THE TWO OLD RAMS AT THE "CANNON-ROCK."

THE PEAKS OF GREDOS.

Other days were devoted to stalking the ibex—each, with his cazador and a single gun-carrier, on a separate hill; and this was perhaps the hardest work of all, involving almost incessant climbing, scrambling, and walking on the worst of ground from morning till long after dark. But in this sport we have hitherto met with no success, either on this or other occasions. The Spanish ibex is so scarce, so rarely seen on the move by daylight, and so wedded to snow-fields beyond human reach, that it is by mere chance they are found in situations where a stalk is possible—very different to the descriptions we have by such men as Kinloch and Macintyre, of the sport that ibex afford in the Himalayas. There it would seem that Capra sibirica is not infrequently to be found resting, feeding, or moving about by day on mountain-sides considerably below the snow, and in situations where it is possible for the stalker to approach them from above. In Spain, where the wild-goats are much harassed, we have never had the luck to fall in with such opportunities: though that such do occur is demonstrated in a subsequent chapter ("Ramon and the two big Rams"). Here, in Gredos, and also in the Andalucian sierras, it has not hitherto been our good fortune to fall in with ibex where a stalk was even remotely possible. Though ibex might be in sight daily, they have been found either on open ground or snow, or in crags surrounded by snow—either position equally inaccessible to human beings—save on two occasions, both towards evening, when goats have been descried on somewhat lower ground than usual; but, alas! on the opposite mountain-side, far away, and separated from us by an intervening gorge, to cross which and re-ascend the further slope would have occupied well nigh half a day. Had such opportunities but occurred in the morning, instead of the evening, it is just possible that this record of our ibex-stalking days might not have resulted in a blank.

It is, however, fair to add that we have never tried ibex-stalking in summer, when the obstruction of the snow would naturally be much less; the goats, on the other hand, have then a vastly extended field to roam over.

Far away to the eastward, a triple-peaked mountain filled the whole horizon. From the distance it appeared to be composed solely of barren grey granite, and only sparse patches and striæ of snow adorned its crests. This was the Riscos de Valderejo, and on its heights there roamed, we were told, a good band of ibex, including some machos of the first rank.

To this sierra we projected a spring campaign. The distance (by road) from the nearest available base was some thirty miles, along smiling valleys redolent of historic interest; past castellated monasteries and fortresses, relics of feudal times, now abandoned to farmers, and to storks, whose nests lined the battlements; for the plough had long superseded the sword, and now the deep glens glory in husbandry and viticulture. Here corn and vine grow beneath olive, fig, and chestnut: verily fruit and grain seem to jostle each other—it is hard to conceive a more fertile scene; the air vocal with the melody of nightingales and orphean warblers, and the ringing note of golden orioles. The peasantry live in crazy, ramshackle hamlets, whose quaint picturesqueness is beyond our power to describe, but spend their al fresco lives in the field or the vineyard, doing a modicum of work, and a maximum of rest, eating, sleeping, or chatting, in happy, contented groups beneath the grateful shade of the chestnuts.[36]

Our road was a marvel of extravagant engineering, executed and maintained regardless of expense. It is only another of the many anomalies of Spain that in rich provinces, such as Andalucia, where there are carriages and traffic, there should be no roads; here, in the wilds of Castile, where there are neither traffic nor wheeled carriages, the road-system is magnificent. The explanation appears to be: in the one case, the Government says "you have money, and can make your own roads,"—in the other, "there is no money, so we will provide roads," even though they are not required.

The Riscos de Valderejo is an isolated mountain, cut off from neighbouring heights by deep gorges on all sides, save where a high, but narrow "neck" connects it on the west with the main range. Across this neck (5,000 feet) is carried the northern highway—the carretera de Avila, along which is carried on at intervals a frequent transit of mule-teams, droves of cattle, sheep, and the like. At the time of our first visit this traffic was almost continuous, for the ancient "Fair" of Talavera (40 miles away) was drawing supplies from all the provinces of Spain: fine young mules from far Galicia, horses even from the Asturias, cattle, goats and sheep, including a few merinos, from pastoral Leon. By day or night the monotonous tinkle of the cencerros (cattle-bells) ceased not on this and many another highway and byeway for many a weary league around Talavera.

Such is still, in Spain, the far-reaching power of the "Feria," or Fair: an institution antiquated and out of date in modern lands. Yet the business and bustle, the display of national types and characteristics at the great provincial "fairs"—such as that at Talavera—offer pictures of Spanish rural life abounding in interest, and well worthy of study and observant description. But the pen must be directed by sympathy and understanding, or the result will merely be so much more of that silly writing and grotesque "wit," with which we are already only too well acquainted. Pero!... vámonos! To our ibex.

Well, the narrow col or neck, connecting the Riscos with the neighbouring heights, being thus contaminated—for the wild goat will never cross a path or suffer the propinquity of man—the ibex of that sierra form an isolated colony, absolutely cut off from all contact with their fellows. That such should be able to survive on so limited a space—their territory is but eight miles by four—amidst a nation of tiradores, is partly due to a curious local circumstance. A pair of guardias civiles, the military police of Spain, is stationed close below the col. Here is the explanation. None of the serranos pay the gun-license,—twenty shillings,—and capture, red-handed, means disarmament. Hence the presence of this pair of civil guards signifies nothing less than security to the isolated ibex of the Riscos; their withdrawal would be the signal for extermination within a few years.

We had already pitched our tent on a slope above the col (5,600 feet), just within the lower fringe of snow, and were wondering at the non-arrival of our hunters. They had taken a short cut across the mountains, and should have been the first to reach the spot. But after enjoying a delicious bathe in an adjoining burn, and setting on the olla to stew on an improvised anafe (a hollowed trench, in the deep centre of which was kindled a fire), we suddenly saw them all appear, leaping down the opposite slope with the agile bounds of wild animals. They had simply lain hidden for hours, reconnoitring the movements of the civil guards! Their first act on arrival was to hide their guns among the green piornales. Again, when one evening the dreaded pair was reported to be ascending towards our eyry, the stampede was electric—each man seized his gun and all disappeared like rabbits among the rocks. The incident serves to show the effective power wielded by this fine corps in rural Spain.

Plate XXII. OUR CAMP ON THE RISCOS DE VALDEREJO. Page 152.

The conformation of this sierra was simple—on the north side the slope was gradual, though abrupt: on the south almost perpendicular: that is, it formed a sheer rock-wall some three miles long and perhaps 2,000 feet high, measuring from the head of the talus.[37] We found here a herd of nearly a score of ibex, ensconced in well-frequented lairs among the loose rocks and piornales along the highest ridge (they had not been disturbed for months), and on so limited an area felt sure of more certain success than on the boundless sierras of Gredos, with their snow-sanctuaries always open to the ibex. But matters were not so simple, nor were the goats. Here, too, they had their sanctuaries. We will not weary the reader with merely sporting detail, but go at once to the point. After being "hustled" for two or three days (during which the big males always managed to keep out of shot), the ibex-leaders evidently realized the gravity of the situation: a vote of urgency was carried, and the Riscos declared in a state of siege. The space at their command was limited: there were no snow-fields available: and they resolved to seek safety in those impenetrable rock-walls and canchos which flanked their stronghold on the south. Into these they retreated: and from them, no power of ours could dislodge the ibex, though among the slanting canchos on the western flank our intrepid rock-climbers despatched a couple of slouching wolves. By sheer force of reasoning power and sagacity, the ibex had found a retreat as secure as the mer de glace of Almanzor. Long may they live to enjoy it!

IBEX-HUNTERS OF GREDOS—A SKETCH BY THE CAMP-FIRE.

The retreat, however, was not gained, on one occasion, without loss—we, too, had learned by past experience. Already the driving line had appeared on the eastern heights, suggesting that another beat was to prove blank: not a sign of game had appeared—nothing save the Alpine choughs[38] and crag-martins, Alpine swifts, and a pair of peregrines gyrating in the upper air: at intervals also a pair of golden eagles, whose huge eyrie projected from a rocky pinnacle, passed over in stately flight, their broad square tails deflected very conspicuously sidelong, to guide their aërial evolutions. Here purple tufts of saxifrage lent colour to the barren greys: and amidst the fringe of snow grew delicate mauve and white crocuses: on a granite rock, hard by, warbled lustily a little songster, not unlike our hedge-sparrow, but whose scientific name is Anthus spipoletta, its tender blue-grey throat swelled with song. Suddenly a new sound diverted instant attention from all such things—it was a loud "sneeze," twice repeated: and I knew that some wild animal stood close behind the big rock which concealed me. Then followed the clatter of horny hoofs rattling on rock: and a few moments later, upon the very ridge where I lay, not ten yards from the muzzle, appeared a pair of ibex. Hardly a whole instant did they pause—pictures of high-strung wild nature, and quivering in every nerve—a lovely spectacle. At ten yards' range (á boca de jarro in Spanish phrase), my right barrel missed fire: and simultaneously the ibex were gone—had leaped off the ridge and down among the rocks a dozen yards below. They were, however, still near enough; and the second bullet sent the largest pitching forward on its knees, all but dividing the spine. It instantly recovered its feet, and the pair went on: but on a rock-ledge a quarter-mile away they stopped, and one lay down: a long range, random shot from the express, and the other went on alone: but the stricken beast was already dead. And then, on the rocks close by, I perceived a little wild kid, long of limb and somewhat ungainly in form, but of infinite grace in movement. Tame and confiding seemed the little mite; yet on approach, it bounded off down those broken rocks, with a speed and agility that defied pursuit. These two ibex were, in Spanish words, a cabra and a chivata.

Five other ibex (two males) sought to reach the refuge of the main rock-wall by a lower pass, where two guns were posted. Here, as they scrambled slantingly up the perpendicular face, one bullet sped true, and the best macho fell back, struggling to maintain a foot-hold. This his paralyzed quarters forbade, and soon what little life remained was extinguished as the stricken animal fell bouncing from rock to rock till it finally lodged in a cleft of a projecting spur. He proved an eight-year-old ram, with horns measuring nearly twenty-eight inches in length, with a circumference of over nine inches and a "sweep" of nearly twenty-three.

At length the time arrived to bid farewell to these rock-ramparts of Old Castile, and their primitive simple folk, kindly and honest as the day; Dionysio actually returned to our camp before daylight next morning—a two-league walk—to return a pair of boots left by one of us at his cottage! Each man already seemed an old friend. "Hasta la otra," said Juan Guarro y Guarro as he offered his hand, "y si no, que lo pasen ustedes bien!"—"Till the next time, and, if for ever, fare ye well!" The conclusions we came to were that both our visits were rather too early (May), and that the most favourable season for ibex-shooting is in July and August: but even then, whether by stalking or driving, the work is hard in the extreme.

IBEX (FEMALE)—RISCOS DE VALEDREJO.

In the last chapter are described some experiences with ibex in the distant cordilleras of Castile: but we have the wild cabra montés much nearer—indeed within sight of our Andalucian home. The Sierra Nevada is one of their chief abodes, and herds of goats roam the still nearer heights of Ubrique, Bermeja, and the Palmitera. As the circumstances of the ibex here vary from those already described, we now add some details of campaigns on these Mediterranean ranges.

We pitched our tents one March evening on a narrow flat plateau, barely over 2,000 feet, at a point in the Bermeja range, where our pioneer—we had employed a native cazador to "prospect" for five or six weeks—had localized two or three small herds of ibex. The steep mountain-sides around were clad to their utmost summits with strong brushwood and with scattered patches of pine and a species of fir (pinsapo)—admirable-looking ground for pig, but not at all so, according to preconceived ideas, for the wild-goat. It was, therefore, an agreeable surprise when, early next morning, there were descried three ibex, quietly grazing on the bloom of the abolága brush beyond a deep ravine, and only about 1,000 feet above the camp. These three, while we watched, were joined by another two, when some make-believe "sparring" ensued between a pair of rams: but at this season (March) there was obviously no great development of the combative instinct.

The next spectacle was less welcome. On the height of the ridge, high above us, we descried against the sky-line the crouching figure of a man, stealthily advancing as though in touch of game. This ill-omened apparition, as the sequel proved, was the key-note of this campaign: the semana santa of Easter-tide had commenced, we were forestalled by native cazadoras, and a carefully-planned and well-organized exhibition resulted in comparative failure. Nor had the danger of this been entirely unforeseen, but adverse circumstances had delayed our movements.

IBEX (FEMALE)—BERMEJA.

Despite our local competitors, luck at first seemed inclined to be propitious. While going to our positions, along the knife-edged spur that enclosed our glen, an ibex fell to the rifle of one of our party, who had come suddenly on five (four good males) quietly feeding in a pine-clad corrie, and a standing shot, at 70 yards, secured one—unfortunately the only cabra; for, their heads being concealed among the scrub, the sex was not distinguished. This female (shot March 26th) was found, on being gralloched, to contain a pair of kids, which would not have seen the light under three weeks. Another female, followed by her chivata, was shot on this beat, though eventually lost, by one of our Spanish cazadores, Juan Marquéz.

The field of our operations was all scrub—strong thorny bushes clothing the steep and rock-strewn slopes, amidst which we subsequently found many "lairs" of the ibex—regular seats, like those of a hare or fox. Hidden in these strongholds, the ibex, our men asserted, would deliberately allow the beaters to pass them by: but we have strong grounds for the opinion that this only applied to the females—all ages or sexes, be it repeated, are alike to a cazador—and never to the males, which, always wild and crafty, rely for safety on far bolder tactics and modes of escape.

Pines and fir interspersed the scrub to the very reales or utmost heights of Bermeja—4,800 feet by aneroid: and Palmitera, though the snow lies longer there, is of a trifle less altitude. Though, on this occasion, our sport was marred and exuberance of spirit tempered by the constant competition of local hunters—by those visions of the hated "gente de Enalguacil" scampering like the goats themselves up the rocks before us—yet, at least, we enjoyed, from the crest of Bermeja, a spectacle which is probably without rival in Europe, and the like of which we have not gazed upon in our lives. Looking down from near 5,000 feet altitude, we had portions of two continents spread out as a map at out feet. The vast expanse of deep blue Mediterranean visible from such elevations is hard to picture—the level sea appears to tower up, regardless of physical laws, among the clouds themselves: yet, far beyond its southern shores, we could look right into the dark continent, across range beyond range of African mountains, terminating only in the glittering snow-peaks of the Atlas, on the verge of Saharan deserts. Gibraltar looked like a tiny islet in the Straits, midway between Jebel Moosa's cloud-wreathed mass, and the loftier Spanish sierras beyond Algesiraz. Tangier, Ceuta, and Melilla, on the African shore, were faintly discernible; and, on the Spanish side, the unbroken snows of Nevada, fifty miles away, glistened in the sunshine as though within rifle-shot, with all the swelling vegas of Western Andalucia; while, right beneath us, lay the rich Ensenada de Marbella, the fertile fringe that borders the Mediterranean, white with waving fields of sugar-cane, cotton, and carob, prolific of date-palm and fig-tree, of corn, oil, and wine—one of earth's most fruitful gardens.

From our posts, at the head of a dizzy tumble of rocks and screes, no fewer than five distinct mountain-ranges were in sight, one-rising beyond the other, the last and loftiest clad in snow. To and fro in mid-air, far beneath, sailed a superb pair of lammergeyers, their expanded pinions gleaming almost white in the sunlight. These giant birds had their eyry in a series of granite canchos near the apex of the gorge; but, at intervals, also entered a cave in another crag which, we subsequently ascertained, had formed their home in a previous year.

Amongst the birds observed here, which may be mentioned as typical of the Mediterranean sierras, were golden, booted, and Bonelli's eagles, a single griffon-vulture, peregrine and goshawk, a pair of sparrow-hawks, busy carrying sticks, ravens, jays, great spotted woodpecker, wrens, crag-martins (Cotile rupestris), the usual chats, and a few cushats. Hawfinches and great tits were abundant among the pines, and in the early dawn the melodious song of the blue-thrush reminded one of Scandinavian springs and the redwing's note. Another small bird causes recurrent annoyance to the ibex-shooter. With a loud "rat-tat-tat," closely resembling the patter of horny hoofs on rock, its song commences; then follows a curious hissing note, not unlike the passing of a heavy body through brushwood—for a moment one hopes that the coveted and long-awaited game at length is coming. No! confound that bird; it's only a redstart!

Plate XXIII. Page 161. IBEX-HUNTING—A SKETCH IN THE SIERRA BERMEJA.

No ibex, however, appeared here to us expectant. The natives, tiradores of Enalguacil, of Cöin and other hamlets of the sierra, sleeping on the open hill, and possessing twice our speed of foot on their native rocks, were always on our front; and in order to get clear of competition, we moved our camp across the ridge to the north. This operation involved sending forward at daybreak a dozen men with hatchets to clear a way for the laden mules, some fifty or sixty well-grown pines, with hundreds of lesser growth, perishing before a passage was practicable. We encamped on a forest-opening at a spot called the Majáda del Alcornoque, altitude 3,400 feet, the same evening—first having to remove several hundred stones from the camping-ground, for almost each afforded shelter to a scorpion or gigantic centipede.

Here, during the next few days, we had the (to us) singular experience of ibex-driving in thick pine-forest and deep wooded ravines, with generally a strong undergrowth of bushes and scrub—the beau idéal of a roe-deer country, but the last place in the world in which we should have expected wild-goat. The goats were there, nevertheless, for females and young males were seen on different occasions by guns or beaters. In one tremendous clam-shaped gorge, an ibex and a wild pig were both on foot at once! The only ibex the present writer had the luck to see in this part of the sierra—which seemed to be composed almost entirely of ironstone and other mineral ores—was by a purely fortuitous encounter. On the sudden lifting of a dense cloud-bank which rested on the mountain-side, I descried, right above me, four ibex—including two fair-sized rams—all standing on a projecting rock, in bold relief against the sky, and not above 400 yards away. The intervening ground was rugged—rocks and brushwood with scattered pines—and, except for the first fifty yards, the stalk seemed to offer no great difficulty. Already I had passed the dangerous bit, and had crawled near 200 yards, when, alas! in a moment the wet mist settled down again, and I saw no more of the game.

