and still worse music to attract the attention of the moneyed public. A few gypsies might look at a horse or an ass who was going to be put into a rifa, particularly if he were halt, or blind, or badly spavined. The populace might look at a bull, if it were one which showed fight and rendered it prudent for all but torreadores to get out of the way. Yet it could not be certain that any body but idle beggars would take the trouble to run after any of the before-mentioned quadrupeds. But show a native an animal capable of being converted into hams and bacon, and his mouth is at once dissolved in interest in him. He instinctively puts his hands into his pockets to see if he is rich enough to be the owner of one peseta. If so, he goes straight to the well-known office, and buys a ticket entitling him, by help of Santa Eulalia, to the animal entire. Such is the Spaniard's way of filling his pork barrel.

But the distinctive peculiarity of the Barcelonese pig remains to be mentioned; and could on no account be left out of any right description of him. It is not that he eats nuts. It is not that he is killed on the Paseo Nuevo. It is not that he is put into lotteries. It is that he is blessed by the priest. As soon as he gets his eyes open, he is a candidate for baptism. The quicker the better after the cutting of his eyeteeth, he is sprinkled with holy water. That ceremony performed upon him, he is no longer an unclean animal. He is held to be as good as regenerated. He is esteemed Christian, and as Catholic as Saint George of Catalonia. The act for ever shields him from all bad accidents. He is not liable to lose his appetite and refuse nuts. His supper is not likely to give him the nightmare. He is not exposed to the risk of breaking his nose off in rooting. He cannot be spirited away by hobgoblins, or have his tail pulled out by the Old Nick. His meat is sure to be wholesome. No Christian can be choked in swallowing it, though the smallest morsel would strangle a Jew. It will not play tricks in the stomachs of true believers, while it would work like poison in the bowels of a pilfering gypsey, and refuse to amalgamate with the blood of any Moor or Infidel. Its juices rendered pure as holy water itself, it will not spoil the complexion of the most delicately-bred señorita, nor make any caballero a shade blacker than he is by nature.

By all means, then, let the pig be sprinkled. All quadrupeds are in Barcelona. If on the seventeenth day of January the Barcelonese will ride his horse or VOL. IV.-2

his ass three times around the church of San Antonio Abad-with braided tail and mane woven with flowers-with a huge tortell loaf of bread hung at his saddlebow-and himself in a red cap. sheepskin jacket and leather shorts; and if he will come to a halt before the church steps, while a priest reads a prayer over man and ass, and another throws holy water in both their faces; and if he will then draw out his leathern pouch, and pay into the holy man's hands tuppence ha'penny; and after having paid down his coppers and received into the bargain a picture of San Antonio Abad himself, together with a printed account of the good saint's power in interceding for all Christian muleteers and jackasses at the throne of the Blessed Virgin. he will then back out of the scene as quickly as whip and spur and heaven can help him so to do, and will moreover cut down the street and through half the town as if the Devil himself were after him to wipe off the sacramental drops ere they were dry in the hair-then I say, that neither his horse, nor his ass, nor his mule shall hit his foot against a stone from that day twelvemonth. He shall not have horse ail, nor staggers, nor any sort of inurrain within the year. He shall not be foundered, nor lose his wind. He shall not kick, nor bite, nor so much as flirt his tail, except in fly time. San Antonio Abad answers for it all. Only one thing, unfortunately, he does not undertake to guarantee--and that is to stop a jackass from braying when "he d-n pleases."

Let the quadrupeds be blessed then. Only the ass, I think, might as well be left out. He is too stupid an animal to be at all affected by benedictions. He knows only one sort of water—and that is drinking water. Shake the holy broom over his head, or the cowhide, still he brays. Be the ground under his feet sacred or profane, it makes no difference, he brays

still.

