ing forward both Guerrita and Minuto to the rescue, and giving them an opportunity to display a very singular passe (al alimon), rarely attempted, I was told. In this passe the capa was drawn by the two men underneath the toro, was rapidly waved backward and forward, and at the close of this extraordinary exhibition they fearlessly knelt before the bewildered beast and tossed a handful of dust upon his foaming muzzle, an ovation being accorded them, and the uproar proving impossible to repress for some time.

When Minuto's brindis had been pronounced, for it was now his turn to take up his sword, the battle between the two combatants presented fearful odds because. of his diminutive stature. There was much to praise in Minuto's clever work, and his fearlessness prompted him to take risks which stirred the people's enthusiasm. His limitations sprung from his lack of inches, for owing to this defect it was impossible for him to render effective the concluding thrust of the sword.

It was Prevenudo, a black bull, who next came before us. He entered slowly, but as suddenly flung himself upon one of the horses with so ferocious an attack that rider and steed went down together in one awful quivering mass. But Guerrita was there, and his wizard

Guerra and Juan Molina-two of Guerrita's banderilleros aroused considerable enthusiasm by their skilful work with the banderillas. Guerrita, imperturbable, calm, never wasting a moment, making each gesture count, and employing very beautiful and wonderful passes recognized and successively named by my neighbors, whose running comments gave proof that it was really as marvellous an exhibition as I intuitively felt it to be-finished by a quick thrust at close aim, and with inimitable command of the resources of his art, persuaded the animal to follow him, that it might die at his feet, as he seated himself by the barrière and quietly, almost mournfully, regarded it.

Benona, of lustrous black coat and with œil de perdrix, permitted Minuto to display his dexterity and to accomplish wonders with his capa, but the little diestro's most surprising feat was in turning his back on the huge brute while he invited it with his muleta to follow him.

The fifth toro, Mojoso, a large red and white bull, was really the toro of the day. The impetuous anger and savage force of this toro made one tremble for the life of every one in the arena, and the picadores were kept busy from the moment it dashed from the toril. Several pairs of banderilles d'honneur were presented by cer

THE SIXTH BULL.-MINUTO BEFORE THE SWORD-THRUST.

tain societies or toro clubs, and these were placed by the two matadores themselves, Guerrita courteously waiving his right of precedence and allowing the dashing little Minuto to come forward in a rôle in which he was sure to shine. His pair were placed "au cuarteo," and the quick movement with which he approached the raging toro and plunged them deep inone wondered how he could reach up so high-raised a furor. Still, Guerrita's much greater finish and poise could not but take the color out of this really remarkable little torero's most effective efforts. His banderillas were placed so differently, with such quiet repose and exact regard for form, that the people simply went wild over him. For the estocada, Guerrita, with a nerve which made one hold one's breath, folded his muleta and arranged it as he wished beneath the eyes of the bull. There were two or three passes--it is necessary to get the toro in a certain position for a successful estocada -and Guerrita's voice rang out, "This is for France! I tell you he is going to die!" and a moment later it rolled over and expired at his feet.

The last of the six bulls had been disposed of by Minuto; the toreros had gathered their brilliant capas about them, and had filed away, accompanied by the cheers of the people and the music of the band. Everybody was talking of the splendid success of this corrida, and I was standing there, feeling as if I had dreamed of what had taken place, although in my hand was one of the banderillas, posed for me by Antonio Guerra, to be carried to my far-off home as tangible proof that I had really witnessed a corrida.

I was

amazed at the perfect condition of the men who had taken such active part in the proceedings. Vaulting over high stone walls to escape the horns of the bull, running, using all of their force during the play of banderillas and sword, yet not one hair on their heads was ruffled; their immaculate linen and tight-fitting costumes were as free from stain or injury as if they had never stirred.

Guerrita (and his cuadrilla) lingered a few days at Nîmes, and dined with us one evening. Minuto, whom I met, and who posed for me before his departure, proved attractive, and was extremely courteous in manner.

The little informal gathering gave me still better opportunities to weigh the peculiarities of the greater of the two matadores, and my impressions concerning his unusual intelligence and strength of character were confirmed. Several who knew him well told me of his virtues as the best of husbands and of fathers, and assured me that his life was in all respects a moderate, well-governed one. He cares, it is said, but little for the excitement of social life, being always far more ready to sit and talk over his beloved art with congenial friends than to be made the hero of the hour at club or café. His distaste for over convivial and not too sober admirers goes so far that he has been con

parture was somewhat hastened by this fact. Why did he not move to one of the other hotels? There were several that were excellent. He could not leave his men. They were as badly placed as he, and he was not willing to establish himself in comfort while they were suffering; as it seemed impracticable to move so large a party of men for so short a time, it would be better to pass on to Marseilles, en route for Béziers, where there would be another corrida on Sunday next.

