little book which contains a description of each. With this book in hand I went the round of the three rooms in about as many hours; consequently, as you will imagine, I could take no more than a glance at each; indeed it would require a month to give them the examination they merit. My knowledge of the art, I confess, is not sufficient to enable me to distinguish the superiority, which is said to exist, of the Italian over the Spanish pictures. The latter appear to me to be quite equal to the former; and I am induced to believe that the value of these over those is established, rather by the circumstance of the impossibility of any more being produced by those authors, than by their intrinsic merit. I will name only a few of the most striking;—a large picture by Murillo; a Spaniard, the subject, the infant Jesus holding up a bird to prevent its being seized by a little dog, who is eager for it, and while the infant is retreating, he is received into the arms of Joseph; the Virgin appears to suspend her work, and to be viewing with great interest the movements of her son. It is one of those which were selected to ornament the Louvre, and have since been returned to Madrid.-The martyrdom, by stoning to death, of Stephen, by Velasquez; this is very fine.-The subject of Jesus interrogated by the Pharisees, whether it was proper to pay tribute to Cæsar; a fine picture by Arias; the figures are as large as life.-A very large painting, representing the monks, sent by Charles IV. to Algiers to redeem the prisoners, in the act of paying the ransom and receiving them; by Aparacio, a Spaniard.-A scene, by the same author, of the Famine in Madrid in 1811 and 1812; a picture as large as Peele's "Court of Death." In the foreground are represented a woman and child, both dead; a man lies near them, to the left, on the floor, with only sufficient strength remaining to enable him to wave his hand in refusal of a loaf of bread presented by a French officer. grenadiers accompany this officer, who appear to be horrorstruck with the scene of misery before them; near, and a little back of the dead and dying, is an old man, whose daughter is leaning on his shoulder, both presenting the picture of despair; in the back-ground are men and women upbraiding the French as the authors of such calamities. This is a picture terribly true to nature. A much celebrated painting, by Titian, of the emperor Charles V. on horseback.-A picture, by Raphael, of Jesus oppressed under the weight of the cross, and Simon, the Cyrenian, applying to the chief of the soldiers to succour him. This painting is of great celebrity, and ranks next to that of the Transfiguration, by the same author, which is at Rome. The catalogue amounts to five hundred and twelve; but I will not try your patience by particularizing any more.

Two

The royal armory, or hall of ancient arms, is contiguous to the

royal residence. It is about two hundred feet by sixty. On either side, the walls are hung with coats of mail, helmets, bucklers, shields, crossbows, lances, long match-locks used before the invention of artillery, and several flags preserved as trophies, among which are those taken by Don Juan of Austria at the battle of Lepanto. These are all very tastefully distributed. On entering the hall you are desired to notice the vehicle in which the emperor Charles V. used to travel. It is a clumsy box, of about five feet by two. Over the end of it, where the seat is placed, there is a covering like a chaise top, with canvass to roll up at the sides, and an apron or boot to cover the front part. This awkward machine was suspended lengthwise between two mules, and in this way did the arbiter of Europe travel over a large portion of its surface. Near to this, is the first coach that was ever seen in Spain. It belonged to the time of Doña Urraca, and is a heavy, clumsy thing, with much carved work on the exterior. Passing along, we observed the coats of mail and arms of Fernando and Isabel, of Charles V., of the little Moor the last king of Grenada, of Henry IV. of France when a boy, of Don Juan of Austria, of Cortes, Pizarro, and others. In handsome glass cases, are exhibited arms ornamented with diamonds and rubies; saddles ornamented with the same materials; gold stirrups, bits, and spurs; all presents from the Grand Seignior, probably at a period, when to be in the good graces of Spain was more important than it is at the present day. There are also some beautiful specimens of rich arms, made in France and Spain; several air-guns; a number of shields, studded with precious stones; the spear of Don Pedro the cruel; the turban of the bashaw, taken at the battle of Lepanto; two waistcoats of Charles V. lined with steel, and pliable. In the centre of the room are several equestrian statues, all clad in polished steel, horses as well as riders; they are of Charles V., Philip II., and others. There are several pieces of artillery; a great number of saddles covered with silk, which were used at the tournaments, &c. After having gone the rounds of this hall, the conductor takes you to the upper end, where, drawing up a velvet curtain, within a glass case, by strings without, you are presented with a sitting figure, as large as life, of St. Ferdinand the Catholic, with the same gold crown on his head, which is used for the coronation of the kings of Spain. An advertisement within, recommends your kneeling before this saint (for which purpose there is a velvet cushion) and praying for the prosperity and happiness of the kingdom, and of the reigning family. Although aware that no country ever stood more in need of assistance from above, I nevertheless declined. It seemed to me that it would hardly be in the power of St. Ferdinand soon to restore order and happiness, where confusion and misery seem so firmly to have established their empire.

The museum of the park of artillery (St Joseph Street) is said to be well worthy the attention of a stranger, but to see this, it is necessary to obtain the permission of the commandant of the park; and having failed in a first attempt, in consequence of his absence, I had not time to make a second.

