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is provided for the nonce. When the bull is slow to charge, the picador rides out into the arena, and challenges him with his vara (spear.) Should the bull decline his polite invitation and turn tail, he is baited by dogs, which is most degrading." If execrations and abuse are lavished upon a craven, on the other hand frantic is the applause and enthusiasm when the bull displays unusual pluck. Mr Hoskins saw some capital fights.

"A brown bull with white spots," he writes, "then came in and soon rolled on the ground two picadors and their worthless steeds: one of the animals was killed on the spot, and the other soon dropped. Immediately the bull upset the third horse and his rider, and was rapturously cheered: Vira, toro! vica, toro! Bravo, toro!' Again he upset two more steeds, and the picadors fell heavily to the ground; the plaudits were deafening. Soon he raised from the earth the third horse and his rider, who kept his seat at first; but both fell-the picador underneath, stunned, but able, after a short time, to mount again. Horse after horse this fine beast attacked: one poor animal and his rider were soon prostrate on the ground, and immediately afterwards another. The banderillas made him still more mad, and the chulos were obliged to run their best to escape his rage. It was most exciting to see them vaulting over the barriers, flying, as it were, out of his horns. At last the matador struck him; and though the sword was, as usual, deep between the left shoulder and the blade, he seemed as fierce as ever. He was near the enclosure, and a man adroitly drew it out. The matador was preparing to strike him again, when he lay down as if to die, but soon rose, apparently desirous of revenge: after one effort he sank on the arena, and the matador gave him his coup de grace. The band played, and the teams dragged out his carcase and three dead horses, besides two which he had wounded dreadfully the Spaniards sang with delight."

A little black bull, which in Smithfield would have been slightly esteemed, next rushed into the circle, and quickly cleared it, rolling over the picadors, and making the chulos fly for dear life. After one of these "he galloped at a fearful speed. Not a voice was heard, so deep was the anxiety; but the chulo flew over the barricade as if the bull had pitched

him, so near to his legs were its horns. The animal seemed astonished at having lost its victim, and then vented its rage on the red cloak the chulo had been obliged to drop." This fierce little bull killed and badly wounded half-a-dozen horses, goring them disgustingly when on the ground, and galloped round the arena in triumphant defiance, until the terrible matador, with red flag and straight blade, answered the challenge, and slew him with a thrust.

The risks run by the picadors are terrible; although less, perhaps, from the horns of the bull than from bad falls, and from their horses rolling over them. Few of them, Mr Ford assures us, have a sound rib in their body.

"Occasionally, the bull tosses man and steed in one ruin, and, when they fall, exhausts his fury on the poor beast; for the picador either manages to make him a barrier, or is dragged off by the attendant chulos, who always hover near, and with their cloaks entice the bull from the man, leaving the horse to his sad fate. When these deadly struggles take place, when life hangs on a thread, every feeling of eagerness and excitement is stamped on the countenances of the spectators. Their rapture is wrought to its pitch, when the horse, maddened with the wounds and terror, the crimson seams streaking his foam-and-sweat whitened body, flies from the still pursuing bull: then are displayed the nerve and horsemanship of the picador. It is a piteous sight to behold the mangled horses treading out their protruding and quivering entrails, and yet carrying off their riders unhurt. This too frequent occurrence, and which horrifies every Englishman, has, with some other painful incidents, been kindly kept out of sight by our artist, whose object is to please. Spaniards are no more affected with the reality, than Italians are moved by the abstract tanti palpiti of Rossini. The miserable horse, when dead, is rapidly stripped of his accoutrements by his rider, who hobbles off, and the carcass is then dragged out by the mules, often leaving a bloody furrow on the sand, as Spain's river-beds are ing oleanders. The riders have a more marked with the scarlet fringe of flowerthan veterinary skill in pronouncing offhand what wounds are mortal or not. Those thrusts which are not immediately fatal, are plugged up by them with tow, and then they remount the crippled steed, and carry him, like a battered battleship, again into action."

