University of Virginia Library

15. CHAPTER XV.

Chivalry is only another name for enthusiasm. The one
never dies out in a community where the other may yet be
found. Enthusiasm must exist where there is enterprise and
courage; where there is zeal and sympathy; where the virtues
essential for performance do not entirely stagnate. We do not
make sufficient account of this great leavener of the passions and
the virtues, which purifies the one and stimulates the other.
When a people too greatly refines itself, it sneers at zeal and
enthusiasm. Empressement is vulgar in the eyes of an aristocracy;
and an aristocracy thus sinks into contempt! Whenever
the tastes show themselves wanting in enthusiasm, they are about
to destroy their possessors.

The Spaniards had not yet reached this condition in Cuba.
Never were people more easily aroused, or more enthusiastic.
To see them weep and smile, and shout and sing, without any
moving cause, apparently, you would suppose them simply
crazy; but their madness had its moving cause, however latent,
arising from the active sympathy of the real life within their
souls, and the grand and unmeasured passions which they daily
exercised. Give me a people for performance, who have not
yet learned to conceal their emotions.

Havana swarmed with life. At an early hour of the morning,
as we have said—nay, long before the dawn—the hum and buzz
of preparation were to be heard in every quarter. The country
had poured itself into the city; the city had suddenly taken the
voice and wing of liberty, such as the country usually enjoys.
You might see, all night, the gleam upon the hill-sides of torches
guiding the footsteps of long cavalcades over all the routes from
the interior. Knights, nobles, artisans, peasants and mountaineers,
arrieros and contrabandistas, banished rogues, outlaws,
returning in disguise, and reckless of danger, in the passion which
the tournament inspired; we have seen already how motley and
various were the groups. Crowds, from far and near, came on
foot. A single mule sometimes contrived to bring a family;
the cart, the sedan, the volante, were all in requisition; and very
picturesque and beautiful was it to see the long trains, seeming,
for all the world, one great continuous procession, winding along
the circuitous paths; climbing suddenly to the hill-top, streaming
through the plain, and vaguely reappearing—recognized by
their torches only—in the deep dim avenues of the silent forest.
After a group on foot, gay and rambling, would you see the
stately and swelling hidalgo, on his great horse, showily caparisoned
in gaudy and costly garments. Noble ladies in their carriages,
of whatever sorts—sometimes in litters borne on the
shoulders of the slender natives of the island—followed under
the guidance of the Don. At a respectful distance in the rear,
came groups of peasants, and there, heedless of all, rambled forward
a savagely bearded mountaineer upon a donkey, whose
horrid screams at intervals, causes the gorge of the knight to rise
with the desire to punish the impertinence that dogs his heels so
closely with such a beast. But even the Baron grows indulgent
with the spirit of the scene, and the mountaineer rides nearer
and nearer, without suffering from the wrath which, at another
time, his approach would most certainly provoke.

But day opens the mighty pageant, and the sun hurries up
with his purple banner, to be present at the scene. Fancy, now,
the conflicting but mingling masses; the picturesque and oddly

sorted costumes; the wild, but exhilarating mixture of voices;
the hum, the stir, the billowy swaying to and fro, with roar and
scream, and cry and hiss, and shout and laugh—that, however various,
all fuse themselves together, as it were, into one universal
voice of hope and enjoyment. The hills surrounding the amphitheatre
are already covered with tents and booths of reed, thatched with
straw; with vehicles of all sort; groups of mules and horses; stands
for food, and fruit, and liquor; shows of mountebanks, and tables
for the gamester. Gay steeds are fastened, and watched by
liveried pages, under clumps of palms affording shelter. Gay
banners stream from every tent or lodge, assigned to knights
and men-at-arms. These, raised as if by magic, during the preceding
night, occupied the more eligible vacant places contiguous.
Each bears without the armorial insignia of the noble, whether he
held due warranty from the legitimate herald, or owed his rank
only to the persevering ambition of the parvenu, who seeks, under
the shelter of a gray antiquity, to hide the short frock and
coarse frame of the adventurer.

At intervals a sweet strain of music rises from a curtained
verandah, and an occasional shrill blare of a sudden trumpet announces
the setting up of some banneret, or the arrival upon the
ground of the followers of some one of the many bold cavaliers
who designed to take a part in the business of the tourney.
Some of the pavilions of these knights are of silk, ornamented
with figures of gold-thread and brocade; not less splendid to the
eye are those of others, though made only of the cotton stuffs of
the island, of Mexico and Peru; but these are all glowing with
rich and living dyes of the new world, the art of preparing and
using which was peculiar to the country. The pursuivants are
busy, going forever to and fro, assigning places, according to degree
and rank, for the pavilions of the several champions.
Troops of cavalry flourished around, as a police, coercing order.
Small detachments of infantry march to and fro, their matchlocks
shining in the sun. The raised centre of the scaffolding around
the amphitheatre, which is assigned to the Adelantado and his immediate
circle, is already pavilioned with a gorgeous canopy.

