highly to the lady's amusement, and not altogether to our own discomfiture. The popular note was instantly changed to a 'Viva Ingles; and the fickle public dismissed us from their thoughts, to attack an unfortunate man in a white hat, which they eventually made him take off, compelling him to sit out the performance with no other head-covering than the one nature had bestowed upon him. Having plenty of leisure for looking round before the performance commences, we see from 10,000 to 14,000 people, arranged in a circle, tier above tier, and dressed in all possible colours. Immediately beneath us is the mayor's box, who is the master of the ceremonies; and below that, the orchestra, filled with the magnificent band of the artillery, who are not allowed to rest from their labours an instant by the clamorous 'gods' opposite in the sun; and underneath the orchestra is the door by which the bulls enter the Plaza-now strewed with sand like a gigantic Astley's -and it speedily opens to admit the matador and his train. The notes of one of the artillery trumpets usher in the human and equine part of the dramatis persona; the bovine are still safe in their dens. The procession consists of the chief matador and his assistant or second matador, eight or ten of the running-footmen of the company, called chulillos, each carrying a gaudy-coloured cloak; the three picadors on horseback, wonderfully padded, with defensive armour of all sorts, in the shape of quilted cotton jackets, breastplates of very thick card-board, &c., and carrying lances. The procession is closed by teams of oxen and mules, gaily decorated, whose duty it is to drag out the slain. These all file into the Plaza, and draw up opposite the mayor's box, making him a profound salam. The matador, who is supposed to be the captain of the crew,' advances and makes a short speech, to which his worship returns an equally short answer. The picadors then move forward, and rest the points of their lances on the edge of his worship's box, whilst the latter performs upon them a certain operation.

According to the season of the year, so is the temper of the bulls; and as is the temper of the bulls, so are the points of the lances; that is to say, the lances have shifting points, that slide up and down like the joints of a telescope, so that the hide of the bull can never be penetrated with them above a certain distance, and it is this distance that his worship regulates with a measure, according to the time of year. We believe, the hotter the weather, the more ferocious are the bulls, and consequently the longer are the points of the lances; and in cold weather, that this is reversed. The bull, to be sure, will be killed by and by, but not by the picador; his sole object is to irritate and drive him mad, and the lance is so graduated as just to effect this, and give sufficient hold to enable the picador, if skilful, with a moderately good horse, to check the bull in his rush, and keep him at arms-length. The whole quadrilla (the term for the company) are magnificently dressed in much the same costume as we are accustomed to see worn by Figaro in The Barber of Seville. Jackets of silk and velvet, of all colours of the rainbow, with breeches to match, and white silk stockings. The matador himself is as gorgeous as a pheasant from the Himalaya, and has his jacket covered with expensive lace. One of these, made for the celebrated matador El Chiclanero, which we saw in Seville, the tailor informed us, cost four hundred dollars. The picadors, as already mentioned, are padded from head to heel -in fact, so much padded, that they are quite as unwieldy as turtles; and when one is turned on his back by the charge of the bull, can seldom recover his proper position without assistance. They wear immense broad-brimmed straw hats, fashioned like those in which we see Chinamen depicted, with an

extinguisher-like projection on the top. All the performers have immense tufts of false hair, or something to represent it, attached to the backs of their heads.

