longer. His attendants followed him at a distance. Facing the bull, within six or eight yards, he presented the red flag, keeping his body partially concealed behind it, and the sword entirely out of view. The bull rushed against the red cloth, and our hero slipped by his side by a slight circular motion, while the beast passed under the lure which the Matador held in the first direction, till he had evaded the horns. Enraged by this deception, and unchecked by any painful sensation, the bull collected all his strength for a desperate charge. Pepe Illo now levelled his sword at the left side of the bull's neck, and, turning upon his right foot as the animal approached him, ran the weapon nearly up to the hilt into its body. The bull staggered, tottered, and dropped gently upon his bent legs; but had yet too much life in him for any man to venture near with safety. The unfortunate Illo has since perished from a wound inflicted by a bull in a similar state. The Matador observed, for one or two minutes, the signs of approaching death in the fierce animal now crouching before him, and at his bidding, an attendant crept behind the bull and struck him dead, by driving a small poignard at the jointure of the spine and the head. This operation is never performed, except when the prostrate bull lingers. I once saw Illo, at the desire of the spectators, inflict this merciful blow in a manner which nothing but ocular demonstration would have made me believe. Taking the poignard, called Puntilla, by the blade, he poised it for a few moments, and jerked it with such unerring aim on the bull's neck, as he lay on his bent legs, that he killed the animal with the quickness of lightning.

Four mules, ornamented with large morrice-bells and ribbons, harnessed a-breast, and drawing a beam furnished with an iron hook in the middle, galloped to the place where the bull lay. This machine being fastened to a rope previously thrown round the dead animal's horns, he was swiftly dragged out of the amphitheatre.

I have now given you a more minute, and, I trust, more correct description of every thing connected with the bull-fights than has ever been drawn by any traveller. Townsend's is the best account of these sports I ever met with; yet it is not free from mistakes. So difficult is it to see distinctly scenes with which we are not familiarly acquainted.

The risk of the fighters is great, and their dexterity alone prevents its being imminent. The lives most exposed are those of the Matadores; and few of them have retired in time to avoid a tragical end. Bull-fighters rise from the dregs of the people. As most of their equals, they unite superstition and profligacy in their character. None of them will venture upon the arena without a scapulary, two small square pieces of cloth suspended by ribbons, on the breast and back, between the shirt and the waistcoat. In the front square there is a print, on linen, of the Virgin Mary-generally, the Carmel Mary, who is the patron goddess of all the rogues and vagabonds in Spain. These scapularies are blessed and sold by the Carmelite Friars. Our great Matador, Pepe Illo, besides the usual amulet, trusted for safety to the patronage of St. Joseph, whose chapel adjoins the Seville amphitheatre. The doors of this chapel were, during Illo's life,

thrown open as long as the fight continued, the image of the saint being all that time encircled by a great number of lighted wax candles, which the devout gladiator provided at his own expense. The Saint, however, unmindful of this homage, allowed his client often to be wounded, and finally left him to his fate at Madrid.

To enjoy the spectacle I have described, the feelings must be greatly perverted; yet that degree of perversion is very easily accomplished. The display of courage and address which is made at these exhibitions, and the contagious nature of all emotions in numerous assemblies, are more than sufficient to blunt, in a short time, the natural disgust arising from the first view of blood and slaughter. If we consider that even the Vestals at Rome were passionately fond of gladiatorial shows, we shall not be surprised at the Spanish taste for sports which, with infinite less waste of human life, can give rise to the strongest emotions.

The following instance, with which I shall conclude, will shew you to what degree the passion for bull-fights can grow. A gentleman of my acquaintance had, some years ago, the misfortune of losing his sight. It might be supposed, that a blind man would avoid the scene of his former enjoyment—a scene where every thing is addressed to the eye. This gentleman, however, is a constant attendant at the amphitheatre. Morning and evening he takes his place with the Maestranza, of which he is a member, having his guide by his side. Upon the appearance of every bull he greedily listens to the description of the animal, and of all that takes place in the fight. His mental conception of the exhibition, aided by the well known cries of the multitude, is so vivid, that when a burst of applause allows his attendant just to hint at the event that drew it from the spectators, the unfortunate man's face gleams with pleasure, and he echoes the last clappings of the circus. L. D.

