menade, is admirably suited to the grotesque and vivacious show. There, during the crowning three days, flow in steady streams, round and round, the motley equipages of the procession; and of those who come out to see the general harlequinade. Mounted Indians, Moorish chiefs, and figures in antique uniforms, ride by on horseback; while carriages containing the most dissimilar groups-a British swell sitting silent and blasé beside his haughty spouse-niggers, masquers with hideous noses in striped garments, and fighting parties armed with pellets of white dust, roll on in unbroken line. The balconies are crowded from end to end; the central promenade likewise; and the roar which passes along the line seems to shake the leaves of the sycamore-trees. The roar is loudest at the points, where, from clubs or hotels, a knot of warriors has planted itself to defy the war-chariots passing below. The heroes in the latter spring to their feet, and launch at the hostile balcony a glittering snowy shower, which is replied to with equal force. More gentle combatants drop upon a passing carriage a rain of spring-flowers, or dart at a mounted officer a malignant sugar-plum. Satire plays a part in the Carnival as in the ancient Saturnalia; and it quickly felt the operation of the Revolution. Byron tells us in Beppo of the Venice Carnival, All kinds of dress, except the ecclesiastical, All people, as their fancies hit, may choose. But no one in these parts may quiz the clergy, Therefore take heed, ye free-thinkers, I charge ye. But Spain, too, has her free-thinkers, libre pensadores (there is a regular association of them in Barcelona)—and the Revolution has made public demonstrations easier for them. So at Barcelona, in the Carnival, a coach full of burlesque priests may be seen among the other odditiesthe maskers, with squeaking voices, sitting on the sides of their friends' carriages, and the rest. We must not touch on the obscene element, characteristic of Southern corruption, from which the Carnival is not altogether free. It exists, however; and we may mention as a slight trait of Spanish manners, that a ball is given by the richer Spanish youths at Carnival times, the tickets to which might be seized in England, under Lord Campbell's Act.

By out-of-door amusements, as we call them in England, the Spaniards would mean almost exactly the contrary of what

It is

we do, if they used the expression. extraordinary how little they walk, ride, shoot, swim, or use any kind of exercise. At their schools the youngsters have sometimes a garden; but it is as little a scene of gymnastics, as of Athenian conversations on philosophy. The absurd custom, too, at their schools, of putting in uniform lads destined to be pettifoggers, or half-trained doctors, tends to foster an early priggism, to keep them out of harmony with nature, and so to prepare them to seek relief from premature ennui in premature vice. For this want of exercise, "the climate" is the excuse; as "the government" is for other kinds of individual inferiority. And one excuse is as absurd as the other. Some parts of the summer are severely hot, though even in them the mornings are delicious. But there are several winter months, when any sort of open air exertion is not only possible, but delightful. In the long run, the climate is emphatically temperate," running to no great excess either way; and would be still more enjoyable, and would be free from its occasional dangers, if the best use were made of it. Yet, although bragged of on the one hand, it is, on the other, cruelly made accountable for the most various shortcomings. Even educated Spaniards will tell you that "the climate" is too hot for severe labors in letters or the sciences. Ask him, "How, then, did the Greeks and Romans manage to do these things?" and the answer will be the usual shrug of the shoulders—which, according to the occasion, serves to express contented ignorance, defeat, indifference, or despair. But shoulders were made, not to be shrugged, but to bear burdens; and till the Spaniard understands this, Spanish constitutions will be mere ceremonies, and Spanish boasts idle as the smoke of cigarettes.

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Of course, a few persons here and there dabble even in field-sports. We once heard a landed proprietor proving, at much length, to a large group in a club, that in order to hit a bird flying rapidly across you, you must aim somewhat ahead of it, Here, at least, was a discoverer of no common merit. So, again, a young man," bucketing" up and down the road on a hack trained in the military style, may be seen occasionally. Nay, a horserace absolutely was started in one great city, being held in nothing less than a HIPODROMO, for any race-course of an inferior

dignity of appellation would have been unworthy of the national pre-eminence. The running was comic. But the Spaniards were so delighted that they got up hurdle-races also, at the first of which three out of the four riders were spilt, and one of them seriously hurt. We have not read of any further efforts. By the way, a lady's riding in Spain is a kind of portent, and attracts about as much attention as a comet.