Curiously, on the fog first lifting, a large eagle sat, all bedraggled and woe-begone, on a rock-point not forty yards from my shelter, his feathers all fluffed out, and a great yellow talon protruding, as it seemed, from the very centre of his chest. Then a faint sun-ray played on his tawny plumage; he shook himself together, and launched out in air to renew his hunt, sweeping downwards close past me—luckily without disturbing the ibex, though I saw them take note of the circumstance.

To our other misfortunes was now superadded the discomfort of bad weather. Here is an extract from diary:—March 31st.—Glass fell last night four-tenths to 25' 85", and the morning broke with a whole gale from W., bitterly cold, with driving masses of cloud, gradually changing to rain and sleet—a bad prospect.

SOARING VULTURE.

The rain, fog, and gale continuing, sporting operations were interrupted, and a fine male ibex, shot the night before, was lost, it being no longer possible to follow the trail. We endured a pretty bad time of it, under canvas, in our mountain-perch; but for our poor beaters it was ten-fold worse—sleeping on the bare ground beneath torrential rains, or under such scant shelter of pine-branches as they could rig up.

We had about a score of these mountaineers in our employ—a wild-looking lot, who, when not otherwise engaged, were chiefly contrabandistas. Many of these serranos had joined our party purely for the love of sport, and for no pay beyond such frugal fare as our camp might afford—scanty enough some days, though good red wine and cigarettes were never wanting. The previous week a somewhat serious affray, we now heard, had taken place close by. A gang of 100 smugglers convoying thirty horse-loads of tobacco, &c., were attacked at the passage of the Guadiarro by a force of fifty carabineers. Many shots were exchanged, the smugglers being armed with Remingtons, with the result that seven men were killed and many others wounded. The whole of the thirty cargoes were eventually captured, but the horses escaped, the smugglers cutting the girth-ropes; nor were any prisoners made. This information was given us by the Colonel of carabineers commanding the district, whom we met a few days later in Estepona.

Here is another reflex of local character—a cutting from a Malaga paper of April 1st, 1891, among the ordinary items of local news:—

"Bandido.—The Civil Guard of Malaga encountered on Wednesday, near Cöin, the celebrated bandit Mena, who has long held the whole of that district in terror. The individuals of the Civil Guard demanded his surrender, to which summons he replied with the discharge of his weapon. This brought on a ferocious struggle, resulting in the death of the freebooter, who received two bullet-wounds from his aggressors."

Such tendencies become infectious, and, as a relief to the tedium of forced inactivity, and wet days under canvas—for the flooded gargantas made sport impossible—it occurred to one restless spirit that we might ourselves embark in this popular business of bandolerismo. Had we not a score of bold brigands ready at our hand? And, besides, there was not wanting eminently suitable material for "sequestration"—what a subject for a chapter! But ... well, the opportunity was thrown away, and, the deluge still continuing, in the morning our smuggler-chief, old Marquéz, came in to say that the people, like the Israelites of old, wished to depart, each man to his own house—"cada uno a su casa."

FOREST-IBEX—BERMEJA. (Showing narrower sweep of horn.)

Though we did not succeed in obtaining a really first-rate ibex-head during this campaign in the southern sierras, yet, judging from two machos subsequently secured on an adjacent range (three and five-year-old males respectively), the difference in the form of horn in these forest-haunting goats from those of the Alpine sierras is only trifling. Compared with circumference, the horns are of lesser length, and hardly, perhaps, branch out so widely; but that may, after all, be only a question of age.

Ibex-stalking.—It may occur to the sportsman-reader to observe that we have said very little of ibex-stalking. The reason is that, as before mentioned, we have little but negative experiences to relate, having met with no success ourselves in that sport. Both in Andalucia and the Castiles we have followed some of the longest and most severe days' work in search of ibex, but without success. The ibex are relatively very scarce, scattered sparsely over vast areas, and rarely to be seen on the move during daylight. It is, of course, in all stalking a first essential that a great extent of country be brought under survey. This implies covering long distances; and the extreme difficulties of locomotion on the Spanish cordilleras forbid this. We do not speak without a basis of comparative experience, having seen something of mountain-game in various lands. It may be that we lack speed of foot in traversing those rugged rock-peaks—we are far from denying this, let those smile who may. Few will do so who have once attempted to seek out and stalk the wild ibex—or it may be only bad luck. At any rate, our hardest days on Nevada or Gredos have not, so far, been rewarded by a single shot, or even by the sight of an ibex in a position where a stalk might be dreamt of.

The grandeur of the Sierra Nevada, with its lofty sky-lines, all white and clean-cut against an azure background, majestic Mulahacen and the Picachos de la Veleta, are familiar objects to most visitors to Southern Spain. The majority, however, are content with the distant view from the palace-fortresses of the Alhambra or the turrets of the Generalife. Few dream of penetrating those alpine solitudes or scaling their peaks, which look so near, yet cost such toil and labour to gain. Yet the labour is repaid, if the traveller has an eye for what is wildest and grandest in nature.

For ourselves, we are not ashamed to admit that these snow-clad sierras possess attractions that transcend in interest even the accumulated art-treasures and wealth of historic and legendary lore that surround the shattered relics of Moslem rule—of an empire-city where for seven centuries the power and faith of the crescent dominated the south-west of Europe, and which formed the home and the centre of mediæval chivalry and culture. These subjects and sentiments, moreover, stand in no need of a historian: they have engaged the sympathy of legion pens, many directed by a grace, a power and a knowledge to which we dream not of aspiring. To us Granada has rather been merely a "base of operations" whence the ibex and lammergeyer might conveniently be studied or pursued.

Of our own experiences amidst the twin heights of Nevada and the Alpujarras we might write: but, in this case, we have preferred to avail ourselves of certain notes for which we are indebted to two good friends and thorough sportsmen, in the hope that the change may be to the reader a pleasing contrast from the semper ego otherwise inevitable.

On a bitterly cold March morning we found ourself, as day slowly broke, traversing the outspurs of the sierra—on the scene of the great earthquake of 1884, evidences of which were plentiful enough among the scattered hill-villages. Already many mule-teams, heavily laden with merchandise from the coast-town of Motril, were wending their laborious way inland. It is worth noting that in front of five or six laden mules it is customary to harness a single donkey. This animal does little work: but always passes approaching teams on the proper side, and, moreover, picks out the best parts of the road. This enables the driver to go to sleep, and the plan, we were told, is a good one.

At Lanjaron we breakfasted at the ancient fonda of San Rafael, where the bright and beautifully polished brass and copper cooking utensils hanging on the walls were a sight to make a careful housewife envious. We watched our breakfast cooked over the charcoal-fire, and learned a good deal thereby. We were delayed here a whole day by snow-storms. There is stabling under the fonda for 500 pack-animals, for Lanjaron in its "season" is an important place, frequented by invalids from far and near. Its mineral-springs are reputed efficacious: but the drainage arrangements are villainous in the extreme, and altogether it seemed a village to be avoided. Sad traces of the cholera were everywhere visible, many doors and lintels bearing the ominous sign: it was curious that in so few cases had it been erased.

We left before daybreak, and a few leagues further on the ascent became very steep and abrupt, the hill-crests whither we were bound within view, but wreathed in mist. Only one traveller did we meet in the long climb from Orjiva to Capileira, and he bringing two mule-loads of dead and dying sheep, worried by wolves just outside Capileira the night before. Expecting that the wolves would certainly return, we prepared to wait up that night for them: but were dissuaded, the argument being "that is exactly what they will expect! No, those wolves will probably not come back this winter." But return they did, both that night and several following. The night before we left Capileira on the return journey (a fortnight later), they came in greater numbers than ever and killed over twenty sheep.

Capileira is the highest hamlet in the sierra, and is celebrated for its hams, which are cured in the snow. Here we put up for the night, sleeping as best we could amidst fowls and fleas, after an amusing evening spent around the fire, where one pot cooked for forty people besides ourselves. The cold was intense, streams of fine snow whirling in at pleasure through the crazy shutters: so we were glad to go to bed—indeed I was chased thither by a hungry sow on the prowl, seeking something to eat, apparently in my portmanteau.

Heavy snow-falls that night and all next day prevented our advance: but at an early hour on the following morning we were under way—six of us—on mules, though I would have preferred to walk, the snow being so deep one could not see where the edges of the precipices were. No sooner had I mounted than the mule fell down, while crossing a hill-torrent, and I was glad to find the water no deeper. After climbing steadily upwards all the morning, the last two hours on foot, the snow knee-deep, we at length sighted the cairn on the height to which we were bound. Before nightfall we had reached the point, but few of the mules accomplished the last few hundred yards. After bravely trying again and again, the poor beasts sank exhausted in the snow, and we had to carry up the impedimenta ourselves in repeated journeys. The deep snow, the tremendous ascent, and impossibility of seeing a foothold made this porterage most laborious: but we had all safely stowed in our cave before sundown.

The overhanging rock, which for the next ten or twelve days was to serve as our abode, we found a mass of icicles. These we proceeded to clear away, and then by a good fire to melt our ice-enamelled rock-ceiling, fancying that the constant drip on our noses all night might be unpleasant. The altitude of our ledge above sea-level was about 8,500 feet, and our plateau of rest—our home, so to speak—measured just seven yards by two.

Early next morning we proceeded to erect snow-screens at favourable passes, wherein to await the wild-goats as they moved up or down the mountain-side at dawn and dusk respectively, their favourite food being the rye-grass which the peasants from the villages below contrive to grow in tiny patches—two or three square yards scattered here and there amidst the crags. It is only by rare industry that even so paltry a crop can be snatched at such altitudes, and during the short period when the snow is absent from the southern aspects. At present it enveloped everything—not a blade of vegetation, nor a mouthful for a wild-goat could be seen.

Although in going to our puestos during the day the snow was generally soft—the sun being very hot—yet in returning after dark we found the way most dangerous, traversing a sloping, slippery ice-surface like a huge glacier, where a slip or false step would send one down half a mile with nothing to clutch at or to save oneself. Such a slide meant death, for it could only terminate in an awful precipice or in one of those horrible holes with a raging torrent to receive one in its dark abyss, and convey the fragments beneath the snow—where to appear next? Each step had to be cut with a hatchet, or hollowed—the butt of a rifle is not intended for such work, but has had to perform it.

Every day here we saw goats on or about the snow-fields and towering rocks above our cave. They were of a light fawn colour, very shaggy in appearance, some males carrying magnificent long horns. One old ram seemed to be always on the watch, kneeling down on the very verge of a crag 500 or 600 yards above us, and which commanded a view for miles—miles, did we say? paltry words! From where that goat was, he could survey half-a-dozen provinces.

These ibex were quite inaccessible, and though daily seen, nearly a week had passed away ere a wild-goat gave us a chance. One night shortly after quitting my post, little better than a human icicle, and not without fear of the dangers of scrambling cave-wards, in absolute darkness along the ice-slope, a little herd of goats passed—mere shadows—within easy shot of where, five minutes before, I had been lying in wait. On another morning at dawn the tracks of a big male showed that he, too, must have passed at some hour of the night within five-and-twenty yards of the snow-screen.

But it was not till a whole week had elapsed that we had the ibex really in our power. Just as day broke a herd of eight—two males and six females—stood not forty yards from our cave-dwelling. The fact was ascertained by one Esteban, a Spanish sportsman whom we had taken with us. Silently he stole back into the cave, and without a word, or disturbing the dreams of his still sleeping employers, picked up an "express" and went forth. Then the loud double report at our very doors—that is, had there been a door—aroused us, only to find ... the spoor of that enormous ram, the spot where he had halted, listening, close above the cave, and the splash of the lead on the rock beyond—eighteen inches too low! an impossible miss for any one used to the "express." Oh, Esteban, Esteban! what were our feelings towards you on that fateful morn!

Life in a mountain-cave high above the level of perpetual snow—six men huddled together in the narrow space, two English and four Spaniards—has its weird and picturesque, but it has also its harder side. Yet those days and nights, passed amidst majestic scenes and strange wild beasts, have left nothing but pleasant memories, nor have their hardships deterred one of us from repeating the experiment. Probably both these campaigns were too early in the season (March and April).

The only birds seen in the high sierra were choughs and ravens: ring-ouzels a little lower down. There were plenty of trout, though small, in the hill-burns. On one occasion we witnessed an extraordinary circular rainbow across a deep gorge, with our own figures perfectly reflected in the centre on passing a given point.

The ice-going abilities of the mountaineers were something marvellous—incredible save to an eye-witness. Across even a north drift, hard and "slape" as steel, and hundreds of yards in extent, these men would steer a sliding, slithering course at top speed, directed towards some single projecting rock. To miss that refuge might mean death: but they did not miss it, ever, in their perilous course, making good a certain amount of forward movement. At that rock they would settle in their minds the next point to be reached, quietly smoking a cigarette meanwhile before making a fresh start. How such performances diminish one's own self-esteem! How weak are our efforts! Even on the softer southern drifts, what balancing, what scrambling and crawling on hands and knees one finds necessary, and what a "cropper" one would have come but for the friendly arm of Enrique, who, as he arrests one's perilous slide, merely mutters "Ave Maria purissima!"

*  *  *  *  *

Now we have left the ice and snow and the ibex to wander in peace over their lonely domains. To-night we have dined at a table: there is a cheery fire in the rude little posada and merry voices, contrasting with the silence of our cave, where no one spoke above a whisper, and where no fire was permissible save once a day to heat the olla. Now all we need is a song from the Murillo-faced little girl who is fanning the charcoal-embers. "Sing us a couplet, Dolores, to welcome us back from the snows of Alpujarras!"

Dolores: With the greatest pleasure, Caballero, if José will play the guitar. No one plays like José, but he is tired, having travelled all day with his mules from Lanjaron.

José: No, señor, not tired, but I have no soul to-night to play. This morning they asked me to bring medicine from the town for Carmen: but when I reached the house she was dead. I find myself very sad.

Dolores: "Pero, si ya tiene su palma y su corona?" ...but as she already has her palm and her crown?

José: That is true! Bring the guitar and I will see if it will quit me of this tristeza!

Next morning the snow prevented our leaving: and the day after, while riding away, we met some of the villagers carrying poor Carmen to the burial-ground on the mountain-side. The body, plainly robed in white, was borne on an open bier, the hands crossed and head supported on pillows, thus allowing the long unfettered hair to hang down loose below. It was an impressive and a picturesque scene; and as I rode on, the rejoinder of Dolores came to my mind—"Ya tiene su palma y su corona."

A land without Trout labours, in our eyes, under grave physical disadvantages; its currency is, metaphorically, below par, its stocks at a discount. The absence of many modern luxuries in Spain—say, manhood suffrage, school-boards, and the like—we can survive; the absence of trout, never. Not even the presence on mountain, moor, or marsh, of such noble denizens as Spain can boast—the ibex, bustard, and boar, the lynx and lammergeyer—can wholly, from an angler's point of view, fill the void, or atone for the absence of sparkling streams and that gamest of fresh-water game, the trout. The reproach, however, does not apply; for, to her many sporting treasures, Spain can claim, in addition, this gem of the subaqueous world. No one, however, it should be added, who has other lands open to him, should ever go to Spain expressly for trout-fishing.

Subject to the provisoes that follow (fairly extensive ones, too), trout may be said to exist sporadically all over the Iberian Peninsula; but, in the south, they are limited to the alpine streams of the sierras, and seldom descend below the 2,000 feet level. Troutlets abound in the mountain-torrents of the loftiest southern sierras (Nevada, Morena, Ronda, and all their infinite ramifications), the larger fish seeking rather lower levels and deeper pools. Three-pounders grace the classic streams of Genil and Darro, and deserve attention from angling visitors to the famed Moorish fortress of Boabdil and his dark-eyed houris. The Guadiarro, also, and some others of the Mediterranean rivers, afford shelter, in their middle and upper waters, to Salmo fario.

In the sluggish, mud-charged rivers of the corn-plains, and of the upland plateaux, the trout, of course, finds no place. The finned inhabitants of these regions, so far as our limited knowledge goes, are the shad (sábalo) and coarse fish, such as dace (lisa) and his congeners, with monster eels, crayfish, and the like. But as the rock-ramparts of the Castiles and Northern Estremadura are approached, our speckled friend again appears. Beneath the towering sierras of Gredos and Avila we have landed him while resting from the severer labours of ibex-hunting on the heights above.

These upland streams of Castile run crystal-clear, with alternate pools and rapids in charming sequence. Many closely resemble our moorland burns of Northumbria—even the familiar sandpiper, the white-chested dipper, and the carol of the sky-lark (a note unheard in Southern Spain), are there to heighten the similitude; but here, heather and bracken are replaced by bresos and piornales—shrubs whose English names (if they have any) we know not. The trout run smaller in inverse ratio of the altitude; in a stream at 8,000 feet the best averaged four to the pound; in another, barely below snow-level, six or eight would be required to complete that weight—small enough, but welcome as a change, both of sport and fare. Who, but an angler, though, can appreciate the heaven-sent joys of casting one's lines on "fresh streams and waters new"?

This watershed marks the southern limit at which (within our observation) the art of fly-fishing is practised by Spanish anglers—of their more usual modes of taking the trout, we treat anon. Fly-fishing, did we say? Fishing with fly would be a more accurate definition; the moment a trout seizes the rudely-tied feathers, he is jerked out, regardless of size or sport—the tackle used, it goes without saying, is of the strongest and coarsest. To play and land a trout secundum artem was, we were assured, impossible, by reason of the malésas—weeds, snags, and rocks, which stud the arcana of the depths. But it fell to our lot to demonstrate to our worthy friends that this theory was untenable. With a light twelve-foot bamboo, and on gut finer far than ever entered a Spanish angler's dream (though it all comes from Catalonia), we had the satisfaction of raising, playing, and landing sundry creels-full of shapely fish that exceeded, both as to numbers and weight, the best local performances in manifold proportion. Do not, kind reader, attribute egotistic motives for this statement. No great measure of skill was required to treble or quadruple the natives' takes; and any angler will say at once that such was just the result that might have been expected. While we write, comes a letter from that out-of-the-world spot, asking for a supply of our English gut and flies.

