With It I Killed My Last Bull Named
Peregrino, Bred By D. Vicente Martinez, Fourth Of The Fight Of The 7th
June, 1869, In Which Act I Received The Wound Which Has Caused The
Amputation Of My Right Leg.
The will of man can do nothing against the
designs of Providence.
Nothing but resignation is left to thy
affectionate friend, Antonio Sanchez [Tato]."
It is in consideration of the mingled skill and danger of the trade,
that such enormous fees are paid the principal performers. The leading
swordsmen receive about three hundred dollars for each performance, and
they are eagerly disputed by the direction of all the arenas of Spain.
In spite of these large wages, they are rarely rich. They are as
wasteful and improvident as gamblers. Tato, when he lost his leg, lost
his means of subsistence, and his comrades organized one or two benefits
to keep him from want. Cuchares died in the Havana, and left no
provision for his family.
There is a curious naivete in the play-bill of a bull-fight, the only
conscientious public document I have seen in Spain. You know how we of
Northern blood exaggerate the attractions of all sorts of shows,
trusting to the magnanimity of the audience. "He warn't nothing like so
little as that," confesses Mr. Magsman, "but where's your dwarf what
is?" There are few who have the moral courage to demand their money back
because they counted but thirty-nine thieves when the bills promised
forty.
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