Whilst we have been putting the final touch to the costumery, the picadors have taken up their posts on the left-hand side of the door from which the bull is to issue, close to the barrier, one behind the other, with perhaps fifteen or twenty feet between them. The horses are always blindfolded, and consist of the most wretched animals that can be procured. Poor things, nine out of ten are sure to fall victims, and it would not pay, we presume, to risk better cattle. Again the trumpet sounds. The first of the eight bulls destined for the sacrifice, on the door being opened, dashes into the ring. He is a noble beast, jet-black, in fine condition, having a pair of blue streamers fixed to his withers by a pin. A pin, more or less, makes no matter to him at present; and it serves, moreover, to infuriate him. A connoisseur near us remarks: Ah, he is a fine bull, but his horns are too far apart to do much mischief;' and so it turns out. He advances into the middle of the arena, and calmly surveys the audience, who immediately attack him with the most uncalled-for reproaches; and if we believe half of what they say of him, must conclude that his 'toroship' came of a very disreputable family indeed. As if by accident, his eye falls upon one of the picadors. The men on foot he has sleepily regarded half-a-dozen times without notice; now that a horse is in the case, how changed is his manner! For a second, he gazes intently; the next moment down goes his head, and with his tail in the air, he charges straight at the horseman. The man is skilful, and receives him on the point of his lance, turning him aside, and, as it were, passing him on to the next, who, however, is not so fortunate; he has his guard broken, and in an instant the bull's horns are buried in the unfortunate horse, who, with his rider, is hurled to the ground. The bull then turns to the third picador, but meets with a warm reception, and returns to the overthrown horseman, who is trying to shelter himself behind his dying horse.

Now advance the chulillos with their coloured cloaks, who, by exposing themselves, and waving the flaunting things in his face, draw the bull off from his would-be victim. The latter is helped to his legs, shaken up a bit,' like Mr Smallweed, and assisted out, to get him a fresh horse. This sort of performance is repeated, until perhaps three or four horses have been killed, and many others wounded. The mayor, by a nod of the head, or some other sign to the matador, now intimates that we have had enough of this part of the play. This bull, on the whole, has been considered by the amateurs as a fair average bull, but not particularly good, and has lately given up assuming the offensive, a sure sign that he has had nearly enough. The picadors withdraw from the Plaza, and the chulillos proceed to affix the bandarillos, or little paper-flags, to the neck of the bull. This is a very dangerous sport, and requires great dexterity and caution. Up to this time, the matador has stood with his arms folded, looking on. His second in command opens the ball with the bandarillos, and fixes one or two pair remarkably well. To achieve this feat, it is necessary to watch till the bull catches your eye, and when he puts down his head for a rush, to run in quickly, and stick one of these torments, furnished with barbs, on each side of his withers. In turn, the various party-coloured jackets plant their bandarillos, or fail in the attempt, often only being able to fix one. On the occasion of one of these failures, the great matador himself looks round at the audience, in a half-pitying, half-sneering sort of way at his subordinate's want of skill, and

taking a pair of bandarillos himself, proceeds to fix them, as it were, by way of apology. They are, according to public opinion, beautifully placed-firm as rocks, and perfectly upright-whereas every one hitherto has fallen down when the bull moved. El Chiclanero is vociferously applauded, graciously bows his acknowledgments, and retires again into his shell as before. This goes on for some time, till the unfortunate bull is a walking mass of sticks and coloured paper, blood streaming profusely down his sides. During the whole performance, the noise is excessive; our friends in the sun roaring at the top of their voices, praising some of the performances, abusing others; complimenting the bull, or calling him all the bad names in the Spanish language-and they are a good many-according as he shewed pluck or the reverse; in fact, as a proof of this excessive uproar, we can honestly affirm that we have heard the roaring of a Plaza de Toros when in full blast at upwards of a mile.

