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even snakes lie buried in the dried-up mud, the wild mule, perishing with thirst, gallops up to the ill-shapen plants, strikes with its hoofs at the powerful prickles, until it has made an opening, and then warily approaches with long protruding lips, to drink the well-defended, cool and refreshing juice. Brazil, also, has a plantthe Rainy one, it is called-which is remarkable for a constant flow of water from the points of its leaves, which falls upon the parched ground like a gentle shower of rain-drops. Quite a number of plants, it is well known, have regular pitchers, in which they accumulate moisture—some from within, and others by holding them open in rain or damp weather and closing a curiously-fashioned lid, when they are filled. Such are the side-saddle flower of our own country, with leaves like pitchers, covered with a top, half full of water; the monkey-cup of South America, to which it was once believed the monkeys resorted to quench their thirst, and the distilling nepenthe, which holds up its capacious and elegantly-formed pitchers, full of a cool, colorless water, in the burning sands of the desert. A few trees change the nature of the fluid, and one, the cow-tree, is even good enough to satisfy hunger as well as thirst. It yields a rich, bland and oily juice, closely resembling milk, and that in sufficient abundance to refresh and to satisfy the hunger of several persons. But if the leaves of plants are so industriously and incessantly at work, it must not be forgotten, that some go regularly to rest, and sleep so profoundly that in a clover-field not a leaf opens until after sunrise, and others in South America are universally known as the "sleepers." Most mimosas fold up their delicate, feathery leaves, as night approaches, and when the sun rises once more, the little sleeping ones unfold again, slowly, and, as it were, reluctant, like some of us, to begin their work anew. It has even been observed, that these socalled sensitive plants. when wounded or otherwise suffering, cannot sleep, but keep their leaves open and erect all night long, until they perish. Other plants close their leaves during the day, and awake from their slumbers at night, while a few even droop and clasp the stem, as if secking support in its strength, whenever the sky is overcast and a storm is threatening.

This peculiar faculty of sleep, stands in immediate connection with the general power of certain leaves to move, either upon coming in contact with other bodies, or. apparently, in spontaneous motion.

All the above-mentioned mimosas fold up their leaves, when merely touched; first one little leaflet will be closed, then another, until the whole leaf proper, with its delicate footstalk, droops down and clasps the stem of the parent. If the plant be very irritable-and nervousness is here found to be in proportion to good health-the other leaves will follow the example, until the whole little plant plays, to use a Virginia phrase, "possum," and looks, for all the world, as if it were asleep. The oxalis of this continent requires several successive strokes to produce the same effect, and the robinia, our locust, which sleeps at night, must be violently shaken. The common wild lettuce, also, shows a great irritability, and, curiously enough, only when the plant is in flower. Upon being touched, the leaves contract beneath, and force out, above, a milky juice, with which they soon become covered.

The so-called spontaneous movements of leaves and other parts of plants arise mostly, though not always, from their general tendency to turn towards the light. Little is as yet known with accuracy of this interesting feature in the life of plants. A great number of leaves, however, alter their position by night and by day. Some make a half, some a quarter revolution, and then turn their points downward. Others again fold up, in regular order, the youngest leaf first, as if it required most rest, whilst the oldest are apt to do entirely without it. In other plants it is the state of the atmosphere, which determines such movements -the beards of the geranium and the wild oat, curl up in dry weather, and straighten again in damp days-other plants do the contrary. The hygrometrica of South America closes the leaflets of its finely pinnated foliage long before the clouds rise, and thus foretells the impending change of the weather, and the plant, known among us as the fly-trap, is called in its home on the warm plains on the banks of the Senegal, the good-morning flower, because at that season of the day it gracefully bends over and lowers to the passerby. On the banks of the Ganges, however, exists a vegetable form, so quick of life as to resemble some of the minor animals in its motion. The leaflets of this singular plant are in perpetual motion: one leaflet will rise by a succession of little starts and then fall in like manner; while one rises, another droops, and thus the motion continues and extends over the whole foliage. Nor does it cease at night; in fact it is said to be more vigorous even in the shade, and in the still, hot hours of

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VII.