When at the hour of vespers you are listening to the nun's low chant; or when, the pealing organ done, the solemn silence is broken only by the whispered prayer of the kneeling worshippers-Eulalia Purisima!-what a diabolical concert is suddenly set up by the asses waiting at the church doors! Or when in the stilly night the melancholy lover is pouring out his tenderest plaint beneath the balcony of his lady fair, and his spent soul is breathing forth its last soft sigh-Santa Maria Dolorosa!-what a longer drawn wail, what a more powerful sighing comes from the belly of some neighboring and no less distressed donkey! In

a country where so much time is spent either before the altar or beneath the balcony; and where there is at least a pair of jackasses to every couple of saints and lovers, this braying becomes an intolerable nuisance. If San Antonio Abad were worth a fig, he would put a stop to it.

XIII.

THE CARNIVAL.

THE Barcelonese Carnival is to that of Spain what the Roman is to Italy. Bacchus with a long retinue of Fauns and Satyrs always pays the Catalonian capital a visit at this season; and Venus is there too with her train of Loves and Graces. Both of them, however, conduct themselves with so much more sobriety than they formerly did at the Grecian festivals, that they can hardly be recognized as the same personages. Still fun and frolic are let pretty freely loose in the streets; and even Castilian gravity comes out in bells and a Tom-fool's cap.

During the daytime there are processions through the streets, with masks, music and banners. Fraternities of odd fellows, and good fellows, and all sorts of fellows, parade their youthful follies and idiosyncracies in the face of day and of all the people. And he is the very best fellow of them all who wears the most fantastic apparel, who bears the wittiest motto, who makes the most absurd harangues, who utters the most unpardonable puns. The gypsy beaux too are out on horseback; not clad in rags and skins but for once in ruffied shirts, plumed hats, jackets of broadcloth, and having their horses' tails braided with ribbons and roses. Colossal figures representing the genii loci, are borne about the town upon men's shoulders; or are drawn in state in immense gilded chariots, hung with flowers. Bands of music go before; the most gorgeous or the most grotesque of bodyguards accompany the divinities; and the whole rabble of the town comes after. The wheels of business are made for two or three days to stand still; and only the car of pleasure rolls unhindered through the city.

At night, every body goes to the public balls. All the theatres and halls are converted into ball-rooms. Even the merchants are turned out of the Exchange, and its beautiful apartments are appropriated to the dancers. But the centre of attraction is the opera house. This, which the Barcelonese will tell you is the largest one in the world, is fitted up with a temporary floor, and consecrat

ed to masking from midnight until morning. The galleries are crowded with spectators; two orchestras, containing each a hundred performers, are placed at either extremity of the immense saloon; and as gay a gallop goes over these boards as can be seen any where in Christendom.

The price of admission having formerly been higher,it was then attended only by the more fashionable classes of society. Now all the Barcelonese world is there, both high and low. The pleasure is participated in by a greater number; but the fun, if more vulgar, is none the less hearty. What the dresses may have lost in elegance they have gained in variety. The fashionable ladies, who now attend as spectators chiefly, do not mind if their silks be a little dingy; and the ragazza is only too happy to dance in cambric or calico. In one or the other she will be sure to be there; for she would go threadbare during half the year rather than not have a neat new dress for the carnival. She will be there, and polking it with an abandon, the very grace of ecstasy. Though her skirts will not be of gauze, nor wrought with silver or with gold, still none will wave more briskly; none will be thrown to a better elevation. She. will not be clasped by a zone of gems, nor wear jewels in her hair; but her curls will be fastened by the Catalonian bodkin; her ears will be hung with Moorish rings; and her lover-for of course she is blessed with one-will have planted a nosegay in her well-rounded bosom.

But our ragazza has already flown by in the waltz-and lo! here comes a throng of dancers gayer than the rest. The ladies in it wear no disguise excepting the domino noir. But the gentlemen are in costumes the most bizarre. They are all nose, or all moustache. You see beards which are longer than those of hermits; shirt collars which overtop the ears; coattails which reach to the ankles; conical caps a yard high; harlequin's bells, devil's tails, satyr's hoofs, ox-horns. By two or three hours past midnight, the mirth grows a little boisterous. The laugh gets to be as loud as the music; and for the rest of the night, the dance goes faster and faster round till morning.