The banner of Castile and Leon is already rolling out, with its
great, gorgeous and gold folds above it. Not so loftily raised,
but yet so placed in the foreground as to attract all eyes, is the
personal banner of De Soto: a sheet of azure, on which is painted
a spirited picture of a cavalier, mounted on a fiery charger, both
armed to the teeth, and about to leap a precipice. The picture illustrated
one of the Adelantado's great feats in Peru. The motto
is Italian, in gold letters—“Fidati pur; che a trionfar ti guido.”
When De Soto was asked by Don Balthazar why he put so promising
a motto in a foreign language, which was known to so few of
his people, he answered—“That it may be more impressive!” The
Adelentado was something of a philosopher. Hardly was the
banner seen to wave than some one was ready to translate for
the curious multitude the mysterious promise. When told that
the gallant cavalier only swore in Italian that he would conduct
them to conquest, there was not a syllable of the inscription that
was not gotten instantly by heart, and that night it was sung as
the burden of a refrain, by a native rhymester, who was content
to encourage the enterprise upon which—he did not go himself!

Next to the pavilion of De Soto, on the right, was that of the
Captain General, Don Porcallo de Figueroa, his banner shining
above it, gleaming with a sun of gold. Don Balthazar de Alvaro
had his place on the left of the Adelantado, whom he was to assist
as warder or master of the tourney. We need not range the
places of the rest, nor enumerate the good, the old, and the influential
families, to whom conspicuous seats were assigned for
the survey of the spectacle. Going without the barriers, we approach
the tents or pavilions of the knights who were expected
to engage in the several passages-at-arms. Here they were to
dress and equip themselves; hither they were to retreat and rest
when wearied, and take refreshment. Each was sacred to its
owner, and great care was taken by the police of the field that
they were never trespassed upon by the crowd. In the rear
of each pavilion was a tent or shelter of more common material,
where the horse or horses of the cavalier were kept and groomed.

Some of the knights, as the wealthy Señor Don Porcallo de
Figueroa, for example, had a score of horses; but the greater
number, like our poor knights of Portugal, had a single steed
only. But he was generally a good one, of great strength and
endurance, and admirably trained. We pass, in review, the several
pavilions without the barriers, of the knights first mentioned:
of Nuno de Tobar, of Balthazar de Gallegos, of Juan de Escalante,
of Christopher de Spinola, and many others, each of which
bears the especial shield and insignia of its proprietor. More simple
than all the rest, made of crimson cotton, were the tents of
the Portuguese brothers. It was remarked by curious observers,
that these tents were no longer pitched side by side; they were
now opposite each other, one on the right, the other on the left
of the centre. The banner which floated above the pavilion of
Philip, bore the image of a ruined castle, from which a falcon
had spread its wings and was away. That of Andres exhibited
a flight of meteors in a stormy sky. Both were significant. The
shields of the several cavaliers hung each at the entrance of his
tent, and in a situation favorable for that atteint, or stroke of the
adversary's spear, blunt or sharp, which was the customary mode of
conveying the challenge. At the opening of the passages, these
were transferred to conspicuous places within the area. As yet
none of the knights, challengers, or defenders, were to be seen
by the multitude. Squires, leading horses, or pages loitering
about the tents, alone were visible. It remains to mention only
that the torril, or pen for the bulls, was constructed beneath the
tiers of seats assigned to the common people. From this a
closed passage, the door opening right upon the area, conducted
directly to the ring. In the rear of the torril, pavilions were
raised for the toreadores, picadores, chulos and matadores, each
class separately; and these pavilions engaged no small degree
of the curiosity of the people. From these parties they
looked for their most grateful enjoyments. They knew the most
famous toreros by name; Cuba could boast of matadores
who were worthy to compare with any of Andalusia,—sons of
her own mountains, who could administer the coup de grace to
the bull, while in his maddening bounds, and never exhibit an
emotion. But of these hereafter.

