the bovine heroes, and their parting, oh! so very slow and unwilling.
But before finishing this catalogue of intelligent fighting brutes, the faithful historian should not omit the wrestlers—bless my eyes, how very like men they look at times! They first make each other a make-believe bow, then shake each other by the paws, and then close. They rub and scrub and curry-comb each other till both drop on earth, where they go through a process of mutual kneading, and finally they mix, these fat, living butter-barrels, and there you lose their identity; you cannot, for the life of you, say which is which. And here ends my description of the sáthmari.
But let me just run you off one screed. I was asked last year by agreat man, aman of advanced views, what I thought of the fight. I praised the affair as faintly as a devoted husband praises his mother-in-law, and then gently insinuated,
"But don't you think, Sir———, it is a barbaric if not a barbarous pastime?" That insinuation cost me a fine lecture, in the course of which I was told of the great power such exhibitions have to excite our martial instincts. I blushed (in imagination) at my stupid want of enthusiasm,