Let us escape to a box. There you can sit masked or unmasked-in burlesque or in black-and look down upon the furore of the galloping. You will not sit long before those two ladies in black silk masks, and loose silk robes of the same material, will honor you with their salutations. You know by their dress that they are not here to dance, but simply to greet their

acquaintances, and to tell under cover of a domino some truths which they might blush to confess without one. They will endeavor to disguise their voices as well as their persons. But you will recognize the soft Andalusian accent of one of them. Those lips never did betray, and cannot now deceive you. You steal her secret out of her heart the moment she begins to speak. But in return you pour forth a headlong torrent of Castilian vows and compliments. You kiss her hand-at least you may say so in Spanish; and when she takes her leave, not actually to throw yourself at her feet, you will address to her the polite adieu of A los pies de V. Señora. She is gone. But the wisp of violets left behind in your hand brings the pleasures of the night to their climax; and with nothing further to wish or hope for, you straightway retire.

XIV.

A MOCK BULL-FIGHT.

THE province of Catalonia hangs upon the Spanish monarchy by the eyelids. threatening upon the recurrence of every revolutionary agitation to fall off altogether. Especially the lower classes of the capital are turbulent, disloyal, and democratic. They always stand with their toes well over the mark of revolt; and their passions once kindled into action, they would not at any time object to reddening their knives in the blood of the aristos who rule over them. Hence Barcelona has been under martial law for the last quarter of a century! The stranger who has resided perhaps a long time in the city, is somo day surprised to learn the fact that the Captain General of the province has the power of arresting, trying and shooting, any inhabitant accused of conspiring against the public peace and the government of Queen Isabella. But so it is; and so it may be for another quarter of a century. Life and property here require the constant protection of from ten to twenty thousand bayonets; and the loyalty of the province is secured by concentrating in it about one half of the whole military force of the country.

The winter I was in Barcelona, the town very narrowly escaped a cabbage rebellion. The government at Madrid had raised the tariff of duties on vegetables at the gates of all the great towns. But as the lower classes eat no meats, the measure operated as an increased tax on the food of the poor. The first effect of the very foolish as well as very wrongful

edict was, that not a cabbage or a potato was brought to the gates of a single Spanish city. The citizens had to go to the country to buy their vegetables as best they could of the peasantry, who, with great unanimity, refused to pay the additional tax for the privilege of selling them in town. The peasants held out until the populace were reduced to the borders of desperation. The lower Barcelonese, taking the lead, were in commotion. They are always bloodthirsty, and now they were getting hungry besides. They were out of garlic. And had the news of the revocation of the obnoxious decrees not come in as it did to allay the popular ferment, the lower classes would have risen upon the higher with the same knives with which they had peeled their last onions.

Since

So afraid are the Barcelonese authorities of this tendency to rebellion in the populace, that they no longer dare to grant them the entertainment of their favorite Fiestas de Toros, or festivals of bulls. They remember that a few years ago, the popular fury, aroused by the sight of the blood of beasts, could with difficulty be restrained from seeking to slake its thirst in that of men. that time there have been no bull-fights in Barcelona, except sham ones. These, as nobody is expected to be killed in them, neither bulls, horses, nor men, are not considered dangerous to the public peace. They do not rouse the blood of the spectators to the boiling point, as do the real bull-feasts. And the more so, as they are not, like the latter entertainments, held in summer, when the blood of both men and brutes is rarely much below fever heat, but in the cold-blooded season of winter.