In Portugal also—save on the monotonous levels of the Alemtejo and Algarve—the trout exists in nearly all suitable localities—that is, they are confined to the streams of the hill-country of the north. Years ago, on the virgin rivers of the Entre-Douro-e-Minho, our friend Mr. J. L. Teage enjoyed good sport with trout and gillaroo. It was indeed, to some extent, the success of his mosca encantada that helped to arouse the slumbering utilitarian greed of the simple Lusitanian peasant, who, seeing, or thinking that he saw, an undreamed source of wealth in his rivers, borrowed of his Basque and Galician neighbours their deadly systems of poison and dynamite, and proceeded forthwith to kill the goose that laid this golden egg. As a natural result, at the present day many of the waters of Northern Portugal are all but depopulated—hardly a sizeable fish can now be taken where four or five-pounders swam of yore.

It is, however, the northern provinces of Spain, the Asturias and Cantabrian highlands, and the rivers that run into Biscay, that form the true home of Iberian Salmonidæ. Here, in a land of towering mountains, pine-clad and mist-enshrouded, and of rushing, rapid streams, are found both the salmon, the sea-trout, and the yellow trout.[39]

Of the Salmon (Salmo salar) in Spain, we have had no experience, and will say nothing more than that the southernmost limit of its range appears to be the river Minho, on the frontier of Portugal, and that the resistless energy of British sportsmen has succeeded (despite the local difficulties referred to later) in acquiring fishing rights of no small excellence. Nor have we fished specially for the sea-trout, which are killed with fly and other sporting lures, both in the upper streams and in the brackish waters of the tideways, all along the Biscayan coast, commencing to "run" in February. Some of their habits appear here to differ from what we observe at home; but, without more precise knowledge, we prefer to pass them by for the present.

No more lovely trouting waters can angling introspect conceive than some of those in Northern Spain. Now surging through some tortuous gorge in successive pools, dark, and foam-flecked, each of which look like "holds" for monsters; now opening out on a hill-girt plateau, where the current broadens into rippled shallows, with long-tailed runs and hollowed banks, the Cantabrian rivers offer promises all too fair. For the unfortunate trout has no fair play meted out to him in this hungry land. No count is taken of his noble qualities, nor of his economic necessities. Poor Salmo fario is here simply a comestible, and nothing more. In season and out, throughout the twelvemonth, he is persecuted—done to death with nets, poison, and dynamite. We have elsewhere remarked on the paradoxical character of the Spanish cazador, and that of the pescador is the same. Though observant of his quarry, apt, intelligent, and highly skilled in the arts of sport, yet he is not a sportsman in the truer sense of the term. His object is utilitarian, not sentimental—he cultivates knowledge and the practices of field-craft simply that he may fill the puchero.

A large proportion of the adult male population of each riverside hamlet in Northern Spain are pescadores—professional fishermen: and all day long one sees them grovelling among the stones of the river-bed fixing those hateful funnel-nets that, at night, entrap the luckless trout as they wander over the shallows. But if they confined their operations to these, and to the infinite variety of nets of other shapes and forms that festoon the village street, things might not be so bad, nor the case of the trout so hopeless and desperate. They have far more deadly devices for massacre by wholesale. Into the throat of some lovely stream is tipped a barrow-load of quicklime: down goes the poisonous dose, dealing out death and destruction to every fish, great or small, in that stream: and, if that is not enough, or if the pool is long and sullen, he proceeds to blow up its uttermost depths with dynamite. And in the hot summer months, when the streams, at lowest summer-level, run almost dry, the heaviest trout are decimated by "tickling."

These methods prevail in every part of Spain and Portugal where trout or other edible fish exist. What chance have they to live?

There are, moreover, difficulties, either of law or of custom, that, in some parts of Spain, render the preservation of rivers troublesome, if not impossible. Hence the poor Spanish Salmonidæ can hardly hope to receive that ægis of kindly protection that has been so advantageously (for them, and others) extended to their British and Scandinavian congeners.

Another drawback—which, though common to most lands, is specially pronounced in metalliferous Spain—lies in the noxious effusions from mines, which are freely discharged, for private profit, into public waters. This evil was forcibly brought home by our first day's experience in Cantabria. Hour after hour we had plied most lovely water without success—fly, worm, and phantom alike failed to elicit a single response. On returning with empty creel to the posada, to us our host, "Hombre, have you been fishing the Tesarco? Que disparate! there is a copper-mine two leagues further up: there have been no fish in that river for years." Considering that we had employed a local guide, furnished by the said host, the occasion appeared to justify a protest of not unmeasured wrath. But there is no use losing one's temper in Spain: no quality there so valuable as patience: and the reward of a modicum of reasoned restraint was that the rough, but kind-hearted Asturian insisted next morning on accompanying us himself to another river, seven miles away, where we enjoyed, for Spain, excellent sport.

Under the adverse conditions above outlined, it would be irrational to look for any very great measure of success in Spanish trouting—though, were it possible (which it is not) to secure fair play for the Salmonidæ, there is no physical or other reason why the Basque and Biscayan provinces might not rival either Scotch or Scandinavian waters. The following brief records of a few experiences in Northern Spain will serve to illustrate what may be expected, in a sporting sense, of the Cantabrian trout.

The Province of Santandér, hardly less wild and mountainous than the Asturias, presents somewhat similar conditions of water, fish, and sport. The Cantabrian range, extending from Pyrenees to Atlantic, the common southern boundary of all the Biscayan provinces, attains in Santandér some of its greatest elevations, including the celebrated Picos de Europa (9,000 feet), the home of the Spanish bear and chamois. The trend of the land dips gradually from these inland heights towards the sea: yet even on the coast the scenery is savage and grand, some of the altitudes being very great. The view looking across the magnificent harbour of Santandér recalls in the "Sunny South" the scenery of Arctic Norway, with all the fantastic tracery of snow-mountains and jagged peaks vividly reflected in the unruffled breadths of the fjord.

The rivers, of course, reflect the characteristics of the land. Born of the mountain and the snow-field, they come leaping and surging seawards, dancing to their own wild music, as they crush through narrow gorges, by crag and hanging wood, hurrying ever northward towards the Biscayan sea. The angler's path along their banks is no made road: often for miles, ay, leagues, he may be constrained to follow the goatherds' upland path—a camino de perdices in native phrase—and only able to gaze down, like Tantalus, on tempting streams, perhaps close beneath, yet far beyond his reach.

Here, as elsewhere, success, we found, was not to be had for the wooing, nor at the first time of asking. Rivers that offered fair promise—beautiful waters, such as Besaya and Saja, embedded amidst ilex and chestnut, where moss-grown rocks impended darkly pools, whereon foam-flakes slowly revolved, or the more rapid streams of Reinosa, full of cataracts and tearing "races" that eat away their steep gravel-banks—all these may prove blank, or a long day's work be only rewarded by a few insignificant troutlets or par.

While fishing in the Reinosa district, we were told by our host that there lived some few leagues away un Inglés muy aficionado—a fishing enthusiast. Thither we moved our quarters: our new-made friend was one of those Anglo-Saxon Crusoes whom one meets with, self-buried, for one reason or another, in the recesses of wild lands, where sport or solitude may be enjoyed in degrees not possible at home. Retired from a public service through an infirmity begotten by the incidence of his duties, he was spending the prime of life in this remote spot, satisfied with an environment of Nature's purest scenes and with a modicum of sport to reconcile him to exile. A type of the British sportsman abroad was X., keen almost to a fault, little apt to measure success solely by results, a hard day's work was not deemed ill-rewarded by a brace or two of red-legs, or half a dozen quail, while for the chance of a boar he would walk well-nigh half the night, to reach by dawn the point where the retreat of some old tusker, which was ravaging the peasants' crops, might perchance be cut off.

There were six or eight miles to walk on the morrow ere a line was wetted—at first along a highway, whence X. plunged in medias res, that is into a rough strath, horrid with shifting shingle and thorny scrub, where progress was painful enough: but our companion never slacked speed, and when he continued his wild career, unchecked, through a brawling torrent full of boulders and well-nigh waist-deep, with a current like a mill-race, doubts of his sanity began to arise: or was he only testing us? Soon afterwards, providentially, we reached the main stream: fair trouting water, with rather too much current, the runs being almost continuous, and leaving scant space of "slack." Here we set up our rods: the first seething pool yielded a brace, besides false rises, and in half an hoar we had "creeled" several and began to hope for better things. But it was not to be.

The trout here were white, or silvery in colour, more like salmon-smolts—none of the deep greens, violets and gold of our home fish—and rose extremely shy, coming so short that hardly one in three gave a chance of getting fast. It was not that they rolled over the flies, or merely "flicked" at them—they simply came so short that, unless self-hooked, they were gone almost ere they had come. A dozen trout was the result of this day, yet our companion told us he had not, during two years, made a better basket. Oh, tantalizing streams and provoking troutlets of Biscaya!

Pleasant days, nevertheless, were those spent by this wild riverside. The love of sport is strong in our breasts, but it is not the sole, or an all-potent factor therein. Other things are strong to charm, and here the scenery and accompaniments lacked nothing of beauty and interest—the grand hills, not high but severe in jagged skylines and escarpments that shone like marble in the sun. The air resounded with the music of leaping waters, with the merry carol of Sandpiper and gentler warble of Whinchat: and further off the soaring flight of Buzzard and Raven lent life to the silent hills.[40] From rock-crannies, splashed with the spray of trickling rivulets from above, peeped bouquets of gentian and maiden-hair: the stony "haughs" glowed with bloom of purple iris and asphodel, anemones and wild geraniums, orchids, heaths, ferns, and wild-flowers of a hundred kinds unknown to us.

The weather of the Cantabrian spring-time is strangely variable: every day we had spells of sunshine and shower, wind and calm, fog and fair alternately, often culminating in a sudden clap of thunder that rolled majestically along the deep ravines. Then, for an hour, came down the rain in torrents, and we sought the shelter of some village venta where, for a peseta, we fared sumptuously on good white bread and the delicious cream-like cheese known as queso de Burgos, washed down with the rough red wine of Rioja, cheaper than "smallest beer," and most refreshing.

In every hamlet hung fishing-nets: every day we saw the "fishermen" fixing them, and heard of two-pounders. Yet to us, striving with all the skill we possess, appeared none of these leviathans. Nothing we could do availed to cajole them—that is, assuming their existence. A basket of one to two dozen trout daily, including sundry half-pounders, appeared to be the measure of the river's capacity, or of our skill.

Our best basket in this Province of Santandér was twenty-eight trout, weighing eight and a half pounds, and the best fish a fine trout of just over the pound. Him we killed in a deep pool so embedded amidst crags and so difficult of access, that it may be doubted whether feathered fly had ever before flown over its virgin depths. Our friend rose boldly to a small "red palmer": and within a few minutes two more, of hardly inferior weight, had joined him in the basket.

The wide pastoral province of Leon, with its unexplored wilds of the Vierzo and the Maragateria, and many another savage region bordering on the southern slopes of the Galician and Cantabrian highlands, is practically a terra incognita to British sportsman and naturalist. Well would Leon repay either of these for the enterprise expended on its exploration. Mountain and plain afford shelter for game—large and small—of all the kinds native to Spain; while the rivers flowing southwards from the Asturian ranges probably afford as good trout-fishing as any in the Peninsula.

Our own experiences in Leon were limited, as regards its trouting capacities, to a mere flying visit, when we alighted one morning in mid-May, at a wayside station in North Leon, tempted to break a monotonous journey by the trout-like appearance of a stream that, for some distance, had run more or less parallel with the railway.

The country immediately adjacent was not attractive; flat, tawny, and arid, with few trees and very partial cultivation. On either bank, at a mile or two's distance, rose ranges of low broken hills, gradually increasing in height as they closed in upon the river. Here and there stood scattered hamlets, all built of the yellowish sun-baked brick characteristic of Leon; the houses huddled together, and usually enclosed by the remnants of a former wall or fortification.

It was nearly noon ere we reached the waterside, at the head of a long stretch of deep, still water, fringed on the opposite shore with canes and bulrushes, and well rippled by a strong breeze. The sun-glare was intense; and, though the wind enabled us to command the whole water, an hour's fishing (with fly) only resulted in the capture of sundry large silvery coarse fish, resembling dace, and weighing from half a pound to a pound and a quarter, and a few small fry—we imagine, bleak. We therefore decided to walk up-stream three or four miles, to the point where its course joined one of the hill-ranges just mentioned. Here, in many places, abrupt limestone crags formed the farther shore; beneath, the stream ran deep, bright, and sparkling, shallowing away to the shelving gravel on our shore, and at each bend forming a pretty pool.

For a long time this likely water produced actually nothing, and we began to fear that our venture in stopping at this outlandish spot was a failure. But as the shadows lengthened and the sun left the water, there came a change. The long-expected and welcome sensation of a determined "rise" was followed by another and another in quick succession; and in the last hour of the day we landed nineteen trout, weighing between seven and eight pounds, of which aggregate the three largest accounted for one-third.

Fully half the trout killed on this and succeeding days rose to a small orange hackle; a bracken-clock, or "coch-y-bondu," as we believe is the proper name, being the next favourite. Winged flies should be small, and of bright colours, and, in the clear waters of Spain, only the finest gut should be used.

Further west, in the Astorga and Ponferrada districts, are probably the best streams of Leon; but these we have not had time to visit.

The Asturias.—This province is to Spain what the Scotch Highlands are to England—a

From the north, the Asturias may be reached by sea; but on the south the only pass through the continuous mountain-ranges which cut off this rugged province from Leon and transmontane Spain, is by the puertos of Vegarada and Piedrafita, which lead into the upland valleys of the Pajáres mountains, one of the chief strongholds of the Spanish bear, and where boar, chamois, and other game are also found.

The extremely abrupt and rugged nature of the river-valleys is, in some sense, a serious drawback to the angler. Many a lovely pool or stretch of perfect trouting-water are absolutely inaccessible—cut off for ever in the depths of some precipitous defile. Broken boulders often impend the river's course for miles, and hopelessly obstruct descent. In other places the water-side can at length be reached after perilous scrambles along rock-ledges, threading the rod through a maze of birch and alder branches. And one picks a precarious path downwards with the knowledge that, even when reached, the range of fishable water will be limited, and the return journey almost worse than the descent.

These hardly-gained pools are, however, worth the trouble of trying. For, in proportion to their difficulty of access, so are they neglected by the native pescador, with all his poaching paraphernalia and hateful engines of destruction.

Our first essay proved blank; the season (May) was, perhaps, too early, and only a few silvery troutlets rewarded a long day's work. This was a small stream, overhung with magnificent chestnuts; but a neighbouring and larger river afforded, for Spain, fair sport. The first series of pools yielded a dozen trout, averaging half a pound. Then came the usual scramble to reach the next fishable bit. While climbing out, over a chaos of tumbled boulders, we almost stepped on a big Marten (Mustela martes, Linn.), which bounded from under foot, up the rocks; then turned, and stood chattering savagely at the intruder, her yellow chest not twenty yards away. Probably she had her brood hidden in some crevice, but we could see nothing of them.

Thus, half fishing, half struggling with geological obstructions, we had accumulated a basket of thirty odd trout, when we observed in the glen below a stretch of lovely water. There were four pools, each debouching into the next in a strong stream that ruffled half the pool below. But the river ran in a deep ravine, the descent was worse than ever, and for some time it was doubtful if we should ever stand on that virgin shore. We succeeded, however; and presently, across the throat of the upper "run," extended the cast of stone-fly, black gnat, and orange-red spider—possibly the first that ever swept the stream. In a moment we were fast in a trout of the first rank, which had seized the upper fly. His defence was sullen and strong, slowly moving round the pool; then he twice threw himself a clear yard out of water—a grand silver-clad trout. The end came in due course, but unhastened, and having no net, no risks were run till he rolled over on his glittering side, and could safely be towed in shore, and "docked" in a shallow creek. This trout (one of our best in Spain) was a thick and shapely fish of rather under three pounds, pale in colour, almost silvery, with delicate orange blush, which hardly extended to the fins. He was fairly crammed with creeper, or larvæ of stone-fly (in Spanish, coco), yet had fallen a victim to the similitude of the perfect insect—the only large fish, by the way, killed on this fly, the majority preferring the small orange-hackle.

"VANQUISHED."

In the same pool we killed two more—a half-pounder, with a smaller fish on the same cast; while the three lower pools yielded nine trout, three averaging a pound apiece, two of three-quarters, and four of minor dimensions—making a total for the day of forty-four trout.

This last short hour's work had realized some ten pounds' weight of fish—the best sport with the trout-rod the writer ever enjoyed in Spain.

The Game-birds of the Asturias.—It may be appropriate, before leaving this northern province, to add a few lines on its game-birds, which differ greatly from those of the south of Spain.

First comes the Capercaillie, which is spread along the whole Cantabrian range, though in no great numbers, and rarely seen in spring, when they lie extremely close in the densest thickets of the forests. We only raised three or four during many long rambles through the Asturian forests in search of Bruin. The Asturian name is "el Faisan."

Ptarmigan are found in the Pyrenees, but do not seem to extend further west than the province of Navarre. Manuel de la Torre assured us that there was, in the Asturias, a Perdiz grisa which lived exclusively in the woods, a tame bird, lying very close, and in autumn flying in bands. Could this be the Hazel-grouse? According to Arévalo, that species is only found in the Pyrenees.

Our familiar Grey Partridge (a bird entirely unknown in the south) we also met with both in the Pyrenees and the Asturias, where it is not uncommon; but is said not to pass southward of the great cordillera of Leon. In this country, the Grey Partridge is confined to the higher regions of the sierras, only coming down with the snow to the faldas, or foothills, in winter, and is never found on the plains as at home.

