horses, they wheeled and circled on fiery
Arabs, each worth a kingdom, and at whose
death queens might have wept. Those turbaned
men fought with simple javelins four feet
long, and slew the bull unaided, and with
their own hands. The bulls of Geryon, that
Hercules stole, are still certainly strong and
fierce; but they are, after all, lean and small,
and not to be compared to the bulls of
England for power or muscle."

"I believe you," says Spanker, brushing
his moustachio, to conceal a yawn gracefully.
"There was an English bull this year at
Seville that bore down picadores, chulos,
espadas, and all: cleared the ring; and was
eventually (after leaping into the crowd)
shot down by a file of frightened soldiers."

"But though no longer the amusement of
high-born men," continues Monoculus,
determined not to spare us, "the bull-fight is more
popular than ever in Spain. Philip the Fifth,
and French tastes, may have weaned the
higher classes from actually dipping their
own hands in bull's blood; but men who
know the country well, assure me the taste for:
bull-fighting increases. Look at those ladies
next us, in their black mantillas. They are
calm and pleased as spectators of an opera.
Look there below. Past the soldiers walks a
respectable fat tradesman, holding the hand
of his delighted child. See how the people,
in the stiff round black caps, buzz and gossip
between the acts, discussing the character of
the last bull!"

Another bull. This one is a coward. He
paws the sand as if he were trying to dig
his own grave. He sniffs about, and does
nothing. He makes rapid purposeless bolts
at the tormenting chulos; but does not follow
them to the fence; through whose slits they
slip, or over which they vault. He will not
face the stooping picador; who, staunch and
eager, waits for him with protruded lance.
He is a craven, in spite of his black chestnut
hide, and the first fierce amble which raised
public expectation as he burst from the
toril. The people hiss, and express noisy
dissatisfaction with their fans in a ribald and
stormy way, that would hurt any respectable,
high-spirited bull's feelings. Taurus
looks round with a stupid air of inquiry at
their hard, insulting faces, and the open,
whooping mouths, but sees no pity. He is
as a gladiator, when the fatal thumbs were
turned down. He has but one object, we
see—to get out of it. He dashes impotently
at a runaway chulo, and springs at the
palings. His forelegs are over; but he
tumbles back helplessly, bruised and jolted;
much to the delight of the water-sellers, and
the soldiers who stand in the passage that runs
outside the ring fence. "Cobardo, cobardo!"
cry the despisers of Martin's Act; and
instantly, the two picadors trot out like Castor
and Pollux, side by side, and the chulos with
the fireworks appear. The people cease for
a moment to raise those thin blue whiffs of
cigar-smoke, that have hitherto given the
circus the air of a large kitchen. The darts
are planted in winged pairs. The craven
bull trots off with them, rather inclined to be
proud of his new distinctions. He takes
them, on the whole, as strongly expressed,
but pointed compliments. A smoke, a flash,
a low flare, and, with a blue dazzle and
smoulder, the hoops go off like a discharge
of musketry. They fizz, and bang, and
scorch, and scare, but nothing rouses him.
He is stubbornly grand in his objection
to the use of arms. He is a Cobden bull:
he is of the race of Bright. He objects to
fight on principle. He even stoops and smells
at a burning firework-hoop that has fallen
under his nose. He is a bull of an inquiring,
meditative, philosophic turn of mind, and
must have been the actual hero of some of
Æsop's fables. He is now in the prime of
life and health, clear of eye, and sound of
skin, save where a red rope of blood twines
down his shoulders from the banderilla
wounds. El Tato repeats his oath hastily
and carelessly, and advances with sword and
red flag. A bull, untired and unhurt, is
generally difficult to strike, because, unless
the head is down for the charge exposing
the spine and shoulders, the blow cannot be
given. Shall he kill him by advancing or
retreating? The thrust is a moment too soon.
The bull runs off with the sword buried
between his shoulders. He is sorely hurt;
but may still live long. There is a
disappointed and vexed stir of the fans, as El Tato
runs after Taurus with his flag, to try and
drag out the weapon; but, before he can do
so, a soldier's strong hand, as the bull passes
under the pit, drives the weapon down into
the heart. Taurus stands quite still, the
blood snorting out from its lips and nostrils;
then, gathering himself together like a
dying Cæsar, he falls gently on his knees, and
sinks to the ground. The fans are at it
again, as the head butcher of the town—a
strong, stout man in black—leaps down, and,
with a dagger, divides the spine. As by
enchantment, or as if risen from the ground,
the mule team appears, the dead bull is tied
to the yoke, and swept out in a swift dusty
whirl; the other team dragging out a picador's
wounded horse that is just dead—racing for
priority, and tearing out together with a clash
of bells and a cracking of long whips. A
whiff of smoke and a gunpowder smell is all
that remains to remind us of the scene.

No shower of cigars or black turban hats
this time. El Tato looks vexed, and thirsts
for more bulls. This astonishes Driver, who
has got some legendary impressions of
insurrections that have taken place at Malaga
bull-fights; the fishermen and employes of
that town being proverbially restless and
turbulent. I think he half-expects El Tato
and the manager to be thrown to the bulls,
if another blunder happens.

A bellow out of sight, and at the trumpet