It Is A Low, Squat, Prison-Like Circus Of Stone, Stuccoed And
Whitewashed, With No Pretence Of Ornament Or Architectural Effect.
There
is no nonsense whatever about it.
It is built for the killing of bulls
and for no other purpose. Around it, on a day of battle, you will find
encamped great armies of the lower class of Madrilenos, who, being at
financial ebb-tide, cannot pay to go in. But they come all the same, to
be in the enchanted neighborhood, to hear the shouts and roars of the
favored ones within, and to seize any possible occasion for getting in.
Who knows? A caballero may come out and give them his check. An English
lady may become disgusted and go home, taking away numerous lords whose
places will be vacant. The sky may fall, and they may catch four reals'
worth of larks. It is worth taking the chances.
One does not soon forget the first sight of the full coliseum. In the
centre is the sanded arena, surrounded by a high barrier. Around this
rises the graded succession of stone benches for the people; then
numbered seats for the connoisseurs; and above a row of boxes extending
around the circle. The building holds, when full, some fourteen thousand
persons; and there is rarely any vacant space. For myself I can say that
what I vainly strove to imagine in the coliseum at Rome, and in the more
solemn solitude of the amphitheatres of Capua and Pompeii, came up
before me with the vividness of life on entering the bull-ring of
Madrid.
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