One other bird peculiar to this region, though not game, deserves a remark: the Great Black Woodpecker (Picus martius), which is found distributed along all the northern forests. It is, however, very scarce—though least so in the Peñas de Europa.

With her vast expanses of sierra and lonely scrub-clad wastes, scarcely inhabited save by ill-tended herds of cattle or goats, but abounding in wild-life—furred, feathered, and scaled—Spain affords conditions peculiarly favourable to raptorial animals. Of the eagle-tribe some eight or nine species are recognized as belonging to the Spanish avi-fauna—some peculiar to the mountain-region, others to the steppe and prairie, as we now proceed to explain. We have ourselves shot all the different kinds of eagle, save two, which are comparatively scarce and irregular stragglers to the Peninsula—namely, Haliæetus albicilla and Aq. nævia.

The first of the tribe to attract our attention was the Spanish Imperial Eagle (Aquila adalberti of R. Brehm), one of the handsomest of European species, a few pairs of which still inhabit most of the wilder provinces of Central and Southern Spain, though their numbers in Andalucia have been grievously reduced since we first met with them in 1872. To shoot this bird was long an ambition of the writer, the attainment of which cost many a long week of hard work, hard fare, and more than one bitter disappointment. All attempts in those earlier days to approach the Imperial Eagle on the open plains which form its favourite home proved futile; though on many occasions we fell in with the bird conspicuously perched, according to its habit during the mid-day heats, on some dead tree or the top of a pine. In later years we have succeeded in this feat, but at that time the most carefully executed "stalk" invariably failed for one reason or another; nor could the eagle be beguiled to come to a bait. Nothing remained but to take what is perhaps an unfair advantage. On April 16th we found a nest, a broad platform of branches built on the very summit of a towering alcornoque. Beneath this, in a hut of cistus-twigs, a prey to myriad mosquitoes, I awaited the eagle's return. Slowly passed some hours of torture before she re-appeared, took one wide circuit around, and descended with a rush like a whirlwind upon her eyry, completely disappearing from view within its ample circumference. This event I had not foreseen, and hoped to kill the eagle in the act of alighting. Now it only remained to put her off. Gently I removed my boots, crept from the hut, and walked round the tree—a mountain of green foliage. From no other point was the great nest visible; so I braced up my nerves and shouted. There followed a slight rustling; then the huge wings extended, and for a single instant I saw, through intervening foliage, the whole of the coveted symmetrical form, ere she wheeled back across the tree. A No. 1 cartridge crashed through the branches; a shower of leaves and black feathers floated in the air—instinctively I felt the blow must be mortal, though no vital spot had been presented. Intense was my joy when next she appeared, to see the eagle slanting downwards towards the earth. There she recovered an even keel; the second barrel, too careless perhaps, had no effect, and the great bird slowly flap—flapped away. Each moment I watched for her collapse, but she still held on, on, across the open, and behind some distant trees was lost to view. Then the iron entered my soul, nor was it any solace to hear, some time afterwards, that that very afternoon my eagle had been found by a couple of carabineros; not till a fortnight later was the useless corpse recovered.

SPANISH IMPERIAL EAGLE.

It was the 6th of May before we found another nest in a distant dehesa—again built on an alcornoque (cork-oak), the highest of a clump bordering a small swamp. This eagle sat close, not moving till I stood ready beneath. Then she rose to her feet and I shot as she stood on the nest. She sprang buoyantly upwards, ignoring a second charge placed under the wing as she wheeled back: then soared blindly over Felipe, receiving two more cartridges, and after flying some half a mile slowly settled down to earth in a series of descending circles. Sending Felipe to recover her, I awaited the return of the male; but the sun was low on the horizon ere my eyes were gladdened by the sight of his majestic flight, directly approaching, and with a rabbit hanging from his claws. With quick "yapping" bark, he perched on an outer branch, and next moment fell, wing-broken, to the ground.

A magnificent pair they were: their sable-black plumage glossy with purplish iridescent sheen and with snow-white shoulders. On the occiput a patch of pale gold, the crown being black. The feet and cere of this species are pale lemon-yellow; the irides golden, finely reticulated with hazel.

This eyry contained two eaglets, clad in white down. We have since had many opportunities of observing the breeding habits of this species on the wooded plains of Andalucia and Estremadura. The eggs, usually three in number, are mostly white, more or less splashed or spotted with faint evanescent reddish or brown shades, and are laid about the middle of March. The nests of the Imperial Eagle are about four feet across, and invariably placed on the extreme summit of a tall tree—cork-oak or pine—all projecting twigs being broken off so as to offer no obstruction to the sitting bird's view. The nests are flat, lined with fresh twigs and green pine-needles, and all around and beneath lie strewn the skulls of hares and rabbits—a perfect Golgotha. We have also seen the remains of Partridge, Stone-Curlew, Mallard, and wildfowl, but never those of reptiles. These large nests are most difficult to get into; their position affording no hand-hold above, and from the extent to which they overhang, access can only be obtained by a manœuvre analogous to scaling the futtock-shrouds of an old line-of-battle ship.

The Imperial Eagle is exclusively confined to the plains—we have never seen it in the mountains: its prey consists almost entirely of rabbits and partridge: it is also said to kill bustards, but this we think improbable, though the bird, no doubt, is powerful enough. Its hunting-grounds are the arid, barren dehesas and cistus-wastes—it is not seen on the cornlands frequented by bustard. The adults are recognizable at a long distance by their black plumage and snow-white epaulets—majestic birds of massive, powerful appearance. One also sees on the plains other large and powerful eagles of a rich tawny-chestnut colour—very handsome objects as they sit in the sunshine on some lofty pine.

What all these large tawny eagles are is not quite clear; or rather, their precise specific status is not yet settled. Several experienced ornithologists scattered throughout the world—Hume, Brooks and Anderson in India, Cullen in Turkey, Saunders, Irby and Lord Lilford in Spain—have studied these birds, but hitherto the investigations of these accomplished naturalists have resulted in qualified, and sometimes clashing opinions. Extreme difficulties beset the study of the eagle-tribe, for the living subjects refuse to be studied, and resent one's most remote propinquity. To go out eagle-shooting is to court failure. Then, owing to their prolonged adolescence and slow changes of plumage, a single eagle may pass through several distinct phases, each more pronounced than those which divide species from species: added to which is the further fact that while the genus contains several well-defined types, yet its minor forms intergrade with perplexing persistency. Without venturing on any dogmatic opinions, we will relate, as a small contribution towards their natural history, such facts as have come under our notice during many years' observation of the Spanish eagles.

To clear the ground, we must first explain that the young of the Imperial Eagle are, in their first plumage, of a uniform, rich tawny chestnut, or café-au-lait colour. We have shot beautiful examples in this stage in June and July, when, during the intense mid-day heat, the young eagles are wont to seek the shade of the tree whereon they were hatched. This plumage continues during two or three years—or more: but the original brightness and depth of hue is rapidly lost with age and exposure to the southern sun. In a few months, these young eagles have faded to an almost colourless, "washed-out" shade that appears almost white at a distance.[41]

Their next stage is to acquire the dark plumage of maturity—a metamorphosis which probably extends over several years. The black feathers growing gradually and irregularly among the light ones, give the bird, during this period, a peculiar piebald or spotted appearance—(see photo below). It is also worth adding, as a curious fact, that many of the feathers of the wing-coverts, scapulars, &c., show light on one side of the shaft, and dark on the other. During all this protracted adolescence, it has usually been considered that these eagles did not breed.

IMPERIAL EAGLE. (SPOTTED STAGE.)

During the winter months in Andalucia one sees many of these tawny-coloured eagles, the majority pale in hue—"washed-out" as Griffon Vultures—(undoubtedly young Imperials)—but there are others, less numerous, of a rich bright chestnut, and some of these, we think, may belong to a different species.

In April, 1883, the writer found a nest of one of these large tawny eagles in the distant Corral de la Cita. It was placed on the summit of a stone-pine, almost covering the broad, bushy top, and we had an excellent view of the old bird, as she rose from the nest about 100 yards away:—de las coloradas, == "one of the tawny kind!" as my companion remarked. The place was remote, and night too near to allow of our then awaiting her return (though we should have done so at any cost), so, after taking the two eggs (large dusky white, quite spotless), substituting for them a couple of hard-boiled hen's eggs, and setting a circular steel-trap in the nest, we left it. On returning next morning there was no sign of the eagle at the nest. After walking all round, shouting out, and going up an adjacent sand-ridge which all but overlooked it, we were satisfied she was not there, especially as the night before she had risen rather wild. Accordingly we prepared to ascend; but whilst throwing the rope over the lowest branches, a great shadow suddenly glided across the sand beside me, and on looking up, there was the great chestnut-coloured eagle slowly flapping from her nest within fifteen or twenty yards overhead. Before I could drop the rope and run to my gun, the chance was gone; unluckily, however, the shot took some effect, and though it failed to stop the eagle, she went away badly struck, with one leg hanging down, and never returned. Thus, by bad luck, an opportunity of settling a doubtful point was thrown away.

TAWNY EAGLE.

In June of the same year (1883), we obtained a tawny eagle, which we then imagined would be a young Imperial of the year, and being only winged, the bird was placed in the garden at Jerez, where it lived till the autumn of 1885. It was then (at any rate) two and a half years old, and possibly much older, yet it had never changed colour at all. The whole plumage was rich tawny chestnut, rather lighter beneath, and the new autumn feathers, which were growing at the time of the bird's death, were also coming bright chestnut, and without a sign of black. This eagle, which we now have set-up, has also, to our eye, quite a different physical type to A. adalberti, old or young, being heavier and more massive in build, beak, and claws—indeed, almost vulturine (see photo above). The middle toe appears to have four scutellæ, against six (one rudimentary) in A. adalberti; tail above uniform dark brown. In captivity it was much noisier, and more nonchalant, than the Imperial.

As already mentioned, we have observed these rich-coloured tawny eagles on many occasions during the winter months. The forest-guards distinguish them from the young Imperial Eagles, saying they were most numerous in winter. Casual observation is not, of course, of much value on fine points, and we give their opinion for what it may be worth. The late Crown Prince Rudolph of Austria also appears to have found a tawny eagle nesting in Andalucia ("Sport and Ornithology," p. 491), but did not secure the birds.

It seems probable that a large tawny-coloured eagle—whether the African A. rapax, or otherwise—does breed in Southern Spain, though sporadically both as to time and place, the wooded districts around Córdova being the most likely locality.

So far, with slight modifications, we have left this chapter as written some little time ago; but, since then, we have had further eagle-experiences (in the spring of 1891), which throw some new light on the vexed questions referred to. For we have now placed beyond doubt the fact that the Spanish Imperial Eagle does breed in—what is considered to be—its "immature" dress; but which would probably be more correctly expressed by saying that individuals of this species never develope that black-and-white plumage which has hitherto been regarded as the invariable adult state.

On February 26th we heard of an eagle's nest at a spot called the Algaida del Gato, and were assured that, while the female-owner was black—de las negras—her male partner was pardo, i.e., tawny. The date, it may be noted, is just a month earlier than we had imagined these birds usually breed; but on the 28th February this nest certainly contained two white eggs; and, as certainly, the male eagle was tawny: his partner an ordinary black-plumaged adult. The latter we could have killed half a dozen times; but the male, realizing, it may be, the interesting problem which centred itself on his person, gave us no small trouble ere at last he fell to a long and lucky shot on the wing. His skin now lies before us—pale tawny chestnut in ground colour, sprinkled with darker feathers all over, and with white shoulders.

A few days afterwards (March 4th), a second pair were discovered breeding on a big stone-pine in a different district. In this case the female was tawny, the male black. We watched the pair, with the glass, at moderate range, for half an hour, and Manuel de la Torre afterwards told us they had passed over his head within twenty yards, leaving no doubt as to their respective colours. There was thus no necessity to shoot them. As it is we fear we may be blamed, for to exterminate a species in order to clear up some obscure fact in its biology is to commit a crime under the guise of science; but we have not been guilty in this or any other instance of needless slaughter; and, in Spain, be it added, eagles are "vermin" upon whose heads a price is set. The few shot by us are now valuable and cherished specimens; otherwise they might, and probably would have, been uselessly destroyed, the beautiful birds left to rot where they fell.

In April we saw a third example in the hands of a naturalist at Malaga—a tawny female (without sign of white on shoulders), which we were told (and do not doubt) was shot from her nest in that province the preceding week.

The veteran Manuel de la Torre, a classic name in Spanish ornithology, and one of the keenest and most observant men we ever met, who has spent the greater part of his seventy years in the destruction of eagles, foxes, wolves, and other animales dañinos—noxious beasts—laughed at our enthusiasm over this "discovery," saying that he had known of the fact all his life, and had shot "tawny" Imperials from their nests before we were born! He asserted that these eagles do not ever, necessarily, attain the black state; they may live 100 years and yet not advance beyond the tawny, or "piebald" stages. Good luck and long life to this dear old man, whose cheery face and voice and ready guitar have been the life and soul of our camp on some wild nights in the sierra!

SPANISH IMPERIAL EAGLE. (Adult Male, shot May 6th, 1883.)

This discovery leaves the position thus:—The Spanish Imperial Eagle does breed indiscriminately, whether in the typical adult livery of black and white, or in any of the various stages of mottled and piebald. But we are still entitled to the opinion, hereinbefore expressed, that there also breeds—though rarely—in Spain a true tawny eagle—Aq. rapax, or otherwise. The grounds for this opinion are that the bird we consider to be the Tawny Eagle is of different type and build, besides being of a darker and richer colour—always uniform, whereas the Imperial Eagles breeding in the pale plumage are invariably spotted, or "marbled."

In leaving the Imperial Eagle we annex weights and dimensions of five examples killed by us:—

Of the Booted Eagle (Aquila pennata) and the Serpent-Eagle (Circäetus gallicus), both of which are more or less numerous spring-migrants to Spain, we have treated elsewhere, and need only add that all our specimens of the Booted Eagle (both sexes) are of the pale variety with shaded brown back, a broad light bar across either wing, and white, streaked breast.

The Spotted Eagle (Aquila nævia) we have never personally met with: though Arévalo (Aves de España, p. 58) describes it as not uncommon, nesting in crevices of rocks among the wooded mountains, and frequenting the rice-swamps of Valencia.

The White-tailed Sea-Eagle (Haliæetus albicilla) according to Spanish authorities, is also found on passage and in winter. Manuel de la Torre gave us its name as "Aguila leona," but we have never seen it in Spain at any season.

On January 4th, 1888, we made the acquaintance of another fine species, one of the largest of the feathered race, under the following circumstances:—We were partridge-shooting, and before our advancing line observed soaring over the plain a pair of enormous birds, which we took for the largest Imperial Eagles we had ever seen. B. had always held that those I had previously shot here (as just related) were of small size, and that there existed, on the Andalucian rega, eagles of twice their dimensions. Here at last we were in presence of a pair of these stupendous eagles, and my anxiety to take the offensive—however remote or impossible its chance of success—knew no bounds. The pursuit of partridge, quail and hare—even the approaching avero—faded into insignificance, and these huge birds monopolized all attention. Presently one—the larger—passed outside the line, and after almost interminable aërial sweeps settled slowly down to the summit of a small wild-olive. At once we called up one of our wild-fowlers, who, with his trained cabresto pony, was close at hand. The pony was divested of saddle and bridle, and with only a halter and a cord to his near fore-knee—preparations which told him distinctly enough the nature of the business in hand—was ready for action. Away we went, Vasquez crouching behind the shoulder, myself behind the quarter, and holding with my right hand by his tail. By this device we arrived, unnoticed, to a range of forty yards—nearer we could not get by reason of a marshy creek with steep, slimy banks. I therefore at once despatched the charge of treble A, right for the monster's head. The effect was unmistakable—he rolled over to the shot, and fell to earth. But those huge wings never ceased to work, and a second dose of slugs (on the ground) had no visible effect. From mere spasmodic flapping the great bird gradually recovered control, and a few seconds later was distinctly flying—very low, but still clearly on the wing and departing. For nearly a mile he flapped along, never a yard above the scrub—then settled, on the very edge of the water. We followed, and when I next raised my eyes over the pony's quarter, there, within six yards, stretched out flat on the bare mud, lay our victim. His head lay prostrate, but his eye still brightly watched us. Hard and impervious to shot as I well knew these great raptores to be, I was hardly prepared to see him rise again, and could not have believed what followed. Not only did he rise on wing, but received two more charges of treble A—mould-shot as big as peas—at a range of under twenty yards, without wincing, and after that, flew full 200 yards before finally collapsing: then at last he fell, stone-dead.

BLACK VULTURE. (Adult Male, shot January 4th, 1888.)

Our trophy was not an eagle after all! but one of those giant birds, the Black Vulture (Vultur monachus), measuring a trifle under ten feet in expanse of wing, and scaling roughly between two and three stones. I need hardly add that I had at once recognized the species on rising to fire the first time; and though it was somewhat of a disappointment, it at least settled the question respecting these fabulously large eagles. This bird proved a magnificent specimen, a male, 9 feet 9 inches across the wings: the irides were dark, legs and feet whitish, claws black: the cere and bare skin in front of neck bluish colour, tail pointed.[42] The whole plumage was deep black-brown, the head covered with short downy feathers, and the bird had no offensive smell like the common vultures. This species is, indeed, of far nobler aspect than the Griffon, showing in life none of the repulsive bare neck of that bird, the neck being entirely hidden in the ruff of long lanceolate plumes which surround it, and on the wing it has a majestic appearance.

BLACK VULTURE. "GETTING UNDER WEIGH."

A few days afterwards we had a similar experience with another, which we stalked, sitting amongst some rough hummocky ridges: it seems all but impossible to kill these huge raptores outright. Their hard muscular frames and sinews, tough as steel-wire, appear impervious to shot, and unless a pellet chances to take the wing-bone, they will go on, though struck in a dozen places. One realizes this on attempting to skin one of the larger eagles—an operation not unlike trying to dissect a piano.

