Various
Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine, Volume 71, No. 436, February 1852
The risks run by the picadors are terrible; although less, perhaps, from the horns of the bull than from bad falls, and from their horses rolling over them. Few of them, Mr Ford assures us, have a sound rib in their body.
"Occasionally, the bull tosses man and steed in one ruin, and, when they fall, exhausts his fury on the poor beast; for the picador either manages to make him a barrier, or is dragged of by the attendant chulos, who always hover near, and with their cloaks entice the bull from the man, leaving the horse to his sad fate. When these deadly struggles take place, when life hangs on a thread, every feeling of eagerness and excitement is stamped on the countenances of the spectators. Their rapture is wrought to its pitch, when the horse, maddened with the wounds and terror, the crimson seams streaking his foam-and-sweat whitened body, flies from the still pursuing bull: then are displayed the nerve and horsemanship of the picador. It is a piteous sight to behold the mangled horses treading out their protruding and quivering entrails, and yet carrying off their riders unhurt. This too frequent occurrence, and which horrifies every Englishman, has, with some other painful incidents, been kindly kept out of sight by our artist, whose object is to please. Spaniards are no more affected with the reality, than Italians are moved by the abstract tanti palpiti of Rossini. The miserable horse, when dead, is rapidly stripped of his accoutrements by his rider, who hobbles off, and the carcass is then dragged out by the mules, often leaving a bloody furrow on the sand, as Spain's river-beds are marked with the scarlet fringe of flowering oleanders. The riders have a more than veterinary skill in pronouncing off-hand what wounds are mortal or not. Those thrusts which are not immediately fatal, are plugged up by them with tow, and then they remount the crippled steed, and carry him, like a battered battle-ship, again into action."
Mr Lake Price has certainly shown good taste in suppressing the more revolting and painful details of bull-fights. The bloody minutiæ of the spectacle would have spoiled his pictures. In painting bull-fights, as in painting battles, the artist must leave to imagination by far the greater part of the gaping wounds and streaming blood, and horrible mutilations. No field of severe battle was ever painted, we apprehend, exactly as it appeared to him who walked over it just as the fight was done. The fidelity of a daguerreotype would be inadmissible in such cases. Imagine an exact representation of Borodino's redoubt, or Albuera's heights, at the very moment of the battle's close, before the fast-accumulating wounded were half removed, or the ghastly dead committed to the shallow grave. From such a picture, whatever its artistic merit, all would turn with shuddering and sickness. If we may compare small things with great, so it is with bull-fights. The painter, if he does not actually suppress fact, must at least choose his moment well, and spare his admirers the more revolting circumstances of the barbarous sport. For barbarous it really is, and some of the occurrences incidendal to it doubtless "horrify every Englishman," as Mr Ford says; but, at the same time, we have observed that nearly all Englishmen who pass even a short time in Spain get over their horror, and become pretty regular attendants at the bull-ring. So that we must not press too severely on Spaniards for their ardent and passionate love of a spectacle which, from childhood, they are accustomed to hear spoken of with enthusiasm, as the finest and most essentially national sport in the world.
No less than eight of Mr Price's pictures are devoted to the second act of the Bull's Tragedy, in which the chulos chiefly figure. This employment is the noviciate of bull-fighting. Great activity and speed of foot are the chief qualifications requisite.
