bull in the centre of the arena, and while the enraged gentleman stops in order to toss his rash tormentor in the air, the intrepid banderillera darts his pair of darts in the bull's neck just behind the horns: then another, and another. The picadors now leave the field, and the chulas now make a final effort to harass the bull, until the signal is sounded for the last act of the tragedy.

All the interest which the sanguinary exhibition hitherto possessed was nothing to what was next to come. The matador came forth singly from among his companions, holding in one hand a red flag, and in the other a long twoedged sword of the very best tempered steel. He approached the bull, concealing all the while the sword behind his back, and holding the flag forward to provoke the animal to assault. The bull backed about, and stooping with his head to the earth he steadily observed the matador, seeming to feel that his deadliest foe was now before him; while the latter, leaning forward on his left foot, held the sword on a level with his head, having the point bent slightly downwards. There was a moment of terrible suspense-at length the bull rushed forward, but the matador received the charge on his red flag, and turning on his heel allowed the bull to pass him. Again the bull was brought to the attack, and the matador awaited him with the same firm and well-poised attitude: the poor brute dashed fearlessly to the assault, but this time he carried with him the sword, plunged up to the very hilt in his withers, while some inches of its point appeared in his chest below.

At length he fell, and his enemies gathered round him, and the old king and the "et ceteras" of the court, ecclesiastics and foreign ambassadors, and the precious public, made a loud noise, and clapped their hands. In the midst of the

uproar Bully was probably "babbling of green fields," but he fell like a hero, and his carcase was drawn out of the arena

and packed up in a bull hamper, to be retailed out to the Cockneys. And having been so long in a stew, was at last fried as sausages in a lodging-house of beggars.

THE WATER FROLIC PIG HUNT;

OR,

YOU ARE SURE TO SUCCEED IF YOU SET YOUR HEART ON IT.

us, a salt lake at the back of us, and the open sea in view pretty nearly all round us. That is, the sea came up sparkling

almost every day to wash the feet of our wharves and granaries, and the piles of our little jetty. Sometimes it came rollicking, sometimes blustering, and sometimes simpering sometimes it came like some madcap school-boy to play with the little boats, and make them whobble about; at other times like a boisterous boatswain, with his shrill whistle and voice of thunder piping all hands: and when winds were lulled and storms were down, it would glide softly and gently up with the sunbeams or moonbeams sleeping on its bosom, like a harbinger of peace. But in whatever manner the tide ebbed or flowed it was always beautiful, and we loved it, and what was more we made use of it; we bathed and—we swam in it-we boated on it.

On the 24th of May, 1856, we determined to honour it especially. We made the Queen's birthday the day of our regatta. We had a pretty muster of yachts belonging to our own port, and we had been-that is, we "yachting gentlemen" had been-for some weeks scraping, greasing, and getting them in order. The Slangden people, who lived a few miles down the coast, had done the same. They, like us, were determined to cut through the water, but we were confident of beating; for one old fellow who had been engine driver on the Great Eastern, and who was in retired circumstances, owing to one of his legs having been torn off and one of his arms blown off by an "accident," suggested the idea of greasing our yachts with some of that beautiful yellow-looking compound that we see in little square boxes by the side of the trains, and which an individual-generally a very sharp-looking boy-takes out with a sput, and dabs over the axles of the carriage wheels, and sometimes uses to grease his hair.

Well, the owners of the Syren and the Scandal, and the