Now our gentlemanlike and impressive matador comes into play. He has ere this observed that the bull's shoulders are nearly as full of darts as they can hold; that his 'properties' in this particular are nearly exhausted; that the public, in place of calling his men names, are beginning to abuse each other, a sure sign that they want novelty; and so he has betaken himself to a long straight two-edged sword, with a very sharp point, and a little red flag on a stick. Armed in this manner, he presents himself before the mayor, and craves permission to finish the fight and the bull; this permission is graciously granted; and throwing his hat away, to intimate, we presume, that he means to do or die, he advances to his victim. He, poor beast, wonders if he has any wonder left in him— what this new kind of torment may be, the flag being different from any he has seen hitherto. If nervous and frightened, he retreats, and the matador follows; in this case, he becomes a very difficult bull to kill; if simply enraged, he charges; the matador steps on one side, and as the bull's head is enveloped in the flag, the sword is buried to the hilt between the shoulder blades; he makes a few staggering steps, falls on his knees, game to the last, and often dies in that position. If not quite dead, one of the assistants comes with a short dagger, and gives him the coup de grâce behind the horns. The matador withdraws his sword, wipes it on his flag, makes his bow to his worship and the audience, and is applauded or not, as the deed is considered well or ill done. Sometimes this death-stroke is so cleverly delivered, that the audience rise en masse, and shower every practicable loose article upon the fortunate matador, by way of applause. We once witnessed a striking instance of this a very fine bull rushed, as he ought to do, upon the Chiclanero, who was waiting to give him the final thrust; the sword entered to the hilt, and the bull fell at his feet on the instant, as if struck by a cannonshot, and never moved again. We never saw this more than once, and it was then, I believe, considered a marvellous stroke; in a moment the Chiclanero was enveloped in a perfect storm of dollars, copper coins of all denominations, cigars, hats, sticks, cloaks, mantillas, and, in short, any small matter that came readiest to hand, while the uproar of applause was deafening. We saw him with our own eyes collect two or three hats full of cigars, in the hats so kindly bestowed upon him. We may mention, while upon this subject, that when a bull bleeds copiously from the mouth after the final thrust, he is considered to be very unskilfully killed, and the matador is unmercifully hissed in consequence.

Not to weary our readers with too many repetitions of the same thing, suffice it to say that eight bulls are slain, more or less, in the same manner, dragged out one after another, the dead horses removed,

sand scattered over the too manifest signs of fight, and the artillery band again in great force between whiles. We cannot, however, in justice to one of the finest animals that ever wore horns-namely, bull No. 3, on the above occasion, omit to mention his valiant deeds. He was a very large, perfectly red bull, very powerful, and though not in the best condition as regarded fat, full of limb and muscle; his horns were pronounced perfect, and we think it will be allowed he knew how to use them. When the door was opened, instead of rushing instantly into the arena, he stood for a moment in the doorway till his eye fell upon the nearest picador; in an instant he was upon him, and over went horse and man as if of cards; the second and the third were treated in like manner without a pause, the several events happening in less time than it has taken to write these few words descriptive of them; and when the noble bull halted, and looked round, as if saying, 'Bring more,' the applause that greeted him exceeded anything we ever heard even in a Plaza de Toros. Each horse was killed dead by a single stab in the chest, the horn having in each case reached the heart. For a few minutes, the business of the Plaza was at a stand-still, while the picadors, who were all unhurt, proceeded to supply themselves with fresh steeds. It was most wonderful to us that one of them at least was able to mount again; he had been overthrown with such violence, that his head-certainly somewhat protected by his Chinese hat, and probably not furnished with many more brains than sufficed for bull-fighting purposes-acting as a battering-ram, had forced in one of the stout planks forming the barrier behind him: the concussion was most audible, nevertheless he soon made his appearance, remounted, and apparently none the worse. This scene was repeated over and over again with slight variation, till no less than thirteen horses, slain by this one bull, lay dead in the Plaza. Public feeling had by this time reached its highest pitch; and when the Chiclanero, declining to produce more horses for slaughter, purposed to affix the bandarillos, and proceed to the final act of the tragedy, the whole body of people rose as one man, and shouted with one voice for the respite and liberation of the noble beast, without subjecting him to further torture. This being rather an unusual proceeding, the matador and his worship the mayor were rather puzzled how to act, but the populace would take no denial, and the officials were obliged to yield to the mighty voice, crying, 'Qui viva El Toro.' During this pause in the proceedings, the bull stood in the centre of the arena, as it were at bay, surveying the great assemblage, lashing his sides with his tail, and occasionally throwing a cloud of dust over his back with his forefeet, as if in defiance of the whole quadrilla. It being decided that his life should be spared, the difficulty now was to induce him to accept the boon; over and over again did the chulillos try to draw him to the exit-door with their gay cloaks, but with no effect; he would not stir, or if he did, only to make a rush at his nearest would-be benefactor, returning to his post in the centre of the Plaza. He was evidently waiting for more horses upon which to wreak his fury, and utterly despised the poor human mites. As a last resource, tame oxen were introduced, and even to these, for some time, he paid no attention; in fact, at first, with his eyes blinded by rage and excitement, he took them for the cavalry he anticipated, charging them once and again in a semi-vicious style; however, they surrounded him at last, and walked off to the door, with Toro in the midst. Close to the exit lay a slain horse, and on passing it all his fury broke forth again; he rushed away from his tame companions, gave the dead horse a mighty toss with his horns, and this final defiance achieved, proudly followed his companions from the Plaza. Such a