"The duty of this light division is to skirmish and draw off the bull when the picador is endangered, which they do with their particoloured silken cloaks. Their mercurial address and agility is marvellous; they skim over the sand like glittering humming-birds, seeming scarcely to touch the earth. The most dangerous position is when they venture into the middle of the Plaza, and are pursued by the bull to the barrier, over which they bound. The escape often takes place in the very nick of time, and they win by a neck; and frequently so close is the run, that they seem to be helped over the fence by the bull's horns; nay, so active are the bulls, that they often clear the six feet high palisado, on which occasion an indescribable hubbub and confusion take place amid the combatants, water-sellers, alguazils, and persons within; all the doors are immediately opened, and the perplexed beast soon finds his way back again into the arena, to new inflictions. The Plates XIV. and XVII. represent two of the most difficult and dangerous performances of the combatants on foot, and which are rarely attempted, except by the most skilful and experienced toreros and matadors, who take part in these interludes. Such is the Suerte de la Capa, or feat of the cloak. When the infuriated bull, foaming with rage, stands lord of all he surveys, Montes would coolly advance, and, when within two yards, turn his back to the animal, and, holding his cloak behind his shoulders, receive the rushing charge five or six times, stepping adroitly aside at each. The second, El Salto trascuerno, is even more hazardous. The performer advances as before, and when the bull lowers his head to charge, places his foot between the horns, is lifted up, and lights on the other side. These touch-and-go experiments form no part of the strict duties of the chulo; his exclusive province is the banderilla. This implement consists of a barbed dart or arrow, which is wrapt round with papers of different colours, cut in fanciful patterns of ornamental cruelty; the bearer, holding one in each hand, approaches the bull, presenting the point to him, and at the instant when he stoops to toss him, jerks them into his neck, turns aside, and eludes him. To do this neatly requires a quick eye, and a light hand and foot. The ambition of the performer is to place the barbs evenly and symmetrically, one on each side of the bull's neck. Three and four pairs of these are usually stuck in. Sometimes, when the bull has given dissatisfaction, these banderillas are armed with crackers, which, by means of detonating powder, explode the moment they are fixed; the agony of the scorched animal makes him plunge and snort frantically, to the delight of a people whose ancestors welcomed the Auto da Fé, and the perfume of burning living flesh."
Five plates, exhibiting the bull's last moments, complete and conclude this masterly and accurate series. Here is the matador, craving permission to kill the bull in honour of the municipality of Seville: here he advances – his long four-edged sword, of more than bayonet strength, firmly grasped in his right hand, whilst his left waves the scarlet muleta, further exasperating the menaced brute. Be it observed, that there is no "thrusting" in the case. Rapier work were here of little avail. The sword is solid, stiff, and heavy; it receives the bull, but does not meet him. Entering between the shoulder and blade-bone, it is buried, by the victim's own impetus, to the very hilt. Only by so profound and desperate a wound could this energetic vitality be thus instantaneously extinguished. When successful, skilful matadors will sometimes withdraw the sword from the wound, and raise it in triumph above their prostrate victim. On all occasions, a firm hand, great nerve, and a quick eye, are essential. The bull is very often not killed by the first thrust: if the sword strikes a bone, it is ejected high in the air by the rising neck. When a bull will not run on the flag, he is doomed to the dishonourable death of a traitor, and is houghed from behind with a sharp steel crescent fixed on a long pole. When the sinews of his hind legs are thus cruelly divided, the poor beast crawls in agony, and squats down; then a butcher-like assistant, the cachetero, creeps up, and pierces the spinal marrow with a pointed dagger, which is the usual mode of slaughtering cattle in the Spanish shambles. To perform any of these vile operations is beneath the matador, who sometimes will kill such a bull by plunging the point of his sword into the vertebræ. The great danger gives dignity to this most difficult feat, el descabellar. If the exact spot be hit, death is immediate; if the aim misses, and the animal's side only is pricked, he dashes at the unprotected torero, and frequently disables him.
Artists and authors travelling in Spain may, for some time to come, give their brushes and pens a holiday, so far as bull-fights go. There remains little that is new to be written or painted concerning them. Every phase and incident of the contest has been correctly seized and vividly portrayed by Mr Price, who has fairly exhausted his subject. As regards description, that given by Mr Ford is exactly what is needed to accompany an artistical work. It tells us all that is wanted, and, in conjunction with the pictures, gives to fire-side travellers as good an idea of what a bull-fight really is, as can possibly be obtained without actually witnessing one. It has not suited our purpose, in the present brief paper, to extend our examination of "Spain as it is" beyond the fourth chapter of the second volume; but it is only fair to say, lest it should be supposed the merit of the book is also confined to that chapter, that Mr Hoskins' volumes contain a mass of useful information and clever criticism on the public and private picture-galleries of Spain.