The Black Vulture we have never found actually breeding in Andalucia, though it does do so: and we have observed single pairs, associated with Griffons, in the sierras in May and July. Its chief nesting stronghold is in the Castiles, where, in the Sierra de Gredos, we found an eyry with young in May. This nest was on a pine. In the south the Black Vulture is chiefly a winter bird.

The curious diversity of character displayed by the various raptores when captured, deserves a word of notice. At the end of May, after six or eight weeks' eagle-hunting, we had about a dozen large birds of prey which were kept in a disused room. There was a mighty commotion when any one entered—a couple of Serpent-Eagles ceaselessly flapped and scuffled, while Booted Eagles showed fight, and Marsh-Harriers, backing into convenient corners, stood facing one with outstretched wings, like snarling cats all teeth and claws, and shrieking defiance in wailing tones. The Kites, on the contrary, might all have been dead, so limp and lifeless they lay, flat on the floor, with gaping beak and protruding tongue. One winged Kite we kept alive in the grounds at Jerez for years, but though practically at liberty, he invariably feigned death or deadly sickness when approached. Five minutes afterwards, nevertheless, he was quite game to tackle one of our chickens! In the midst of the din and flutter sat the Imperial Eagle, silent, motionless, and unconcerned; perched on the carcase of a Flamingo, his flat shapely head turned slowly as the keen eye followed every movement of the intruder, whose presence he otherwise disdained. The Tawny Eagle (above mentioned) displayed in captivity even greater insouciance and a nobler demeanour than the Imperial, while both birds, heavy and massive as they looked, exhibited marvellous agility in pouncing upon the luckless rat who might presume to trespass upon their domain and attempt to steal their food.

Such are some of our experiences of the eagles of the Spanish lowlands. The Imperial Eagle is, par excellence, the monarch of the plain—resident throughout the year (though the young are known, occasionally, to cross the Pyrenees into France), and in his varied phases comparatively common. Next in importance comes a large tawny eagle of, as yet, undefined specific rank, which, for the reasons above set forth, we consider entitled to a place in the list. Then, in spring, come the Booted and Serpent-Eagles from Africa to nest on Spanish soil and prey on its abundant reptile-life. But in winter two other species descend from their mountain-homes to prey on the game and wildfowl of the lowlands. These are the Golden Eagle and Bonelli's Eagle—both described more particularly in the next chapter—of which we have shot specimens on the plains during the winter months. The two Golden Eagles now in the Zoological Gardens were both shot by us in the flat country, or campiña, in the neighbourhood of Jerez de la Frontera—one winged as it flew to roost in the pinales of Los Inglesillos, the other by a chance shot in the rough, broken country beyond Garciagos.

AT ROOST—SERPENT-EAGLES.

On a hot May morning we lay beneath the shade of palms and eucalypti in the garden at Jerez, watching the gyrations of Kestrels, Swifts, and Bee-eaters, and lazily listening to the soft bird-chorus—an infinite, space-filling refrain from myriad Nightingales, Serins, and Gold-finches—to the spondee of Hoopoe and dactyl of Quail. Presently there appeared, far overhead, some half-dozen Griffon Vultures wheeling in immense circles, the huge birds dwarfed by the altitude to mere specks. Then another stratum, still higher, was detected, and afterwards a keen eye distinguished a third, and then a fourth, beyond the average range of human vision. How many more tiers of soaring vultures might yet occupy the regions of unseen space beyond, cannot be told: but the incident serves to illustrate the system on which Nature's great scavengers patrol the land. The lower strata we estimated at 800 to 1,000 yards altitude, and these only, it is probable, are on active service, the upper tiers merely standing by, ready to profit by the discoveries of all the working parties that may be in sight beneath them: for at the enormous elevations of the uppermost birds, it is impossible to suppose that even a vulture's eye could detect so small an object as, say, a dead goat on the earth.

There is something peculiarly impressive in the appearance of these colossal birds and in the automaton-like ease of their flight. Ponderous bodies appear suspended in mid-air without visible effort or exertion—the great square wings extended, rigid and motionless, filled with air like the wands of a wind-mill, enable them to rest on space, to soar for hours, as it were, by mere volition. How all the vultures manage to find subsistence is a problem, for even in Spain the earth is not strewn with carcases, as on a battle-field.

Towards a certain point of the evergreen plain of palmetto, there is a visible concentration of soaring forms: thither a string of creaking carros has conveyed to their last resting-place some dead horses, the victims of Sunday's bull-fight. Thither flock the vultures to hold high carnival: and a striking sight it is to watch perhaps forty or fifty, as they soar and wheel in as many opposing, concentric circles, gradually focussing themselves over the point of attraction. But as they fold their wings and gather in a seething mass around the carrion, all that was majestic and imposing disappears—as they tear open the flanks and, with spluttering growls and gurgles, and flapping of huge wings, dive their great bare necks into the innermost penetralia, the spectacle changes to the repulsive. Yet, as the only existing system of scavengers, they are performing a useful office. Quickly swells the crowd: from every quarter come more and more—the heavens seem alive with hurrying forms sweeping down to the banquet. As the earlier arrivals become satiated, they withdraw a few yards from the revels to enjoy the state of rare repletion, perched on a neighbouring tree or hillock, where they sit with distended crop, fluffed-out feathers and half-closed wings, gorged to the last mouthful, but making room for fresh comers, hungry as they had been before. Thus within a few hours the luckless horses have found a tomb, and when the Griffons have left nothing but bare bones, then another feathered scavenger appears, the Neophron, or in Spanish Quebranta-huesos, i.e., the bone-smasher, who sets diligently to work to loosen the ligaments and tear the skeleton asunder. Then, one by one, the bones are carried off and broken by being dropped from a height upon the rocks, when the fragments are devoured: thus the earth is cleansed of corrupting matter.

Plate XXIV. A VULTURES' BANQUET. Page 200.

Vultures, though found all over Spain—whether in mountain, marsh, or plain—breed only in the sierras. We have observed them in every province from Guipúzcoa to Galicia, and from Asturias to Mediterranean; but nowhere do they so greatly abound as in Andalucia, and especially in that wild mountain-region which forms the southernmost apex of Europe. Here they may fairly be said to swarm, and in our many campaigns in these sierras we have had abundant opportunities of observing them "at home." Here the Griffon Vultures build their broad flat nests on shelves and ledges of the crags, or in caves in the face of sheer walls of rock, many of which exceed 2,000 feet in vertical altitude. The little town of Grazalema is perched on the verge of one of these stupendous tajos; from the window of the posada one can drop a pebble to invisible depths, midway down which a colony of Buitres have had their eyries from time immemorial. The hill-villages of Arcos, El Bosque, Villa Martin, and Bornos, all present similar instances—man seeking the highest apex, the vultures its middle heights, beyond reach of bullet from above or below. Ronda, too, has its tajo, but we do not recollect seeing any vultures breeding actually beneath the town.

The Griffons commence repairing their nests as early as January—we have watched them carrying claw-fulls of grass and cut branches from places where charcoal-burners had been lopping the trees, on January 21st; a single large white egg is laid in February, incubation lasts forty days, and a naked, blue-skinned chick is hatched early in April. The young vultures are of extremely slow growth, spending full three months in the nest. By mid-May they are as big as Guinea-fowls: ungainly-looking creatures, all crop and maw, with feathers beginning to show through the thick white down.

GRIFFON VULTURE AND NEST. (Puerta de Palomas.)

STRANGE NEIGHBOURS.

Palomas, whose crags were tenanted by numerous Griffons, and the strange growls made by them on returning to their eyries was often the first sound heard on awakening. Once at that period (May) we were imprisoned in the Sierra de Ubrique, both our animals having fallen lame through loss of shoes, and it was with no small difficulty we eventually extricated ourselves from the heart of those rugged, pathless mountains. During four days and nights we were encamped in the wild pass of the Puerta de at daybreak, in our roofless bedroom among the boulders, mingled with the awakening notes of the Blue-thrush and Alpine chough. These nests proved to be quite the easiest of access we ever saw—the cliffs being rather a chaotic jumble of big rocks and monoliths than crags proper; and by clambering over these we reached sixteen nests—many very slight affairs, with bare rock projecting through the scanty structure—of which only two held more than a single poult. The nests of the Griffon—albeit malodorous—are always cleanly. These vultures feed their young exclusively on half-digested food which they disgorge from their own crops—hence there is no carrion or putrefying matter lying about, as is the case at the nests of the Neophron and Lammergeyer. It is the male vulture only that, at this season, undertakes lengthened journeys into the plains and low-lands, remaining absent for days together in search of supplies, and returning crop-full of unsavoury store. The vultures seen on the distant plains in spring are all males, the females remaining at or near their nests. The sketch on page 209 represents a curious scene. On the treeless plains of the Isla Mayor many vultures roost (in April) on a solitary clump of dead encinas, the lower branches and forks of which are also occupied by the nests of five or six pairs of White Storks.

Three of these eyries were situate on abrupt, detached stacks of rock, so easily accessible that we almost "walked" into them. Some years afterwards, passing through this sierra on March 1st, we found the three stacks occupied as before, each nest containing a single egg.

During this scramble we came suddenly upon a pair of Eagle-Owls, solemnly dreaming away the hours in a deep cavern; but, being in an awkward position on the crag-face, could not spare a hand to secure them. These caverns were also occupied by Choughs and Rock-Martins (Cotyle rupestris), the latter sharing a cave with hundreds of bats.[43]

Eventually, after dragging the lame beasts some twenty miles, we got clear of the sierra, but found that our absence had caused much anxiety at Jerez. On the outward ride, it had so chanced, we were present at a sad accident by which two men and their nine mules lost their lives, while attempting to cross the swollen Guadalete at the Barca Florida. Consequently we did not attempt the ford, and only reached the sierra after a long detour: but news of the accident having reached Jerez, and our disappearance being unluckily attributed thereto, the curious result was that the first person we met on the vega of Guadalete was honest old Blas, all solemn and dejected, as he endeavoured, by watching the flight of the vultures, to discover our remains!

The beautiful crags of Zurita and the Agredera impending our historic Guadalete, and lying about a dozen miles from Jerez, are a favourite spring ride. In April their lower slopes are resplendent with acres of rhododendrons just bursting into bloom, crimson peonies peep from arid nooks, and the riverside is fringed with laurestinus and myrtle, oleanders, sallows and palmetto, all resonant with the melody of nightingales. To these crags the Neophron, or Egyptian Vulture, yearly resorts, and six or eight nests may be found in a day's ramble, all placed in holes or fissures of the cliff, which, from its rottenness and overhung form, is far from easy to scale. Nor is a Neophron's eyry a very delectable spot when reached; for, handsome as he looks on wing, this vulture is one of the foulest of feeders. The stench at his abode is overpowering; all around lies carrion in every stage of corruption, while swarms of loathsome flies rise and buzz heavily around the intruder. The nest itself is made of rags and wool—no sticks—and the two eggs, often as richly coloured as a Peregrine's, are laid early in April. Though the food of the Neophron is mostly bones, ordure, and garbage, yet it will, exceptionally, take living creatures; a male, shot on April 19th, when returning to his nest, carried in his beak the yet writhing remains of a small snake. In a rather low part of this range of crags (its highest point, the Agredera peak, is 1,000 feet plumb) a pair of Golden Eagles had their nest, or rather two nests, which they used alternately. The birds did not appear, but we saw the nests, immense masses of sticks conspicuously protruding from crevices in the crag, about forty yards apart. These cliffs are also tenanted by a colony of Genets.

In Andalucia, as in Eastern Europe, the Neophron occasionally nests upon trees. In the lovely, park-like country half a day's ride eastward of Jerez, several pairs breed yearly on high encinas, or ilex. Here, in spring, we have seen the old vultures on the nest, and in July have observed big young—dark brown fellows—perched on adjoining branches. For instance:—

April 10th, 1891.—Examined to-day three Neophrons' nests on ilex-trees at the Encinar del Visco—broad, solid structures, twice as large as those of the Kites, and warmly lined with cows'-hair, wool, &c. Owing to the backward season, there were no eggs, though in 1883 we took two clutches (each two eggs) on same date.[44]

Plate XXV. "WHERE THE CARCASE IS." Page 213.

One afternoon in the early part of July, 1872—a period when Andalucia was seething with revolution and communistic ideas—a young Golden Eagle was brought in by José Larrios, a man we often employed in sport and country campaigns—the same José whose dare-devil escapade with a bull we have already related (see p. 10). This eaglet he had brought from the Sierra de Alcalá de los Gazules, nearly forty miles distant, where his brothers held a small mountain-farm; and there remained, he said, another fledgeling in the eyrie. The writer, in those early days, had not succeeded in shooting the Royal Eagle, and the ambition to do so was intense, despite the difficulty of the communists. Two days before we had returned from a fortnight's expedition to the westward, and when riding towards Jerez were stopped by a military cordon who invested the town and demanded our credentials. These being satisfactory, the officer in command informed us that street-fighting was taking place, and detained us till evening, when he kindly furnished us with an escort. We found that two days previously the city had been seized by an armed mob, thousands strong, who by a sudden coup had gained possession of the public buildings and barricaded the streets. On the arrival of a troop of cavalry from Seville the mutineers incontinently fled, save a mere handful of the bolder spirits, who stood to their improvised defences to the last, and were finally shot down within the church of San Juan, wherein they had sought refuge. This revolution thus crumbled to nothing, though at one time it threatened to exceed in violence that of three years before (1869), when the barricades were taken at the point of the bayonet, and hundreds of insurgents were shot down in the streets of Jerez.

For the moment danger was past, and the city, within the armed cordon, restored to normal condition, though outside the state of the adjacent country was not certain. Keenness to kill the Royal Eagle of the sierras was paramount, and at midnight José and I set out from La Compañia, the old Jesuit convent which was then our home, and traversing the dark streets and narrow, sandy lanes beyond, we were soon clear of the town, and by daylight had reached the ford of the Alamillo, where we crossed the Guadalete, and were breakfasting at 6.30 in the hill-village of Paterna—five leagues. Early in the afternoon we completed the twelve leagues and reached the little cortijo of Jautor, the abode of José's two brothers, who agreed to take us to the eagle's nest that evening. Jautor is surrounded by towering sierras, and we proceeded on foot up a rough goat-track, choked with strong brushwood, and leading up the steep southern acclivity. After climbing and walking about two hours, we reached the nest, a huge pile of sticks surmounting an oak-tree which hung over a deep garganta or mountain-ravine. What was my vexation to find, after eighteen hours' labour, that it was empty! On one side lay part of the leg of a kid, and about half a hare, both quite fresh, but the eaglet was gone; and though we waited till dusk on the chance of the old bird returning, we saw nothing, and had to retrace our weary steps, sticking and stumbling in the dark, to the shepherds' hut, deadbeat and disappointed.

The choza was a mere hut built of long cañas or reeds, in the form of an extinguisher, the interior being circular, some 15ft. in diameter, occupied by many goats, poultry, and cats—not to mention minor inhabitants, and with a wood fire smouldering in the centre. I had hardly coiled myself in my rug and laid down to sleep on the low mud settee which ran round the back of the den, when a furious outburst of barking took place among the numerous dogs which lay sleeping round the fire. The goatherd opened the door, and there entered an old man, bronze-visaged and wiry, leading behind him a donkey. He was a smuggler, and his packs, crammed with contraband of infinite variety, were soon deposited on the floor, and the donkey hobbled and turned out to find bed and breakfast where it might. Then the cerrones were unpacked, and their multifarious contents displayed on the mud floor—pins, needles and scissors, buttons, and bobbins of thread, tobacco, tape, and sundry kinds of coloured cloth and bright ribbons. The latter at once "fetched" the feminine portion of the community—alas! for the chances of sleep for the weary—female nature is everywhere the same, even in the choza of a goatherd buried amidst these lonely sierras, and bargaining and chatter continued well-nigh throughout the livelong night.

The simple peasants, though unable to comprehend my object, were sincerely distressed at our failure; and next morning, while we were busy cooking our breakfast under the shade of a spreading laurestinus, came to say there was another eagle's nest on the opposite side of the valley. They had kindly sent a lad at daybreak to make inquiries at a neighbouring farm, four miles distant. Thither accordingly we set out, riding for several miles till the ascent became so abrupt, and intercepted with brushwood, that it was necessary to picket the horses, leaving them in charge of a lad, and to proceed on foot. We crossed the ridge of the sierra and entered an upland valley beyond, where, in a tall poplar, standing slightly apart, was a rather small nest containing a single eaglet. I must have fallen asleep at my post, for presently José, who had left me in ambush, aroused me to say that the eagle had returned, fed her young, and departed! While we were talking the female flew overhead, and instantly catching sight of us, with a scream dropped a rabbit she was carrying, and soared heavenwards. My shot dropped her stone-dead, and she fell within a few yards of her victim—a female of the Serpent-Eagle, a species well known on the wooded plains, but which we had hardly expected to find in the mountains. We have related this incident because there followed one of the most singular occurrences that have happened within our ornithological experiences. On being skinned, this eagle was found to contain the almost entire remains of a young eagle, which, from its feathered tarsi and general appearance, was certainly a nestling Golden Eagle—the counterpart, perhaps the brother, of the one José had already brought alive to Jerez! We can only state the bare fact, as above, and surmise that the youngster was yesterday the occupant of the eyrie we had travelled so far to despoil, and that the actual and would-be destroyers had thus accidentally come in collision.

About a league further the valley terminated in a fine amphitheatre of crags, showing remarkably bold and abrupt escarpments. The highest part was occupied by a colony of Griffons, and while resting for an hour or so in a niche of this mountain rampart, I shot four of the great birds. Collectively they measured across the expanded wings some thirty-eight feet, and though we had no means of weighing them, estimated them at about forty pounds apiece. One of the vultures shot here, a fine bird with bushy white frill, the peasants asserted to be between 300 and 400 years old, though how they could tell is a mystery. This bird was killed with ball on the wing. The smell of Griffon Vultures when shot is strong and most offensive: their claws and long feathers are always much abraded by attrition on the rocks, and their whole plumage has a worn and faded appearance, in harmony with the decay and death in which they rejoice.