magnanimous exit roused all public sympathy in his favour, and as he disappeared, a round of cheering broke forth that no doubt was most gratifying to him. It was sad to think, after all, that he would probably not survive, having been so wounded by the lances of the picadors, as to render him unfit for breeding, for which purpose he was well worthy to be kept.

It

THE POETRY OF MIDDLE AGE. ALTHOUGH We have good authority for the belief that 'the Poetry of Life is never dead,' the general opinion has been always slow to credit it. Poetry is thought to be to Youth very much as the measles are to Childhood; it rarely makes upon us a second attack, and still more seldom seizes us for the first time, in Maturity. When a gentleman gets round, and bald, and addicted to dropping asleep for a few minutes after dinner, it seems to be universally agreed upon that he had better give up the writing of verses. is held, indeed, scarcely decorous for a professional man of any standing to devote even his leisure hours to the muse. We are told that Mr Samuel Rogers's second volume of poems lost the banking-house one of its richest clients. The gentleman incontinently withdrew his money from the custody of a firm, one of whom was openly and unblushingly addicted torhyming. Sir,' affirmed he, when remonstrated with, if I knew that my banker had ever even said a good thing, I would close my account with him the next morning.' To have written such, and in verse too, was in his eyes almost a declaration of insolvency. The world certainly shares in this opinion to a considerable extent. Our few professional bards are alone permitted to be exceptions to the rule, and that is rather because, by virtue of their calling, they are not supposed to grow old at all. The idea of 'old Mr Tennyson'-although by the mere register the Laureate must be getting up in years,' as one of his parodists has it-is little short of blasphemous, and not to be entertained by a cultivated mind.

What are myrtles and wreaths to the brow that is wrinkled?

They're like a dead flower with May-dew besprinkled, says a poet, who himself was not permitted to see forty summers; after that epoch, it is 'winters' only which bards see, if their own writings are to be evidence. The late decision at the Crystal Palace, which adjudged the first laurel to a young lady, and the second to a boy of sixteen years of age, will confirm the above opinion.

We

Still, it seems strange that Life should form poetical materials to those only who have never experienced its trials; that Love should only be sung of before marriage; that Death should be mourned in song, only by those who have never lost a child. have, however, in the volume before us, a protest of the most persuasive kind against this inconsistency -a book more pregnant with solemn feeling, with loving, calm philosophy, than any we have met with since the In Memoriam. The glow from the embers of the hearth-fire flickers upon every page; not brightly, nor even cheerfully, but leaving half in that suggestful shadow far dearer, aye, and clearer, to the tried human heart than any light. Gracefulness and tender feeling are the characteristics of the author rather than power, but that is no reason why such lays as his should lack a welcome. He himself answers the question of 'Wherefore more verses?' when already poetry overwhelms us like the wondrous growths of some hot climate-' the foliage rife of

Lays of Middle Age. By James Hedderwick. Macmillan, Cambridge and London.

smothering summers faint with musk and thyme 'and in a very satisfactory manner.

There is no waste. Let the eternal gold
From genius' mint be scattered myriadfold:
Never a star was launched but its fine rays
Took some small shade of darkness from the night;
The stream that sings unseen among the ferns
Bears welcome increase to the ocean's might;
Even the minutest flower the sense discerns
Enriches all the breaths of summer days.

