The _corrida de toros_, bull-run, or bull-fight, the national sport of Spain, is a relic of Moorish chivalry, yet no less Spanish than Arabic; for the institution as it exists in Spain is found neither in Africa nor in Arabia. Originally, as in the ancient tournament, in the sport engaged only cavaliers, or gentlemen, in whom were combined such skill and strength that the head of a bull was sometimes stricken off by a single blow of the _montante_. Since which time the tournament has degenerated into a prize-ring, and the chivalrous bull-fight which in principle was a display of courage combined with skill in horsemanship, and in the use of the lance, has become a sort of dramatic shambles, where the actors are low-born and mercenary professionals. * * * * * [Sidenote: SPANISH DOMESTIC LIFE.] The home life of the Spaniard, which pictures his softer shades of character, and shows the more delicate tracings of his mental and moral sensibilities, must not be disregarded. There alone we shall see him as he is, stripped of the paraphernalia attending his appearance before men, with the intents and purposes of heart and mind laid open before us. We have noticed how the genius of the Mahometan clung to the soil long after he was driven away; to this day southern Spain is more Arabic than Gothic. The towns of Andalusia—of which Cádiz, with its whitewashed antiquity and its streets and walls clean as a _taza de plata_, is the key; and Seville, radiant with sunny gardens and glittering towers, is the pride—consist of narrow, tortuous streets walled by Moorish mansions enclosing cool courts. Shutterless windows, through which half-muffled lovers whisper soft nothings to bar-imprisoned _señoritas_, open without; fresh young love and musty antiquity thus mingling in harmonious contrast. Then, favored by the voluptuous air of spring, or broiling beneath the enervating heat of summer, are Granada, Córdova, and Málaga, where glory and shame, heroic virtue and unblushing vice, erudition and ignorance, Christianity and paganism were so blended that the past and present seem almost one. As if proud of their Moorish origin, these cities of southern Spain battle with time, and hold in fast embrace the shadows of departed grandeur. The better class of Moorish houses are yet preserved; and the otherwise unendurable heat of this so-called oven of Spain is rendered supportable by the narrow, crooked streets—so narrow, indeed, that in some of them vehicles can not pass each other—and by the irregular, projecting stories of the terrace-roofed houses.