Mr Lake Price has certainly shown good taste in suppressing the more revolting and painful details of bullfights. The bloody minutiæ of the spectacle would have spoiled his pictures. In painting bull-fights, as in painting battles, the artist must leave to imagination by far the greater part of the gaping wounds and streaming blood, and horrible mutilations. No field of severe battle was ever painted, we apprehend, exactly as it appeared to him who walked over it just as the fight was done. The fidelity of a daguerreotype would be inadmissible in such cases. Imagine an exact representation of Borodino's redoubt, or Albuera's heights, at the very moment of the battle's close, before the fast-accumulating wounded were half removed, or the ghastly dead committed to the shallow grave. From such a picture, whatever its artistic merit, all would turn with shuddering and sickness. If we may compare small things with great, so it is with bull-fights. The painter, if he does not actually suppress fact, must at least choose his moment well, and spare his admirers the more revolting circumstances of the barbarous sport. For barbarous it really is, and some of the occurrences incidendal to it doubtless "horrify every Englishman," as Mr Ford says; but, at the same time, we have observed that nearly all Englishmen who pass even a short time in Spain get over their horror, and become pretty regular attendants at the bull-ring. So that we must not press too severely on Spaniards for their ardent and passionate love of a spectacle which, from childhood, they are accustomed to hear spoken of with enthusiasm, as the finest and most essentially national sport in the world.

No less than eight of Mr Price's pictures are devoted to the second act of the Bull's Tragedy, in which the chulos chiefly figure. This employment is the noviciate of bull-fighting. Great activity and speed of foot are the chief qualifications requisite.

"The duty of this light division is to skirmish and draw off the bull when the picador is endangered, which they do with their particoloured silken cloaks. Their mercurial address and agility is marvellous; they skim over the sand

like glittering humming-birds, seeming scarcely to touch the earth. The most dangerous position is when they venture into the middle of the Plaza, and are

pursued by the bull to the barrier, over which they bound. The escape often takes place in the very nick of time, and they win by a neck; and frequently so close is the run, that they seem to be helped over the fence by the bull's horns; nay, so active are the bulls, that they often clear the six feet high palisado, on which occasion an indescribable hubbub and confusion take place amid the combatants, water-sellers, alguazils, and persons within; all the doors are immediately opened, and the perplexed beast soon finds his way back again into the arena, to new inflictions. The Plates XIV. and XVII. represent two of the most difficult and dangerous performances of the combatants on foot, and which are rarely attempted, except by the most skilful and experienced toreros and matadors, who take part in these interludes. Such is the Suerte de la Capa, or feat of the cloak. When the infuriated bull, foaming with rage, stands lord of all he surveys, Montes would coolly advance, and, when within two yards, turn his back to the animal, and, holding his cloak charge five or six times, stepping adroitly behind his shoulders, receive the rushing

aside at each. The second, El Salto trascuerno, is even more hazardous. The performer advances as before, and when the bull lowers his head to charge, places his foot between the horns, is lifted up, and lights on the other side. These touchand-go experiments form no part of the strict duties of the chulo; his exclusive province is the banderilla. This implement consists of a barbed dart or arrow, which is wrapt round with papers of different colours, cut in fanciful patterns of ornamental cruelty; the bearer, holding one in each hand, approaches the bull, presenting the point to him, and at the instant when he stoops to toss him, jerks them into his neck, turns aside, and eludes him. To do this neatly requires a quick eye, and a light hand and foot. The ambition of the performer is to place the barbs evenly and symmetrically, one on each side of the bull's neck. Three and four pairs of these are usually stuck in. Sometimes, when the bull has given dissatisfaction, these banderillas armed with crackers, which, by means of detonating powder, explode the moment they are fixed; the agony of the scorched animal makes him plunge and snort frantically, to the delight of a people whose ancestors welcomed the Auto da Fé, and the perfume of burning living flesh."