Guerrita is a wealthy man, and in his own country he is simply idolized; but his tastes remain simple, and he is particularly free from an air of superiority towards those of his comrades who are less famous than himself. Many people find his manner forbidding, and he has the reputation of being plain-spoken and brusque, if not ungentle; but there were little touches which made me believe that this to me wholly agreeable straightforwardness indicated much genuineness of feeling, and the reserve of his nature, which was very strong, doubtless led to his often being misunderstood. The evening we dined together he expanded into a very different being from the Guerrita of the arena. He ate of the simplest food by choice, scarcely touched wine, and for a Spaniard, most marvellous of all instances of renunciation-did not light the accustomed cigarette until the ladies at the table insisted on his doing so. Some one had gathered together a few yellow and red flowers for the centre of the table, and to lay one at each napkin by way of boutonnière. Guerrita was the

first to take his up, lifting it quietly to see if it had perfume, and fastening it in the exquisitely embroidered shirt peculiar to the torero. The action and the man

I

ner showed a certain unexpected refinement of feeling, and his fastidiousness in several respects struck me as suggestive. Much was said concerning the corrida, and I was gravely pronounced an aficionada, and asked if I believed many Americans would care to witness the scene. could truly say that I believed Señor Guerra's art must meet with recognition all over the world, and that my countrymen were not slow to appreciate genius. Could corridas be given in New York? I thought our laws would prevent this. But such laws might possibly be overcome. I turned to the quiet figure by my side, and asked, And if it could be so arranged, Señor Guerra, would you come?" He looked me quickly in the face to see if I was jesting, and answered decisivelyquite sternly, in truth-"Yes, I will come." Some one at the table raised a glass and proposed a toast to Señor Guerra's first corrida de toros in Nueva York; so we drank to this solemnly, and I almost felt as if his coming was a fait accompli.

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There are extenuating features of the corrida, and, like every other sport in the world, it has two very clearly defined sides. It certainly develops qualities which are valuable and rare. But, at all events, I shall never forget the wonderful drama in the old Roman amphitheatre at Nîmes, nor the meeting with Guerrita, most justly famous as the very King of Matadores.

A

N eminent American journalist is in the habit of saying in his own paper that there is no such thing as journalism. He objects to the word. He objects to that view of the making of newspapers which regards it as a profession. He derides the notion that it is a way of life or an occupation for which any serious preparation is possible. If he be right, it is quite clear that any attempt to write on such a subject is a mistake. But I imagine that with him it is, first of all, a dislike to a word, which has nevertheless a good linguistic origin and a settled place

VOL. XCVII.-No. 578.-28

in the language. Whether, again, journalism be a profession or not, in the sense that law and medicine are professions, it is at least an occupation, and one of great importance, both to those who follow it and to the community in general. And if its place be doubtful, or the rules which govern its conduct less definite than those which prevail elsewhere, the more reason for trying to ascertain its true relation to social and political life, and the right methods to be followed in its pursuit. There is, at any rate, more than enough to engage us during the few minutes

which the amiable reader may find himself able to spare. The subject is large enough for a series of articles. The most I can now attempt is a brief discussion of such points as seem most to need discussion, or most likely to interest the nonprofessional public. I shall have to leave untouched most of those larger considerations upon which a journalist would naturally enter if he wished to form an estimate of the real place of the press in the world, of the causes which have brought it to its present height of power, of the true nature of its mission, if it have a mission, and of the probable future which lies before it.

An authority still more eminent than the eminent journalist I have quoted, Prince Bismarck, once scornfully defined journalism as only printer's ink on paper. It was at a moment, I make no doubt, when the press was expressing, on some high matter, a view contrary to his own. Then he would belittle it-he never stopped at means when he wanted to discredit an opponent. But Prince Bismarck, the most masterful and wide-reaching intelligence of his time, is, among other things, a student. He has been a great reader. He would hardly describe the writings of Plato or Goethe as only printer's ink on paper. Does he, then, mean that to the making of newspapers there goes no great amount of thought or ability? And if he means that, how is it that never in the whole history of politics, diplomacy, statesmanship, government, has any man made such constant use of the press as Prince Bismarck himself? He has always known how to find the instrument he wanted. Sometimes it was a king, sometimes a Moltke, sometimes the press of Germany. Perhaps, therefore, we may neglect even Prince Bismarck's dictum. An influence which throughout Europe and America is so great as that of the press is not to be disposed of by an epigram.

Perhaps I may assume that if I get a hearing on journalism it is because I am myself a journalist, and may be supposed to have some practical knowledge of the business. There are, I may also assume, some young readers who have journalism in mind as a profession, who intend to devote their lives to it, to adopt it as a career. Well, it is a solemn thing to make choice of a career; to undertake, as every young man must, to arrange his life for himself; to construct for himself a chart of his own

future; to resolve that, with the whole ocean of life before him, he will sail on this or that sea, steer for some fixed point, and take the chances of sunshine and storm, and of what may betide him should he reach the port he wishes. It is not a light thing to advise a young man who comes to you for advice. There is always a chance-a remote one, no doubt, but still a chance-that one's advice may be taken. It is a responsibility I should not care to accept unless for cause. At the same time I have a feeling that if any experience of mine can be useful to any of the younger men whom I hope to reach, they are entitled to it. I need not put it in the form of advice. I offer it to them simply as a record of experiences, or at most, if anybody should prefer, as a suggestion.