With regard to swimming, the same deficiencies prevail. Nothing can be meaner than the provision made for bathing on the shores of the Mediterranean. With what regret one looks back to the bright-colored white-awninged shore-boats of Malta, and their neat ladders, in which one was rowed out to old Bighi Bay, to take a glorious header in the sparkling blue! On the Spanish coast, mean dirty boats for the purpose are difficult to get and dear to hire. The bathing-machine, again, Cockney, but comfortable, is unknown. There are buildings on the beach with cabins, (and a bench common to the public,) from which you descend by wooden stairs into a place where the surf breaks, fortified by stanchions, bars, and ropes. The Spaniard usually holds on by a rope, and dips under at intervals; or if he tries to swim, girds himself with calabazas, (pumpkins or gourds,) suggesting, as he floats with his friends, that a market-boat has been capsized among them. Bathing is more a sanitary matter than any thing else with them, and lasts but a short part of their long, warm summer. The domestic tub, regular with an English gentleman as his daily bread, is in Spain hardly known.

What, then, are the "sports ?" Well, there is shooting at rabbits and pigeons carefully tethered within easy range. And there are dog-fights, (riñados de perros,) chiefly on Sundays. And there are baitings of calves by dogs. And there are combats in which two or three dogs are let loose upon a donkey, the noble animal defending himself with his heels. Cock fighting, too, exists, although not on any brilliant scale. There is, in fact, nothing thorough in Spanish amusements, brutal or otherwise. And those we have just enumerated are, to do the people justice, not the pleasures of any great number of the people. The many hours they spend out of the house are spent, by preference, in strolling, gossiping, sitting under the trees,

until the time has come, according to the season, for the theatres of the city, or the garden-theatres of the suburbs.

The famous old Spanish drama has had a fate not unlike its own rival in Europe -our own. But most of us Englishmen have had twenty good opportunities of hearing Shakspeare, or Massinger, for one which most Spaniards have had of hearing Calderon or Lope. The old plays are scarce ever played in Spain; nor is there (on the other hand) either that critical study of them by individuals, or that vague general, respectable acquaintance with them in society, which in some degree atones to our old English dramatists for their absence from the stage. Spain, however, has little society-pieces by living writers which are well spoken of; and which hold their own fairly against the competition of the serious opera of Italy, and the comic opera of France. characteristic of Spain, where the grandiose enjoys a kind of worship, that although she can not afford-(that fatal falta de recursos which the stranger hears of as the explanation of every thing!)—to engage the highest singers, she has, in the Liceo of Barcelona, perhaps, the largest opera-house

It is

in Europe. The house is really magnificent. But being above the natural wants of the city, so much of its cost fell upon rich men, who hold, as proprietors, the best boxes, that no management can afford to vie with the great cities of Europe in bidding for artists. The roominess of this place is something surprising. There are two or three sitting-rooms behind some boxes, where cards and cigars can be as comfortably enjoyed as at a club, and every box has at least one, where you can escape from the performance if it happens to be a bore. It is pleasant to know that Spaniards do not absolutely smoke within the theatre itself. But between every act what a rush there is to the lobbies, and what a platoon-firing-the rattle of chatter with rolls of smoke-begins!

The Spaniard listens with much gravity to music. He esteems himself a critical connoisseur; is as severe upon a false note as upon a bad peseta; and hisses unmercifully. There is no more tenderness for a tenor, than for a toro, if either of them fails in what is expected from him. The Spaniard is not looking at the matter, in either case, as one of taste only, but as one of money, and he rigidly exacts his

money's worth. The loose liberality in matters of cash that is seen in the North is only found among Cubans. But a Cuban hardly cares to be called a Spaniard. To him, Cuba is "my country," and he spends his dollars like a Yankee.

The influence of France, so frequently touched upon in these papers, has given an actress who finds her audience heavy a sure charm for awakening it in our days. The opera, which ought to be comic, islet us suppose-hanging fire. Clouds are gathering over the dusky faces. Fans move more impatiently than usual. "Ay, dios mio!" exclaims Dolores, wearily. "Madre de Dios!" sighs Pilar. And the young ladies in green silk in yonder box, who are supposed each to have a herd of ten thousand cattle for dowry, in South America, flirt with more activity than ever. Suddenly, the orchestra strikes up a few bars, of a peculiarly lively tune. The actress, seizing her dress, and thrusting forward one leg with a familiar and beloved gesture, dances two or three-and only two or three-steps in front of the chief comic man. The whole scene changes as if by magic. A delirium of delight seizes the audience. It is the cancan! But the delight is brief, for, as we all know, moralidad is one of the watchwords (perhaps the most amusing one) of the Revolution, and the civil governor has ordered that the cancan shall not be danced. Spaniards, with all their rant about liberty nowadays, take quite kindly to being policed. The habit of obedience to the man in office lies deep in their blood. So a "moral" governor just prohibits a dance, or shuts up a club where he thinks there is too much gambling, by his own fiat. And it is difficult to see how a country like Spain could be ruled in any other way. She is scarcely more fit for self-government, in our British sense, than the Zoological Gardens.