Drums roll, trumpets sound;—a wild burst of Saracenic music
rises from the amphitheatre; and the crowds rush forward to seek
their places. The Adelantado, at the head of a gorgeous cavalcade
of knights, rides into the ring. Already have the noble
ladies, with their several escorts, taken their seats upon the elevated
gallery which has been assigned them. The people are
fast filling up the humbler places around the barriers. De Soto,
amidst fresh bursts of music, ascends to his chair of state. Don
Balthazar seats himself below him. Both carry truncheons. The
signals are given; the sports begin. A troop of young squires
and pages are running at the ring. The old soldiers and experienced
cavaliers look on with the natural interest of veterans;
curious to see who are to be their successors in arms and distinction.
The riding is very creditable; some instances particularly
graceful and spirited; though one or two handsome youth are
rolled over in the dust. The ring is borne off triumphantly several
times; and this amusement ceases for a while. Then follows a less
experienced class of youth, who ride at the Quintain. The Quintain
is a lay figure, armed with a pole, which is freshly painted.
The stroke, to be successful and safe, must be delivered fairly, in
the centre of his shield or helmet. To miss these, or to touch
them unfairly, is to receive a blow from the pole of the figure,
who works upon a pivot, and is wheeled about by a moderate
assault. The stroke of his pole leaves its mark behind it. It not
unfrequently tumbles the assailant from his steed, and thus increases
the merriment of the spectators. In England, the Quintain
sometimes carried a bag of meal at the end of his pole, which,
in a false atteint, covered his awkward opponent with flour. On the
present occasion, the fresh black paint of his weapon is a more serious
danger to the garments; and the Quintain left indelible proofs
of his ability, and their own awkwardness, on the gaudy jackets
of many of his inexperienced assailants. These exercises, which
provoked a great deal of laughter, but did not much excite the

spectators, were followed by a very pretty display of archery. In
each of these performances there were, of course, champions to
be distinguished; prizes were accordingly delivered, and the interest
of the spectators was agreeably maintained to the close.
But these were the mere preliminaries, the opening flourishes of
the entertainment; pleasant enough while they lasted; but not
provocative, nor calculated to appeal to those passions which lift
a people to their feet, and force them to cry aloud their exultations,
or their fears. The runners at the ring and Quintain, and the
sports of the archers, were simply the prologues to the crowning
entertainment of the day,—this was the Bull-Fight—the sport of
sports to the Spaniard, one in which all classes delight,—which
appeals equally to the sympathies and tastes of nobles and commons,
of knights and ladies, and which, strange as it may appear
to us, is said in no degree to impair the sweetness, the grace
and gentleness of nature in the tender sex.

A few words on this subject. When we denounce the humanity
of a people, who relish such an amusement, we commit the simple
error of placing our tastes in judgment upon theirs. The truth
is, that the question of humanity is really not involved at all in
the subject, even by our own standards. Our opinion is simply
superior to our humanity; and while society with us maintains
an even course, we are thus critical in respect to its practices.
Let events occur which disturb the habitual course of things, and
our opinion gives way as readily to our passions as that of any
people, and our moral sinks as low as our humanity. Men are
very much the same, in all countries, as respects the appetites;
and we have in our exercises, equivalent brutalities to those of
any people in the world. A boxing match will appeal to the
tastes of all of British blood as readily as bull-fight or knife
match to those of the Spaniard; and a cock-fight, when announced,
draws as large a crowd. We hunt the deer with a spirit quite
as murderous as that which the Andalusian knows when he descends
into the bull-ring with lance and rapier; and we course
with our dogs after the fox nightly, with a pleasure that grows
into a sort of madness, in proportion to the prolongation of the

torturous sport. Opinion looks grave, and utters solemn humanities,
when she reads of Gordon Cumming's horrible butcheries
of the elephant, lion, gazelle, and giraffe—noble creatures
all, harmless where they are found—but passions and appetites
—our human nature, gloats over the murderous page; and we
pass, with keen anxiety, in the footsteps of the sportsman, and
hear with exultation the crack of his rifle, and rush in with wild
eyes of pleasure, to behold his victim, ere his dying agonies are
over. We take the fish by artful processes, so as to prolong his
struggles, so that our delights shall be prolonged also; and we
call the angler, “Gentle Master Izaak,” while he details the sev
eral arts by which a worm may be made to wriggle, and a trout
may be made to play, in pain. Our naturalists assert with wondrous
pains-taking, their own humanity, while they transfix the
living butterfly; and opinion, with us, sanctions with this definition,
the indiscriminate slaughter of innocent song-bird, and beautiful
fly, and wondrous insect, and curious reptile. Yet none of
these sports, which include all the cruelties which belong to the
Spanish bull-fight, involve the nobler conditions with which the
man engages in the latter. In the bull fight he makes his manhood
one of the conditions on which he wages the conflict. He
perils life upon his sport. He does not claim the right to take
and torture the life of the animal without giving the beast a
chance in the conflict. The inhumanity in all these practices is
pretty much the same; but much more may be said in favor of
the bull-fight than of all the rest. The stakes of the opposing
parties are equal in the game. Our opinion, in brief, is more
humane than our humanity. The Englishman and the American,
man or woman, who once witnesses a bull-fight, discovers that
his tastes are superior in strength to his morals—that his virtues
hold but little sway in the encounter with his blood—that his
opinion is unsustained by his resolution—that his own habits are
not a whit more heedful of the claims of the beast, than the
Spaniard's. He hunts one class, and the Spaniard another; and
whether he hunts more virtuously than the Spaniard, must be held
very doubtful where he does not hunt half so bravely or at so
much peril to himself.