The young vultures were at last (July 8th) on the wing, having spent some three months in the nests:[45] they are now of a clear, bright cinnamon colour, much handsomer than the adults, each feather being shaded; and one shot to-day measured between eight and nine feet in expanse of wing.

Our lofty perch commanded a grand mountain landscape—sierras extending range beyond range in swelling stony masses or jagged sky-lines. Alpine Swifts dashed overhead; Blackchats and Blue Rock-Thrushes flitted among the crags, and, with the great vultures soaring above and below, afforded some interesting scenes. The mid-day heat was intense, and we had a rough tramp down to the horses through broken ground and thick young wood, where we disturbed a Roe and saw many traces of others. It was after dark when we reached a miserable wayside venta, where, alongside half a dozen snoring peasants and tormented by a million fleas, we passed the night on the ground.

BONELLI'S EAGLE. (Adult Female, shot July 10th, 1872.)

Returning homewards next morning, while we were passing through the outlying spurs or foothills of the sierra, a pair of large dark eagles were observed hunting a scrub-covered ridge. The larger of the two presently swept down upon an unlucky rabbit and forthwith commenced to devour it, the male perching on a stump hard by. They were favourably situate for a stalk, and by riding round in a wide circuit I gained the reverse of the ridge. On creeping forward to my marks, however, I could at first see nothing—only a few palmetto bushes some distance down the slope. Having crawled to these, I perceived the eagle busily tearing up her prey in a slight hollow of the ground. She was only forty yards away, yet the sitting shot (broadside on) produced no effect. A "green wire-cartridge, No. 1" from the left, broke a wing as she rose, and, after some little trouble, she was secured. She proved to be a Bonelli's Eagle (Aquila bonellii), a perfect adult specimen, dark brown above, with white breast boldly streaked and splashed with black: the bushy "stockings" and warm reddish-brown tarsi contrasting with the long white "apron" which overlapped them. (See photo.)

Thus occurred—over twenty years ago—our first introduction to Bonelli's Eagle: since then we have met with them frequently in the southern sierras, in the Castiles, and once in the Biscayan Provinces. It is, in fact, the commonest mountain-breeding eagle in Spain, and is easily recognizable by its short, dappled wings, and by the peculiar feature that the middle of the back is white—thus, if seen from above, the bird appears to have a large white spot between the wings.

In former days, the hill-peasants assert that it bred in quite low rocks, and several such abandoned eyries have been pointed out to us: but we have only seen its nest in the most stupendous rock-walls—places that make one's flesh creep to survey. The two eggs, usually white, but occasionally splashed or spotted, are laid in the early days of February—we have watched these eagles repairing their nest at Christmas. The young in first plumage, like those of the Imperial Eagle, are of a chestnut-tawny hue. The claws of Bonelli's Eagle are remarkably long and powerful, and its chief prey consists of hares, rabbits, and other game. Hares it appears unable to carry up whole to its eyry on the heights, tearing them into halves, and birds found in its nest are usually headless.

The Golden Eagle also breeds in all the mountain-regions of Spain, both in high rocks and occasionally (as above mentioned) on trees. Its nest is often an enormous structure—quite a cartload of sticks.

The Golden and Bonelli's Eagles are strictly denizens of the mountains: but in autumn both species descend to the plains and marismas in search of prey. On more than one occasion, while shooting on the lowlands in winter, we have secured a Golden Eagle as he flew to roost in the pine-woods: and on Nov. 29th, some years ago, while flight-shooting, a Bonelli's Eagle was so intent on the capture of a winged Ruddy Sheldrake (Tadorna rutila) which had fallen to a neighbouring gun, as almost to fly into the writer's puesto. This eagle was in the act of lifting the heavy duck off the water when a charge of big shot cut him down.

Our old cazador, Felipe, who has since become keeper on a rabbit and partridge preserve fully twenty miles from the nearest point of the sierra, told us that so many eagles come down to prey on his rabbits during the months of November and December that during the preceding season he had killed over thirty. Felipe added that they were mostly Golden and Bonelli's Eagles (Aguila perdicera he called the latter), with a few Serpent-Eagles earlier in the autumn. At the time of our visit (January) most of the eagles had retired to the sierras to breed: but a few days afterwards Felipe rode in with a cargo which sorely puzzled the officials of the consumos (octroi), for under either arm he bore an eagle, and in a sack on his back were two immense wild-cats! The eagles were A. chrysäetus, and an immature, tawny-breasted Bonelli.

Around Spanish agriculture, as around other Iberian industries, hangs a cloud of almost Oriental apathy. A land which might be one of the granaries of Europe is so neglected that, even with an import duty on corn, it is barely self-supporting—indeed, during 1889, Spain had to pay upwards of one million sterling for imported wheat.

Since the fall of Moorish dominion, the population of Andalucia has fallen to less than half; large areas which in Moorish days were smiling corn-lands, to-day lie barren and unproductive, choked with brushwood—the great southern despoblados, or deserts.

Nearly one-half the entire land of Spain (to be exact, 45·8 per cent.) is without cultivation of any kind; and of the rest, the productive powers are but half utilized. The yield of the best land in a favourable season rarely reaches forty bushels per acre, and the average, taking one year with another, may be placed at twenty; while in Northumberland thirty bushels is an average, and fifty a not infrequent yield.

The three chief agricultural products of Spain are corn, oil, and wine—of the latter, we treat more particularly in another chapter. The corn-farms—each usually including a certain proportion of olive-wood—extend from four or five hundred acres up to large holdings of as many thousand; and, as a rule, are cultivated by their non-resident owners, through a steward.[46]

Plate XXVI. PLOUGHING WITH OXEN. Page 221.

Even in the case of rented land, the farmer seldom himself lives on his holding, but entrusts the management to an agent, while he resides in his town house. Neither landowner nor farmer live in the country.

This deep-rooted antipathy to a country-life is one of the many causes of the decrepitude of Spanish agriculture, among which may be specified the following:—

1.—The custom of absenteeism.

2.—The antiquated system of tillage.

3.—The absence of woods and plantations, the beneficial effects of which on climate and atmosphere are specially necessary in this hot, dry country. The comparatively small forest-areas are, in many parts, as previously stated, being rapidly reduced by the hatchet of the charcoal-burner.

4.—The neglect of irrigation. In wet winters, the low-lying lands are flooded, and the whole country is water-logged; in summer the reverse is the case—moisture is non-existent, every green thing is burnt up, yet no attempt is made to direct and conserve the rain-supplies, albeit the remains of the aqueducts and irrigation-works of Roman and Moor are ever present to suggest the silent lesson of former foresight and prosperity.

Of a total area of some forty-four and a half million acres under cultivation, less than two millions are irrigated (regadio), leaving forty-two and a half million acres of "dry lands" (secano).

The following table forms an interesting commentary—to those who can endure statistics—on the state of agriculture in Spain. It shows the exact proportion of irrigated and non-irrigated land under each crop, &c. The figures represent "fanegas" which are, roughly, equivalent to acres.

Oriental customs survive in the hiring of labour, both for field and vineyard. Men are not employed permanently—only "taken on" as occasion requires. A hiring-place is the feature of Spanish rural towns—the Plaza, or public square, usually serving the purpose. Here, at all hours, but notably at early morn and sunset, stand groups of swarthy labourers, waiting for hire, and contentedly smoking their cigarettes till some capataz, or foreman, comes to terms with them.

Corn and wine are cultivated by distinct classes of labourers—those for the vineyard, superior workmen, gaining thrice the pay of the others. In the vineyards the men receive the equivalent of three francs a day, with oil and vinegar—important items in a hot country—while the corn-farmer only pays one franc, with bread and oil.

The only permanent hands at a vineyard are the capataz and his assistant, the duties of the latter being to bring bread from the town on his pannier-mule, and water from the best or nearest well in those cool earthen pitchers called cántaros. Water is almost as important as food. Among the poor it is the national drink—the quality produced by each well is known and often discussed. Andalucians are critical judges of water, classing it as mala, bad, unwholesome; gorda, turbid or flavoured; regulár, pretty good, and agua rica, the best of bright sparkling water. In praising his native hamlet, the first point with a Spanish peasant will be "the water there is good." Water, however, be it gorda or rica, they must have; and wherever on glowing plain or calcined hill-side one sees a gang of labourers gently scratching the earth with tiny hoe, there also are sure to be lying those porous, amphora-shaped cántaros full of water, ice-cold, albeit a tropical sun has for hours impinged vertically on their porous sides. Oh, how delicious a draught can be enjoyed from those rude, old-world vessels surely none but thirst-stricken labourer under Spanish summer sun—be he peasant or bustard-shooter—can ever fully realize!

At the cortijo, or corn-farm, are four or five permanent employés—the steward, the bread-maker, and the tenders of the working oxen. All the rest of the labourers—men or women—are hired temporarily as required. Herdsmen and shepherds we do not include, as these do not live at the farm, but in some reed-built choza, or other rough shelter hard by their flocks. Hence it will be seen that the class of labour employed on arable land is of the lowest—there is none of the inducement to steady industry begotten of permanent place. At the vineyards, in addition to the higher rate of wage, the food supplied is also much superior. This industry, in short, absorbs the pick of the labour-market. No women are employed in the vineyards, nor allowed to touch a vine, though on the farms many are engaged for such work as hoeing and weeding.

To become the capataz of a vineyard is the highest ambition of the labourer. To go into the market-place and hire, instead of standing there to be hired, are obviously very different things. It implies, besides, permanent wages at increased rate, without manual work to do, for the capataz only orders.

He hires the labourers required, often with an eye to his own advantage. The master never sees the men engaged: there is no check on the honesty of the agent, but considerable variation in the quality of the hired. The old, the halt and lame, if friends of the capataz, receive the same pay as the young and strong. Although all may go forth into the vineyard at the seventh hour, there is yet ground for doubting the substantial justice of the nineteenth-century capataz as there was in olden days of Bible history.

WOODEN PLOUGHSHARE.

These and other minor abuses will not be remedied till landowner and farmer live on their properties—a thing unknown in Spain. The farmer, or labrador—as with grotesque incongruity he styles himself—lives in his cool and luxurious mansion in the town, receiving visits every few days from his steward; but months go by, even years, between his rare visits to the farm. The land is, as a rule, his own, and being a man of means, so long as things go on fairly, and his sacks of corn or casks of wine arrive in town in due season, and without excessive pillage, he is content.

Most of the farms being held by capitalists, the farmer can withstand the loss of a few bad years: and when a good one comes—they calculate one fat year to four lean—all losses are recouped and a large balance to the good rewards his patience.

Plate XXVII. THE HARVEST-FIELD. Page 225.

Ploughing, or what passes muster as such—a tickling of the surface by tiny wooden ploughshare identical with those of Roman days, drawn by yokes of tardy-plodding oxen—takes place in autumn. Wheat is sown in December, the seed scattered broadcast, and one-third of the land laid fallow each year. The fallows (manchones) in spring produce wildernesses of weeds, as tall and rank as the corn itself, and gorgeous with wild-flowers—Elysian fields for the bustards, which revel amidst the ripening seeds and legions of locusts and grasshoppers. Here whole acres glow with crimson trefoil, contrasting with the blue borage and millions of convolvuli: there are lilies and balsams, asphodel, iris, and narcissi of every hue—but it is idle to attempt to describe the unspeakable floral beauties of the Spanish manchon.

The fallows are not, however, left to waste their substance entirely on weeds and wild-flowers, for they form the best spring-grazing grounds for cattle, and thus, too, receive a certain allowance of manure.

One's patience is exercised to watch the tardy oxen creeping along those league-long furrows! Even in our English corn-lands, in the fifty-acre fields of Norfolk or Northumberland, there appears to our non-technical eyes a grievous disproportion between the work to be done and the means employed, albeit a dozen stout draughts may be at work in a single field. Here, where the "field" stretches away unbroken by fence or hedge to the horizon, a day's journey in either direction for those plodding oxen, the task truly appears more hopeless than the labours of Sisyphus. Not even on the prairies of Western America can they boast a longer furrow than can be traced on these plains of tawny, treeless Spain. Well may the ploughman seek, by chanting old-time ditties, to avoid utter vacuity of mind.

In June and July the harvest is gathered in—no musical rattle of reaper, for the sickle still holds its place: and over the breadth of fallen swathe soar hawks of every sort and size, preying on the locusts and other large insects and reptiles now deprived of their accustomed covert.

Then follows the threshing of the corn, an operation which is carried on with the primitive simplicity of the patriarchs of old—perhaps on precisely the same lines. The sheaves are brought from the stubble on creaking bullock-carts, and thrown on the era, or threshing-ground, a hardened level space adjoining the farm. Here it is threshed—or rather, trodden out under foot by the yeguas—brood-mares, a team of which are kept briskly trotting over the circle of outstrewn sheaves, driven on by a man who stands in the centre. With a long whip and the skill of a circus manager, he drives the mares in circles, round and round—this is the only duty asked of the yeguas all the year, except that of maternity. Amidst clouds of dust and heat the sweating animals are urged on till the corn and brittle straw is trodden into finest chaff. Then the mares are rested, the grain and chaff pushed aside to make room for fresh sheaves, and the operation is repeated till all the produce has been trodden out.

The next process is to throw the broken corn high in air with broad wooden shovels. The wind serves to separate the grain from the chaff, the former falling in heaps on the earth, while the lighter material drifts away to leeward. The grain is gathered into sacks, loaded upon donkeys, and away goes the team to the owner's granary in the town: as many as three score, and more, of patient borricos may often at this season be seen plodding along the dusty byeway. Similarly one sees, at the same season, the casks of newly-pressed wine being jolted along on bullock-carts towards the town, along rough roads or tracks that will not be required again till the same traffic occurs after the next year's vintage.

The broken straw and chaff is stored in large stacks, to form the staple food for horses and cattle during the winter: and is indeed of good quality, affording as much nutriment as the best hay, of which none is grown in this southern land.[47]

Plate XXVIII. THRESHING THE CORN WITH YEGUAS (MARES). Page 226.

The corn goes to the owner's granary, the wine to his bodega, and all is soon safely housed within the city walls. Nothing, beyond actual necessaries, is left in the country.

The antipathy evinced by Spaniards towards the country is a curious feature of this southern life. No Spaniard, rich or poor, will remain in the country for a single night, even in the green and glorious spring-time when the Andalucian vegas revel in richest charm to eye and ear. The labourers whose work takes them into the campo do their best to get back by night: even the poorest prefer a walk of several miles, morning and evening, rather than remain overnight amidst rustic scenes. Centuries of former insecurity may explain this: but now no present cause can be assigned beyond the force of habit, and perhaps the fear of being overtaken by sudden illness or death beyond the reach of priest—in which case the last rites of religion might not be available.

Whatever be the cause, the country gentleman, the country parson and doctor, Hodge and rural population generally, are unknown in Spain. The landowner hies him townwards at night to his gossip, his paséo and his favourite game of tresillo at the casino—the workman to his village, his wife and bairns in the humble tenement he proudly calls his casa. Spain is a land of customs and accepted traditions—be they good or bad. For centuries no one has sought to introduce a novelty—say a taste for rural life, though the conditions for its enjoyment exist here as favourably, at least, as elsewhere. So far as we can judge, the vesper-bell will continue for all time to gather in the natives to the cities as rookeries unite their flocks when every sun goes down.

This, of course, does not apply to farmsteads remote from town or village, where labourers and herdsmen perforce live as in a rural fortress. It is not surprising that, with the gregarious instincts of the Spanish people, the lot of such men should be despised; and that there should arise in these unhappy groups, isolated for weeks from kith and kin, and with the barest means of subsistence, that spirit of discontent which resulted in 1883 in the mano negra, and this year in that anarchical furor which, on both occasions, was expiated on the scaffold.

Agriculture in Spain is thus deprived of that gracia which in other lands distinguishes it from other commercial pursuits. It is devoid of that loving, homely interest that in England attaches to it, making the cultivation of the soil—at least when conducted (willingly) by the landowner—something of a recreation or "labour of love." Here, nothing beyond elementary and imperative operations are carried on—those which a rule-of-thumb experience has shown to give fairly good results with a minimum of trouble. Experiments are things unknown. There is a settled conviction among the agricultural class that improvement is impossible, that their patriarchal system represents perfection. Reward is looked for rather in a twenty or thirty-fold return once in every four or five years by luck of favouring climatic conditions, than sought to be assured by skill and the adoption of modern modes of tillage.

Corn-growing nevertheless does pay in Spain, owing to the import-duty on foreign grain, which ensures a profit to the home-producer. But fortunes realized on the cortijo are always ascribed rather to a run of good luck than to any other specific cause.

He would be a bold man who departed from the traditional systems in vogue since time began, in this land where "whatever is is best." And a strange fatality does await experimental changes. The very soil seems to repel innovation. A firm of practical English agriculturists failed signally some thirty years ago, and one still hears it satirically told how the deep-searching iron ploughshares from Inglaterra left offended fields which for years afterwards refused to yield a crop.

Plate XXIX. WINNOWING. Page 228.

The minor accessories of farming, such as the dairy, poultry and the stock-yard, which, we are told, stand between many an English farmer and ruin, are here ignored. For this, however, there is some excuse in the vexatious and mistaken system of the octroi (consumos), under which farm-produce and consumables of every kind are taxed on entering the town. The rural farmer, it is true, escapes the town taxes, but as a counterpoise, to tax his produce on its way to market, is clearly saddling the wrong horse.[48] The incidence of such a burden clearly falls upon the already over-taxed consumer in the towns, increasing the cost of the necessaries of life. The whole system is, moreover, arbitrary and irritating. How would one like at home to be stopped every time he came in from a day's shooting, in order that a "duty" may be assessed on his bag of partridge, rabbits, or quail? Or, worse still, on a few bottles of wine which may remain unconsumed at luncheon, but which the official of the octroi knows perfectly well were taken out into the campo that same morning?