COSAS DE ESPAÑA.

(Continued from page 493.)

THE RAMBLA AND THE MURALLA DE TIERRA. ARCELONA is the city of promenades.

and they will find opportunities for their favorite amusement unsurpassed by those of any town in Europe. First is the imitable Rambla. Here are the principal hotels, the theatres, the cafés, the post-office, the college, the library, the clubs, the reading rooms, the fruit and flower markets; and here at different hours of the day, or in different parts of the walk, are to be met all classes and conditions of men, from hidalgos to gypsies, from Dulcineas to ragazzas. Even the day-laborers who take up their stand at certain points in the spacious avenue, add to its picturesqueness. Of these none are more noticeable than the whitewashers, a group of whom may be seen at almost any hour at their particular rendezvous; and whose long brushes rise in the air almost high enough to remind one of the masts in the great square of Venice. But picturesque as they are at a distance, on coming near enough to inspect their persons, one is tempted to suggest to them that they would do a very sensible thing if they would set to and whitewash one another. Yet whatever may be the condition of their persons, their dress is always of the gayest. A whitewasher's gambote, in which during the winter months he stands wrapped like a Roman in his toga, is bright with more colorsthe red predominating-than ever was Joseph's. A cloak by day, it is a blanket at night. It is wardrobe and bedfurniture; mat and umbrella. He makes as much show with it as a peacock with his tail. And well may he be proud of it, for this and his brush constitute well nigh his earthly all. This winter cloak

is worn by all the lower classes; and though used for all sorts of purposes, it must be acknowledged, to the credit of the wearers, that it generally has a clean look. The colors seem too bright to be susceptible of tarnish. Add to this universal garment a pair of breeches, which may be plush-a pair of leggings, which may be leathern-white hempen sandals -and a brilliant kerchief twisted gayly around the brows-and you have before you that coxcomb of day-laborers, the Barcelonese.

But he has a rival in the Catalan peasant, who comes in from the country. This

fellow is all velvet. He is nothing if not tag and tassel. And yet he might better be described as a walking pair of trousers. These come fully up to his armpits, reducing the length of his suspender to a span; and they descend to his feet with such ample folds that, if inflated with gas, they would bear aloft the wear as in a double balloon. His feet are in sandals; his breast is covered with a short, richly wrought vest; a braided and buttoned jacket is thrown jauntily over his left shoulder; and a long woollen gorro, red as heart's blood, or purple as the dye of Tyre, either hangs down over one ear, or is folded regally up on the forehead.

But more than by the red gambote of the hireling, or the dark velvets of the mountaineer, will the stranger's eye be attracted by the gay molados of the peasant girls, and the unadorned heads of the town ragazzas. He will not fall in love indeed with either of them-for they are just a hairbreadth too tall. To tell the truth, they border on the strapping. Not fitted to excite the passion of love in any but vulgar breasts, they are made to give suck to a half-gigantic race of hewers of wood and drawers of water. Still, if you look sharply enough, you will not fail of finding, here and there, a ragazza sufficiently picola to please your fancy, and to make the promenade graceful. Unlike the maid of softer Andalusia, the Catalonian does not deck her hair with flowers. It is itself its only ornament. Black, glossy, abundant, it needs no other adorning. She wears her head uncovered by a veil. No mantilla graces her shoulders. Her robe is a simple calico. Only the large heavy Moorish ear-rings of amethyst or emerald set off her natural beauty, and prove her not destitute of the vanity of a woman. You are half pleased. And, at last, when you observe, how well she walks-how.easily and modestly she carries herself; when you get a chance of seeing how well her shoe fits, and how neatly her hand is gloved, you hesitate no longer. Buying the neatest bouquet at hand, you despatch the first errand boy you meet with after the fair promenader, to present with your offering of flowers the humble and respectful compliments of an Estrangero. Of course, the thing is utterly absurd-or would be out of Spain; but you don't think twice of it, and go on your way as if nothing had happened.