SONG.

RENAUD hastes him home from the war,

And rapid and hot is his speed,

His silver crest beaming afar,

And love is the spur of his steed.

Then hark to the trumpet and drum!

See to the cap and the feather;

Oh! my heart, how it beats like the one, the one;
And trembles, though glad, like the other.

Though laurels are wreathing his brow,
Though trumpets are sounding his fame,
Yet his sparkling eye tells, even now,
That he dreams a far tenderer dream.

Then hark to the trumpet and drum!
See to the cap and the feather;

And the cry of the maidens, they come, they come,
Heroes and lovers together.

Y.

ACQUAINTANCES.

"Let others fear their foes; you beware only of your friends."

ANASTASIUS.

I Do not wonder at people being fond of hating, for it is truly a much more comfortable feeling in society than its opposite. To tell a person, either by word or look, that you hate him, is easy, and easily understood; but you must find out some more complicated method of informing an acquaintance that you like him. In one there is the semblance of a thousand things to be avoided -servility and adulation, if he be above you-self-importance and an air of patronage, if beneath; but plain, downright hatred is not to be mistaken; if it is not altogether spirit and independence, it is something very like them, and may fairly pass for a virtue in these cursedly civil times.

you

If there be any unpleasant feeling in hatred, it is in the first conception; the subsequent indulgence of it (I do not mean in outward action) is one of the most agreeable feelings we possess'I'm sure, ma'am, you'll agree with me, if reflect for a moment.' But friendship is a bore as long as ever it exists-the continual source of those petty uneasinesses which, it is truly observed, contribute more to embitter life than the most serious misfortunes. From the first pique to the last satisfaction, the regulations of quarrel are known and defined; so are those of love; but no moral legislator has yet thought it worth his while to regulate the province of friendship. It is a mongrel state-a neutral and anarchical sort of territory, like the Isle of Man of old, a refuge for all the outlaws from more worthy and decided feelings. As long as people remain friends, mutual behaviour is a puzzle; but the instant they quarrel, the road is plain before them, and no one can be at a loss how to proceed. While in the several degrees of intimacy, men seem to be acting out of nature -every second step is an awkwardness or an absurdity.

First come the horrors of introduction-the anticipated ideas of face, manner, character, that regularly prove erroneous—our own idea of ourselves-their idea of us-our's of them-the same compared-d civil-rather haughty-he might have done so and so-but no matter. Then the departure, and we retrace the interview: how treacherously exact the memory is in noting every circumstance, while if we wanted a name, it would see us hanged before it would tell us! Then all the way home, all that day, all that night, the over-consciousness of thought sticking in us like pins and needles.

"Oh that the desert were my dwelling-place,
With one fair spirit for my minister."

But ladies won't go into the desert even to spend the honey-moon; and if the fair spirits won't go with us, why we must e'en stay with them.

It were endless to enumerate the various fashions, perplexities, and despondencies, attendant on touching of hats, shaking of hands, making of bows, and saluting of cousins. Some lift the hand to the uppermost button of the coat, as a kind of half-way house between the breeches-pocket and hat-leaf, and if you be short-sighted, will never forgive you ;-there is no balm in Gilead for non-salutation. These canvassers of bows are in the first rank of nuisances; they possess an astonishing ubiquity; you are not safe for having once passed them; "again, again, and oft again," must thy best beaver pay toll at the turning of a corner. There is a very amusing paper in "The Indicator" upon shaking hands; the writer abets the cordial shake, and tells a story of some one's introducing a fish-slice into the passive hand of an acquaintance by way of rebuke. I have envied the said fish-slice since, when in the hands of Hibernians and seamen, who are both unconscionable in their grasp.