Our purpose, however, in these remarks, is not to defend the
bull-fight as a legitimate or proper amusement of men. We
simply design to suggest to self-deception a little modesty, and
to persuade cant to reconsider its pretensions. Humanity, nowhere,
is equal to the encounter with temptation. Opinion, everywhere,
is superior to humanity; and thus it is that the morale of
a community will be superior to the sentiment in every individual
composing the community. Our opinion excuses our brutalities,
while it lays bare those of another nation. So long as this is
the common practice of nations, so long shall we perpetuate both.
Let us look to what is intrinsic, not what is specious, and we
shall, perhaps, discover that in a comparison with our neighbor
we have no great deal to boast—and something, possibly, to lose.
But enough.

The bull-fight, as we have said, appeals equally to all conditions,
and to both sexes, among the Spaniards. When the sports
of the ring and the Quintain were over, and it was understood
that those which properly belonged to the amphitheatre were to
begin, there was a great increase among the audience. The groups,
all of them, deserted the hills. Scarce a vacant seat was to be
found in all the three high tiers of scaffolding which surrounded
the barriers; and the spectacle became very brilliant, wild and
picturesque, of that great and crowded circle. Beauty and
knighthood were there in all their glory; while the multitude
exhibited every variety of costume and character. The seats
were so disposed that the entire person of the spectator in every
quarter could be seen; each accordingly was clad in the richest
dresses he could command. Banners and bannerets were waving;
cavaliers wore their gaudiest colors; jewels flashed in such near
connection with bright eyes that one could scarce distinguish
between them; and ever and anon, long streaming flourishes of
music, passionate phrensies of variously endowed instruments,
and soft, melancholy touches, at frequent pauses, from simpler

pipes, conspired to raise the emotions, to excite the sensibilities,
to lead the hearer and spectator out entirely from that common
world which swallowed up his ordinary life in one dreary monotony.

“Despéjo!” was the single word given out by Don Balthazar de
Alvaro, as Corregidor, or master of ceremonies—equivalent to
“clear the field”—“remove all obstructions from the amphitheatre.”

There is sufficient reason for this order, which is always an ungracious
one in the ears of “the fancy,” “the swell mob,” who
have generally taken possession of the ring. They leave it with
reluctance. But, at the order of the Corregidor, the splendid
body of infantry which De Soto had been training for the Florida
expedition, marched in, to the sound of martial music, and,
with horizontal lances, swiftly swept the circle. Their movements
were rapid; but the intruders retired slowly, simply
clearing the barriers, around which they continued to cling, anxious
to be nigh the scene; to see the minutest movements; and
to take such part in the affair themselves as fortune would allow
them;—their delight being found in beating the bull with their
sticks, or thrusting at him with iron-pointed staves, from this
safe entrenchment, whenever his course should bring him sufficiently
nigh the barriers. This duty done, the infantry disappeared
as rapidly as those whom they had driven out. But the ring
was not left vacant, for a moment. Their places were soon occupied
by the Toreadores, consisting of bands of Picadores, of Chulos or
Banderilleros, and Matadores. These now move in procession around
the area, showing themselves to the spectators;—the Picadores,
in the saddle, armed with lances. They wear short cloaks, the
sleeves of which are partly laid open and left loose. Their
small-clothes are of leather, the legs coated with a sort of
greaves of plate iron;—shoes and stockings are concealed by
white gaiters; and a flat, broad, round hat, well ribanded, completes
their costume, which is quite fanciful and jockey-like.
Not less so is that of men on foot, the Chulos, whose habits are
more costly, if not more imposing. Their silk vests are trimmed

with a profusion of ribands; brilliant scarfs fall over them; a
silken net-work confines the hair, in place of which the fringes
of the net stream down the shoulders. Their cloaks are, some
of blue, and others of scarlet. In two parties they cross the
arena, and make their obeisance to the Adelantado. They are
in all—the footmen—about eighteen. This includes a couple of
matadores, or killers. With these comes a mediespada, or half-swordsman,
who is not often wanted. The picadores, or lancers,
three in number, follow them on horseback, in the performance
of the act of grace before the representative of the throne.