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Five plates, exhibiting the bull's last moments, complete and conclude this masterly and accurate series. Here is the matador, craving permission to kill the bull in honour of the municipality of Seville: here he advances his long four-edged sword, of more than bayonet strength, firmly grasped in his right hand, whilst his left waves the scarlet muleta, further exasperating the menaced brute. Be it observed, that there is no "thrusting" in the case. Rapier work were here of little avail. The sword is solid, stiff, and heavy; it receives the bull, but does not meet him. Entering between the shoulder and blade-bone, it is buried, by the victim's own impetus, to the very hilt. Only by so profound and desperate a wound could this energetic vitality be thus instantaneously extinguished. When successful," skilful matadors will sometimes withdraw the sword from the wound, and raise it in triumph above their prostrate victim. On all occasions, a firm hand, great nerve, and a quick eye, are essential. The bull is very often not killed by the first thrust if the sword strikes a bone, it is ejected high in the air by the rising neck. When a bull will not run on the flag, he is doomed to the dishonourable death of a traitor, and is houghed from behind with a sharp steel crescent fixed on a long pole. When the sinews of his hind legs are thus cruelly divided, the poor beast crawls in agony, and squats down; then a butcher-like assistant, the cachetero, creeps up, and pierces the spinal marrow with a pointed dagger, which is the usual mode of slaughter

ing cattle in the Spanish shambles. To perform any of these vile operations is beneath the matador, who sometimes will kill such a bull by plunging the point of his sword into the vertebræ. The great danger gives dignity to this most difficult feat, el descabellar. If the exact spot be hit, death is immediate; if the aim misses, and the animal's side only is pricked, he dashes at the unprotected torero, and frequently disables him.

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Artists and authors travelling in Spain may, for some time to come, give their brushes and pens a holiday, so far as bull-fights go. There remains little that is new to be written or painted concerning them. Every phase and incident of the contest has been correctly seized and vividly portrayed by Mr Price, who has fairly exhausted his subject. As regards description, that given by Mr. Ford is exactly what is needed to accompany an artistical work. tells us all that is wanted, and, in conjunction with the pictures, gives to fire-side travellers as good an idea of what a bull-fight really is, as can possibly be obtained without actually witnessing one. It has not suited our purpose, in the present brief paper, to extend our examination of "Spain as it is" beyond the fourth chapter of the second volume; but it is only fair to say, lest it should be supposed the merit of the book is also confined to that chapter, that Mr Hoskins' volumes contain a mass of useful information and clever criticism on the public and private picture-galleries of Spain.

CUPID IN THE CABINET.

AN ATTIC LEGEND.

[THE incidents upon which the following little poem is founded, are amusingly related by John Lydgate, monk of Bury, who flourished about the year 1430. Warton has done full justice to his poctical genius; but his prose works, though comparatively less known, deserve equal attention.

"I will tell you now of a plesaunt story recorded by Plotinus. One daye a certaine man of the cytie of Athens going forthe into an olde foreste, wherein was many dyuers of byrdes synging, did hear, nye unto a brokken Tempill, that tyme afore was dedicat unto a hethen Godde, a voice as of a yonge chylde that was carolying swetely. How be it, the man knew not the tonge wherein the lyttel chylde did synge. Astonied at thys maruyl, for the place

VOL. LXXI.-NO. CCCCXXXVI.