Here follows an experience of loss such as a juvenile poet could scarcely have met with, and in attempting to describe which, he would have been pretty sure to have overstepped the modesty of nature. There is here, however, no storm of despair, but only the calm sympathy of a feeling man for a friend's irreparable grief. The rhythm has the ease and grace of Tennyson, the master of that school of which our author is at least one of the head-boys, the pupilteachers. It is called Passed Away.

Peace dwells at last with poor Elizabeth,
Wife of my trusted friend. The end has come.
There is no tremulous voice to call him home;
And yet he goes, and sits alone with death,
Though useless now his tender ministries.
There is no fretting at his absence now;
Yet sits he by her side, and sadly tries
To gather soothing from her tranquil brow
And stony bosom without pulse or breath.

The fevered watching has been all in vain;
The struggle now has ended in defeat:
Yet in her aspect is a rest so sweet
That were she waked she might again complain.
O who could wish to wring her human heart
With one pang more? But past is every fear:
Stilled by the mystery that would not start
Although a cannon thundered at her ear-
Although her little infant cried with pain.

Ah me that one so beautiful should die!
Full on her widowed husband ere she went,
Like light within a shattered tenement,
Lingered the last love-lustre of her eye.
On the vague threshold of the unseen life
She paused; then feebly from her finger took
The golden circlet of the mortal wife,
Placed it on his, with re-assuring look,
And wedded him to immortality.

Our next extract is also a picture which could scarcely have been drawn by very youthful fingers. How lifelike, how every-day lifelike it is! How few of us but number among our acquaintances at least one such as its original!

ALONE.

So Reginald is still a bachelor

Not young, yet youthful-studious of his ease-
His only thought how best himself to please.
Of richest wines he has an endless store:
These are his pride, and oft as lovingly
As they were children he will tell their age.
His city house, his mansion by the sea,
Alternately his jovial hours engage.
So great his wealth it hourly groweth more.

A little luck, a little keen address,
A little kindly help in time of need,
A little industry and touch of greed,
Have made his life a singular success;
And he asks homage for his splendid gains,
Paying the flattery in meats and drinks!
Applauding friends he daily entertains,
To ease him of himself. Sometimes he thinks
If he were poor his friends might love him less.

Gray-headed Reginald! he has royal parts,
And in all circles fills an honoured seat.

Yet vain for him are maidens' accents sweet:
At wedded slavery and henpecked hearts
He jeers and laughs; though, when the nights are
cold,

The tables empty, and he feels alone,

A memory breaks of purer joys of old;
And, selfish to the last, he thinks of one

Who might have soothed him with her gentle arts! There is a certain pity lingering about these verses which would give a cynical mind the notion that a woman had written them; but it is only that touch of feminine feeling with which all poets-except those of theology and war-are dowered. Among the Miscellaneous Poems at the end of the volume there is one called Home Trial, very full of this, and more affecting even than that famous one written upon the same subject-the death of a child-by Dr Moir. It is indeed as a poet of human experience, as the graceful chronicler of events which occur after the meridian of life is passed, as the photographist of humanity, taking his stand-point on the summit of that hill-to borrow a metaphor from our author himself whose sunny side Youth is climbing, and whose shadowy side Age is descending, that we are mainly concerned with Mr Hedderwick. He describes no passions, no aspirations, no despairs. His themes are such as these. A young man who has sought a warmer clime to cure him of an incurable consumption, and who writes home the most hopeful letters, each one more confident than the last-until one comes in the handwriting of a stranger, and tells the end, which every one, but the victim himself, knew beforehand must needs be. Again, a painter, with a starving family, portraying very brilliantly on canvas A Dream of Paradise, the only sunshine in his poor bare room; the adverse criticism written by the unthinking scribe, which damns it; and all the misery of insufficient talent and a mistaken profession.

Things like these, common enough, too common, the poet treats of all more or less familiar in reality with those who have gone any distance upon Life's populous road-but enriched in the telling with a certain patient pathos and not uncheerful philosophy. The last poem, upon Middle Age itself, is as thoughtful, complete, and appropriate as can well be.