Apropos of gambling, let us notice the extraordinary prevalence of it in Spain. More than any thing else, it is supposed to have ruined the fortunes of the nobility; and the most famous modern soldiers, whose names are in every body's mouth, have been notorious for it. All Spaniards are believed to like it, from the urchin who puts in his cuartos at a wheel of fortune or a raffle, to the grandee who stakes his onzas (sixteen-dollar gold-pieces, fair to see!) on the turn of a card. San Sebastian is now the summer headquarters of

lo.

The

gaming, but it goes on all over the country. Cards are more played than any thing else in Spain. The pack consists of forty-eight, divided into espadas, or swords (spades?); oros, circular pieces of gold; copas, or cups; and bastos, clubs. court-cards are rey, the king, sota, the knave, and a mounted figure, caballo which makes up for the want of a queen. The ace is called as. In regular gambling, monte, where the mere draw of a card settles the gain or loss, is one of the bestknown games. But the game answering to our whist, and which may be played for high or nominal stakes equally, is tresilIn tresillo there are three players— the fourth hand being in common. The first player nominates trumps, according to the strength of his hand; but may be superseded by the second player, if he, with the help of the common hand, finds himself still stronger in any class of card. Trumps once constituted, the game goes on in a general way like whist. Long before dark, you may see respectable old Spanish fogies at their casino or circulo, employed upon this game. The Spaniards do not attempt clubs upon the English scale; nor can you get any thing in the way of refreshment there, except what may be conveniently brought in from a cafe. But the rooms are handsome. There are Madrid and French newspapers,most probably, also, The Times and Illus trated London News, and sometimes Punch. Not, of course, that you would find these luxuries in such sleepy old capitals as Zaragoza and Pamplona, where a dignified indifference to modern life prevails, and the narrow antique streets, with their quaint population gazing at the stranger, hardly seem to belong to the century. Yet every Spanish town has its cafe, with, its loungers and players at dominoes, its glasses of hot milk, orgeat, and rose-syrup and its endless clatter amidst clouds of tobacco-smoke. Even a revolution or insurrection does not disturb the current of existence in a Spanish city as much as the reader may perhaps suppose. You hear that barricades are being erected in such and such a quarter. The population are ordered to keep in-doors after a signal gun from the citadel. Troops bivouack in front of your house; musketry is heard in the distance. But, next morning, the cooks are all going to market, for "there is always an hour allowed for that," says your

SOME years since, I chanced to be in Rio de Janeiro. I had just returned from a trip into the interior, and was idling away the last few days of my stay in South America, enjoying the incomparable beauty of the scenery of that sierra-locked harbor. To avoid the heat and bustle of the town, I had taken up my abode at a small venda on the northern shore of the bay; and there one evening I was as usual sitting out in the veranda, enjoying my afterdinner cigar and cup of coffee. I was gradually sinking into a reverie, trying to fancy myself surrounded by the dear ones at home, wishing that they too could with me sit and watch the ever-changing dreamy beauty of the scene. "As the Thames (below Blackwall) is to the Bay of Naples, so is the Bay of Naples to the Harbor of Rio," thought I, when my cogitations were interrupted by the sounds of a mule's hoofs pounding along the sandy beach-road which passed in front of the venda. In another moment the mule and its rider were in sight, and rather to my disgust I perceived that the latter evidently was bent on patronizing the same house as myself. I did not feel in the mood to be disturbed, and the new-comer was of any thing but a prepossessing appearance. So coated was he with white dust and dried mud-splashes that it was next to impossible to make him out, but I mentally put him down as some stray Portuguese or fazendiero from some neighboring coffee estate. His mule, though seeming nearly "played out," was a powerful beast, and the saddle certainly English. I saw too, as he dismounted, that he was well armed, and wore a revolver and knife on his hip Yankee fashion. There was no

bell, and the house blacks having carefully made themselves scarce, the stranger had to lead his own mule off to the stables in rear of the venda. I had almost forgotten the new arrival, and was watching the sunset on the bald peaks of the Sugar-loaf and the Corcovado, when I heard a step in the room behind me, and the stranger came out into the veranda where I was sitting. I should hardly have recognized him, a wash and change of clothes had made such an alteration. Now, though, that the dust and mud were washed from his face and beard, I could see that he looked fearfully worn and ill. He was a good deal sunburnt, but sallow and colorless, and, though not yet a middle-aged man, stooped considerably. I still took him for a Portuguese, and was fairly startled when he addressed some remark to me in the purest English.