The squares of Madrid are not remarkable for their size or beauty; indeed, excepting what is called the Great square, there are none of any importance. This is 434 feet long by 334 broad. The houses forming the sides of this square, are uniform as to height, but are not handsome; the upper stories are used as dwellings, the lower ones as shops. The former projecting over the latter about fifteen feet, form a shelter, which secures the pedestrian from the heat of the sun, or the annoyance of the rain. This square is the Smithfield of Madrid, and here, as there, unfortunate beings have been burnt to death, for differing in opin ion from their spiritual fathers. For the interior police of the city, it is divided into eight parts, and each is under the charge of an alcalde of the court. These again are subdivided into eight wards, each having its alcalde, or magistrate. The superintendance of these magistrates is sufficient, in ordinary times, to preserve tranquillity; but in times of excitement, like the present, it is considered necessary to keep a considerable military force within the walls.

Notwithstanding the dearness of fuel; the tax upon all kinds of provisions brought in from the country, which is levied at the gates; and the restrictions, rigidly enforced, which do not allow the man who sells beef, to sell mutton also, and so of every thing else; I do not find that the living in Madrid is more expensive, than it is in the other European capitals. For two dollars a day, a man will find such lodging and food, as will be satisfactory to all who are not very fastidious.

Adieu.

ORIGINAL POETRY.

MORNING AMONG THE HILLS.

A night had passed away among the hills,
And now the first faint tokens of the dawn
Showed in the east. The bright and dewy star,
Whose mission is to usher in the morn,

Looked through the cool air, like a blessed thing
In a far purer world. Below there lay
Wrapped round a woody mountain tranquilly

A misty cloud. Its edges caught the light,
That now came up from out the unseen depth
Of the full fount of day, and they were laced
With colours ever brightening. I had waked
From a long sleep of many-changing dreams,
And now in the fresh forest air I stood
Nerved to another day of wandering.
Before me rose a pinnacle of rock,
Lifted above the wood that hemmed it in,
And now already glowing. There the beams
Came from the far horizon, and they wrapped it
In light and glory. Round its vapoury cone
A crown of far-diverging rays shot out,
And gave to it the semblance of an altar
Lit for the worship of the undying flame,
That centred in the circle of the sun,
Now coming from the ocean's fathomless caves,
Anon would stand in solitary pomp

Above the loftiest peaks, and cover them
With splendour as a garment. Thitherward
I bent my eager steps; and through the grove
Now dark as deepest night, and thickets hung
With a rich harvest of unnumbered gems,
Waiting the clearer dawn to catch the hues
Shed from the starry fringes of its veil

On cloud and mist and dew, and backward thrown
With undiminished beauty, on I went

Mounting with hasty foot, and thence emerging
I scaled that rocky steep, and there awaited
Silent the full appearing of the sun.

Below there lay a far extended sea

Rolling in feathery waves. The wind blew o'er it,
And tossed it round the high ascending rocks,
And swept it through the half hidden forest tops,
Till, like an ocean waking into storm,

islands

It heaved and weltered. Gloriously the light
Crested its billows, and those craggy
Shone on it like to palaces of spar
Built on a sea of pearl. Far overhead
The sky without a vapour or a stain,
Intensely blue, even deepened into purple,
Where nearer the horizon it received

A tincture from the mist that there dissolved
Into the viewless air,- the sky bent round
The awful dome of a most mighty temple
Built by omnipotent hands for nothing less
Than infinite worship. There I stood in silence-
I had no words to tell the mingled thoughts
Of wonder and of joy, that then came o'er me,
Even with a whirlwind's rush. So beautiful,
So bright, so glorious! Such a majesty
In yon pure vault! So many dazzling tints
In yonder waste of waves,-so like the ocean

With its unnumbered islands there encircled
By foaming surges, that the mounting eagle,
Lifting his fearless pinion through the clouds
To bathe in purest sunbeams, seemed an ospray
Hovering above his prey, and yon tall pines,
Their tops half mantled in a snowy veil,
A frigate with full canvass, bearing on
To conquest and to glory. But even these,
Had round them something of the lofty air

In which they moved;-not like to things of earth,
But heightened and made glorious, as became
Such pomp and splendour.

Who can tell the brightness,
That every moment caught a newer glow;
That circle, with its centre like the heart
Of elemental fire, and spreading out

In floods of liquid gold on the blue sky

And on the opaline waves, crowned with a rainbow
Bright as the arch that bent above the throne
Seen in a vision by the holy man

In Patmos! Who can tell how it ascended,
And flowed more widely o'er that lifted ocean,
Till instantly the unobstructed sun

Rolled up his sphere of fire, floating away-
Away in a pure ether, far from earth,

And all its clouds,-and pouring forth unbounded
His arrowy brightness! From that burning centre
At once there ran along the level line

Of that imagined sea, a stream of gold-
Liquid and flowing gold, that seemed to tremble
Even with a furnace heat, on to the point,
Whereon I stood. At once that sea of vapour
Parted away, and melting into air

Rose round me, and I stood involved in light,
As if a flame had kindled up, and wrapped me

In its innocuous blaze. Away it rolled,

Wave after wave. They climbed the highest rocks, Poured over them in surges, and then rushed Down glens and valleys, like a wintery torrent Dashed instant to the plain. It seemed a moment, And they were gone, as if the touch of fire At once dissolved them. Then I found myself Midway in air;-ridge after ridge below, Descended with their opulence of woods Even to the dim seen level, where a lake Flashed in the sun, and from it wound a line, Now silvery bright, even to the farthest verge Of the encircling hills. A waste of rocks Was round me-but below how beautiful, How rich the plain-a wilderness of groves And ripening harvests; while the sky of June-The soft blue sky of June, and the cool air, That makes it then a luxury to live,