On the ground, by the side of the human cattle pens, the wealthy patrons
of the market seat themselves at their ease, arrange their djellabas and
selhams in leisurely fashion, and begin to chat, as though the place were
the smoking-room of a club. Water-carriers--lean, half-naked men from the
Sus--sprinkle the thirsty ground, that the tramp of slaves and auctioneers
may not raise too much dust. Watching them as they go about their work,
with the apathy born of custom and experience, I have a sudden reminder of
the Spanish bull-ring, to which the slave market bears some remote
resemblance. The gathering of spectators, the watering of the ground, the
sense of excitement, all strengthen the impression. There are no bulls in
the _torils_, but there are slaves in the pens. It may be that the bulls
have the better time. Their sufferings in life are certainly brief, and
their careless days are very long drawn out. But I would not give the
impression that the spectators here are assembled for amusement, or that
my view of some of their proceedings would be comprehensible to them.
However I may feel, the other occupants of this place are here in the
ordinary course of business, and are certainly animated by no such fierce
passions as thrill through the air of a plaza de toros.
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