The toreadores take their stations, and declare themselves in
readiness. First, you behold the picadores. These plant themselves
on one side of the gate from whence the bull is to emerge,
and at a distance of twenty-five or thirty paces. Those on foot,
armed with their short javelins, called banderillos, meant to goad
and torture the bull, and for their defence, their cloaks of blue
and scarlet, take their places also, ready to assist the picadores,
but along the barriers. A trumpet sounds; an Alguazil advances,
and receives from Don Balthazar the key of the torril,
or den of the bull. The Adelantado waves his gilded truncheon;
Don Balthazar waves another; the bugles sound; wild shouts from
the multitude declare the acme of expectation to be reached, the
gate of the torril is thrown open, a rush is heard; and “El
Moro”—“the Moor”—the great black bull of the Cuban mountains,—himself
a mountainous mass of bone and muscle, darts
headlong upon the scene, and hushes all to silence.

He stops suddenly; throwing up his head. He has passed
from darkness into sudden light. The unwonted spectacle for a
moment confounds him. He looks up; around; stares with
dilating eye on all he sees; and then you may observe his tail
rise, and wave, to and fro, the hairs starting up, like those upon
his neck, and presenting a ridgy surface, a crested mane, showing
his excitement, and gradually rising anger. As yet, he
knows not where to look. On all sides, he sees so much! But,
a tremendous shout from the multitude seems to decide him;
and he answers it with a wild and sudden roar. Then, quick as

a flash, he charges upon the nearest picador. His lance is ready
to receive him. He is repulsed; he recoils. But not far; and
with a fresh bound, he singles out his second enemy. He also
meets him with a cool front, and a piercing weapon. A second
time his neck is gored; but he darts upon the third picador;
only to meet a fresh repulse! He has felt his enemy; and is
either cowed or taught by his experience. Which? We shall see.
He recoils from all, receding slowly: his eyes gleaming now
with fire; his neck and shoulders streaming with blood; his head
to the ground, as if with a heretofore-unknown feeling of humility.
But do you think that he is humbled? No! He is only roused,
—only contracting himself to spring; gathering his muscles into
fold; gathering up his soul for newer effort, and growing momently
more and more vicious and dangerous from his forbearance!
Some of the spectators are deceived; as half the world
is apt to judge and decide from first impressions, and because of
their ignorance!

“A cow! a cow!” is the cry—“set the dogs upon him!”
“Ah! que! no vale ña!” “The beast is worth nothing. He is
a cow!”

“A cow, indeed!” cries the experienced mountaineer, who better
knows the signs which the brute exhibits. “Disparate!—
nonsense! Let me see the man who will milk that cow!”

He is right. “El Moro” is a hero, and has sense as well as
strength. He has felt his enemy; he begins to know him. The
picadores understand him better than the mob. They note his
immense frame,—the great head,—the enormous breadth of
neck,—the huge breast, like a rampart, which he spreads before
them; the wonderful compactness of his whole figure. They see
the lurking devil in his dilating eyes, looking up, though his
horns seem directed only to the ground. They note other signs
which escape the populace, and they prepare themselves, with
all their address, for a second assault. Their horses, which have
heard the roar of the bull, are trembling beneath them. They
do not see the animal, as they have been blinded, the better to
make them submit to the rein; but they feel their terrors the

more. They are not the broken hackneys which are employed
in the cities of modern Spain, not worth their forage;—but brave
steeds, of fearless foresters, who have taken up the business of
the torero, con amore. Sleek of skin, large of frame, slender of
limb, with small heads, arching necks, bright, round, dilating
eyes, clean fetlocks! You see that they come of Arabian stocks,
and are not unworthy to carry fearless riders against the bull.
They tremble, but they obey. The picador, meanwhile, carries
his well-chosen lance beneath his right arm. He keeps a wary
eye upon his enemy. He knows that he is to be expected;—
that he must come;—that the struggle has not well begun, and
that it will require his utmost skill to conquer—and escape!
He does not mistake the ominous aspect in the sign of Taurus!
He has not read the Zodiac of the ampitheatre in vain. These
are all old stagers, these picadores. Each has a reputation to
lose. They are known by name among the multitude, and these
names have been cried aloud, already, by more than a hundred
voices, in recognition and encouragement. “Bravo! Pepe!”
“Bravo! little Juan!” “Bravo! Francisco Dias!” “Now
shall we see which of you all will pluck la devisa from the neck
of El Moro.” “La devisa” is a ribbon about the bull's neck,
containing the name of his breeder.

“Which of you has a mistress with eyes worthy of a death?
Bravo! good fellows! Let us see!”

