bidding us direct our coachman to turn his horses' heads towards our hotel. This, however, is not frequent, but when it does occur it brings a certain sense of disillusion akin to that felt by the British holiday-maker when he has gone down to an English seaside place to enjoy the balmy air and finds a bitter east wind blowing! [Footnote 29: Named after the viceroy who caused its construction.] But the bull-fight--ha! the bull-fight--takes place this--Sunday--afternoon, for this is the Mexican Sunday sport: a kind of licence, possibly, after the numerous _misas_ of the early morning! We have purchased our seat in the _sombra_ of the great bull-ring, and the _corrida_ is about to begin. Let us glance round the assembly of many thousands of persons. The seats of the great amphitheatre are divided into two classes--the _sol_ and the _sombra_, "sun" and "shade." That is to say, that the seats in the shady portion--for the structure is open to the sky--are of one class, and command a high price of, say, ten _pesos_ each, whilst the sun-beat portion is of an inferior class, and price, say, one _peso_. It is a sea of faces we gaze upon, the _elite_ of the city in the _sombra_, and the lower classes, the _peones_ and others, in the _sol_. The arena is empty, but suddenly a bugle-call sounds from the judges' platform, and the _picadores_, men on horseback, with their legs protected by armour and bearing sharp-pointed lances in their hands, enter and ride around the arena, bowing to the judges and assembled multitude, who receive them with plaudits. Again a bugle-call, and the sliding doors leading from the _corral_ are opened, and a bull, bounding forward therefrom, stops short a moment and eyes the assembled multitude and the men on horseback with wrathful yet inquiring eye. A moment only. Sniffing the air and lashing his tail, the noble bovine rushes forward and engages the _picadores_; the little pennants of the national colours, which, attached to a barbed point, have been jabbed into his back by an unseen hand as he passed the barrier, fluttering in the wind created by his rush. Furiously he charges the _picadores_. If they are clever they goad him to madness with their lances, keeping him at bay; if he is resolute down go horse and man--both results tickling the popular fancy immensely--and those frightful horns are buried deep in the bowels of the unfortunate steed, which, maddened with agony and fright, leaps up and tears around the arena, trampling perhaps upon his own entrails which have gushed forth from the gaping wound! At times the wound is hastily sewn up, and the unfortunate horse, with a man behind him with a heavy whip, another tugging at the bridle, and the _picador_ on his back with his enormous spurs, forces the trembling brute to face the savage bull again, whilst the audience once more roars out its applause. As many as ten horses are killed or ruined at times by a single bull, who returns again and again to plunge his horns