University of Virginia Library

CHAPTER XX.

A bull-fight has been advertised all over
the town, at the Plaza de Toros. Shall we
go? I would not, if it were only pleasure
that I was seeking. As I am sure I expect
only the contrary, and wish merely to learn the
character of this national recreation, I will go.

The Plaza de Toros is a wooden amphitheatre,
in the suburbs, open at the top,—a circle
of rising seats, with the arena in the centre. I
am late. The cries of the people inside are
loud, sharp, and constant; a full band is
blowing its trumpets and beating its drums;
and the late stragglers are justling for their
tickets. I go through at a low door,—find
myself under benches filled with an eager,
stamping, shouting multitude, make my way
through a passage, and come out on the
shady side, for it is a late afternoon sun, and

take my place at a good point of view. A
bull, with some blood about his fore-quarters,
and two or three darts (bandarillas) sticking
in his neck, is trotting harmlessly about the
arena, "more sinned against than sinning,"
and seeming to have no other desire than
to get out. Two men, each carrying a long,
stout, wooden pole, pointed with a short piece
of iron, not long enough to kill, but only to
drive off and to goad, are mounted on two of
the sorriest nags eyes ever beheld,—reprieved
jades, whom it would not pay to feed and
scarcely pay to kill, and who have been left
to take their chances of death here. They
could hardly be pricked into a trot, and were
too weak to escape. I have seen horses in
every stage of life and in every degree of
neglect, but no New York negro hack-driver
would have taken these for a gift, if he were
obliged to keep them. The bull could not
be said to run away from the horses, for they
did not pursue; but when, distracted by sights
and sounds, he came against a horse, the horse
stood still to be gored, and the bull only
pushed 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 bandarillas 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 meagre, hungry, swarthy, 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
women, in a seat on the sunny side, which
is the cheap side. And there are two shrivelled,
dark, Creole women, in a box; and there
is one girl of eight or ten years, in full dress,
with an elderly man. These are all the
women. In the State Box, under the faded
royal arms, are a few officials, not of high degree.
The rest of the large company is a
motley collection, chiefly of the middle or
lower classes, mostly standing on the benches,
and nearly all smoking.

The music beats and brays again, the great
gates open, and another bull rushes in, distracted
by sights and sounds so novel, and for
a few minutes shows signs of power and
vigor; but, as he becomes accustomed to the
scene, he tames down; and after several minutes
of flaunting of cloths and flags, and piercing
with darts, and punching with the poles of
the horsemen, he runs under the poor white

horse, and upsets him, but leaves him unhurt
by his horns; has a leisurely trial of endurance
with the red horse, goring him a little with one
horn, and receiving the pike of the driver,—the
horse helpless and patient, and the bull very
reasonable and temperate in the use of his
power,—and then is enticed off by flags, and
worried with darts; and, at last, a new matador
appears,—a fierce-looking fellow, dressed
in dark green, with a large head of curling,
snaky, black hair, and a skin almost black.
He makes a great strut and flourish, and
after two or three unsuccessful attempts to
get the bull head on, at length, getting a fair
chance, plunges his black sword to the hilt
in the bull's neck,—but there is no fall of
the bull. He has missed the spinal cord, and
the bull trots off, bleeding in a small stream,
with a sword-handle protruding a few inches
above the hide of his back-neck. The spectators
hoot their contempt for the failure; but
with no sign of pity for the beast. The
bull is weakened, but trots about and makes
a few runs at cloths, and the sword is drawn
from his hide by an agile dart-sticker, (bandarillero,)
and given to the black bully in dark
green, who makes one more lunge, with no
better success. The bull runs round, and reels,
and staggers, and falls half down, gets partly
up, lows and breathes heavily, is pushed over
and held down, until a butcher dispatches
him with a sharp knife, at the spinal cord.
Then come the opened gates, the three horses
abreast, decked with ribbons, the hard tug
at the bull's body over the ground,—his limbs
still swaying with remaining life, the clash and
clang of the band, and the yells of the people.

Shall I stay another? Perhaps it may be
more successful, and—if the new bull will
only bruise somebody! But the new bull is
a failure. After all their attempts to excite
him, he only trots round, and snuffs at the
gates; and the cry of "Fuera el toro!" becomes
so general, with the significant triple
beat of the feet, in time with the words, all
over the house, that the gates are opened,
and the bull trots through, to his quarters.

