the comedy of 'Las Flores.' The scene is a marketgarden in the neighbourhood of Seville, of which Consuelo is in charge; and to her enter Román and Romancillo, father and son, flower-hawkers by trade.

They are poorly clad, and wear broad-brimmed hats much the worse for wear. The boy carries two big pots of latanias, one resting on his left shoulder and the other held under his right arm. The father carries a basket filled with pot-plants. Both speak with an indolence that is positively irritating, and is the outward sign of ingrained slackness. Scarcely have they entered, before each of them sets down his load and drops into a chair.

ROMÁN. Good-morning to you, ma'am.*
ROMANCILLO. Good-morning.

CONSUELO. Oh, it's you, is it? Good-morning! What have you brought?

ROMAN. Nothing at all- -we were passing this way, that's

all... ·

ROMANCILLO. Have you such a thing as a drink o' water,

m'm?

CONSUELO. Why, of course!

up. (Goes into house.)

Don't you trouble to get

ROMANCILLO. These what-d'ye-call-'ems are no light weight, I'm telling you.

ROMÁN. Neither are these! My right arm's all but out of joint.

(A pause till CONSUELO returns bearing a jar.) CONSUELO. Who said water?

ROMANCILLO. I did-bring it along.

ROMÁN. Now don't you go for to drink the lot of it.
CONSUELO. But I'll fetch more if it's wanted.

ROMANCILLO. "Tain't worth while-here you are, father.

CONSUELO. Refreshing?

ROMANCILLO. 'Tis indeed!

ROMÁN. I should rather say it was! I thank your ladyship.

CONSUELO. Oh, that's all right. (Exit to leave the jar.)... CONSUELO (returning). Why, you seem quite done up! ROMÁN. This lazy fellow (indolently shaking him) I

say, wake up, Romancillo !

...

In the original all three characters speak the Andalucian dialect, turning 'buenos' into 'güenos,' 'sino' into 'zino,' 'poquilla' into 'poquiya' and so on.

ROMANCILLO. I ain't asleep

CONSUELO. The lad must have been up early?

ROMANCILLO. On my feet since four this morning! Had to go all the way to the river to cut some reeds.

(The father seizes this opportunity to take a nap.) ROMANCILLO. See the old chap? (Rousing him.) Say, dad,

wake up! We must be travelling.

ROMÁN. Who's asleep? (Rising with difficulty.) Fact is, m'm, there ain't nobody but me and him to do everything.

CONSUELO. But I understood you had ten of a family? ROMÁN. Ten or a dozen; but not one of 'em ever puts his hand to a thing. The young chap here is the only one as have got any go in him. And he's not just what you .. Bless'd if he han't dropped

might call an electric tram.

off again! (Shakes the boy once more.) Romanciyo! ROMANCILLO. What's wrong with you, father?

ROMÁN. Here, just slip over yonder and gather a handful or two of maidenhair.

ROMANCILLO (rising). Of maidenhair? of that?

What's the good

ROMÁN. What's the good of that? Would you make nosegays without maidenhair, blockhead?

ROMANCILLO. But han't we got maidenhair of our own? ROMÁN. I should like you to tell me where it is? ROMANCILLO. All I know is, mother told me so.

ROMÁN. Look out that it bain't one of your mother's fairytales-the woman's fool enough for anything. . . . No, I don't believe as there is maidenhair

ROMANCILLO. Well, I say there is, so come along. (Resuming his burden of flower-pots.) Drat the things! they're as heavy as lead.

ROMAN (after lifting his basket and taking leave of CONSUELO). Now are you as sure as sure that we have maidenhair at home?

ROMANCILLO. At it again, dad! Will you bet on it?

CONSUELO. What's to prevent Romancillo running over here for maidenhair if you find you're out of it?

ROMÁN. I should like to see him run anywhere!

Don't

you twig that this is one of his dodges? I only trust there may be maidenhair

ROMANCILLO. I tell you, father, there is!

ROMÁN. And I say there ain't!

ROMANCILLO. What's the good of telling me? (The last words are spoken off, and it is to be assumed that father and son pursue the same subject in the same spirit till they reach home.)

Of this scene, at the time of its first representation, a distinguished critic, Federico Balart, observed, 'These Quinteros write, as Velasquez painted, with a broad touch. Those two fellows who have maidenhair at their elbow, yet, to save the trouble of gathering it, will run the risk of having to come back for it, are a whole race in themselves. That is Andalucia in little.' Without going so far as that, we submit that the scene is no caricature of the leisurely side of southern Spanish peasant-life. That that life has another and finer side is, however, amply recognised by the authors themselves, when they set before us such types (out of many) as the manly and self-respecting Daniel of 'Mundo, Mundillo . . ., the shrewd and racy Ventura of La Zagala,' or, in a slightly higher position, the Antoñón of the following dialogue from El Centenario.' The scene shows the reception by the centenarian Don Juan del Monte of his so-called poor relation, the market-gardener, who appears dressed in his best to do honour to the visit.

ANTOÑÓN. The peace of God be with you, sir!

PAPA JUAN. Come along, come along, my dear fellow! How's yourself?

ANTOÑÓN. Quite well, thank you; and you, Don Juan?
PAPÁ JUAN. Judge for yourself.

