The Prado itself, that beautiful promenade, which has attracted the attention of all who have visited Spain, now presented a most brilliant spectacle: it was crowded with carriages, as well as with pedestrians, all pressing to enjoy the coolness of the evening in that delightful spot. Having strolled a few times up and down this fashionable promenade, we retired to the Neverria de Soles, cortiguous to the Prado, to take our refresco. To this place, as to many others of the like nature, the more elegant class of society retire early in the evening to eat ices, and drink lemonade and other refreshing beverages. From hence each person retires to his own tertulia for the evening, and thus ends a day wholly consecrated to pleasure.

Bull fights are now daily decreasing, both in number and splendour 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 espadas detracts from the interest which attaches to them. Not long since, the matadores were favourites 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.

X

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 honours and considerable wealth. But being desirous of obtaining for his son a canonship, he was commanded, in order to obtain that favour 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were inadequate to cope with the fearful bull, and he would certainly have been killed, had not his friends forcibly withdrawn him from the arena.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 PepeHillo, 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.

RUINS.

I.

THERE is a magic in the days gone by,

Which stirs, through all its depths, the pausing soul; When, dim and vast, in wild sublimity,

The shades of buried ages round us roll;

When, from the bonds of present being freed,

We live through years and empires in an hour,-
Behold the Victor crowned, the Patriot bleed,
And the long laurelled train of giant Power.

II.

There is a magic in the days gone by,

When some hoar, mouldering relic of their pride

Rears mournfully its riven frame on high,

And forceful points to what hath lived and died; Like the pure memory of our dawning life

In childhood's stainless heart devoutly placed; Which, through the whirl of sin, the passions' strife, Lives on, when all around lies dark and waste.

III.

Memorial of the dead! the gorgeous day

Rests like a glory on thy crumbling height;
And Summer's balmiest odours round thee play,
And rainbow blossoms clothe thy stones in light.
Joy is above-around thee-in the blue

Of the far heaven, and in the gurgling notes
Of birds harmonious;-in the changing hue
Of the fresh leaping wave that by thee floats.

IV.

But joy claims nought in thee,-my pulses change
Their giddy throb, as, with a holy thrill
More consonant to thought's sublimer range,

I enter thy charmed precincts, slow and still.
I stand amid the mockeries of Time,-

My foot is on the reaching aims of Art;—
For this, proud worm! didst thou essay to climb
Up Memory's steep, and set thy name apart?

V.

Where is that name and glory?-let the blast, Which sweeps thy midnight chambers, loud arise And to the skies the haughty secret cast,

In words of storm:-I speak; but none replies. Thine echoes have departed—and the air,

Which all without is full of glee and song, Wails in the chastened accents of Despair Through the dank ivy, as it creeps along!

VI.

Now following floods of light intense pervade,
Floating these roofless arches, with their line
Of slender columns, melting into shade,

As less and less the clustered shafts decline;---
These desolate windows, and their fairy work

Of nicest tracery, choked by clinging weeds, Where in her silent nest the small birds lurk, Or hymn low notes o'er Valour's sculptured deeds.

VII.

While in the holiest circle, where the burst

Of choral chant to Night's dull ear was given,
Two graceful trees the sacred soil hath nursed,
And reared their heads rejoicingly to heaven.
Vigour and youth-decay and tottering age-

Day's vivid blaze-the darkness of the dead;—
Strange contrast!-lo, the concentrated page
Of Man's all-grasping glory here is spread.

VIII.

Why do I love this dim religious awe,

Which sends my eager spirit forth to meet The thronging phantoms of quenched day, and draw Mysterious voices round my lonely seat? Why does the deed of glory rouse my soul To passionate joy-the bard's inspired shell Each thought and mute-suspended pulse control,

Each grovelling dream of earth, absorbing, quell?