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was not nighe unto the cytie, so that chylderne colde furthlie passe thereunto, he looked ovir the walle, and soughte al aboute what this myght mene. Than sawe he sytting amonge the herbes, a fayre yonge boie, with winges besprent with fetheris, behynde his sholderis, and noghte lyving thynge besyde. Than sayde he: What doest thow here, chylde?' but the chylde answered noght, but smyled. Soe the man, being in perplexitie, for he knew not what it mycht bee, yet lyking not to leeve so yonge a chylde in the wodes, where wylde bestes were manie, did have him up into his mantill, and convaied him home until his awn duellynge. There, in defaulte of anie cage, he did putte the chylde into an olde Cabynett, that afore tyme stode longe there, and dyd give hym mete and drynke. Yet the chylde waxed not, but sange contynuously, soe that al the pepill of Athens maruyled at hys mynstrelsye. But what was grete wonder, the Cabynett wherein he was, which afore was brast in dyuers places, wherein chinkis and riftis dyd appere, semed to become of a sodaine newe and stronge, and was couered with gemmis and jowellis of grete prys, yet colde no man telle whens they did come. And the lyttel chylde had hys duellynge there, lyke unto an byrdis neste, and dyde synge rychte swetely, so that manie cam from afar to see the wonder. So dyd he manie yeris. At the last, deceisit the master of the house, and he that cam after hym loued nat musike, but was given up to thochtes of merchaunsedyse, and was of an ille fauour, regardynge nocht but his own gettynges. Soe one daye, heryng the chylde synge euer, he wox angery, and did command hym to holde his pees. Howe be it the chylde wolde nat. Than thys man, being wrothe, caused to bringe leveris, and to brak open the Cabynett, and take forth the chylde, and to put hym to the wyndowe. But the chylde sayd, 'Ye will curse the tyme ye put me forth;' and with those wordes vanyshed the chylde away, and was neuer sene a geyne. From that tyme the Cabynett was rent, and fall asonder in peces. Dyuers were angery with the man for his myssedede, but he sayd,The deuyll satysfye you, for I dyd it for the beste; but I shall neuer more medyll.' And he dyd nat, but sone after departed that cytie. And Plotinus sayth that thys chylde was estemit to be Cupido, and so was called in hys daies."] -LYDGATE'S Boke of Tradycion.

PRAY you, gentle ladies, hearken
To a tale of ancient time:

Let no doubt your bosoms darken,
Love is always in his prime.
Young, and fair, and gladly singing
As he did in days of yore,
O'er the bright blue ocean winging
To the sweet Idalian shore.
Cupid is not dead, dear ladies!
You may hear him even now
At the early dawn of May-days,
Singing underneath the bough.
But beware, for he deceiveth;
Tempt him not within the door,
For the house that Cupid leaveth
Shall not prosper evermore.
Old Plotinus, now in glory,
Hath bequeathed to us a story,

Which perhaps may sound as new-
And 'tis neither long nor stupid-
Of a man who captured Cupid;

If you please, I'll tell it you.

Wandering through the forests wide,
Rising from Cephisus' side,

Went a stout Athenian Archon,

With a vacant listless eye,

Till he heard a little cry,
That made him stop and hearken.
From a ruined temple near,

Came a voice both soft and clear,
Singing in some foreign tongue
Sweeter strains than e'er were sung,
Till the birds forbore their call,
Wondering who the wight might be
That in forest minstrelsy
Overcame them, one and all.
Slowly went the Archon on-

Peered above the broken stone

There, within the waste enclosure,

On a bed of myrtle wild,

Lay a little yearling child,

Who smiled and sung, and sung and smiled,
In innocent composure.

From his chubby shoulders, wings
Sprouted outwards; tender things,
Hardly fledged, as are the callow
Nestlings of the household swallow.
And the Archon, gazing there,
Thought that never child so fair
Had he looked on, anywhere.

"Whence art thou, my pretty boy?"

But the infant nought replied,

Turning to the other side

With an unknown song of joy.

"Can it be," the Archon pondered,

"That some little god hath wandered

From his home within the skies,

To a dreary spot like this?

Ever welcome to the wise

Such a rare occasion is;

So within my cloak I'll fold him!"
Little trouble was to hold him-

Calm and still the infant lay,

Smiling ever, singing ever,

Till the Archon crossed the river

Just above Piræus' bay.

"In what place to lodge my darling!

Mused the much-bewildered sage,
"He might dwell within a cage
Safe as any finch or starling;

But an infant god to hold,
All the wires should be of gold.
Ha! I see the very thing!
This will give him room to play,
Yet so far restrain his wing
That he cannot fly away.
Therefore come, my pretty pet,
I'll put thee in my Cabinet !"

Crazy was that Cabinet
When he let the Cupid in,
Loosely were the joinings set
Both without it and within :
You had sworn in any weather
That it could not hold together

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