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starvation and exhaustion, with ti|;1ped horns and ter- rified expression, was goaded into the arena, while brutal-looking tawdrily-attired horsemen on raw-boned Rosinantes, attended by ragged banderillos and chulos pricked courage with their steel weapons into the poor beast — which had all the sympathy of every human witness — and then clumsily butchered it.

Perambulating the streets of San Francisco on the 23d of May, 1850, was a tall, raw boned man, in black skin and black clothes. His wooly head was sur- mounted by a white beaver with a broad blue band, and in his hand he carried a bell which served to fill breathing spaces with its parenthetical ringings. His demeanor was as grave as Mark Antony's when he mourned over Caesar's body  ; his voice was as rich, his gesticulation as effective, though his harangue was not untinctured with a vein of burlesque. A dramatic black man, in black clothes, with a white hat bound with blue, and carrying a bell; and these were his words: — "Look a-here, white folks, T'se a- gwine to gib you all fair notice dat de bull- fight what is a-gwine to be dis arternoon, ain't a-gwine to be till to-morrow at de same time, 'coz dey can't come it. Ting-a-ling-a-ling. 'Coz dey ain't got de bull b}^ de horns. He ain't come to town yet, but is comin' fas' ever dey can fetch him along. So de bull-fight is a- gwine to come off to-morrow arternoon. Ting-a-ling- a-lino;. An' arter dat a chicken fisfht. It's truth I'm a-tellin', gem 'men. The bull what's agwine to fight s one of de bulls what you read about. He's done been and killed nine men already, but he says he can't kill de tenf 'coz how he's too much for him. He's eight feet, am dis bull, an' jus' about sixteen feet long ef he knows hisself. His horns am done been jus' about six feet 'tween de tips, and de hair on his back am been grown up to de sky, an' de crows hab done gone an' made nests into it. An' I'm obliged to tell you dat de bull-fight is obliged to be postponded till to- morrow arternoon, when you mus' all come an' see