CUPID IN THE CABINET
AN ATTIC LEGEND
[The incidents upon which the following little poem is founded, are amusingly related by John Lydgate, monk of Bury, who flourished about the year 1430. Warton has done full justice to his poetical genius; but his prose works, though comparatively less known, deserve equal attention.
"I will tell you now of a plesaunt story recorded by Plotinus. One daye a certaine man of the cytie of Athens going forthe into an olde foreste, wherein was many dyuers of byrdes synging, did hear, nye unto a brokken Tempill, that tyme afore was dedicat unto a hethen Godde, a voice as of a yonge chylde that was carolying swetely. How be it, the man knew not the tonge wherein the lyttel chylde did synge. Astonied at thys maruyl, for the place was not nighe unto the cytie, so that chylderne colde furthlie passe thereunto, he looked ovir the walle, and soughte al aboute what this myght mene. Than sawe he sytting amonge the herbes, a fayre yonge boie, with winges besprent with fetheris, behynde his sholderis, and noghte lyving thynge besyde. Than sayde he: 'What doest thow here, chylde?' but the chylde answered noght, but smyled. Soe the man, being in perplexitie, for he knew not what it mycht bee, yet lyking not to leeve so yonge a chylde in the wodes, where wylde bestes were manie, did have him up into his mantill, and convaied him home until his awn duellynge. There, in defaulte of anie cage, he did putte the chylde into an olde Cabynett, that afore tyme stode longe there, and dyd give hym mete and drynke. Yet the chylde waxed not, but sange contynuously, soe that al the pepill of Athens maruyled at hys mynstrelsye. But what was grete wonder, the Cabynett wherein he was, which afore was brast in dyuers places, wherein chinkis and riftis dyd appere, semed to become of a sodaine newe and stronge, and was couered with gemmis and jowellis of grete prys, yet colde no man telle whens they did come. And the lyttel chylde had hys duellynge there, lyke unto an byrdis neste, and dyde synge rychte swetely, so that manie cam from afar to see the wonder. So dyd he manie yeris. At the last, deceisit the master of the house, and he that cam after hym loued nat musike, but was given up to thochtes of merchaunsedyse, and was of an ille fauour, regardynge nocht but his own gettynges. Soe one daye, heryng the chylde synge euer, he wox angery, and did command hym to holde his pees. Howe be it the chylde wolde nat. Than thys man, being wrothe, caused to bringe leveris, and to brak open the Cabynett, and take forth the chylde, and to put hym to the wyndowe. But the chylde sayd, 'Ye will curse the tyme ye put me forth;' and with those wordes vanyshed the chylde away, and was neuer sene a geyne. From that tyme the Cabynett was rent, and fall asonder in peces, Dyuers were angery with the man for his myssedede, but he sayd, 'The deuyll satysfye you, for I dyd it for the beste; but I shall neuer more medyll.' And he dyd nat, but sone after departed that cytie. And Plotinus sayth that thys chylde was estemit to be Cupido, and so was called in hys daies."]
– Lydgate's Boke of Tradycion.
Pray you, gentle ladies, hearken
To a tale of ancient time:
Let no doubt your bosoms darken,
Love is always in his prime.
Young, and fair, and gladly singing
As he did in days of yore,
O'er the bright blue ocean winging
To the sweet Idalian shore.
Cupid is not dead, dear ladies!
You may hear him even now
At the early dawn of May-days,
Singing underneath the bough.
But beware, for he deceiveth;
Tempt him not within the door,
For the house that Cupid leaveth
Shall not prosper evermore.
Old Plotinus, now in glory,
Hath bequeathed to us a story,
Which perhaps may sound as new —
And 'tis neither long nor stupid —
Of a man who captured Cupid;
If you please, I'll tell it you.
