In the high upper seats of the rude amphitheatre sat the gaily-decked wives and daughters of the Gascons, from the metaries along the Ridge, and the chattering Spanish women of the Market, their shining hair unbonneted to the sun.  Next below were their husbands and lovers in Sunday blouses, milkmen, butchers, bakers, black-bearded fishermen, Sicilian fruiterers, swarthy Portuguese sailors, in little woollen caps, and strangers of the graver sort; mariners of England, Germany, and Holland.  The lowest seats were full of trappers, smugglers, Canadian voyageurs, drinking and singing; Americains, too—­more’s the shame—­from the upper rivers —­who will not keep their seats—­who ply the bottle, and who will get home by and by and tell how wicked Sodom is; broad-brimmed, silver-braided Mexicans, too, with their copper cheeks and bat’s eyes, and their tinkling spurred heels.  Yonder, in that quieter section, are the quadroon women in their black lace shawls—­and there is Baptiste; and below them are the turbaned black women, and there is—­but he vanishes—­Colossus.

The afternoon is advancing, yet the sport, though loudly demanded, does not begin.  The Americains grow derisive and find pastime in gibes and raillery.  They mock the various Latins with their national inflections, and answer their scowls with laughter.  Some of the more aggressive shout pretty French greetings to the women of Gascony, and one bargeman, amid peals of applause, stands on a seat and hurls a kiss to the quadrooms.  The mariners of England, Germany, and Holland, as spectators, like the fun, while the Spaniards look black and cast defiant imprecations upon their persecutors.  Some Gascons, with timely caution, pick their women out and depart, running a terrible fire of gallantries.

In hope of truce, a new call is raised for the bull:  “The bull, the bull!—­hush!”

In a tier near the ground a man is standing and calling—­standing head and shoulders above the rest—­calling in the Americaine tongue.  Another man, big and red, named Joe, and a handsome little Creole in elegant dress and full of laughter, wish to stop him, but the flat-boatmen, ha-ha-ing and cheering, will not suffer it.  Ah, through some shameful knavery of the men, into whose hands he has fallen, he is drunk!  Even the women can see that; and now he throws his arms wildly and raises his voice until the whole great circle hears it.  He is preaching!

Ah! kind Lord, for a special providence now!  The men of his own nation—­men from the land of the open English Bible and temperance cup and song are cheering him on to mad disgrace.  And now another call for the appointed sport is drowned by the flat-boatmen singing the ancient tune of Mear.  You can hear the words—­

     “Old Grimes is dead, that good old soul”

—­from ribald lips and throats turned brazen with laughter, from singers who toss their hats aloft and roll in their seats; the chorus swells to the accompaniment of a thousand brogans—­