The allusion, here, is to the practice of the picador, whose
object it is to snatch away the ribbon as a trophy for his sweet-heart.
This is a great point gained; and a difficult one. The
Bull, who is well aware of the honor of the thing, is, of course,
always careful to resent, with particular malice, every such
attempt upon the badge which proves his honorable breeding.
It requires rare agility—which, in such a conflict, implies rare
courage—to achieve the object.

But the crowd is clamorous. They are impatient at the delay
of “El Moro.” They regard him as too lymphatic. They
shout to him their scorn, and some endeavor to assail him, from
behind the barriers, with strokes of the chivata, or porro, sticks

terminating in knobs, with which every rascal of the crowd goes
properly armed to the circus. Their auxiliary assaults, in fact,
are legitimated, and constitute a fair part of the exhibition.
They contribute greatly to goad a timid animal to the necessary
degree of desparation, work him up to madness; when, no
longer dreading the prick of the lance, though it buries itself an
inch deep in the flesh, he plunges headlong upon his enemies,
not to be again baffled in the assault, not to be turned aside;
and throwing all his brute force into one concentrated effort, puts
the picadores to all their arts for safety.

“El Moro” is a bull of blood. He is a bull of discretion
also. He has only paused to meditate in what manner to use
his force against the skill of his enemies. He has concluded his
plans; and, with a terrible snort, which ends in a roar, he rushes
again upon the picadores. They meet him handsomely, their
horses' heads a little turned on one side, their spears delivered
dexterously, piercing the neck and shoulders of the beast. This
is no pleasant sort of salutation. It is apt to turn off ten bulls
in the dozen. They all remember, with keen sensibilities, the
garrocha, or goad, by which the herdsmen have initiated them in
the lessons of obedience. “El Moro” has not lost his sensibilities,
or his memories; but “El Moro” has a prescience which
tells him that he is doomed; and that to feel the pricks too
keenly now, is only to prolong his tortures. He, accordingly,
resolves to “come up to the scratch” valiantly. Skulking, he
perceives, will avail him nothing. He must die, and he will not
die feebly. The spear-point is in his neck deep, deep; and the
blood spirts high, and crimsons his great swart breast and shoulders.
But he resolves not to feel his hurts. He does not
swerve: he plunges headlong forward; head downward; horns
tossing and tail erect, and shaking to and fro like that of the lion
in his bound, or the serpent in his coil.

“Bravo toro! Bravo El Moro!” is the delighted roar of the
multitude, as they witness his spirit. The horsemen turn about
like lightning; the first darts aside, with excellent skill, and sweeps
out of the track.

“Bravo, Pepe!” cry the mob, as they witness this dexterity of
the first of the picadores; but the bull sweeps on; he receives
the spear-point of the second of his foes; but his own irresistible
rush, his own headlong bulk, prevents his recoil now, even if his
spirit quailed beneath the wound: but it does not. The picador
tries to wheel and escape his assault, but too late:—the
horns of “El Moro” are already buried in the flank of the steed;
he rends his sides, snaps the defensive ribs like glass; steed and
rider roll over upon the plain, the latter upon the off-side of the
animal. The body of the horse constitutes his rampart for a
moment. It is a fearful moment. Life and death hang on it.
An awful hush envelops the amphitheatre; women shriek,
men shout and swear; heads peer over each other; eyes are
starting almost from their sockets; anxiety and appetite, fear and
hope, horror and delight, are in wondrous strife in the multitudinous
soul of the assembly. Every body looks to see the bull
dash down upon the prostrate horse and rider. The latter lies
close and quiet, expecting the assault: his hope of escape is in
his insignificance. But “El Moro” is a bull of magnanimity—a
heroic bull, worthy of the fierce and fearless race after whom
they have named him. He disdains to touch the fallen victim.
He spurns the sands anew; he dashes after the remaining picadores,
who course round the amphitheatre, dexterously avoiding his
charge, and seeking to double upon and wound him anew at every
chance. Wonderful is the skill they exhibit, and great is the
cheering which they receive. Both bull and picador receive it
equally; nothing can be more fair than the applause; it is equally
merited: and gratitude for the sport alone requires that merit
should be equally acknowledged. “Bravo toro!” “Bravo Picador!”
“Bravo Little Juan!” “Bravo Moro!” These and similar
cries are heard from all quarters of the ring.

But “El Moro” is not content to share his fame with others,
—he is greedy of glory. Another picador is overthrown; horse
and man roll on the earth. Little Juan, who won the bravos
lately, is scrambling over the barriers, partly assisted in the
effort by the black brows of the bull himself—his horns just missing

the haunches of the horseman, and grazing the barriers. It
was a narrow escape. The horse of the picador flies wild, with
his entrails hanging from a horrid wound in the belly. The bull
pursues; at every bound he goads the blinded and terrified animal
anew. Both are covered with blood. “Mira!” cries the
“fancy”—the “swell mob” from the corridor,—“Mira! que bel
cuerpo de sangre!” “See! see! what a beauteous body of blood!”