With ladies, however, it is a very agreeable salutation, if it be not in the dog-days, not to mention the convenience of having such a tacit barometer of affection. As a hint, a hearty shake or loving squeeze is much better than endangering the corns of a mistress or dirtying her stockings. Though in these cases, as in all others, moderation should be used; it is extremely awkward to see (as I have) a cornelian ring fly from a fair hand, owing to the rude pressure of an unhandy beau, or by burying the diamond or garnet in the finger, to produce an exclamation too confessive of the ardour of the address. Every one has heard the comical story of two gentlemen, seated on each side of a lady, each flattering himself that he possessed the hand of the fair one, till they convinced one another of the mutual mistake by squeezing the blood out of their eight fingers. But not one of my gentle readers, I dare say, would be at a loss to recall a similar contre-tems of his own when a novice in the tender passion; he had rather trust his fingers with the secret than his tongue.

There is an ingenious writer in this very Magazine, who

"Has some stout notions on the kissing score."

I am not at all inclined to agree with him, being myself a downright monosculist. Let the lip and the heart go together but--to one. I protest against kissing three hundred country cousins four times a year, twice at Christmas and twice at Whitsuntide. It is by far too much of a good thing.

Such are the vexations and troubles ere we enter even the threshold of friendship; and "we may go farther and speed worse," as Father O'Leary said to the impugner of purgatory. All the necessary requisites for mingling with our fellow-creatures -of secrecy, selfishness, politeness, reserve-all these we generally learn by having felt the dangerous consequences of wanting them. And when we come to cast up the balance between the pleasures

and the troubles of intimacy, the latter so predominate, that we are more inclined to give up the concern altogether, than make use of our experience in new and more cautiously managed connexions. Friendship, I know, is looked upon as a more noble, a more disinterested feeling than love; and ladies, in particular, who know nothing about it, think it a very romantić sort of passion between us men. Alas! they have by far too good an opinion of the lords of the creation :-if they knew, if they could bring themselves to imagine, for a moment, the real state of the case-but they cannot -they would find that there is as much selfishness, as many insignificant jealousies in friendship as in love; and that these are ten times more odious and troublesome, being such as no man would be mean enough to confess, however he might be little enough to feel and indulge them.

As long as a person is nothing, all these symptoms sleep,-the selfishness of friends is not awakened. But when one has obtained the unlucky fortune of having his sonnet inserted in a Magazine, or his maiden poem lauded in a minor review,-if he have even a Waterloo medal,

"Or lady such as lovers prize,

Have smil'd on him;"

then up spring the little harvest of jealousies, in those very faces, where he, luckless wight, expected to have found but smiles and congratulations. He is no longer what he was; as soon as he becomes something, his friends become patrons; and then,

Farewell the sweet communion of young minds,

The pleasant paths of hope essay'd together,
The subtle wheel of sympathy, that winds
Round either heart the wishes of the other.

Poor, pitiful, or talentless as he may be, he will not want some one "to take pride out of him." And the moment he finds that he has made a step in life, he also finds thorns and dissensions beset him. At home, or abroad, in the strange or the friendly circle, he is astonished to see every aspect altered; there may be more smiles,-whether or not, there certainly is more rancour.

But, unfortunately, the sensitive minds, that penetrate with the greatest ease into the petty motives of those around them, and consequently most strongly feel the repulsiveness of society, are the very beings who require more than any others the countenance and presence of their fellows. 'Tis hard to pass "the slough of despond" alone. And we are compelled at times to acknowledge, that the cause of the disease is its only remedy. It is this balance, this suspense, and alternate betaking itself to each, that harasses the mind, and frets it to morbidity. Each beckons one to it. The company of our "d- kind friends" is often a refuge from loneliness, and loneliness is always a refuge from our "d-- kind friends." And the only pleasure left, is in abusing both.-RALPH.