ANTONÓN. With your leave.

PAPÁ JUAN. And put your hat down.

ANTOÑÓN. It isn't in my way.

PAPÁ JUAN. Give it here.

Be seated Antoñón.

ANTOÑÓN (after scrutinising his host). Now is it really true, Don Juan del Monte, that you're as old as you say you are? Or are you making fools of us all in Arenales?

PAPÁ JUAN. Ask the priest who baptised me.

ANTOÑÓN. He might be difficult to find at this time of day. PAPA JUAN. Well, wherever he may be, may he have long to wait for me! The good gentleman treated me kindly, and that's the truth. His name was Manuel Martínez y Argote-a connexion, by his own account, of the poet Góngora Argote. But here they gave him the nickname of Father Ratcatcher, from his having invented an infernal machine for use against the cheese-biters ?

ANTOÑÓN. Your memory doesn't seem to have failed you much!

PAPÁ JUAN. Not much-ha, ha! And so your family keep Well?

ANTOÑÓN. They've no time to do anything else.

PAPÁ JUAN. It was a treat to see them t'other day! And your garden's a perfect dream. I can tell you I envy you— mine's not like that.

ANTOÑÓN. Yet the same sun warms both. Only you culti vate yours for show, while I look to mine to feed the lot of us.

PAPÁ JUAN. That's about it. season for both of us.

Well, it's been a fairish

ANTOÑÓN. Yes, because, thank God! we've had rain. We all know that, if May brings its drop, you may count on your crop.

PAPÁ JUAN. Just so. And that wet May makes a foul field and fair garden. What next? Oh, by the way, did Mary tell you what it was that took me to your place the other day? I hope you are all of you coming to dine here on the 25th, so that we may celebrate my hundredth birthday all together? (ANTOÑÓN makes no reply.) Why don't you speak, man? What's up now?

ANTOÑÓN. Señor Don Juan del Monte! You know as well as I do that there have always been rich folks and poor folks in the world. Well, to know how to conduct yourself isn't exactly easy even if you're rich, but it's ever so much harder if you're poor. Now, I happen to be poor, and what's more I've no wish to be otherwise. Mayhap I've as good an income as plenty who call 'emselves rich, but I'm content to pass as a poor man. And keeping off the question of money, what

does the rhyme say?

When a poor man takes a drop too much

They cry, What a sot is he!

But let your gentleman do such,

A right jolly chap he must be!'

My neighbour Alonzo, who married Carmen Campos, wil have it the day's coming when all poor folk will be rich (You know he has ideas of that sort, which I think mere tomfoolery.) Well! all I can say is, if that day comes in my lifetime, I shall choose to be poor, not rich. For why Because it's a good sight better business to be well off and let folk take you for a poor man, than to be poor and pass as rich! See my meaning?

PAPÁ JUAN. Well, I do, more or less.

ANTOÑÓN. It's only more or less that I've explained it.
PAPÁ JUAN. Then I see all you've explained.

ANTOÑÓN. Don't it strike you, Señor Don Juan der Monte that homespun flounces are out of place on a silk dress Can't you see that, at your table-the table of a wealthy

.

nan who has always known how to conduct himself as such -my wife and children and I will be like chickens in the wrong hen-coop?

PAPA JUAN. Why should that be?

ANTOÑÓN. Why, because, as I often tell that neighbour of nine, if the world chooses to go round from left to right, it's ot likely to go the other way just to suit your convenience r mine!

PAPA JUAN. Now, my dear Antoñón, with your good ave and your neighbour's, upon my hundredth birthday he world is going to go round according to my taste and ancy! On that day you are coming here, and your wife and mily are coming here. And you are coming simply and olely to do honour to my table with your homespun clothes nd your horny hands!

ANTOÑÓN. Zeñor Don Juan der Monte.

PAPÁ JUAN. Señor Don Antoñón de la Huerta, what on rth's the matter?

ANTOÑÓN. I want you to reflect that Jesus Christ himself me into the world to settle that business

PAPA JUAN. NOW, I simply decline to hear another word your philosophy, Antoñón! Neither are you the only poor ation who is to sit beside me, he and his, upon the great casion. . . . All will be there.

ANTOÑÓN. Yes, but none of 'em live in Arenales. In a tle town like this, Zeñor Don Juan, we all know each other's siness, and there's a lot of-what shall I call it? Criticism. nd great and small believe that the world will come to an d because, forsooth! for once in a way a poor man has sat wn at a rich man's table.

PAPA JUAN. Let them think what they will, it won't come an end! And, supposing it did? Why, let it, say I! It 't worth preserving. We'll build a better on the ruins of where rich and poor may dine at the same table without fear of-criticism!

ANTOÑÓN. Those are just my neighbour's views.

PAPA JUAN. Maybe! But your neighbour states them en he's mad with drink, and I when I'm cool and clearded. And your neighbour wants to gain his end by killpeople, and I by taking them to my heart. You see the erence? Well, give me your hand and promise not to fail on my birthday.

ANTOÑÓN. How good you are, Don Juan! Just as if you e a poor man like myself!

PAPA JUAN. Doesn't the same sun that shines on both our dens shine also upon you and me?