The whole square was covered
with them; forming separate groups of families and neighborhoods, like
gipsy encampments, some were listening to the traditional ballad
drawled out to the tinkling of the guitar, some were engaged in gay
conversation, some were dancing to the click of the castanet. As I
threaded my way through this teeming region with Mateo at my heels,
I passed occasionally some rustic party, seated on the ground,
making a merry though frugal repast. If they caught my eye as I
loitered by, they almost invariably invited me to partake of their
simple fare. This hospitable usage, inherited from their Moslem
invaders, and originating in the tent of the Arab, is universal
throughout the land, and observed by the poorest Spaniard.
As the night advanced, the gayety gradually died away in the
arcades; the bands of music ceased to play, and the brilliant crowd
dispersed to their homes. The centre of the square still remained well
peopled, and Mateo assured me that the greater part of the
peasantry, men, women, and children, would pass the night there,
sleeping on the bare earth beneath the open canopy of heaven.
Indeed, a summer night requires no shelter in this favored climate;
and a bed is a superfluity, which many of the hardy peasantry of Spain
never enjoy, and which some of them affect to despise. The common
Spaniard wraps himself in his brown cloak, stretches himself on his
manta or mule-cloth, and sleeps soundly, luxuriously accommodated if
he can have a saddle for a pillow.
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