Accordingly, the traveller can have a chance of seeing the mock fiesta at Barcelona, if he likes; though compared with the great national solemnity as performed at Madrid or Seville, I fancy it must be something like a hanging at which the culprit is reprieved. However, I for one, went to the sham fight. And all the world of Barcelona went with me. For hours before the commencement of the spectacle, the principal streets leading to the scene of combat were filled with a gay throng of all classes and ages, their steps quickened and their faces lighted up with anticipated pleasure. As it was a Sunday afternoon, all the rout was in holyday attire, making the march as gay as a triumph. The city gates were hardly wide enough to let them out. The Teatro de Toros, whither the brilliantly clad column

was tending, is an amphitheatre situated just without one of the city gates, and near the station house of the first railway constructed in Spain. Strange that the barbaric shows of times gone by can still be set up within sound of the whistle of modern civilization! But here is the theatre of the bull-fight within a stone's throw of the railway, the gas works, and the grand quay of the port. So tenacious is the Spaniard of old customs, and the game of blood! The edifice is built on the model of the Roman amphitheatre, and is capable of containing several thousand spectators. Yet it is a wooden Coliseum, with no pretensions to any beauty of architectural details. Its only ornament is the gayly dressed crowd -the red cap, cloak and mocado of the lower classes; the silks, velvets and laces of the higher; the uniform and bayonets of the guardsmen; the tapestry and gilded state of the loge gubernatorial. The prices are arranged to suit all purses, from the caballero's to the beggar's. The one sits in the shade at many more times the expense of the other in the sun. The sun, in fact, is always on the side of the beggar in Spain-its light being so common that it is considered a mark of gentility to keep out of it. In summer the hidalgo may be on the right side of the question; but, by the well adjusted laws of compensation, the pobre who goes to the feast of bulls in winter, has decidedly the best of the bargain.

At any rate, there they sit: the poor fellow in light, and the rich one in shade, impatient both for the beginning of the entertainment. At length, the bugles sound. The chulos, in fantastic dress, and bearing banners, enter by a side door, and march up to the corregidor's seat to make their obeisance. These having afterwards taken their places in the arena, another flourish of trumpets announces the entrance of the picador on a gayly caparisoned steed. With plumed hat in hand, he rides up to the gubernatorial seat, where he presents his knightly homage; and then galloping around the circuit of the ring, he receives, in return, the applause of the populace. Again the trumpets bray out-the folding gates are opened-and in bounds the bull. He is a novillo, and has his horns tipt with balls. Therefore, let no gentle reader faint. There may be some little show of blood, and some ugly sensations felt about the ribs of a chulo or two. But no lives will be taken; for the buttoned horns cannot gore the charger's flanks; and the two or three years old

hoofs have not the heavy tread of those of a leader of the herd. So, courage—and let us see the fight.

The furious animal rushes through the gates, head down and tail in the air. But at either side of the entrance, his tormentors lie in wait for him. They have their hands full of small barbed darts, with short handles, decked with ribbons. These are to be hurled into the sides of the bull's neck, to worry him. At his very first bound into the arena, he receives one of these missiles on either side. Maddened by the sting, he turns upon his persecutors. They fly-they dodge his thrusts-they leap over the barriers. chulo, in harlequin's dress and bells, waves his red banner to attract the enraged animal away from the fugitives. Another shakes his scarf at him, just as he is making a sally against the banner. cloak is thrown in to save the scarf. Meanwhile, the barbed shafts are flying thick and fast into the poor brute's neck. He roars with rage and agony. He scatters his foes in all directions. He drives them out of the ring.

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Then comes to the charge the mounted picador. He, too, is armed with javelins; and riding boldly by the side of the cantering beast, with well-directed aim, he drives them home, until the bleeding neck is hung with arrows as with a double mane. At intervals, the bull, fearless of the threatening spear, makes an onset, with all his forces. But for the preventing balls, his horns would gore and rip up the unprotected flanks of his enemy, letting out his entrails to drag upon the ground, and be torn by the noble steed's own hoofs. As it is, the blood which stains the charger's sides comes from the bull's neck, and not out of his own belly. Horse and rider easily escape unharmed from the well-balled horns. Only the too venturesome chulo, who seizes the novillo by the horns, may be thrown down, and even trodden under foot, if he be overmastered. In that case, he is withdrawn from his perilous situation, as soon as may be, by his companions, and carried off to the room of the attending surgeon, who, armed, as in the days of Dr. Sangrado, with lancet and hot water, stands ready to finish the task commenced in the arena.

