The bull-fighter of to-day is by no means drawn from the dregs of the people; there is, at any rate, one instance of a man of good birth and education attaining celebrity as a professional torero.  He risks his life at every point of the conflict, and it is his coolness, his courage, his dexterity in giving the coup de grace so as to cause no suffering, that raise the audience to such a pitch of frenzied excitement.  I speak wholly from hearsay, for I have myself only witnessed a corrida de novillos—­in which the bulls are never killed, and have cushions fixed on their horns—­and a curious fight between a bull and an elephant, who might have been described as an “old campaigner,” in which there was no bloodshed, and much amusement.  My sympathies always went with the bull,—­who, at least, was not consulted in the matter of the fight,—­as I have seen the popular espada, with his own particular chulo, a mass of white satin and gold embroidery, driving out to the bull-ring on the afternoon of a fiesta, bowing with right royal grace and dignity to the plaudits of the people.  I was even accused of having given the evil eye to one well-known favourite as he passed my balcony, when I wished, almost audibly, that the bull might have his turn for once in a way that afternoon.  And he had; for the popular espada was carried out of the ring apparently dead, the spectators came back looking white and sick, and I felt like a very murderess until I learned later that he was not dead.  All Madrid, almost literally, called to inquire for him daily, filling books of signatures, as if he had been an emperor at least.  Personally, I was more interested in his courage after the event and the devotion of his chulo, who never left his side, but held his hands while the injured leg was cut off, in three separate operations, without any anaesthetic.  Eventually, he completely recovered, and was fitted with an admirable mechanical cork limb in place of the one removed in three detachments; and my sense of evil responsibility was quite removed when I heard that his young wife was delighted to think that he could never enter the bull-ring as a fighter again, and her anxieties were at an end.

[Illustration:  PLAZA DE TOROS.  PICADOR CAUGHT BY THE BULL]

It is quite impossible to over-estimate the popularity of the toreros with the Spanish people.  They are the friends and favourites of the aristocracy, the demi-gods of the populace.  You never see one of them in the streets without an admiring circle of worshippers, who hang on every word and gesture of the great man; and this is no cult of the hour, it is unceasing.  They are always known for their generosity, not only to injured comrades, but to any of the poor in need.  Is there a disaster by which many are injured—­flood, tempest, or railway accident?  Immediately a bull-fight is arranged for the sufferers, and the whole cuadrilla