the bulls in good condition, and the days are longer. The fights take place in the afternoon, when the sun is less vertical. The different seats and prices are detailed in the bills of the play, with the names of the combatants, and the colours and breeds of the bulls.
The day before the fight the bulls destined for the spectacle are brought to a site outside the town. N.B. No amateur should fail to ride out to see what the ganado, the bichos or cattle, is like. The encierro, the driving them from this place to the arena, is a service of danger, but is extremely picturesque and national. No artist or aficionado should omit attending it. The bulls are enticed by tame oxen, cabestros, into a road which is barricaded on each side, and then are driven full speed by the mounted conocedores into the Plaza. It is so exciting a spectacle that the poor who cannot afford to go to the bull-fight, risk their lives and cloaks in order to get the front places, and the best chance of a stray poke en passant.
The next afternoon (Sunday is usually the day) all the world crowds to the Plaza de toros; nothing, when the tide is full, can exceed the gaiety and sparkle of a Spanish public going, eager and dressed in their best, to the fight. All the streets or open spaces near the outside of the arena are a spectacle. The bull-fight is to Madrid what a Review is to Paris, and the Derby to London. Sporting men now put on all their majo-finery: the distinguished ladies wear on these occasions white lace mantillas; a fan, abanico, is quite necessary, as it was among the Romans. The aficionados and “the gods” prefer the pit, tennido, the lower range, in order, by being nearer, that they may not lose the nice traits of tauromaquia. The plaza has a language to itself, a dialect peculiar to the ring. The coup d’œil on entrance is unique; the classical scene bursts on the foreigner in all the glory of the South, and he is carried back to the Coliseum under Commodus. The president sits in centre box. The proceedings open with the procession of the performers, the mounted spearmen, picadores; then follow the chulos, the attendants on foot, who wear their silk cloaks, capas de durancillo, in a peculiar manner, with the arms projecting in front; and, lastly, the slayers, the espadas, and the splendid mule-team, el tiro, which is destined to carry off the slain. The profession of bull-fighter is very low-caste in Spain, although the champions are much courted by some young nobles, like our blackguard boxers, and are the pride and darlings of all the lower classes. Those killed on the spot were formerly denied the burial rites, as dying without confession, but a clergyman is now in attendance with Su Magestad (the consecrated Host), ready to give always spiritual assistance to a dying combatant.
When all the bull-fighting company, thus glittering in their gorgeous costume, have advanced and passed the president, a trumpet sounds; the president throws the key of the toril, the cell of the bull, to the alguacil or policeman, which he ought to catch in his feathered hat. This gentleman is unpopular; the people dislike the finisher of the law, and mob him by instinct as little birds do a hawk: as the alguacil generally rides like a judge or a Lord Mayor, many are the hopes and kind wishes that he may tumble off and be gored by a bull of Nemesis, The different performers now take their places as our fielders do at a