Every man, said Bacon, owes a debt to his profession. He said it of the law, and he paid it to the law, which did not prevent him from paying it to his country and to the world, taking as he did the lead of modern thought. I humbly ac knowledge my debt to journalism, but not without some reserve. I am ready enough to stand or fall with the profession and with my colleagues in the profession if there be any question of attack or defence. But when it is a question of a sober estimate of its real nature and position, and of the career it offers to a young man, then I think it the duty even of a journalist to say what he really thinks.

When the ill-fated Prince Alexandera gallant soul if there was one in Europe

went to ask Prince Bismarck whether he should accept or not the offered throne of Bulgaria, the Prince for a time put aside the question, and finally said, "Well, to have been a ruler of Bulgaria will always be an interesting souvenir." By the side of that I will put the equally well-known remark of Thiers that journalism is a very good profession if you get out of it soon enough. What Thiers said may seem particularly applicable to America, where we change occupations, as we change the fashion of our clothes, from year to year. But it had much more meaning in France, where it was uttered, because in France nearly every man eminent in civil life since the Revolution has begun by writing for the press. Thiers himself was a journalist, so was Guizot, so was Gambetta, and so were a score of other ministers and statesmen.

There it was, and to some extent still is, the recognized door to public life in the service of the state. Here it is much less so, and I may set it down as one of the many paradoxes of the profession-which is in itself the least settled and conventional of all-that when it has once entangled a man it so seldom relinquishes its grip. His service is apt to be for life. If we ask why, we come near to the answer, or to one of the answers, which the journalist must give when he is asked to advise anybody whether to enter upon it or not. It must be admitted that in the majority of cases it does unfit a man for other duties. Once a journalist, always a journalist; that is the rule, which the exceptions, as usual, do but prove.

The exceptions are mostly those journalists who have a capacity for business. There is a business side to journalism, of course, and an extremely important one. A newspaper is a commercial enterprise. To write for it and edit it is one thing; to own it is another, or to manage it or to control its finance. So broad is the distinction that the first question a young man has to ask himself is what he means by journalism, and with which of its several departments does he mean to occupy himself. This business side would need an essay all to itself, and the essayist should be somebody who has made a fortune in a newspaper, or who has lost one. Perhaps the latter might be the more instructive. We all know who the men are who have created great newspaper properties, as it were out of nothing. They are not numerous far less numerous than those who, with less risk and less capacity, have accumulated their millions in some other business. But that also I put aside, for I must again assume that the reader who looks to journalism looks to it rather as an intellectual pursuit than as a financial adventure. He is probably considering how he shall begin, not how he shall end; and if he meditates a plunge into newspaper life, it is because he feels in himself some gifts for writing, or has ideas which he wants to express, or thinks he can gather news or serve as correspondent, or do something in some way toward producing the printed sheet which interests him, and which he hopes, in his own time and way, to make interesting to others.

Let us consider his case a little. He would ask himself, I suppose, first

The

of all, what his equipment is, and that would involve the other not less important question how he is to begin. eminent journalist whom I quoted has expressed the opinion that no training is possible or useful for the beginner. I should reverse that, and say that there is no training, no acquisition, no form of knowledge or experience, which is not useful both to the beginner in journalism and to the life-long practitioner. If it had not been denied, I should have thought that a commonplace. The eminent journalist no doubt really meant his opinion to be taken satirically. He meant that journalism, as now practised in some very conspicuous instances, had no use for history, or for political economy, or for a knowledge of the laws and constitutions under which we live, or for any form of culture. Even then he went too far-so far that his too cynical view need not be combated seriously. Cynicism is a mark either of immaturity or of a perverse mental development. His view is too much like that of the late Lord Beaconsfield— still perhaps more familiarly known in this country as Disraeli. Lord Beaconsfield one evening asked the party whip what sort of a man a certain new member of the House of Commons was. "Oh, a very honest man indeed." "Then," said the great Parliamentarian, "he had better go somewhere else. We have no use for that sort of thing here." Parliament and journalism, said Matthew Arnold, are the two most effective means of bringing the signs of the time to the notice of the public. Would either of them be effective if in neither of them there was scope for either honesty or learning? No one of us believes that.

To say that the journalist, like the poet, is born, not made, would be going too far. It goes too far when it is said of the poet. But it is true of both that certain natural gifts or qualities are essential if any real distinction is to come to either. Why does any one look to journalism as a profession? Not merely, I think, because other professions are over-crowded. Daniel Webster was once asked if the law was not over-crowded. "There is always," said Webster, "room in the upper stories." It is the upper stories at which you aim. I have not a word to say to him who thinks of entering on the lowest floor and staying there. He may earn his living, but he could do that by making shoes,