But let us pass the gate and leave the town behind. As we cross by the drawbridge beyond moat and mound, we find ourselves on the promenade of the Muralla de tierra-a broad belt of green lying between the walls and the open country. This is thrown like a scarf around the city, encircling it on all sides, excepting that which looks to the sea. It makes a spacious promenade for both pedestrians and equestrians; while outside of it runs a road for carriages.

It is a winter morning; but the sun shines warmly out of a cloudless sky upon a greensward decked with daisies, and upon broad fields of waving wheat beyond. As we wind up the hill to the overhanging fortress of Monjuich, how fair the scene! Below us in the near distance the limestone-built town reflects the yellow sunlight. On one side it is washed by the blue Mediterranean, and on the other it is skirted by the green fields of the country. In the harbor rides at anchor a small fleet of vessels. In the offing are seen a goodly number of sails bearing in for the port; a government steamer is running up the coast to look for smugglers; and the fishing boats which went off at day-break are already bringing in their freights for the hour of dinner. If turning from the pleasant sight of the sea, we look along the winding shore, we see it thickly settled with bright colored towns and villages. Hamlets innumerable and cits' boxes hang suspended half-way up the sides of the mountains, which here run parallel with the shore. And over the tops of the more distant ranges behind, hangs the white fringe of that mantle of snows which now overspreads the North.

Retracing our footsteps, we meet gentlemen prancing on Andalusian horses over the green; we see companies of soldiers, both foot and horse, exercising on the broad parade grounds; we hear the roll of practising drummers; and if we stop on our way too near the ramparts, we are ordered to move on by, the sentinel stationed on the inner wall. Crowds of idlers are attracted outside the walls to see the drill and listen to the music. Beggars, leaving their trade in town, come here to change the scene, and bask like vermin in the sunshine. Unemployed laborers come out to make a holiday by sitting about in squads on the grass, or lying asleep on the sunny banks. And so gay and picturesque is the costume of the lower classes, so graceful and easy are their attitudes, that wherever as inany as three of them either sit or stand toge

ther, it makes a group worthy of being transferred to canvas.

At the hour of noon many of them will be seen in places a little retired from town collected in families around their dinner. The earthen pot has been set up on three stones, a few sticks and.dried grape-vines have been placed under it to make the fire. At first the stranger wonders how any thing could be cooked by the use of so little fuel; but he soon learns that it is the sun which makes the pot boil in this country. At any rate, by twelve o'clock the dinner is always forthcoming. Cloaks are spread on the turf around the steaming tripod. The father reclines on his elbow; the children lie and sit about in every conceivable posture which is not constrained or awkward. The mother serves on plates of tin the simple pot-luck. It is probably beans. If not that, it is a vegetable olla, in which all kinds of greens are commingled. The substance of it will be cabbage; but the soul and relish of it is garlic. An enormous tortell loaf furnishes a supply of bread; oil is the only additional condiment; and wine takes the place of both meat and water.

The physiologists say the pure juice of the grape produces in the animal economy the same ultimate effects as roast beef. Napoleon's soldiers, we know, made the tour of Europe on biscuit and brandy; and these powerful Spanish frames are reared from wine and onions. One thing is certain, that the Catalonian is too poor to have his joint of meat at dinner; and if he can get the same result from his bottle of vino ordinario, which costs him tuppence, it would be rather a hard case to bring him under any "teetotal" law. To take away his porron, would, in fact, be taking the chicken out of his pot. However, the millennium of "total abstinence" not having yet dawned on the Spanish coasts, and being probably destined to bless only the brandy and whiskey latitudes, there is a prospect that the happy natives of these wine-lands will continue to sit for generations to come in the pleasant and, in their case, very innocent shade of their own vines and fig-trees.

But upon entering the town, let us survey this crowd outside the Puerta del Angel. It is a hackney-coach stand—if such carriages as these may be described by so dignified an appellation. Strictly speaking, they are two-wheeled carts, with a leathern cover to keep off sun and rain, and an entrance from behind like an omnibus. They are drawn by one horse or mule, or by half a dozen of them, and generally with a good degree of speed.

