stay prevents me from exploring the Roman remains of this once famous city. The roads are now filled with peasantry, going to their daily toil. Numbers of carts laden with reclining figures, and tawny fellows, sitting sideways on their patient mules, decorated with gaudy scarlet tassels, pass us every minute. The carts are primitive contrivances,

being nothing more than a timber platform surmounted on wheels, and studded with rough stakes. The nave of the wheel is 'skidded' by a pole fastened to the front of the cart, and lashed firmly, when necessary, to a cross bar at the back. The country is well cultivated, and rich in the prickly

pear, the aloe, and the palm. As the diligence rumbles along its final stage, I produce a pair of castanets, and commence a lively song to the clicking accompaniment, a proceeding which instantly raises me forty per cent. in the estimation of the drivers, who have already formed a favourable opinion of the Caballero Ingles, from the numerous cigars with which he has freely plied them during the journey. Jovial, cheery fellows are the mayoral and zagal; songs, jests, proverbs, cigaritos, water-melons, and mild though copious refrescos carry them over weary miles with unflagging energy. The postilion is a frisky little chap, hardy in frame and hided like the rhinoceros; many and many a league rides the sturdy youth apparently unfatigued, though it makes me shift uneasily in my seat to see him jolting up and down

for hours in the saddle.

We reach Valencia at 7 A. M., and drive into the town: it is really surprising to see the clever manner in which the mules pilot the dilly through the narrow windings of the streets, going right up to the corners and wheeling about at a spanking trot, without ever running foul of anything in their headlong career.

Having secured rooms at the Fonda Madrid, we eagerly seek the Calle de los Baños, feeling actually incrusted with the dust accumulated in a journey of

thirty-six hours, extending over upwards of two hundred miles of road. Not a little refreshed by our ablutions, we breakfast at the table d'hôte amid a bevy of silly young people, who are encouraging a stupid lad to swallow bumpers of raw brandy; an operation he performs without wincing, though with what result we fortunately have no opportunity of witnessing. After a brief siesta we sally forth to see the town.

THE RAILWAY IN SPAIN.

VALENCIA, like Barcelona, is very beautiful and picturesque; every turn and bend in the streets disclose fresh beauties; the effect of the gay streamers, dazzling white buildings, deep shadows,

The

and mellow middle tints, is really magical. doorways of the houses are enormous; they form the entrance both to the dwelling and the stable.

The principal plaza, El Mercado, or marketplace, situated in the heart of the city, presents a scene of the liveliest animation and bustle; the square is crammed with people, stalls, shops, and piles of enormous melons. The Lonja de Seda, a Gothic building commenced in 1482, consists of a noble hall with tall fluted columns, filled with stalls covered with rich masses of golden silk offered for sale.

Valencia was finally wrested from the Moors in 1236, by James I., of Aragon, who died here at an advanced age, universally beloved. It was the favourite resort of Peterborough, who marched hither in face of the greatest difficulties and hardships in February, 1706. The cathedral, La Seo, possesses but few claims to architectural beauty; its chief attractions being the rich carvings, curious relics, alabaster sculptures, decorated panels, and exquisite paintings.

There are several other churches, chapels, and private galleries which can boast of magnificent works by the old Spanish masters, Joanes "the Spanish Raphael," Francisco and Juan de Ribalta, Ribera, Esteban March and Espinosa, an excellent description of which may be found in a book entitled