Wandering through the forests wide,
Rising from Cephisus' side,
Went a stout Athenian Archon,
With a vacant listless eye,
Till he heard a little cry,
That made him stop and hearken.
From a ruined temple near,
Came a voice both soft and clear,
Singing in some foreign tongue
Sweeter strains than e'er were sung,
Till the birds forbore their call,
Wondering who the wight might be
That in forest minstrelsy
Overcame them, one and all.
Slowly went the Archon on —
Peered above the broken stone —
There, within the waste enclosure,
On a bed of myrtle wild,
Lay a little yearling child,
Who smiled and sung, and sung and smiled,
In innocent composure.
From his chubby shoulders, wings
Sprouted outwards; tender things,
Hardly fledged, as are the callow
Nestlings of the household swallow.
And the Archon, gazing there,
Thought that never child so fair
Had he looked on, anywhere.
"Whence art thou, my pretty boy?
But the infant nought replied,
Turning to the other side
With an unknown song of joy.
"Can it be," the Archon pondered,
"That some little god hath wandered
From his home within the skies,
To a dreary spot like this?
Ever welcome to the wise
Such a rare occasion is;
So within my cloak I'll fold him!"
Little trouble was to hold him —
Calm and still the infant lay,
Smiling ever, singing ever,
Till the Archon crossed the river
Just above Piræus' bay.
"In what place to lodge my darling!"
Mused the much-bewildered sage,
"He might dwell within a cage
Safe as any finch or starling;
But an infant god to hold,
All the wires should be of gold.
Ha! I see – the very thing!
This will give him room to play,
Yet so far restrain his wing
That he cannot fly away.
Therefore come, my pretty pet,
I'll put thee in my Cabinet!"
Crazy was that Cabinet
When he let the Cupid in,
Loosely were the joinings set
Both without it and within:
You had sworn in any weather
That it could not hold together
Longer than a year or so.
But no sooner was the god
Ushered to his new abode,
Than he wrought a change; for, lo!
Bright and fresh the place became,
Renovated in its frame.
With a lustre shone the wood
As it were from opal hewed;
And the vases twain, that stood
On its top, both cracked and grey,
Glistened with metallic ray,
As if golden jars were they.
Every thing grew bright and fair,
For the God of Love was there.
As a bird within a cage
So that it be tended well,
Careth not elsewhere to dwell;
Will not leave its hermitage,
Even for the wild and free
Chorus of the greenwood tree —
So the god, though famed for changing,
Never seemed to think of ranging.
Were the seasons dry or wet —
Rose the sun, or did it set —
Still he kept his Cabinet.
And he sang so loud and clear,
That the people clustered round
In the hope that they might hear
Something of that magic sound;
Though the words that Cupid sung
None could fathom, old nor young.
Sometimes, listening from afar,
You might catch a note of war,
Like the clarion's call; and often
Would his voice subside, and soften
To a tone of melancholy,
Ending in a long-drawn note,
Like that from Philomela's throat —
'Twas, "Proto-proto-proto-colly!"
But at last the Archon died,
And another filled his place —
He was a man of ancient race,
But jaundiced all with bitter pride,
Oppressed with jealousy and care;
Though quite unfitted to excel,
Whate'er the task, he could not bear
To see another do it well!
No soul had he for wanton strains,
Or strains indeed of any kind:
To nature he was deaf and blind,
His deepest thoughts were bent on drains.
Yet in his ear were ever ringing
The notes the little god was singing.
"Peace, peace! thou restless creature – peace!
I cannot bear that voice of thine —
'Tis not more dulcet, sure, than mine! —
From thy perpetual piping cease!
Why come the people here to hearken?
The asses, dolts! both dull and stupid!
Why listen to a silly Cupid,
Preferring him to me, their Archon?
Hush, sirrah, hush! and never more,
While I am here, presume to sing!"
Yet still, within the mystic door,
Was heard the rustling of the wing,
And notes of witching melancholy,
Called – "Proto-proto-proto-colly!"
