the public. At length, when he is supposed to have had enough, the drum gives another tattoo, and a decoy bull enters the arena, running straight up to his enraged, begrimed, and perhaps blood-stained kinsman. And it is hard not to be touched by seeing how, even in the wildest paroxysms of passion, the unlucky bull will stick by the decoy, and follow him willingly back to the stable, giving perhaps a few parting pokes or runs as he quits the detested arena. Hour after hour this sport, such as it is, continues. The net-scene, so elaborately explained in the programme by the simile of the rabbit, created a little variety. With pistols fired off on each side of him, and bewildering shouts in front, the bull ran at full speed into a strong corded net cleverly spread at the outer end of the planked corridor. His struggles soon broke away the fastenings, and off he galloped or stumbled into the middle of the oval, knotting and tightening the net round his horns and legs more hopelessly every moment. At length a few of the really cool lads and men, with some genuine dexterity and daring, got him down and unravelled the coil, cleverly managing to get away to the staging at the moment of the bull’s release. A young fellow who, we were informed, had been uniformly successful in winning the twenty-franc piece during many preceding courses, plucked the cockade from the horn within the prescribed distance of the barricades almost before the animal had had time to make a half-dozen of his desperate charges about the arena. Long intervals occurred between the heats, when hop, skip, and jump, wrestling, and French boxing—in which the hand is extended widely, instead of being clenched—prevailed on all sides, with interludes of whistling and cat-calling, and much sale of wine, bière, and absinth.
Meanwhile, up and down the long reach of the ancient galleries, there was going on an exhibition of another and altogether a higher kind. For in them the stately and beautiful Arlesian women, in their charming costume, were pacing to and fro by twos and threes, not like ordinary inhabitants of a country town, but more as if they were members of some unimagined Woman’s University, and this were their Show-Sunday. The style of costume prevails in the neighbourhood of Arles, both above and below the city—below as far as Salons, and above to Tarascon. But the beauty, grace, and dignity of form and feature, appear, by some unaccountable arrangement of nature, to have been confined—at least in the lavish measure here bestowed—to Arles itself. The guide-books and topographers simply announce that the town is “famed for the beauty of its women.” And in the eyes of a visitor who explores Arles on a week-day, even that bare announcement may appear to exceed the reality. It is on Sundays and fête-days that they issue forth decked in head-dresses and kerchiefs of the best, and move about like queenly shapes of some beautiful pageant beyond the limits of the real and the tangible. It may be certainly affirmed, that nine out of every ten women who threaded the galleries on that afternoon were beautiful. The hair and eyes were uniformly dark, but there was the utmost variety in the types of beauty. Their walk and bearing bespoke the purest blood: there was grace and dignity in every step: and the modesty of their demeanour struck us most forcibly. One would as soon have thought of insulting a well-bred Englishwoman, as of addressing a familiar remark to the humblest of these Arlesians. The details of their dress were varied with great skill,—the main features being preserved, and the most perfect taste in colour displayed. The fold around the head was always black, showing every variety of texture; and the collar over the kerchief was made to project in a tasteful way from necks where Nature had certainly employed more than her “prentice-han’.” We heard it stated that the upper-classes have very generally discarded the dress of their country, and that the spirit of innovation is spreading. Doubtless the “old order” must give place at Arles no less than over the rest of the world; but evil befal each new Paris mode that succeeds in extinguishing but one Arlesian kerchief.
Our description will perhaps be regarded as a little enthusiastic. The impression of a Sunday at Arles is hardly likely to remain far below the degree of enthusiasm, more especially of a Sunday passed amidst the galleries of Les Arènes. No doubt the majestic ruin added to the effect of that fair and picturesque assembly. Over all rose, silent and solemn, the grand upper tier of arcades, and the towers of the Saracens that have looked down on far other scenes, and returned the echoes of other voices.
A DAY AT GREAT YARMOUTH.
The South Quay, Great Yarmouth.
