Tlie Poets Herds. 291 



Soon as he marks me, he, the tjrrant fierce. 



To earth descends his head ; hard breathe his lungs 



Upon the dusty sod ; a sjilky leer 



Gives double horror to the frowning curls 



That wrap his forehead, and ere long is heard 



From the deep cavern of his lordly throat 



The growl insufiFerable." 



But when you and it are both on the same side of the 

 palings, the spectacle of the bull — 



" To the hollowed earth 

 WTience the sand flies, muttering bloody deeds. 

 And groaning deep," 



is not nearly so inspiriting. For the beast has a reckless 

 way about it that defies the calculations of the amateur — 



" At random faces, 

 And whom he hits nought knows, and 

 Whom he hurts nought cares." 



The professional torreador has the creature at his mercy, 

 and I can conceive nothing better calculated to impress 

 upon the mind a befitting sense of the superiority of human 

 reason over brute force and cunning, than the Portuguese 

 bull-ring. The vile cruelty of Madrid is not permitted in 

 Lisbon, and in the latter city therefore is to be seen the per- 

 fection of courage and skill — 



" The bull's hoarse rage in dreadful sport to mock. 

 And meet with single sword his bellowing shock." 



Byron has given an admirable description of the Spanish 

 scene. 



The contests for " the lordship of the lowing herds " 

 afford the poets some fine touches — how they " fill the 

 fields with troublous bellowing," and " in impetuous battle 

 mix." The baited bull was a specially favourite image 