Thus goring as he goes, himself covered with gore, snorting
with fury, his eyes like red fires, flashing in flight, his mouth full
of foam and blood, his head tossing wildly, the blood and lather
covering his whole body, the bull keeps on his way of terror,
ripping and rending the wounded and agonized horse, until, with
a terrific roar and effort, he fairly lifts the victim from the earth,
dashes him down upon the sands, and strikes his hoofs on his neck,
as he bounds over him in pursuit of the remaining picador.

There is no parleying with so headstrong a brute as that. There
is no baffling him. He is not to be deluded of his proper prey.
He is not the fool to put nose to the ground, as ordinary bulls
do, wasting his fury upon the enemies he has already overthrown.
The fallen horse or horseman attracts none of his attention.
He sees and seeks him only who is on foot, in motion;
and he gives the surviving picador no respite. Never was
bull so determined, and so sensible. He is not merely a hero,
he is a general; and the audience is duly sensible of his wonderful
merits. They shout their vivas on every hand. “Long live
El Moro!” he whom they have yet resolved shall die that very
day. “Bravo toro! Bravo Moor!” They toss their hands aloft;
they fling up their caps; porros and chivatas thunder their applauses
against the barriers. “El Moro” seems aware of their
applause, and resolute still better to deserve it. He gives the
picador no moment of delay. He is upon him. The steed
doubles with wondrous dexterity, and eludes the shock; and he
now receives the vivas. But the bull is almost equally alert.
His evolutions are as sudden as his rage is high. He wheels,—
another bound, the lance of the picador but grazes him; the
horse darts away, but the bull is at his haunches, and rends him

—a terrible gash—in the rear. Bleeding and torn, the steed
staggers forward, when a new thrust sends him over, and the rider
flings himself off on the opposite side, to escape the inveterate
assailant. It is a moment of extreme peril; every soul is hushed
almost to stifling in the assembly; and now the chulos with their
gaudy cloaks come fluttering upon the scene. They are to divert
the bull from his victim. They glide between, almost like shapes
of air. The red shawls flare before the eyes of El Moro. But
El Moro is none of your common bulls. He is not to be persuaded
that the shawl can work him injury. He has no vulgar
bull-hostility to crimson. He darts at the chulo, and not his shawl.
The banderillo flies—a little dart, ornamented with colored and
gilded paper—and sticks into his neck. Another is planted directly
opposite, buried deeply in the flesh. A third, a fourth,
until the beast is fairly covered with these proofs of the dexterity
of his new assailants, who trip along like dancing-masters
about the scene; relying upon their wonderful agility to dart
aside from his wild and passionate plunges. They scatter at his
approach. He drives them to the barriers, over which the rescued
picador has just clambered with a show of pain and labor,
that proves he has not gone through the fray unscathed. There
is a rent in his leathern breeches; there is an exceedingly sore place
beneath it. But the chulos are dispersed,—El Moro remains the
lord of the arena. He stamps as if for a new enemy; he roars
as if in triumph! He darts, seeing no moving object, at those
which lie still or writhing upon the plain. He tramples the gay
mantles; he rends the prostrate and still struggling horse. He
is impatient that they offer no resistance; for the goads still tear
his neck and sides, and the wounds are a ceaseless torture. The
amphitheatre rings with applauses of his prowess; but this subsides,
and the appetite of the multitude craves a renewal of the
excitement.

“Caballos! Caballos al toro!” is the cry. More horses are
required for the bull. New champions appear upon the scene;
and the battle is renewed. But we must not enter now upon
details; “El Moro” maintains his reputation. Another horse is

slain—another wounded—two riders are hurt with broken ribs,
and the chulos again scatter themselves over the area for the rescue
of the third. “El Moro” scatters them in turn: but he is
exhausted by his victories. Covered with wounds, he staggers in
the centre of the ring. His eye grows filmy, his head droops,
his tail—but he is thus far the conqueror, and there is a moment
of silent admiration in tribute to his prowess. But the signs
show that he can make no more sport. He has done all that bull
could do for the popular holiday; and nothing remains but to
administer the coup de grace, and bring on his successors. The
trumpet sounds. The matador—the killer—appears alone upon
the scene. On his appearance, with lifted cap, he make his obeisance
to the Adelantado. In his right hand he holds a long toledo
—a beautiful rapier, of the best temper—in his left hand he waves
a little red flag, not much larger than a handkerchief, called the
muleta. He receives the permission which he requires. “El
Moro's” death-warrant is given out.