But the meanness, and cruelty, and impotency
of this crowd! They cry out to the
spear-men and the dart-men, and to the tormentors,

and to the bull, and to the horses, and
to each other, in a Babel of sounds, where no
man's voice can possibly be distinguished ten
feet from him, all manner of advice and encouragement
or derision, like children at a
play. One full grown, well-dressed young
man, near me, kept up a constant cry to the
men in the ring, when I am sure no one could
distinguish his words, and no one cared to,—
until I became so irritated that I could have
throttled him.

But, such you are! You can cry and howl
at bull-fights and cock-fights and in the pits
of operas and theatres, and drive bulls and
horses distracted, and urge gallant game-cocks
to the death, and applaud opera singers into
patriotic songs, and leave them to imprisonment
and fines,—and you yourselves, cannot
lift a finger, or join hand to hand, or bring
to the hazard life, fortune, or honor, for your
liberty and your dignity as men. Work your
slaves, torture your bulls, fight your gamecocks,
crown your dancers and singers,—and
leave the weightier matters of judgment and
justice, of fame by sea and land, of letters and

arts and sciences, of private right and public
honor, the present and future of your race and
of your native land, to the care of others,—
of a people of no better blood than your own,
strangers and sojourners among you!

The next bull is treated to a refinement of
torture, in the form of darts filled with heavy
China crackers, which explode on the neck of
the poor beast. I could not see that even this
made him really dangerous. The light complexioned,
green-and-silver matador dispatches
him, as he did the first bull, with a single lunge,
and—a fall and a quiver, and all is over!

The fifth bull is a failure and is allowed to
go out of the ring. The sixth is nearly the
same with the others, harmless if let alone,
and goaded into short-lived activity, but not
into anything like fury or even a dangerous
animosity. He is treated to fire-crackers, and
gores one horse a little,—the horse standing,
side on, and taking it, until the bull is driven
off by the punching of the spear; and runs at
the other horse, and, to my delight, upsets the
rider, but unfortunately without hurting him,
and the black-haired matador in green tries his

hand on him and fails again, and is hooted,
and takes to throwing darts, and gets a fall,
and looks disconcerted, and gets his sword
again, and makes another false thrust; and
the crippled and bleeding animal is thrown
down and dispatched by the butcher with his
short knife, and drawn off by the three poor
horses. The gates close, and I hurry out of
the theatre, in a din of shouts and drums
and trumpets, the great crowd waiting for the
last bull;—but I have seen enough.

There is no volante in waiting, and I have
to take my seat in an omnibus, and wait for
the end of the scene. The confusion of cries
and shouts and the interludes of music still
goes on, for a quarter of an hour, and then the
crowd begins to pour out, and to scatter over
the ground. Four faces in a line are heading
for my omnibus. There is no mistaking that
head man, the file leader. "Down East"
is written legibly all over his face. Tall, thin,
sallow, grave, circumspect! The others are
not counterparts. They vary. But "New
England" is graven on all.

"Wa-a-al!" says the leader, as he gets into

the omnibus. No reply. They take their seats,
and wipe their foreheads. One expectorates.
Another looks too wise for utterance. "By,"
. . . . a long pause—How will he end it?—
"Jingoes!" That is a failure. It is plain he
fell short, and did not end as he intended.
The sentiment of the four has not yet got uttered.
The fat, flaxen-haired man makes his
attempt. "If there is a new-milch cow in Vermont
that wouldn't show more fight, under
such usage, than them bulls, I'd buy her and
make a present of her to Governor Cunchy,—
or whatever they call him."—This is practical
and direct, and opens the way to a more free
interchange. The northern ice is thawed.
The meanness and cruelty of the exhibition
is commented upon. The moral view is not
overlooked, nor underrated.—None but cowards
would be so cruel. And last of all, it is
an imposition. Their money has been obtained
under false pretences. A suit would
lie to recover it back; but the poor devils are
welcome to the money. The coach fills up
with Cubans; and the noise of the pavements
drowns the further reflections of the four
philanthropists, patriots and economists.