“There is not much to see in Barcelona,” said Dr. Winstock, as they walked along the sea-wall, in the resort called the Muralla del Mar. “This is a commercial city, and you do not see much that is distinctively Spanish. Commerce with other nations is very apt to wear away the peculiarities of any people.”
“But where are the Spaniards? I don’t think I have seen any of them,” added Sheridan.
“Probably most of the people you have met in our walk were Spaniards,” replied the doctor.
“Don’t we see the national costume?”
“You will have to go to a bull-fight to see that,” laughed the surgeon; “and then only the men who take part in the spectacle will wear the costume. The audience will be dressed in about the same fashion you have seen all over Europe. Perhaps if you go over into Barceloneta you will find some men clothed in the garb of the Catalans.”
“Shall we see a bull-fight?” asked Scott.
“Not in Barcelona. I suppose, if there should be an opportunity, the principal would allow all who wished to see it to do so; for it is a Spanish institution, and the traveller ought not to leave Spain without seeing one. But it is a sickening sight; and, after you have seen one or two poor old horses gored to death by the bull, you will not care to have any more of it. The people of this city are not very fond of the sport; and the affair is tame here compared with the bull-fights of Madrid and Seville.”
At three o’clock those of the party who belonged to the steamer departed for Saragossa. Scott and O’Hara wandered about the city the rest of the day, visiting Barceloneta, and taking an outside view of the bull-ring, or Plaza de Toros, which is about the same thing as in all the other large cities of the country. They dined at a French restaurant in the Rambla, where they did not go hungry for the want of a language. At an early hour they returned to the Tritonia, where they were to spend another night before their departure in the American Prince.