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 20, 1863.] pine, and surrounded with a moat of red jelly. To obtain admission to this scene of enchantment, the gaping crowd had only to purchase a lottery-ticket to the value of a few pence, which entitled them to draw for prizes. It was amusing to watch the excitement with which a small boy struggled off, laden with the gifts of fortune, in the shape of a ham, fowls, and a bottle of wine, while a stalwart labourer slunk off disappointed with a paper of comfits in his hand. Spaniards are positively infatuated about lotteries. However small the village, at some window is a board with the sign “Hay Billetes.” They are under government direction, and I believe government does not lose in the transaction. It is a most demoralising influence in social life, keeping up perpetual excitement among the poor, leading them to trust in fate and the Virgin, and to neglect the most ordinary precautions of economy and foresight. They dream of lucky numbers, and pray for success with the greatest fervour.

Barcelona has of course a “plaza di toros,” or circus for bull-fights; it seemed in a most neglected state, and I was glad to hear from a shareholder that it had never paid a dividend. It looks as if, in the busy stir of commercial life, such savage amusements were disregarded. The excellent picture by Leech of a bull-fight with the tinsel off, which came out in “,” is but too true and real. Even poetised by the pencil of Goya, it is a most disgusting performance.

Barcelona boasts of one of the most splendid cathedrals in Spain; its internal beauties one can merely guess at, so dim is the religious light which pervades it. The style is pure Gothic; the cloisters are quite perfect, and have curious little chapels, whose painted altar-pieces are fast crumbling away. The stillness, vastness, and darkness of these grand old buildings, impress one with a feeling of awe and reverence. On the uneducated, accustomed to noise and stir, this must make a powerful impression, and the mysterious influence of the place must have much aided scheming confessors who wished by all means to exercise control over the minds of their fellow-creatures. Only one faint light glimmered through the darkness; it proceeded from a side chapel, where a sacristan held a long waxen taper, by whose light an old priest was writing a baptismal certificate. His white robes and benevolent countenance stood out in relief on the dark background of groined arches with Rembrandtesque effect. Bending over his shoulder, and watching the writing, stood the father, and in the shade could be just faintly traced the outlines of a smart peasant nurse, and the small white bundle which had just been admitted into the communion of the Holy Catholic Church, by the disgusting process of having salt and oil put in its mouth, and its eyes, ears, and mouth, spat upon.

A diligence goes from Barcelona to Valencia in forty-eight hours, and, in an evil hour, we preferred it to going by rail to Madrid. Who, that has not endured the same, can picture to himself the fustiness when the windows are shut, the draughts when they are open, the jumbling, the jolting, the rumbling, and the din of perpetual tinkling. It takes sixteen or twenty mules to drag one of these lumbering machines, and to manage them is required a post-boy, a conducteur, and a nondescript, who sometimes runs alongside to keep the poor cattle from the precipices, sometimes shies stones at the lazy ones from the box.

The Catalan villages through which we passed were gay and cheerful, and spoke well for the industry of the province. As the cottages seemed all alike, one description will suffice for all, taken from the works of Fernando Caballero, the only Spanish lady who has ventured on a literary career. She says:—“The interior is one long narrow chamber; in the foreground as you enter is the hearth, where over crackling logs is cooked the simple dinner of the peasant: this is both kitchen and living room; on either side of the fire-place are alcoves, which serve as sleeping places. Beyond are stalls for the patient mules and oxen, and perches for the fowls; also piles of fresh straw and hay for the animals, who are the constant benefactors of ungrateful man.”

All go in at one door—men, women, mules, oxen, pigs, and fowls; therefore the peasant’s wife deserves no small credit for the cleanly appearance the cottage presents. Blessed with a charming climate, they really hardly use their houses for anything but shelter at night, and from the rain. They have no windows, so all the needful household work is carried on out of doors. On the stone benches outside we observed the young and bright-eyed damsels, working at the pillow lace, so well known as Barcelona blonde; the mothers stitching diligently at clothing for the numerous mischievous elves, sporting about; and the old women busily engaged in husking the maize, keeping carefully the broad crackling leaf to stuff mattrasses with, and hanging up the ears in garlands to ripen. Old crones, who might have sat as models for the Fates, were spinning diligently with the distaff. In a black pot, half full of charcoal, frizzled a huge pumpkin, destined for the family dinner. The little gardens, carefully cultivated and irrigated, were divided from each other by hedges of aloes and prickly pears.

Past the eccentric, jagged peaks of Montserrat, over mountains redolent of lavender, wild rosemary, and thyme, along the shores of the sparkling blue Mediterranean, on we went, sometimes too weary of the jolting and jumbling to be able to admire the wild mountain passes and pine-clad ravines. Except to change horses and mules every three or four hours, the diligence stopped but once in the twelve hours to let the weary travellers eat. In haste the various occupants deserted the rumbling coach. Down from the banquette scrambled the third-class passengers, and all together, generally in a loft, partook of homely fare, cooked according to national ideas. The conductor, in a green baize surtout, gobbled with surprising voracity, urging the passengers to haste, and rejoicing at seeing them tumbling into their places, when he roared out “à coche.” Then to add. to our miseries of fatigue and myriads of flies, to say nothing of the fleas left as a legacy by previous occupants, it came on to rain. The roads, which look beautiful in fine weather, became like the Slough of Despond. Bump, bump; roll, roll; on we went; heavy