When the poor bull has been bullied to all hearts' content, he is given over to the Matadores, and their assistants. These rush in upon him; and seizing him, one by the horns, another by the tail, and the rest as best they can, they hold him fast. The arrows are then

drawn out of his bleeding neck; and relieved of these uncomfortable ornaments, he is dragged or driven off the scene of action. The hurrahs or the hoots of the populace follow him to the gates, according as he has shown the red feather or the white one. For only two or three out of the half dozen tyros which are exhibited, proved themselves to be from the pastures of the Jarama. The rest evinced a marked dislike of the part they were invited to play in. One, the very moment of entering the arena, looked around upon the hissing and hooting crowd, as if amazed and confounded by the unusal spectacle, or by the unfavorable reception. Another, after receiving a javelin or two, turned out to be an arrant coward, and would not fight on any terms whatever. A third ran roaring away from his pursuers, seeking in vain at every gate to get out of a scrape he had no fancy for, and only turning from sheer disgust to make an occasional onset on the harlequins who took indecent liberties with the tail of his person.

On the whole, the play went off to the general satisfaction. A battalion of soldiers kept the red-caps from drawing knives, and made them rest contented with what little blood ran down the necks of the embolados. They had besides the pleasure of seeing one poor fellow's ribs roughly tickled; one fool's cap tossed into the air; a scarf or two badly ripped up; and the cloak of a terrified chulo pinned to the wall by the bull's horns, as the fugitive was clambering for safety over the barrier. Every home thrust was acknowledged with applause; every feat of dexterity or show of courage, whether on the part of the four or the two-legged animals, drew forth a peal of bravos and bravisi

mos.

As nobody was killed or run through, no lady had a pretext for fainting. Not a scream was heard. Not a fan was raised before the eyes. Even the English ladies present did not go into hysterics, but looked on with the sang froid for which they are so celebrated on the continent. Still, unless I am greatly mistaken, there was some killing done in the

boxes. There were nobler hearts struck there than any which were exposed in the ring. For the bull-fight, be it mock or serious, is not an occasion to be let slip by the fair one, who goes to it armed with daggers both in her eyes and garters. I met there also belles from other climes, the fairest blondes of the northern winter, who, mingling with the brunettes of the terra caliente, had learned their arts, and went likewise armed to the knees. These, too, are dangerous to be met with at bull-fights. In fact, an addition of a few heads of auburn, and eyes of blue to the dark beauty of a gallery of Spanish Señoras and Señoritas, makes a battery of charms the most formidable that can be imagined. The principal instrument, however, of Spanish coquetry, whether at the feast of bulls, or any other sort of feasts, is the fan. In the little hand of a Señora of the South, the abanico is as wonder-working an instrument as a rod in the grasp of a wizard, or a sceptre in that of a king. It signifies every thing -it signifies nothing. All depends on the way in which it is flirted. And there are a thousand ways. Yet not one of them can be described in words. Utterly impossible! But when you see a fan beckoning to you, you know at once what it means. Only a simpleton would fail of understanding this language of natural signs the very first lesson that was given him in it. You must be a perfect blockhead to force a lady to drop her fan, in order to intimate to you that she takes a lively interest in your welfare. That is the last motion she ever gives it. It is the greatest manoeuvre capable of being executed with a fan-to drop it. 'If it is in a war of self-defence that she resorts to this use of the weapon, you ought to know that she has come to the final struggle. In fact, it is no more nor less than a proposition to surrender. It is the hauling down of the flag of the fortress. Then is your time! Seize it like a man-for in a another moment you may be for ever too late. Rush in at the open gates of the citadel of the heart: and hold it against all comers-as long as you can.