Bull fights are now daily decreasing, both in number and splendor of appearance, from what they were in former times. Either the Spaniards are losing their relish for such spectacles, or the scarcity of good _picadores_ and _espades_ detracts from the interest which attaches to them. Not long since, the _matadores_ were favorites with the public, and were regarded with considerable interest even by their superiors. Many singular and gallant adventures are related of them and ladies of rank. It was a common custom, no great while ago, to throw purses of gold to the combatants, upon the achievement of some skilful feat. But unhappily the secret of long purses is lost, and there is but little chance of a stranger seeing any money thrown away in Spain at the present time. The most renowned of the Matadores were Romero and Pepe-Hillo, the author of a treatise entitled Tauromachia. The first retired from the arena full of honors and considerable wealth. But being desirous of obtaining for his son a canonship, he was commanded, in order to obtain that favor from the queen, Maria Louisa, to re-appear in the arena, on some grand festival. Romero joyfully obeyed; but his age and feebleness were inadequate to cope with the fearful bull, and he would certainly have been killed, had not his friends forcibly withdrawn him from the arena. The will, however, was taken for the deed, and his son was accordingly made a canon. With regard to Pepe-Hillo, like a gallant general, he met his death in the field of his exploits. On a certain occasion, contrary to the opinion of his friends, who knew him to be suffering from a wound in the hand, he appeared in the arena. Unhappily he had to encounter a tremendous animal. The bull hurled him on high twice; and when the unfortunate man fell on the ground he was frightfully gored, and shortly afterwards expired, amidst the most excruciating torments. THE LADY AND THE FLOWER. BY G. P. R. JAMES, ESQ. There be of British arms and deeds, Who sing in noble strain, Of Poictiers’ field, and Agincourt, And Cressy’s bloody plain. High tales of merry England, Full often have been told, For never wanted bard to sing The actions of the bold. But now I tune another string, To try my minstrel power, My story’s of a gallant knight, A lady, and a flower. The noble sun that shines on all, The little or the great, As bright on cottage doorway small, As on the castle gate, Came pouring over fair Guienne From the far eastern sea; And glistened on the broad Garonne, And slept on Blancford lea. The morn was up, the morn was bright, In southern summer’s rays, And Nature caroll’d in the light, And sung her Maker’s praise. Fair Blancford, thou art always fair, With many a shady dell, And bland variety and change, Of forest and of fell.