volante, and many who cannot afford it keep
a volante. It is the one luxury, the one
expense, which, next to a cigar and a bull-fight,
is dearest to the Spanish Creole heart, and
which, by fair means or foul, must be procured.
I believe that the middle-class Cubans would
sooner live on beans and cold water, dress in
rags, and lie on straw like Margery Daw, than go
without a volante. Fortunately, Providence has
been very good to them. Their beautiful island
runs over with fertility. All the world are
eager to buy what they have to sell, and what
almost exclusively they produce—sugar and
tobacco. So they make huge piles of dollars
and gold ounces, and are enabled not only to
keep volantes in profusion, but to give capital
dinners, and treat strangers with a generous
hospitality very rarely shown in starched and
stuck-up Europe.

We have all heard of the fondness which the
Bedouin Arabs show for their horses. We
know that the Prophet Mahomet has written
whole chapters of the Koran on the breeding and
rearing of colts. We know that the young Arab
foal is brought up in the tent with the little girls
and boys, and that when he grows up to be a horse
he is petted and caressed. The children hang
about his neck and call him endearing names;
the Arab mother strokes his nose and pats his
cheek, fetches him sweet herbs, makes his
bed, feeds him with bread and dates, and strips
of meat cured in the sun. Well; the affection
which the Arabs manifest for their horses the
Cubans manifest for their volantes. They can
scarcely endure that the beloved object should
be out of their sight. Make an evening call—
all fashionable calls in Cuba are made in the
evening—and in a dim corner of the reception-
parlour you will probably see a great pyramid
covered up with brown holland. It is not a
harp, it is not a grand pianoforte; it is a
volante. I must hint that Cuban reception-
rooms are immensely large and lofty, and are
always on the ground floor; otherwise I might
be supposed to be availing myself too extensively
of the traveller's privilege, in relating
that the drawing-room of a Cuban lady is not
unfrequently a coach-house as well.

      THE EVE OF THE BATTLE.

How King Harold, accompanied by his brothers
Leofwine and Gurth, went the rounds of
both Norman and Saxon camps in disguise on
the night before the battle which altered the
destinies of England; how the Norman host
was found offering up prayers and invocations,
while the Saxons were noisily shouting drink-
hæl and was-hæl, and merrily passing ale-horn
and flagon from hand to hand; how the two
armies fared and which were the victors; are
facts patent to us all. But history, as the late
Mr. Buckle insisted, repeats itself. On a recent
night, while you, my decent, educated, and
orderly readers, represented the Normans in the
reputable fashion in which you were spending                                                           your time, I joined a modern Harold in his
tour through deserted pathways to outlying
camps of shouting, swearing, brawling
subjects, who were preparing for to-morrow's battle-
field by a vigil of drunkenness and wassail. My
Harold is king of the prize-fighters, by virtue
of his quick eye and skilled pen, and is, in short,
that trusted representative of The Sleepless
Life, who was cruelly assaulted by a cowardly
and rebellious vassal, when acting as referee at a
prize-fight a few weeks ago. It is as historian only
that he will figure to-morrow, while the more
dangerous office is to be filled by another of the
three gentlemen whose hazardous experiences
have been already recorded in these pages.* The
scientific and experienced Zeb Spice and the
young and courageous Joe Cuss have paid all
their deposit-money, and are to fight to the death
in the morning, the winner receiving four hundred
pounds as his reward. A noble army of
backers, pugilists, publicans, ring-keepers, and
their friends and satellites, are to accompany
the two combatants to the battle-field, and are
now congregated in taverns kept by fighting-
men. It is to observe and converse with these
that Harold allows a fellow-inquirer, whom we
will call Leofwine, and your humble servant
Gurth, to accompany him on his tour.
* See GENII OF THE RING, page 230 of the present
volume.

First to Rat Bangem's, in Saint Betty's-lane.
The bar here is crowded, as are the narrow
stairs beyond it and the room above. We are in
the very centre of what is termed "the Fancy."
That battered hero, Bangem himself, is in the
chair, old Bill Judah occupies the vice, while
the seats all round the room contain figures
concerning whose calling and associations there
can be no mistake. We are all very methodical
in the matter of drink, calling for it stolidly and
consuming it with speed. Still we are not riotous
nor disorderly. The conversation is limited to
the event of to-morrow, and anxious questions are
asked concerning the condition and prospects of
the men. Rat has been entrusted by the railway
company with the sale of tickets for the special
train to-morrow, and drives a busy trade in
those precious bits of pasteboard. " Two pound,
mark ye, is printed on 'em, and two pound is
the railway price," says Rat; "but when I
can get a couple o' shillings over for my
trouble, vy, I thinks it right to do so—so
we'll make it guineas, if you please. Yes, sir,
to-morrer mornin' at half-arter five, Ludgate-
hill station, though it wouldn't do you no
harm to be there at five, or even half-arter
four. Safe to come off, sir, quite safe! I
understand it's a sweet pretty bit o' ground,
and that the Chatham and Dover station-
master will have everythin' stunnin' and reg'lar."
This, to a white-cravated simpering young fellow,
who, in lacquered boots and full evening
costume, is exciting envy and provoking
dangerous looks from some of the evil faces
round, by his lavish display of jewellery, and the
careless indifference with which he pays Rat