"You will, I trust, excuse me; but I have been living for so long among natives and niggers that it is quite a treat to hear one's own language again, and I could not fail to recognize you as a countryman."

Well," said I, "for my part I confess I did not take you for one."

"Not likely; my best friend of six months since would hardly know me now, for I have been down' with swampfever, and half dead; and besides, I am just 'off' a 150 miles' ride in four days. Not bad work over the sierra this time of year."

We chatted on for some time, and I soon found that he was the manager of a large coffee plantation in the interior belonging to the Visconde de B. From

coffee culture our conversation naturally turned on slavery, and I remember how strongly, whilst listening to him, the idea impressed itself on my mind, that the practical views of one unprejudiced man, who really understood the habits and nature of the blacks, was worth more than all the well-meaning nonsense ever talked in Parliament, or the vindictive cant of a Jamaica Committee assembled in Exeter Hall! After a pause in the conversation, during which we each puffed away at our respective cigarettes, my new acquaintance abruptly asked, "Did you ever see or ever hear of a black ghost ?"

"Can't say I ever did," replied I, with a laugh; "thought they were always white."

"No, I don't mean that exactly; I mean the ghost of a black man. I have seen a good deal of native races myself— natives of every hue and species, from yellow Chinese to black niggers-but till a couple of months ago I never came across any thing resembling the ghost of one. I remember once a rabid slave-owner in the Southern States trying to prove that niggers were cattle! and one of his points was that a nigger had no soul! for,' says the Southern chap, convincingly, there never was a white man yet (or a black one, for that matter) who ever set eyes on a nigger's ghost.'

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"Guess not,' struck in one of the crowd; a nigger's ghost (if he's got one) must be black, mustn't it? and as you only see ghosts in the night, how the thunder could you see a black ghost in a black night? no, siree. Happen, though, if you could fix up a white night you might see -a few.' But, if you like, I will tell you a rather uncomfortable experience I myself had a short time since; mind I don't say it was a ghost, and you need not believe it, but it was uncomfortable very."

Í expressed my delight at the prospect of a "yarn;" and so, without further preface, he commenced.

"I was telling you just now that the fazenda of which I am the manager is a very large one, and that it has been cultivated for a great number of years—that is, for this part of the world.

"Twenty, or five-and-twenty years ago, the district which we are now working was all virgin forest, and the only part of the estate under coffee and sugar was the

'Boa Vista,' the eastern end of the estate, ten miles from where we now are. The old fazenda of Boa Vista is standing yet, and is as lovely a spot as you could well find. There are almost miles of avenues of fruit-trees-mangoes, oranges, cachoes, palms, bananas, and numbers of others; whilst the roads through the coffee-mills are literally hedged with pines; but every thing is going to ruin, faster and faster each year; and the place forcibly reminds you of what the garden of Eden might have been, if, after Adam's expulsion, a joint-stock company had taken it up, gone bankrupt, and got into Chancery. It was the grandfather of the present Visconde who first founded the estate, and, according to the faint reports still current, he must have been one of the real wicked old sort one reads about as having lived in the dark ages. On his vast estates he was absolute as the Czar, and he used his power like a tiger. I have heard grim stories told of the poor blacks he had flogged to death-strong men, ay, and women too! He had a large establishment, perhaps five hundred field-hands, and he ruled them with a rod of iron. I have heard that, should he see a black touch with the handle of his hoe one coffee-tree whilst clearing the roots of another, the unfortunate slave was sure of a hundred lashes. Well, some he murdered outright, some fled to the woods, and lived like wild beasts, whilst others, more happy, died of illusage and starvation; when suddenly a strange complaint appeared. By twos and threes the slaves died off, week after week, month after month, year after year. The muster-roll became smaller and smaller. The old Visconde was frantic. Bribes, medicines, and floggings were all tried, and proved equally powerless to check the strange complaint. Perhaps I am wrong to call it a complaint; it was not one-it was poison! Yes, poison. I my self, whilst in Brazil, have known several isolated instances of this, but never any thing approaching to the wholesale 'killing' that for years went on amongst those poor people at Boa Vista. I can never feel quite certain of the cause. Whether was it owing to the fearful misery of their lives, their wish to die, and so in a manner be revenged on the old tyrant who owned them, or was it a sort of contagious, murderous mania that spread through the whole mass of slaves? I myself fan