Identifier: landofdons00willuoft (find matches)
Title: The land of the Dons
Year: 1902 (1900s)
Authors: Williams, Leonard, b. 1871
Subjects: Civilization, Spanish Spain -- Social life and customs
Publisher: London, Cassell
Contributing Library: Robarts - University of Toronto
Digitizing Sponsor: MSN

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e river Manzanares and the meadowswhich fringe its bank remoter from Madrid, is asteepish piece of rising ground surmounted by achapel. Close at hand is the cemetery of SanIsidro, with gaunt cypresses peering darkly overits high wall; and equally close is the disgustingDeposito de Caddveres, or depository for corpses whichare awaiting burial. On ordinary occasion thelocality seems wholly given up to the dead, for thesituation is lonely and unvisited, and other ceme-teries, San Justo, San Lorenzo, and Santa Marfa,loom morbidly in sight. But once a year, on May15th, and for about a week thenceforward, the scenechanges. Then it is the Romeria of San Isidro, theSaints Day of San Isidro the Labourer, Patron ofMadrid; and all the city flocks to his chapel,avowedly to do him honour. From morn till dewyeve the long and dusty road that wends from theGate of Toledo towards the two villages of Cara-banchel is blackened with a ceaseless stream ofcarriages and traps, which turn aside after passing
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ITo face p. 162 ) (From a photograph by the AiUhor.iA GYPSY IN THE PRADERA. THE NATIONAL FIESTAS. 163 the bridge of Toledo, and climb the hill which leadsto the fane of the Santo. To right and left are those melancholy grave-yards and the scowling cypresses; but the inter-space about the crest of the highroad is filled withrevellers. Alas! I fear their cult of the saint isbut transitory. Many, indeed, pay a hurried visitto the chapel, and bow the knee with a momentaryejaculation which possibly does duty for a prayer ;but Vanity Fair is close behind, and pulls themsharply back into this wicked world. A better illus-tration for The Pilgrims Progress could never bediscovered. A dozen yards awa)^ is the solemnshrine of the pious Labourer. Here, confrontingit, are the booths and merr^^-gp-rounds, the picnic-parties—whose saint may be Isidro, but whose godis incontestably their belly—the dancers, and thetinkling of guitars innumerable. Day and night, night and day, the festive doingscon

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