The next afternoon (Sunday is usually the day) all the world crowds to the Plaza de toros; nothing, when the tide is full, can exceed the gayety and sparkle of a Spanish public going, eager and dressed in their best, to the fight. All the streets or open spaces near the outside of the arena are a spectacle. The bull-fight is to Madrid what a review is to Paris, and the Derby to London. Sporting men now put on all their majo-finery; the distinguished ladies wear on these occasions white lace mantillas; a fan, abanico, is quite necessary, as it was among the Romans. The aficionados and “the gods” prefer the pit, tendido, the lower range, in order, by being nearer, that they may not lose the nice traits of tauromaquia. The Plaza has a language to itself, a dialect peculiar to the ring. The coup d’œil on entrance is unique; the classical scene bursts on the foreigner in all the glory of the south, and he is carried back to the Coliseum under Commodus. The president sits in the center box. The proceedings open with the procession of the performers, the mounted spearmen, picadores; then follow the chulos, the attendants on foot, who wear their silk cloaks, capas de durancillo, in a peculiar manner, with the arms projecting in front; and, lastly, the slayers, the espadas, and the splendid mule-team, el tiro, which is destined to carry off the slain. The profession of bull-fighter is very low-caste in Spain, although the champions are much courted by some young nobles, like the British blackguard boxers, and are the pride and darlings of all the lower classes. Those killed on the spot were formerly denied the burial rites, as dying without confession, but a priest is now in attendance with Su Magestad (the consecrated Host), ready to give always spiritual assistance to a dying combatant. When all the bull-fighting company have advanced and passed the president, a trumpet sounds; the president throws the key of the cell of the bull to the alguacil or policeman, which he ought to catch in his feathered hat. The different performers now take their places as fielders do at a cricket match. The bull-fight is a tragedy in three acts, lasts about twenty minutes, and each consists of precisely the same routine. From six to eight bulls are usually killed during each “funcion”; occasionally another is conceded to popular clamor, which here will take no denial.