Indeed, they go altogether too fast for comfort. For the carriage being well nigh destitute of springs, and the roads being, for the most part, as uneven as the waves of the sea, the passenger is most unmercifully jolted. The natives seem to like the fun of being so "knocked into cocked hats;" and go gayly over the road at a pace which would make a jelly of a foreigner. My advice would be always to keep out of them. For now the dust is wheel-rim deep-just about as deep as the mud on the Boulevards when I left Paris; and after the first rain-should it ever rain again in Barcelona-what is now dust will be turned to still deeper mire.

There are so many carriages on the station that the drivers of them, besides furnishing a certain quota to sleep on their coach-boxes, and another to watch at the gate for passengers, lie about in such numbers as to cover half an acre of greensward. There they play at cards and coppers. They squeeze a bottle together or peel an onion. With sunlight and a paper cigar they seem perfectly happy. Every one takes care to be ready for business when his turn comes, but until that time he is as independent as a beggar. The sunny day is never too long for him. If without work, he talks and sings. He cracks his whip. He trades horses. The sod is soft to his back; and with his bright eyes. he can even look the noonday sun in the face without winking. Curling himself up in his faithful cloak, he sleeps the hours away, if he happens to be an old stager; or wrapping it cavalierly around him, in case he is one of the b'hoys, he plays the gallant to the damsels who pass the gate. He may not earn us much money as his brother of Paris or London, but, surely, his is no harder lot. He does not wear out either himself or his beast with too much work; nor ever dies a broken-down hack-the one or the other.

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VIII. THE MURALLA DEL MAR AND LOVE-MAKING.

THE walks about the city of Barcelona, such as those through the Rambla, around the Muralla de tierra, to Monjuich, to the Cementirio, to Gracia, to the gardens of San Beltran, to the fountains of Trobada, to the torres y huertas, and to the mountains, may be enjoyed every fine day in winter-that is to say, every nine days out of ten. But to go to the Muralla del Mar, one must select a holiday. Then all the beauty and fashion of the VOL. III.-37

town will be there. The walk extends a distance of more than a quarter of a mile in a straight line, and is built on a mural rampart which protects the town from the sea. Broad, level, and strewn with clear sand, it is a perfect pathway to the feet. Commanding a view of the harbor, open in winter to the sun, and cooled in summer by a breeze from the sea, no more luxurious lounge could be devised for leisureno fairer scene imagined for the display of beauty by sunlight. On some state occasions there is a morning reception at the palace of the Captain General, which is connected with the terrace; and then bands of music play in the balconies, while the crowd passes to and fro beneath. On all high festival days the throng is very great. The walk is resplendent with silks and velvets of the most brilliant colors. The dark mantilla and the white veil are mingled with the gay hats of France. Flowers vie in the hair with brilliants. plumes of the officers blend with the feathers of the fair. The air flashes with epaulettes and jewelry; and a thousand glancing eyes add to the brilliancy of even Spanish sunlight. There, in a saloon roofed by the sky, and walled in on one side by palaces, and on the other by the sea, one pays his morning court to the stately dames and gentle daughters of Barcelona. He salutes his acquaintances, makes his visits-and loses his heart.

The

It is a peculiarity of Barcelonese manners, that the fashionable ladies never appear on this, their favorite promenade of the Muralla-rarely, in fact, are to be seen in the street at all-on any days not sacred to the memory of some eminent saint. But on all the high festivals of the church they always pass from the mass to the Muralla. They do not go to church to see and be seen, as it is sometimes said ladies do in Protestant countries; for they repair to the altar to pay their devotions, and afterwards to the promenade to receive them. The two modes of worship-not to say kinds of idolatry are kept separate in Spain. Perhaps in the warmer Catholic climes there may be more frailties to compound for than in the cold Protestant North; and the more exclusive appropriation of the hour of public prayer to the duties of confession and penitence may be accounted for on a principle which will not com pel us to acknowledge the inferiority of our own piety.

Yet I must confess that I have nowhere been more impressed by the solemnity of Christian worship than in the churches

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