clap of the hand was given, and that mystical signal, immediately repeated, satisfied me that our friend was near. He approached, supported by those I had seen the night before. A hasty embrace of gratitude, bestowed by the agitated Don Tomas, repaid those noble-hearted men for the dangers they had risked; and in another minute we were off, the mules once more in full gallop!

Our new traveller took his seat beside the mayoral; while my servant shared the zagal with his assistant. A mode of traveling so unusual soon shook the frame of the unfortunate deputy to an excruciating degree, who, though hastily instructed not to speak a word, except in the French language, involuntarily broke out in unmeasured curses in his vernacular tongue on the horrid road. "Hay! C- -jo! Malditos sea esta Camino !" and then suddenly recollecting himself, would utter an odd "sacre "" or two, and grin with pain. By the time we arrived at Buitraigo, (nearly fifty miles from Madrid,) which stage we reached by four o'clock, Don Tomas was scarcely able to crawl up the flight of steps at the entrance of the post-house, where we were destined to pass the night, huddled together in a sorry apartment over the kitchen. My lad helped him along, and laying him at full length on a mattress, in that general sleeping room, proceeded to exercise his talents as cook, to prepare our dinner. The mayoral and his mate had been informed that the new passenger was a Frenchman, who, in order to escape out of Spain in safety, had entered into my service; and they were earnestly cautioned not to talk of him in any other capacity than that of a servant. The promise of an additional hundred dollars the first day he arrived in safety on the French territory, was to be the reward of their secrecy. While assembled round the char

coal fire, each trying his hand at some kind of cookery, we were assailed by showers of questions from the post-master-his wife-and an ultra Royalist friar, on the proceedings in Madrid the previous day,to all of which, we gave the highest coloring; concluding with our opinion, that not a single Cortes' man, or Constitutionalist, could have survived the slaughter of the night! This exaggerated picture, so far from inspiring feelings of horror, diffused the utmost joy, and caused mutual congratulations. The woman, starting up in a frenzy, brandished her knife, and uttered a fervent wish that she had one of the Constitutionalists then within her grasp, that she might "sheathe the weapon in his heart!" A piteous moan broke from poor Don Tomas, in the room above, who could hear every word of our discourse, and who did not at that moment consider his life worth half an hour's purchase. "Who is that pale-faced animal above stairs?" continued the fury; "if I thought he was for the Constitution, I would soon have his liver in the frying pan !" On my informing her that he was a Frenchman who had deserted from the vile invaders, and come over to the British, she mollified, and becoming once more a woman, said, "Poversito !" and instantly sent my lad to him with a plate of soup. But far beyond food, the agonized Deputy yearned for his cigar, and would rather have gone to the scaffold with one in his mouth, than linger out another day without one; such indulgence, however, if observed, would betray him. There are two tests by which one genuine Spaniard could discover another, however artfully disguised. The first is, the pronunciation of a certain vulgar expletive; the second, by his mode of holding in his mouth, and smoking his cigar! It was the boast of Count O'Reilly, that he was the only foreigner who was

their persons may undergo inspection, and comparison with the descriptions sent us from Madrid." My little Hibernian, with Don Tomas, had laid their ears to the door; and it may be supposed what an awful moment this must have been to the latter. I instantly called aloud for the servants, when in a few minutes, this ready-witted boy appeared without coat or waistcoat, his feet bare, and a nightcap on his head, saying, "Mounseer le Brown, sir, is gone fast asleep." I appealed to the kind feelings of the Major in behalf of the poor domestics, and girding on my sword, offered to accompany him to his Excellency the Governor, with my fellow traveller, and account to him for the non-attendance of the fatigued servants, both of whom he had seen.

On coming into the Plaza, I perceived the arms of a regiment piled, and the men walking about, prepared to fall in at the tap of the drum. We were soon introduced to the Governor, an old, white-headed, pompous mariscal del campo, who received, with the most perfect confidence, the account I gave him of our route, our party, and destination, and admitted my apology for the non-appearance of the servants, adding, that to an English officer alone, would he waive the execution of any particle of his instructions, which were to see all travellers. I

pulled out my cigar-skin, and requested he would honor me by his acceptance of it, and its contents, as a proof of my respect for his country, his adored king, and. my abhorrence of the traitorous Constitutionalists. "Ah! Cavalero Inglis," said the gratified Governor in reply, "the English are indeed entire men!" This is the most delicate translation I can give to a compliment, which, however flatteringly intended, was certainly not the most choice in point of terms.

The remainder of our journey was pursued in security. We no longer felt it necessary to cloak our intimacy under the characters of master and servant, before the mayoral and his assistants. They already partook of all the interest we felt for the safety of the poor refugee, who, in future, took his seat inside, and, completely released from his terrors, once more mounted his spectacles, and smoked his cigar from morn till night.