Fair time of calm resolve-of sober thought!
Quiet half-way hostelry on life's long road,
In which to rest and re-adjust our load!
High table-land, to which we have been brought
By stumbling steps of ill-directed toil!
Season when not to achieve is to despair!
Last field for us of a full fruitful soil!
Only spring-tide our freighted aims to bear
Onward to all our yearning dreams have sought!
How art thou changed! Once to our youthful eyes
Thin silvering locks and thought's imprinted lines,
Of sloping age gave weird and wintry signs;
But now these trophies ours, we recognise
Only a voice faint-rippling to its shore,
And a weak tottering step as marks of eld.
None are so far but some are on before:
Thus still at distance is the goal beheld,
And to improve the way is truly wise.

Farewell, ye blossomed hedges! and the deep
Thick green of Summer on the matted bough!
The languid Autumn mellows round us now:
Yet fancy may its vernal beauties keep,
Like holly leaves for a December wreath.
To take this gift of life with trusting hands,
And star with heavenly hopes the night of death,
Is all that poor humanity demands
To lull its meaner fears in easy sleep.

We believe that some lines in those three last quoted verses would not have disgraced the name of any poet of this century.

THE MONTH:

SCIENCE AND ART S.

THE very mild temperature of our January, contrasting so favourably with the 36 degrees below zero of New York, and the summary of the weather for 1858, are the themes among meteorologists. No one objects to a winter with primroses in bloom; nor is there much dissatisfaction expressed at the verification of the proverb, 'If the ice bears a man before Christmas, it won't bear a goose afterwards;' and how it bore during the 'cold snap' of November last, many a one will remember. In the same month there was the usual periodical passage of atmospheric waves; one of these waves had a breadth of 500 miles, and a length of 120 degrees, and was traceable at the same time all across the Atlantic.

Some discussion, initiated by the Society of Arts, is going on as to the question of another Great Exhibition in 1861. The general impression appears to be, that once in a lifetime is quite enough for such an undertaking as that. Then, as if one non-dividendpaying Crystal Palace were not sufficient, certain sanguine projectors want to build another on the north side of London, at Muswell Hill. To us, speaking as outsiders, there does not appear to be any real call for a second pleasure-house of glass; and we can hardly think it will be realised, notwithstanding the offer of twenty acres on which to build hospitals for decayed savans, littérateurs, artists, and the like. Vous avez,' said M. T. Silvestre in his recent address to the Society of Arts-'vous avez, à la fois, l'invention positive, qui dompte la nature, et l'aspiration idéale qui élève la vie.' If this be true, the best way is not to waste such good qualities in useless labour. And as for the 'aspiration idéale,' it certainly has not presided at the end of St Paul's Churchyard, where a block of warehouses is now to encumber the way, and hide the best view of the cathedral.

Mr Gassiot's paper on certain electrical phenomena observed in vacuums, read before the Royal Society, is an important addition to the subject, of which, as we mentioned at the time, the first instalment was delivered last year. That there is a stratification of the electric discharge is more and more demonstrable: if a vertical tube through which a current is passing be made to rotate rapidly, the divisions of the strata appear as continuous lines. The effect of vapours of different kinds introduced into the vacuum, is shewn by a different colour while the current passes-red, orange, white, &c.; and a series may be established which in the same discharge gratifies the eye by its variety, and the mind by new vistas of discovery. Magnetism has a marked effect. If, while the glass tube shines brightly with the discharge travelling through it, a horse-shoe magnet is placed against it, the character of the striæ is altered, or they disappear; and if two magnets are held in a given position, the discharge is completely arrested. Apart from their beauty, there is something especially suggestive in Mr Gassiot's experiments. Mr Grove, lecturing on the same subject, shewed that in a perfect vacuum there can be no discharge: there must be, it seems, some vehicle for the electricity to travel by. This is well shewn by a small quantity of potash placed at one end of the vacuum tube. At first, the operator may make contact as much as he pleases; no result appears; but as soon as, by placing a spirit-lamp under the potash, it is made to throw off a little vapour, then the electricity, seizing on the invisible molecules, makes itself apparent in a bright quivering