I am
afraid the luxuriance of hues in the dress of the fair Iberians would be
considered shocking in Broadway, but in the vast frame and broad light
of the Plaza the effect was very brilliant. Thousands of party-colored
paper fans are sold at the ring. The favorite colors are the national
red and yellow, and the fluttering of these broad, bright disks of color
is dazzlingly attractive. There is a gayety of conversation, a quick
fire of repartee, shouts of recognition and salutation, which altogether
make up a bewildering confusion.
The weary young water-men scream their snow-cold refreshment. The
orange-men walk with their gold-freighted baskets along the barrier, and
throw their oranges with the most marvellous skill and certainty to
people in distant boxes or benches. They never miss their mark. They
will throw over the heads of a thousand people a dozen oranges into the
outstretched hands of customers, so swiftly that it seems like one line
of gold from the dealer to the buyer.
At length the blast of a trumpet announces the clearing of the ring. The
idlers who have been lounging in the arena are swept out by the
alguaciles, and the hum of conversation gives way to an expectant
silence. When the last loafer has reluctantly retired, the great gate is
thrown open, and the procession of the toreros enters. They advance in a
glittering line: first the marshals of the day, then the picadors on
horseback, then the matadors on foot surrounded each by his quadrille of
chulos.
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