Arrived at the bank of the Bidassoa, he sprung from the carriage, and casting a long lingering look on the frowning summits of the cloud-capt Pyrenees, he threw himself, for the last time in his life, on the land of his birth, and kissed it with fervency; then snatching up a handful of the earth, he placed it next his heart, exclaiming, with a gush of tears, "ADIOS! PATRIA INFELIZ ! ""

IT has been long the generally expressed opinion, that the literature of the nineteenth century is, of all others, distinguished for its ephemeral purposes and vapid construction. It has been likened unto all manner of "airy nothings." Sometimes it is typified in the bubble that rises on the surface of the stream-that glitters and glances, bursts, and disappears forever. At other times it is personified by the moth, that "lives its little hour" in the sun, and perishes silently in mid-air. Next, we find it harnessed with a resemblance to a bottle of soda-waer, or haply small beer, equally frothy and insipid; then we find it burning in the socket, like a farthing taper, or flying across the country, with the speed, but without the virtue of thought, like an ignis fatuus. In whatever form of phrase the opinion is expressed, nothing seems more undeniable than the conclusion, that our literature is a "thing of naught." Everybody who reads

says so ; and we suppose we must confide in the proverb, that "what everybody says must be true."

Living and writing, as we do, in these times, glad are we to declare that we differ vastly and decidedly with "everybody " in regard to this particular subject. We do not think that the literature of the nineteenth century is a thing either to be sneezed at or to be sneered down. There is much in it which posterity will look upon with pride, as the productions of their forefathers; much that they will admire and cherish, and applaud and imitate; and a great deal that they will never be able, we will not say to rival, but to equal. Our writers belong essentially to the present age; they have been formed by the times, and in them the present generation will be reflected, as in a mirror, to all posterity. The very puniest person that handles a pen has something good about him, which the lapse of time will discover and elicit. In

deed, were it not that the literary men of this age form a complete mob, every one of them has claims to immortality; and some obscure individual, to whom might be applied the line of Shakspeare

"There's none so poor as do him reverence," if chance prove propitious to his moth-eaten manuscripts, may have himself placed upon the pedestal of renown, simply by the force of prejudice and association.

This, however, we may well consider as rather the sentiments that may operate, than as those which ought to prevail. Mercy must not be allowed to impede, although she may smooth or Macadamize, the course of justice. We must not look upon the literature of our own times with the eyes of our greatgrandsons. While we profess ourselves pleased and delighted with much that contemporary authors have achieved, or say attempted, we confess that there is some foundation for that depreciating and discouraging tone which many assume in regard to the generality of writers and books. There is much to blame, and much that ought to be blotted out. The easy access that men of all grades have to the pleasures of the printing-press, has, of course, tended to produce a great quantity of mongrel literature. We regret to say, that the checks which intellect enforces against mere pretension, have by no means been proportionately exercised. While the production and consumption of literature seem to have increased one hundred-fold since the days of Pope and Dennis, the tribunal of criticism does not possess one tythe of the efficiency it then exhibited.

It might be stated as a reason for this, that the channels of literature being more widely dispersed, and the streams flowing in a stronger and fuller current, it is consequently a matter of greater difficulty to control and scrutinize the scattered emanations of the pen, coming, as they do, in shoals and masses before

the public eye. This is very true

but, by way of caveate, we must add, it is true only to a certain extent. So long as literature is pursued, not for its own sake, but as a matter of trade, the number of books, and their worthlessness, will increase. Public opinion, in such circumstances, has no existence-it is, at best, a mere negative power, that only acts upon itself. Thus it is, that it has been found impossible to keep the pathway to fame clear of intruders-nobody has power or authority to eject them; and it is only when a regular conspiracy or understanding betwixt a numerical force is established, that the veriest nincompoop can be driven into his proper sphere. The fault does not lie in the circumstances of literary matters, as they at present stand, so much as in the utter absence of any decided tribunal which the public can regard without fear or suspicion. For our own part, we frankly confess that we never are surprised to find, that, amongst ten critics who review the same book, no two of them agree in opinion. There are so many different interests involved in every book that is published, and in every periodical that aspires to popular favor, that it is morally impossible that the opinions, which are moulded and modified by these conflicting interests, can be otherwise than unsatisfactory and imperfect.

By these observations we do not mean to say, that our contemporaries are destitute of principle, or of any other of the good points of which we all wish to be thought possessed. By no means; that is an entirely different matter. Still we declare, that we place little or no reliance upon the generality of modern critiques; and we maintain, that in doing so, we are perfectly justified by the present state of our literature.

It may be asked, what are the principal features of our current literature? Can fiction here be said to go before fact ?-romance before history? No. But what is equally