d against him
with his head, until driven off by the punching of the iron-pointed pole
of the horseman.

Around the arena are sentry-boxes, each large enough to hold two men,
behind which they can easily jump, but which the bull cannot enter; and
from these, the cowardly wretches run out, flourish a red cloth at the
bull, and jump back. Three or four men, with darts in hand, run before
the bull, entice him by flapping their red cloths, and, as he trots up
to them, stick banderillas into his neck. These torment the bull, and he
tries to shake them off, and paws the ground; but still he shows no
fight. He trots to the gate, and snuffs to get out. Some of the
multitude cry "Fuera el toro! Fuera el toro!" which means that he is a
failure, and must be let out at the gate. Others are excited, and cry
for the killer, the matador; and a demoniacal scene follows, of yells
and shouts, half-drowned by twenty or thirty drums and trumpets. The
cries to go on prevail; and the matador appears, dressed in a
tight-fitting suit of green small-clothes, with a broad silver stripe,
jerkin, and stockings--a tall, light-complexioned, elegantly made,
glittering man, bearing in one hand a long, heavy, dull black sword, and
in the other a broad, red cloth. Now comes the harrying and distracting
of the bull by flags, and red cloths, and darts; the matador runs
before, flings his cloth up and down; the bull trots towards it--no
furious rush, or maddened dash, but a moderate trot--the cloth is
flashed over his face and one skilfully directed lunge of the sword into
his back neck, and he drops instantly dead at the feet of the matador,
at the very spot where he received the stab. Frantic shouts of applause
follow; and the matador bows around, like an applauded circus-rider, and
retires. The great gate opens, and three horses abreast are driven in,
decked with ribbons, to drag the bull round the arena. But they are such
feeble animals that, with all the flourish of music and the whipping of
drivers, they are barely able to tug the bull along over the tan, in a
straight line for the gate, through which the sorry pageant and
harmless bull disappear.

Now, some meager, hungry, sallow, sweaty, mean-looking degenerates of
Spain jump in and rake over the arena, and cover up the blood, and put
things to rights again; and I find time to take a view of the company.
Thankful I am, and creditable it is, that there are no women. Yes, there
are two mulatto wome