The matador exhibits the grace of a posture-master, with all
the coolness of the executioner. He turns towards the victim,
and advances slowly. He is pale; looks anxious; is evidently
wary. Well he may be. Such an adversary, showing as much
cunning as courage, is not often to be met. The matador stops,
and with all the coolness of which he is capable, surveys the foe.
He is a judge of character, and bulls have a character that requires
to be studied. Antonio Pico also has a character at stake.
He is greatly renowned among the Cubans. He has slain his
hundreds, and he must show himself worthy of his renown. His
movements were at once graceful and decided; and his thrusts
were as swift as dexterous. He was the master of his art. But,
sometimes, the master fails, and Pico was now evidently cautious.
It is a duel which he is about to fight. The bull is still dangerous—his
rage is still deadly. He has lost his energy, but not
his malice. Pico has no shield, nothing but the muleta, and his
beautiful rapier. His ball dress of silk, satin and ribbon, is at
strange variance with the duty to be done; but that is one of the
charming features of the performance. He commands himself;

restrains himself; a thousand eyes are upon him; he knows it,
but he sees nothing but the eyes of the bull. Their tame, filmy
expression does not deceive him. He fancies that “El Moro”
understands the whole proceeding, what is to be done, and what
is to be feared; and that he is preparing himself with more than
bull subtlety, to make a fearful fight of it. It must be subtlety
now, opposed to subtlety;—the wisdom of the man to the excited
instincts of the beast. The expectation is, that the bull will
run at the red flag; when the matador will receive him at the
point of the weapon, which pierces him between the shoulder and
the bone blade. If the bull has much spirit left, he will do this.
The presumption is, if he will not, that he succumbs to his fate—
that his energies are exhausted.

Pico waves his muleta in front of the animal. “El Moro”
makes a single charge, but recoils—stops short, and stands with
head down, as if in waiting. A shout of contempt, from the
“fancy,” assails him for this ignoble conduct. It encourages Pico.
He advances, waves the flag anew; again the bull charges;
the steel flashes, quick as lightning;—strikes;—strikes;—all see;—
but it is an awkward stroke! Pico's nerves have been troubled.
The steel strikes the bone;—it flies from the hand of the matador;
and, with a roar, the recovering bull is upon him, with a dreadful
griding sweep. The brave fellow darts aside, but not unhurt.
He staggers,—he makes for the barriers: the cunning “El
Moro,” with brightening eye, surges after him. The suspense is
awful; the women scream; the men shout; the matador staggers
forward to the barriers; falls, without catching them; and, but a
moment remains for escape! a terrible anxiety prevails. In that
moment, a gigantic form leaps over the barriers from the corridor.
He is dark like the red man. He is of that race, mixed
with the white and the negro,—a most unnatural and atrocious
combination. But what he is, no one as yet can distinguish.
They see nothing clearly. They only know that he stands between
the fallen Pico and the charging El Moro. They see a
common red kerchief waving in one hand. They see not
the short, sharp knife in the other. They see, however, that he

has succeeded in diverting the wrath of the bull, from the prostrate
matador, to himself. A moment more, and the plunging
animal stands where the stranger challenged. He has darted
aside like an arrow, leaving his kerchief upon the horns of the
bull, and waving before his eyes. The animal shakes his head,
and thrusts it down. In that moment the stranger advances silently.
A flash is seen; and the machete is fatally buried between
the shoulders of El Moro. A hoarse sound issues from
the nostrils of the mighty beast, and he sinks forward, the life
gone forever, on the spot where he had stood terribly, but the
instant before!

The crowd is relieved. They shout their gratification, and the
“swell mob” without are particularly rejoiced with the exquisite
feat of arms performed by one from among themselves. Scarcely
was the deed done, however, when Don Balthazar de Alvaro, in
a whisper to the sergeant of the guard, said,—

“Let that man who slew the bull be taken into custody. Let
it be done secretly, so as not to cause confusion. Set a watch
upon his footsteps, and when the crowd is dispersed, clap him
up. He is a slave—an outlaw—the notorious outlaw, Mateo
Morillo—slave of the estate of my niece. He has been in the
mountains for two years. See that you secure him. There is a
good reward to be got by his captivity!”

The sergeant promised obedience; but when he looked into the
amphitheatre, the man, Mateo Morillo, had disappeared among
the throng. He sought for him that day in vain.

Note.—For much of the detail in this chapter respecting the sports of
the Spanish amphitheatre, I am indebted to the volumes of Roscoe, Ford,
and the highly interesting and spirited sketches of Spain by our own
countryman, Mr. S. T. Wallis, of Maryland.