In wrath the furious Archon rose —
"Bring levers here!" he loudly cried,
"If he must sing – though Pallas knows
His voice is tuneless as a crow's —
E'en let him sit and sing outside!"
They burst the door. The bird was caught,
And to the open window brought —
"Now get thee forth to wood or spray,
Thou tiresome, little, chattering jay!"
Paused the fair boy, ere yet he raised
His wing to take his flight;
And on the Archon's face he gazed,
As stars look on the night.
No woe was there – he only smiled,
As if in secret scorn,
And thus with human speech the child
Addressed the nobly born, —
"Farewell! You'll rue the moment yet
You drove me from your Cabinet!"
He sped away. And scarce the wind
Had borne him o'er the garden wall,
Ere a most hideous crash behind
Announced an unexpected fall.
The Cabinet was rent in twain!
The wood was broken into splinters,
As though for many hundred winters
It had been dashed by wind and rain.
Golden no more, the jars of clay
Were dull and cracked, and dingy grey.
Down fell a beam of rotten oak;
The chair beneath the Archon broke;
And all the furniture around
Appeared at once to be unsound.
Now have I nothing more to say!
Of Cupid's entrance all beware:
But if you chance to have him there,
'Tis always wise to let him stay.
And, ladies, do not sneer at me,
Or count my words without avail;
For in a little time you'll see
There is a moral to my tale.
What has been done in days of yore
May well again be acted o'er,
And other things have been upset
By Cupid, than a Cabinet!
THE OLD SOLDIER. – IN THREE CAMPAIGNS
BY THOMAS AIRD
CAMPAIGN THE FIRST
"Glory of War, my heart beat time to thee,
In my young day; but there – behold the end!"
The Old Soldier said: 'twas by his evening fire —
Winter the time: so saving, out he jerked
His wooden leg before him. With a look
Half comic, half pathetic, his grey head
Turned down askance, the pigtail out behind
Stiff with attention, saying nothing more,
He sat and eyed the horizontal peg.
Back home the stump he drew not, till with force
Disdainful deep into the slumbering fire
He struck the feruled toe, and poking roused
A cheery blaze, to light him at his work.
The unfinished skep is now upon his knee,
For June top-swarmers in his garden trim:
With twists of straw, and willow wattling thongs,
Crooning, he wrought. The ruddy flickering fire
Played on his eye-brow shag, and thin fresh cheek,
Touching his varying eye with many a gleam.
His cot behind, soldierly clean and neat,
Gave back the light from many a burnished point.
His simple supper o'er, he reads The Book;
Then loads and mounts his pipe, puffing it slow,
Musing on days of yore, and battles old,
And many a friend and comrade dead and gone,
And vital ones, boughs of himself, cut off
From his dispeopled side, naked and bare.
Puffs short and hurried, puff on puff, betray
His swelling heart: up starts the Man, to keep
The Woman down: forth from his door he eyes
The frosty heaven – the moon and all the stars.
"Peace be with hearts that watch!" thus, heaven forgot,
And all its hosts, true to the veins of blood,
Thoughtful his spirit runs: – "'Tis now the hour
When the lone matron, from her cottage door,
Looks for her spouse into the moonlit ways;
But hears no foot abroad in all the night.
Then turns she in: the tale of murder done,
In former days, by the blue forest's edge,
Which way he must return – why tarries he? —
Comes o'er her mind; up starting quick, she goes
To be assured that she has barred her door;
Then sits anew. Her little lamp of oil
Is all burnt out; the wasting embers whiten;
And the cat winks before the drowsy fire.
What sound was that? 'Tis but her own heart beating.
Up rises she again; her little ones
Are all asleep, she'll go and waken them,
And hear their voices in the eerie night;
But yet she pauses, loth to break their rest.
God send the husband and the father home!
"No one looks out for me in all this world,
No one have I to look for! Ah poor me!
Well, well!" he murmurs meek. Turning, he locks
His lonely door, and stumps away to bed.