The principal crops raised (Andalucia) are wheat, barley, beans, and chick-pea (garbanzo), together with rye, alfalfa, vetches, and canary-seed. Very few oats are sown, barley forming the chief grain-food for horses.[49] No roots are cultivated, no manure applied, nor any scientific rotation of crops attempted.

Neither maize nor rice are cultivated in the south, though both form important items in other parts of the Peninsula. Rice, especially, is grown on the Mediterranean coast (Valencia, &c.), and in Portugal. Possibly the Andalucian marismas might form "paddy-fields" that would make San Lucar a rival of Rangoon, as similarly Cadiz might compete with Odessa. But may these "improvements" await another age! May some few outlandish nooks and corners of Europe be left as God made them, where primæval conditions may yet survive, and wild nature reign in uncontaminated glory—at least during our time.

Much could easily be done to bring Spanish farming nearer to European standards. Improvements will come, one day or another: already the dawn of a more active industrial life is beginning to glimmer. But as yet the flutter extends only to manufactures, not to agriculture. Capitalists are beginning to furnish their factories with the appliances of modern machinery, and Spanish workmen are found capable of adapting themselves, by their intelligence and attention, to the new conditions, and to bear a fair comparison with the workmen of other countries.

The wave of progress is at present confined to the foundry, the mine, and the workshop, but will some day, perhaps, extend to the campo—substitute the steam-plough and reaper for the sluggish ox-team and sickle, the steam-thrasher for the trotting brood-mares, and metamorphose into an active industry the present drowsy, old-world routine of Spanish agriculture.

Progress in Spain moves with halting step, and it were folly to cherish sanguine expectations. Such a change can only come with altered conditions in the people. Why, for example, try to improve dairy arrangements when there is no demand for fresh butter? Why trouble with the cattle when the fighting bull is the prize animal of the pasture? What encouragement is there to improve the grazing of stock when an enthusiast who had stall-fed his beasts is told by the butcher, "if you wish me to sell any more of your animals, you must send them without fat"? Hitherto this gentleman's efforts to reform the national taste have resulted in utter collapse. Fattened joints are, in Spain, in advance of the age, amongst a people wedded to the flesh-pots of the puchero, wherein the beef is required to be, above all things, lean. The fat of the pig only is appreciated in Spanish cuisine.

Interspersed amidst the monotony of corn-land and vineyard is seen the peculiar foliage of the olive. Its regular rows of sober green cover many of the higher lands and hillsides, and its produce, next to corn and wine, occupies the third place of importance. Outside the ancient huertas, where since Moorish days the orange, lemon, and citron have been carefully tended and watered, the olive is the only cultivated tree; and well does it repay the minimum of care which it requires. The olive enters largely into the economy of every-day existence, forming an important element both in the food and light of the Spanish people. Olive-oil is the universal illuminant—in a little saucer with rudely-fixed cotton wick (the mariposa), it lights the herdsman's choza, the cottage, and cortijo: this oil is also a leading article of consumption with all classes. To the poor it is an absolute necessary, taking the place occupied by meat among northern nations, giving flavour and zest to the hard bread and to the tough dry stock-fish imported from Newfoundland or Norwegian fjord—besides being an essential ingredient in the universal gazpacho. The fruit itself, in various forms, gives a national flavour to nearly every dish. Every one eats olives, from the wayfarer on the dusty highroad, whose hunch of dry bread is sweetened by a handful of the piquant fruit, to the Madrilenian epicure who at Lhardy's restaurant demands the "Reinas" from Seville. These olives are of large size,—almost like walnuts—and are only rivalled in flavour by the "manzanillas," a smaller variety more resembling the French olive, but, to our thinking, of superior taste.

These two kinds are carefully gathered in late autumn, and are in universal demand throughout the Peninsula. Beyond its boundaries they are little known or appreciated, though some few have already found consumers in the north of Europe.

"WAITING FOR DEATH."

Although the olive-trees are of the hardiest nature—otherwise they could not survive, without irrigation, the intense heats of summer—yet the crop is a precarious one. After the fruit has been gathered in December, or rather beaten off the trees, for that is the method adopted, the olives destined for the oil-mill are subjected to severe pressure by rudely-constructed wooden screws, often supplemented by stone-weights—again the simplest appliances of modern machinery are often neglected—and the oil extracted is drawn off and separated into different qualities. None, however, is of that grade—or rather its manufacture and elaboration are too rough and careless, to enable the Spanish produce to compete with the refined neutral oils of Italy and France. With a little more care in its manufacture, and more energy in its introduction to foreign markets, the rich oils of Spain might doubtless be made a source of much additional national wealth.

Its substantial qualities, and in particular its power of long sustaining light, are appreciated in Russia, where it is superseding the oils of other countries for its reliable illumination of the icons, or sacred lamps. The religious tenets of the Muscovites require that these small lamps, suspended before their images, should burn brightly, without trimming, through the longest winter nights of eighteen or twenty hours. The little glass tumblers of the icons are filled to the brim with Spanish oil: a perforated metal bar placed across, holds the lightly-twisted cotton wick, and once lighted the little lamp burns brightly, without smoke or attention, through the longest nights of the northern winter.

At present the preparation and export of Spanish oil is almost monopolized by the port of Malaga.

Andalucia is the breeding-ground of the best horses of the Peninsula: many of the landowners are possessed of well-known "brands," as they are called, and the farmers are almost universally interested in horses to some extent. Great strides have been made of recent years in the improvement of the breeds through the importation of thorough-bred English sires, &c. This is, indeed, the one branch of rural industry in which a decided advance has been made. Since the introduction of racing into the country by Englishmen, about 1867—Jerez de la Frontera being the cradle of this, as of most other sports—the superiority of the present breed has been thoroughly established. Horses of a larger and better stamp than formerly are now seen bearing the branded device of the various provincial herds, it being still the custom to brand each foal with the particular sign of the stud to which it belongs.

For temper and enduring powers the old Spanish hack could never be improved upon; but in shape and make the race had sadly degenerated since the Spanish Gennet was the favourite and fashionable steed of the wealthy both in France and England. The heavy Flemish stallions introduced by Carlos Quinto—of which Velasquez' pictures give us the type—account for this falling-off from the earlier form of that high-bred Arab race which long ago supplied the wants of a nation of horsemen—the Caballeros, whose interests in life were coloured and directed by a devotion to knight-errantry unparalleled in other lands, and which still leaves its impress on the thought and habit of the Hidalgos of to-day.

Now, however, the Andalucian horse bids fair to regain his ancient prestige; some of the more ambitious haras boast their strings of pedigree-stock, and the stud-book of Spain is an established institution, its register having been zealously kept till this year, by the sportsman-grandee, the late Duke of Fernan Nuñez.

In contrast to these favoured breeds, and at the other extremity of the scale, we have the almost wild horses of the marismas, which shift for themselves throughout the year on the open wastes, and fly, like the deer, from the unaccustomed sight of man. The heats of summer, the cold and wet of winter, are faced in turn by this hardy race, which, in return for their freedom, provide their owners with a yearly contingent of sturdy offspring. These youngsters are only separated from the wild herds, "rounded up," and captured with great difficulty—after long and fast chases on the open plains. Perfect little demons of vice and fury they are, too, when caught, shaggy and unkempt little beasts, coated with dried mud, biting at each other, quarrelling and screaming with savage rage—a corral full of them newly-caught is indeed a singular sight. On many of the old mares of the marisma the hand of man has never placed a halter.

Of the fine description of Spanish merino sheep, so celebrated till the beginning of the eighteenth century, and so rigorously guarded and protected by Spanish Governments, there remains to-day hardly a trace. France, Sweden, and Saxony found means about that period to obtain specimens of the Spanish breed, and with them departed the glory of the privileged race. There remain now in Spain but degenerate representatives. Years of apathy have left to her little but the coarsest breed of sheep both as to flesh and fleece. The race from which nearly all the best European varieties have originated is now, perhaps, the lowest on the list.

Mutton is comparatively scarce in the southern mercados, where for one sheep may be seen a dozen kids exposed for sale. The latter—strange parti-coloured little beasts—together with the ubiquitous pig and tough, stringy beef, provide most of the meat consumed in Spain, whose scant quantity and poor quality is eked out by vast supplies of small birds—Larks, Buntings, Quails, and the like—which are caught by means of a dark-lantern at night, as we have elsewhere described; whole festoons of small birds, with Partridge, wildfowl, and Little Bustards, adorn the market-stalls in the Spanish cities, flanked by Roe and Red Deer from the forests, and sometimes by a grizzly boar from the sierra.

The Spanish markets also afford a wondrous display of southern fruits and vegetables—whole mountains of golden melons and sandias, tons of tomatoes and pimientos (red pepper), prickly pears, purple-ripe figs, loquats, apricots, grapes, and other fruit according to season; with lettuces, wild asparagus and a host of other vegetables. From every house in the town comes a servant to purchase the day's requirements of fish, flesh, fowl, or fruit—for everything is bought and consumed from day to day. There is no "cold mutton" in a Spanish menu! By eight o'clock, but little remains unsold, so an early start is needed to see the best of the show.

To return to the muttons: it should be added that Spain is now practically the only European country which still exports wool to the London market—upwards of a million and a half pounds' weight of Spanish wool annually reaching the Thames.

Since writing the above, we have come across an interesting article on this subject in one of the best Spanish papers (the Epoca), from which we translate the following extracts, giving the native version of the present agricultural status:—"We must confess that the condition of Spanish agriculture is sufficiently deplorable, not only by reason of the apathy of its agriculturists, but also through the difficulties which the land presents to its perfect cultivation, to the use of manures, and the employment of modern machinery. It must be borne in mind that the land of the abrupt mountains of the Asturias, Galicia, and Cataluña condemns the country-people to the roughest and most laborious preparation. This is shared, though to a less extent, by the labradores of the arid regions of Guipúzcoa, Biscay and Navarre; of the ricefields of Valencia, and on the sunburnt vegas of Andalucia and Estremadura. Besides these physical difficulties there are other disadvantages of hardly less importance. A vast extent of terrain now lies waste and uncultivated through lack of capital and sparseness of population; through the heavy tribute exacted by the state on agricultural produce, and the absence of means of communication to economize the transport of the harvest.

"Notwithstanding these immense difficulties, the Spanish agriculturist produces on fifty-six million hectares of cultivable land an excess over the consumption of sixty-one million hectolitres[50] in cereals alone.

"The superficies rustica of Spain may be classed in the following form:—

{*} 45·8 is the figure stated, but as that would exceed the 100 we have reduced it accordingly.

"The average value of this superficies, according to annual production; and the capital which it represents, is as follows:—

"If we take into account that the 42·8 per cent.{*} of uncultivated land has also its 'prairie value,' it may be safely calculated that the landed property of Spain represents a sum of £560,000,000 (five hundred and sixty millions sterling).

"The number of inhabitants of Spain who devote themselves to agriculture is, according to the census returns, 4,821,875."

The same article gives a summary of the 22,291 mills and flour-factories of Spain, by which it appears the motive power used is as follows:—

From a current number of a daily paper we cut the following advertisement, as showing the value set on water in thirsty Spain:—"To be let, the grazing-grounds (dehesa) of Junco Real, in the district (termino) of Chichlana. Contains 1,075 fanegas of brushwood and 237 of cultivation (labor), with SIX WELLS."

There are features of Spanish bird-life that give the subject a claim on the interest of British readers. Spain is the home of many of those species which we call "rare;" some of the rarest are here quite common. Especially is this the case with the large birds of prey, with many aquatic species—such as the beautiful Southern Herons—and various other bird-groups.

Lying midway between Europe and Africa, Spain also affords opportunity for the observation of migration—nearly all our British summer-birds can be observed here in transit, during the spring months: some, indeed, have wintered in Spain, while the rest appear on passage from Africa to the North.

More than this, Spain possesses a magnificent avi-fauna of her own, entirely unknown in England. Ornithologically, her southern provinces—at least in spring—might be included in what Mr. Sclater designates the "Cis-atlantean Subregion" (Ibis, 1891, p. 523), for their feathered denizens at that season approximate rather to the North African than to the European ornis.

Nor need these spring-notes be interesting exclusively to the naturalist: for observation in the wilder and more remote regions involves a degree of hard work and of field-craft that brings this bird-hunting fairly within the category of sport. Cases in point, as those of the Flamingo and Crane—elsewhere described, and of the eagles and large raptores. Here, for example, is one day's record from our diary:—"Camp at Navasso Redondo, April 18th.—Our captures to-day included 3 eagles, 4 kites, 2 large hawks, 5 ducks, an egret, 2 stone-plover, &c. First, Felipe woke me at day-break to say a pair of aguiluchos had just coursed and killed a hare within 200 yards of the tent. Turned out in jersey and alparagatas, and stalked the spot indicated, when a small eagle flew from a tree away in the scrub to the left. I stood up, thinking the game was gone, when a second Booted Eagle (Aquila pennata) rose from the ground not forty yards ahead, and was secured. Later on, during the mid-day heat, we thrice descried eagles perched on high trees—unusual luck. Both the first and second stalks failed, owing partly to bad marking in the first case, and to 'impossible' terrain in the second. The third, however, I killed—a very handsome tawny eagle. He was sitting on a pine in the centre of a circular swampy jungle: there was no considerable difficulty in creeping round the outside, nor till the final, direct approach commenced, when the ground became very bad—for the last 100 yards, strong briar-bound thicket and tussocks of spear-grass with deep bog-pools between, water up to one's waist. Had got to fifty yards when he saw me, and a lucky shot killed him as he opened his wings. Also stalked to-day two Harriers—a Marsh-Harrier (female) and a beautiful blue old Montagu: in the first case the stalk was supplemented by a short 'drive' by Felipe. At dusk we observed a pair of Serpent-Eagles go to roost in a large single alcornoque: waited till dark, when we crept, barefoot, towards the tree, one on either side, and I killed the female eagle as she flew out into the moonlight. During the day we had found five nests of the Kite—shot four birds for identification, two from nest, the others after long puestos—and also brought in, besides the eagles, &c., two Gadwall, a Garganey drake, two White-eyed Pochard, an egret, seven terns (various), several small birds, and twenty-nine eggs—a memorable day!" To stalk to within gunshot of an eagle, on the open plain, is almost as difficult an operation as any in our experience—that is unless, as sometimes happens, the conditions are unusually favourable.

During several springs we have made ornithological expeditions each of a fortnight to three weeks' duration, in various parts of Andalucia (itself nearly as large as England), La Mancha, and Southern Estremadura. Between the great rivers Guadalquivir and Guadiana lies a wild region, almost abandoned to wild animals, and rich in picturesque desolation. The district is an undulating plain, its chief physical constituent being sand, or light sandy soil, clad over wide areas with pine-forest, elsewhere with open heaths which extend from the Atlantic to the confines of Estremadura and the border-land between Spain and Portugal, or rather of the ancient kingdom of the Algarves. The southern portion is known as the Cotos del Rey and Doñana, the latter, extending some forty miles inland from the sea, the property of the noble house bearing one of the oldest European titles—that of Medina Sidonia. The Coto de Doñana, as the name implies, is a preserve, and, owing to the circumstance of our having for many years been lessees of the sporting rights, this lovely wilderness has formed a favourite hunting-ground at all seasons. But we have also traversed some other of the wilder regions of the south—many quite as rich, zoologically—such, for example, as the wooded province of Córdova, the vegas of the Sierra Nevada and the environs of Almaden; and we now believe that, for the naturalist, the richest field of all is in Southern Estremadura and the almost unexplored borders of Guadiana. That river, from Daimiel downwards, flows through wildernesses of cane-brake, abounding both in large and small game, and in spring-time with infinite variety of birds.

For our present purpose we have divided the Spanish plains into three sections:—the pine-forests, the open heaths, and the meres or lagoons; of these we will now take the pinales.

The first thing that strikes an Englishman in Spain is the number and variety of the birds of prey. At home we have practically exterminated these, but here they are ever in evidence, from massive eagles and yet larger vultures down to the smallest falcons. Those bald-headed fellows, hunting low with heavy flight, or "drifting" alternately on motionless pinions, are Marsh-Harriers; the long-winged hawks, like giant swallows, are the Montagu's Harrier. Buzzards are of more soaring flight, resembling in form the eagles, but lacking their regal presence; while the Kites are recognized by the deeply forked tail. Ever since Rugby days and the Kestrel's nest in Caldecott's classic spinney, the birds of prey have had a special attraction to the writer—to whom, pace the later lights of ornithological science, a hawk still holds the chief place among birds.

Starting on a bright April morning to traverse the pinales of La Marismilla, our first find was a nest of the Serpent-Eagle (Circäetus gallicus) built in the main fork of a stone-pine, a curiously twisted tree growing apart on a heathery knoll in a forest-glade. This, and all the nests of this eagle we have seen, was small, very thick in proportion to width, had a layer of dead leaves, and then a lining of twigs. This bird only lays one egg—large, rough, and white—which fact perhaps explains the relative smallness of their nests. Below are strewn many vertebræ of serpents; a female we shot had a snake four feet long in her beak, only a few inches hanging outside; another, killed at her nest in a mountain-forest of the sierra, had a rabbit; but snakes and large reptiles are their chief prey. Snakes abound in Spain, and some grow to great size, many reaching six feet in length, and we have killed lizards of nearly three.

The legs and feet of this eagle are pale bluish, and very rough—to hold their slippery prey. The eye is large, overhung, and very bright yellow; flight buoyant, but rather unsteady, and they show very white from below. Most reptiles hybernating, even in sunny Spain, the Serpent-Eagle is only a summer migrant—we have never observed it in the winter months. The date of arrival this year (1891) was March 8th. In 1888 we observed a pair as early as the 3rd.

