spectacles that I ever witnessed. Yet they tell me that the procession
of Corpus Christi will be infinitely more splendid and elaborate.

I am living here very comfortably. My rooms are pleasant and overlook
the charming Rambla. My mornings are generally spent in reading and
studying Spanish. At four o'clock my Irish friend and myself proceed
to the fine restaurant where we are accustomed to dine: here we meet
an intelligent Spanish gentleman, who completes our party, and as he
does not speak English, all conversation is conducted at the table
in the Spanish language. Dinner being over, we next visit a palverine
cafe, where we meet a number of Spanish acquaintances, with whom we
take coffee and a cigar. We all sally out together, and walk for an
hour or two, either in the environs of the city, or along their mural
terrace, overlooking the blue waters of the Mediterranean, closing our
promenade at length upon the crowded and animated Rambla. After the
theater, a stroll in the moonlight upon this magnificent promenade,
and as the clock strikes the hour of midnight we retire, and bathe in
the waters of oblivion till morn. My days in Spain are drawing near
their end. I am ready to leave, though I shall cast many a lingering
thought, many a fond recollection behind; and in future years, I shall
sadly recall these hours, which, I fear, can never be recalled. But
away with the enervating reflections of grief! Read nothing in the
past but lessons for the future. When you think of its pleasures,
think also of the cares they produced and the anxieties they cost
you. Behold, they are ended, and forever. Have you reaped from them
a moral, or have you been poisoned with their sting? Have you not
discovered that pleasure is a phantom, which vanishes in proportion
to the eagerness with which it is pursued? that by itself it fatigues
without satisfying--that it knows no limits or bounds to gratify
the restless and unfettered soul--that it is a _feeble soil_, which,