Both eagles soared around so near that there was no difficulty in recognizing the species; indeed their heavy heads—almost owl-like—recurved wings and white under-sides, cannot be mistaken.[51] Not requiring them as specimens, we continued our ride, and during the day found two nests of the Buzzard, each with three eggs; the only nests of this species found this spring—except one with young in June—the Buzzard being more numerous in winter, when almost every dead tree is occupied by one of these indolent hawks. All the Spanish-breeding Buzzards are of the normal dark brown type. The Goshawk (Astur palumbarius) we have also observed in these Andalucian forests both in spring and winter, but have not chanced to find it breeding here ourselves, though it is on record that it occasionally does so.

The next two nests discovered were both those of the Kite (Milvus ictinus), each on a lofty pine. There are in Spain two kinds of Kite, whose wild musical scream is characteristic of these lonely woodlands. There is the Milano real—the Red Kite, resident in Spain, and distinguishable from the migrant Black Kite (Milvus migrans) by the broad white band on the under-wing, caused by the basal half of the primaries being white beneath (this band in M. migrans being smoke-grey), and by the more deeply forked tail. The Black Kite is altogether a more dusky coloured species.

The eggs of the two species, and those of Buzzards and others, are indistinguishable; it is therefore necessary to shoot or trap the birds from the nest to make sure of identification. But the Red Kite breeds earlier (at the end of March, and early in April) and in more secluded spots than its ally, whose habits, moreover, are, in places, almost gregarious. We have seen a score of Black Kites' nests in a small patch of wood, not two acres—but eggs are not laid till quite the end of April or early in May.

Plate XXX. KITES AND MARSH-HARRIERS. Page 242.

A singular, but well-known, habit of the Kite (the Red, not the Black species) is to decorate their abodes with a collection of gaudy rags and other fantastic rubbish: in one case I found the dead and dried remains of a White Owl hung up, in others the long quill-feathers of the Spoon-bill and other birds, a linen shirt-sleeve, old match-boxes, and similar sundries. But this curious custom was useful in saving many an unnecessary climb—no nest was worth going up to unless a rag or two fluttered in the breeze. The Kites, moreover, select the loftiest trees for their abodes, and owing to the habit of Spanish foresters to lop off all the lower branches of the pines when saplings, these trees grow up tall, straight, and slippery as fishing-rods. Fortunately for oological enterprise, the scant population of the pinales are mostly piñaleros—pine-cone gatherers. These pine-cones are used for fuel and for making a confection something like nougat. The tree-climbing abilities of the piñaleros are marvellous: in this way we obtained many eggs of Kite, Buzzard, Booted Eagle, and most of the forest-breeding species.

After a stiff climb to one Kite's nest, built in a tall branchless aspen, whose base was barricaded by clinging thorny briars, I was disappointed to find no eggs. The Kite had sat close, and I had just shot her from the nest: all around hung the customary decorations, yet the big nest appeared to contain nothing but a white rag. I turned this over, and there, beneath and almost wrapt in what proved to be a delicate cambric handkerchief, embroidered with the name "Antonia M.," lay two handsome eggs! The fair Andaluza who had lost this property might throw an interesting light on the distances traversed by Kites in the search thereof: Shakespeare warned her (Winter's Tale, Act IV., Sc. 2), "Where the Kite builds, look to lesser linen."

Another denizen of the pinales requires passing notice—the Raven. It is curious that in Spain these birds nest later than in northern lands. In Northumberland the Raven lays early in March, or even at the end of February, amidst snow and frost. Here, on the last day of April, we found two nests on pines not far apart. One was warmly lined with sheep's wool, but still empty; the other with rabbits' fur, and contained five fresh eggs.

The nests of Ravens, Kites, Buzzards, and Booted Eagles are hardly distinguishable from below, except that the eagle usually selects the main fork, the others building out on the lateral branches. In the crevices and foundations of all these large nests are often inserted the untidy, grass-built edifices of the chestnut-headed Spanish Sparrow (Passer salicicolus), a forest-loving species, not found in the haunts of men like his cousin of the streets, and having a special predilection for sharing the homes of the larger raptores, as our Sparrows at home build under the nests in a rookery.

The large birds of prey are always difficult to shoot, even at their nests: and for capturing them the circular steel-traps proved invaluable, saving much time and being almost certain in their action. The miseries of a puesto, or ambush, of an hour, or even two, lying on the burning sand, in the stifling heat of the underwood, to await the return of the birds, one does not forget. For minutes that pass like an eternity, the keen-eyed Kite will hover and sail overhead; meanwhile a hissing column of mosquitoes have focussed themselves over one's face: black ants, like small dumb-bells, and creeping things innumerable, penetrate up one's sleeve and down one's neck: while at the critical moment, when one must remain rigidly motionless, a huge hairy spider of hideous mien gently lowers itself on to one's nose.

A Kite or Buzzard is too cautious to return directly to the nest. Alighting first on a distant pine, it will approach by three or four flights, and at last one knows that the coveted prize sits well within shot, but either directly behind, or in such a position that (from the ambush) the gun cannot be brought to bear. The trap saved all this, and rarely failed to secure such specimens as were required—many caught by the beak and killed instantly.[52]

Plate XXXI. SAND-DUNES AND CORRALES OF DOÑANA. Page 245.

A characteristic of the forests of Doñana are the enormous sand-hills—mountains of blown sand dazzling in the reflected sunlight, and devoid of green thing or trace of life, beyond the track of prowling Lynx or Mongoose, or the curious "broad-gauge" vestigia of the tortoise. Stay: there is a thin black strip of moving objects—they are all ants, and that is one of their great highways—a beaten track connecting two great industrial centres. Except on the chosen line—a mere strip barely an inch wide, though hundreds of yards in length—not another insect will be visible on the wastes of sand. To the selected route each member of their infinite community confines his course as systematically as the steamships of our great ocean lines. One cannot resist the temptation of interrupting this well-regulated microcosm. Instantly confusion spreads in the black ranks: around the point of obstruction the intercepted battalions spread out like a fan: the tumult and disorder extend backwards along either column till for yards the sand is carpeted with the fragments of a disorganized host. But these scattered units are each seeking to re-establish their lost continuity. The re-formed column deflects a little to pass on one side or the other (not both), and in a few minutes the "trade-route" has resumed its former monotonous regularity.

Elsewhere the sand-wastes are clothed, especially in their deeper dells and hollows, with cistus-scrub or tamarisk, and the stone-pine (Pinus pinea) somehow finds sustenance and even luxuriates. How plant-life can survive on the remnants of pulverized rock is a mystery—though here, perhaps, the deep-seated roots strike into alluvial soil below—and no more comprehensible in view of the analogous fact that the vines producing the richest Spanish wines also flourish in equally ungenial soils. The vintages of Jerez are garnered from grapes grown on arid and silicious soil: the strong red wine of Val-de-Peñas, so grateful in torrid Spain, comes, literally, from a "valley of stones," and in the Alto Douro the vineyards occupy hillsides composed of little bits of (what looks like) broken slate and disintegrated shale, so little coherent, that the slopes must be terraced before they are cultivable. Strange anomalies—plant a vine in rich soil, and you get vine leaves—in tropical lands, the vine becomes a barren evergreen—in arid soil or shale, it produces nectar.

Firm and compacted as appears the substance of these sand-hills—the sandstone of a future age—it yet retains, to some extent, its shifty and unstable character. At intervals its masses elect to move onwards and to engulf forests over which, for centuries, they have impended. Immediately below where we sit, the ridge terminates, abrupt as a precipice. Two hundred yards beyond, the sloping sand-foot is studded with half-buried pines—several forest monarchs already entombed to their centres, alive, but struggling in their death-throes. Of others, farther back, only the topmost branches protrude, sere, yellow, and dead, from the devouring particles. And beneath those glistening sands, hidden far from sight, doubtless there rest the skeletons of buried forests of bygone days.

Just above us in the peak of the stone-pine under whose shade we enjoy the midday rest, is a huge platform of sticks—a deserted throne of the king of birds. Now this eyrie is deserted, the daylight shows through its centre, and the tree is occupied by different tenants—a pair of Cushats: before now we have seen them share the same tree with the tyrant. Bird-notes are hushed during the midday heat, and silence reigns over the forest: presently from afar comes the strident kark, kark of the Raven, and then from mid-air resounds the musical scream of a Kite floating in the heaven above.

Riding along the open glades, the most conspicuous birds in spring are the brilliant Rollers and Hoopoes, parties of Hawfinches and Crossbills, always shy, an occasional Spotted Cuckoo (C. glandarius) or Southern Grey Shrike (L. meridionalis); handsome Woodchats (L. rufus) scold in every bush, and various Finches and Woodpeckers, Tits and Creepers, enliven the woodlands, and sprightly Rufous Warblers the drier plain. Among the cane-brakes and carices that fringe the marshy hollows skulk several other warblers—the Great Sedge and Black-headed Warblers (S. arundinacea and melanocephala), Orphean, Cetti's, and the little Fantail, besides our familiar Willow-Wrens, Chiffchaffs, Blackcaps, Redstarts and Robins—the latter resident, and very bright in colour. The Black Redstart has already disappeared (April), but from day to day one sees our British migrants arriving, resting, or passing forward on their northern journey. Swallows especially are conspicuous: to-day the air is alive with them, sweeping along the open glades: to-night they roost in chattering hosts in the trees around our camp—to-morrow they are gone, not a swallow remains: and this occurs a dozen times during April and May.

On April 13th and two following days there occurred a conspicuous "through transit" of Pied Flycatchers, and two days later (in another year) the brushwood was alive with Redstarts, all on passage. On the 25th we were visited for a couple of hours by hundreds of Alpine Swifts: and the same evening the large Red-necked Nightjars (C. ruficollis) arrived, to add their churring note to the crepuscular chorus of frogs and night-birds for the rest of the spring and summer. One evening in May, while watching a pair of Golden Orioles to their nest, I witnessed a rather curious eviction. A Spanish Green Woodpecker (Gecinus sharpii), her gullet crammed with ants, flew to a hole in a wild-olive, but was met at the entrance by a furious Little Owl (Athene noctua), which soon drove the clumsier bird (which had no idea of self-defence) screaming to the shelter of some brushwood. Soon after, her mate returned, but met with a similar reception, the savage little owl perching meanwhile on an adjacent branch, where he sat bolt upright, all fluffed out, and snapping with rage. On examining the place, I found the woodpeckers had a numerous family, nearly ready to fly: while the owl had deposited a single egg in an adjoining hole. The execution of the aggressor seemed, at first, the only means of saving this thriving family, but, on second thoughts, I decided that the justice of the case would be met by removing the defendant's egg, and filling up his hole with sticks.

The Orioles' nest I shortly afterwards discovered, built in a white-elm, at the extreme end of a long pendant branch, the whole of which it was necessary to cut down. This nest, however, was empty. The Golden Orioles do not lay till nearly the middle of May, and from the shyness of the old birds, and the aërial situation of the nest, their eggs are among the most difficult to obtain.

HOOPOES.

During the early part of May we found many nests of Hoopoes, some in hollow trees, one in a ruined outhouse, which we were using as a stable, and which, in a previous year, had been similarly occupied by a Roller, and always affords a home to two or three pairs of the Spotless or Sardinian Starling (Sturnus unicolor), a species which, in spring, replaces the common kind. On the outskirts of the woods were many nests of Goldfinch and Serinfinch, Common and Green Linnets, Blue and Great Tit, Willow-Wren, Woodchat, &c.; and in the open rushy glades, those of Black-headed Warbler, Blackcap and Garden Warbler, Whitethroat, Spotted Flycatcher, Grey-headed Wagtail (Motacilla cinereocapilla), and others. I looked in vain in these pine-woods for the Crested Tit, which occurs near Gibraltar, and which my brother found numerous in Navarre. On the 10th May I found a couple of Nightingales' nests in the tiny garden-patch adjoining a forester's cot, and a week later obtained several nests of the Melodious Willow-Warbler (Hypolais polyglotta) with their beautiful vinous-pink eggs; later still (May 28th), those of the Rufous Warbler (Ædon galactodes) among the cactus-bushes:—but this is getting suspiciously like a catalogue.

One circumstance deserves passing remark—the relatively smaller number of eggs laid in the south than is the case with many of the same species further north. In Spain, several of the warblers, &c. above mentioned, lay only four eggs; the Blackbird, as a rule, but three, and these much brighter coloured than at home.

Delightful days were those spent riding through these pathless forests, redolent of the exhalations of pine and rosemary, and a hundred aromatic shrubs, and resplendent with the glory of the southern spring-time. What words can convey the contrast of dark pinal and dazzling sand-waste, or catch the play of sunlight glancing through massed foliage on russet trunks and the soft pale verdure of the brushwood? For long leagues these forests stretch unbroken save by rushy glades and park-like opens, where at dusk the Red Deer come to seek rich pasturage, and the Wild Boar ploughs deep trenches in his search for succulent roots, varied by a bonne-bouche of mole-crickets.

Leaving the pinal, or pine region, let us spend a fortnight in the open bush-land beyond. Passing successively the famous manchas of the Alameda Honda, the Rincon de los Carrizos, and Majáda Real—each coverts of repute, though all unknown to geographers and marked upon no map—we traverse next the forest-glades of the Angosturas, and enter upon a different region, where fresh landscapes and new beauties await appreciative eyes. Here the swelling sand-dunes trend away southwards—towards the sea. The dark bushy pine gives place to open heath and brushwood, stretching away to the horizon, here and there diversified with scattered clumps of cork-oak, aspen, wild-olive, and poplar.

The country around our quarters is a level plain of evergreen scrub—lentiscus, broom, heaths of varied kinds, and mile upon mile of sombre grey-green cistus, generally about shoulder-high, but deepening in places into impassable jungle. Here and there are stagnant pools, around whose banks grow immense cork-oaks, embedded amidst tree-heath (Erica arborea), giant heather and arbutus, all interlaced with the twining, thorny fronds of briar. It is in these dank, dark depths that the old boars select their lairs, and they are the home of Lynx and Wild-Cat, Badger, Genet, and Mongoose, and of many interesting birds, from the Eagle to the Turtledove. The following record of some of our spring rambles will give an outline of the fauna of this region:—

A SERENADE.

April 15th.—We were astir early, a few stars shining dimly, and the last of the frogs still croaking in the acequias, as we sipped our matutinal chocolate upon the verandah;

repeat the frogs, as in the Stygian chorus of old. Far away over the half-lit expanse of cistus a pair of large eagles were already hunting for their breakfast, and an owl slipped close overhead and disappeared into a crevice of the roof above, where we could hear the snoring and snapping of the strigine community as the night's booty was being discussed. We were away by sunrise, at which hour the singular, resonant song of the Partridge-cocks (Red-legs) was ubiquitous: from almost every ilex-grove came the half-choking chukàr, chukàr, while the love-sick bird bowed and gesticulated, standing nearly bolt upright with half-expanded wings on some dead branch or shattered trunk, sometimes on the crest of a sand-ridge.[53]

Within a quarter-mile of the lodge we found a Kite's nest, shot the old bird, replaced her two eggs with two hen's eggs and a steel-trap: and had hardly ridden two hundred yards ere the male swept down and was caught. Seldom are so fine a pair of birds secured so easily! During this day we found no fewer than six nests, for the Kite, as before stated, prefers the open country to the forest, and almost each clump of cork-trees was tenanted by a pair. These cork-groves are also occupied by many other species—by birds of plumage whose resplendent hues appear almost tropical—such as Golden Oriole, Roller, Bee-eater, Hoopoes, Woodpeckers, Azure-winged Magpie, and others hardly less brilliant. Amid the ilex-groves the Golden Oriole hangs suspended, hovering like a Kestrel in mid-air, his rich orange lustre justifying the Spanish name—oropendola: the Roller, clad in chestnut and azure, and rich parti-coloured Hoopoes and Pied Woodpeckers flit among the foliage. Presently a harsh "chack, chack" announces the arrival of a wandering party of Bee-eaters, most brilliant of European birds; and a score of these sweep round, alternately rising and poising, or soaring on clean-cut, hawk-like wing, then darting downwards amidst the masses of flowering heaths in pursuit of industrious aphidæ. The Bee-eaters pass on: but there is no truce for the insect-world, for other deadly enemies, the Woodchat and Southern Grey Shrike, sit by on every bush, intent on impaling heavy-flying bee or beetle. From the alcornoques there resounds the shrieking maniacal laughter of the flame-coloured Spanish Woodpecker (Gecinus sharpii) as he flies heavily from tree to tree with rustling, undulated flight: then there is an occasional Azure-winged Magpie (Cyanopica cookii), there are Wood-Pigeons and Turtle-Doves, Spotted Cuckoos, and Magpies in swarms. The cavernous trunks are occupied by colonies of Jackdaws, less hoary-naped than ours, the lesser crevices by Hoopoes, Scop's and Little Owls.

Nearly all the brilliantly-plumaged birds which at this season lend a semi-tropical character to the Spanish avi-fauna, are spring-migrants—pouring across the straits during the months of March and April, and retiring to African latitudes in autumn. Here is a brief record, showing dates of arrival, &c., chiefly from the observations of one year (1891), but supplemented where necessary by those of previous springs, with a few incidental notes.

February 21st.—Many Swallows arrived: in thousands on 23rd—a complete nuisance while snipe-shooting. On February 28th some were already beginning to nest.

February 26th.—A single Hoopoe arrived: numerous by 3rd March. Also observed a Goshawk.

February 28th.—A pair of Egyptian Vultures, and many Lesser Kestrels were seen to-day.

March 1st.—Great Spotted Cuckoo, and a single Wheat-ear appeared. Many of the Wigeon and other ducks, and all Golden Plovers are now gone. Shot four Garganey.

March 8th.—First Serpent-Eagle (two more on 10th), and many Black Kites, in pinales. The White Wagtails entirely disappeared about this date. Landrail shot.

March 10th.—Hundreds of Wood-Pigeons—all gone next day. Shot a pair of Black Storks (1869).