ou'rueeerEn.

A-v American of elegant mind, literary habits, and a love of anti- quity, chivalry, and old customs—with a greater knowledge of the European literature of the middle ages than k we imagime usual amongst his matter-of-fact countrymen—paid it fast visit to the Old World, it would appear, from internal evidence, some eight or nine years ago. A common tourist he certainly was nut ; neither can he be termed a scientific, a learned, or even a classical traveller, in the usual acceptation of the terms. The things which delight other men appear to have had small attraction fur him. Balls, concerts, theatres, the galleries of art, the meetings of the learned, the assemblies of legislators, the courts of rulers, are matters which he deemed unworthy of record, if he thought them worthy of a visit. The scenes among which he loves to linger, are the Gothic temple, the neglected, the deserted, or the ruined castle, once inhabited by Christian or Paynim knight- hood, and the sutler kind of landscape, when seen under a cheer- ing, a warm, or a sober atmosphere. The persons whom he studies, or with whom he takes up, are mostly odd bodies; way- farers like himself, peasants with a dash of personal or national romance, quaint old gentlemen who have tales to tell, or whose history is a tale of itself: Ilis flivourite stories are the humorous %%Alt a touch of the satirical, or the elegantly- pensive—melan- choly yet not despairing. In short, el Plle-rinerge to the Old lVnid appears as it it were intended to be a kind of foreign Bracebridge Both with far less elaboration and minuteness, indeed, but with an almost equal elegance of thought and language, albeit rather more meagre. The Epistle to the Reader, and the Pi!- grim's account of himself, state distinctly that the writer appears fur the lirst time; and as we always expect to be believed when we make a statement in print, self-interest induces a faith even against evidence. But siace the Pilgrim cannot be W ASIIINGTON INNING, he must be his fetch or his double. Either the author of the Sketch-Book—in his capacity of author—has received a warn- ing, or there are " two Rid:mends in the Held."

The Pilerim, we suppo-0, started from Havre. At all events, lie travelled threuedi Normandy to Rouen, outside the diligence; describing, has first impressions of the country through which he passed, and painting the vehicle which carried him. At Rouen, he rambles through the city at nightfall ; emerges from a narrow alley in front of the Cathedral, and, for the first time. in his life, as he tells, sees a specimen of Gothic architecture. His reverential saunter through the building is described; and we are also told of his making acquaintance at the table-diode with an antiquary,

who gives him a capital story, which our pilgrim can do no less than give to his readers. From Rouen, we suppose, he passes

through Paris ; at least we next see him established at the village

of Auteuil, in a maison de santie Here he spends his time in studying some of the inmates of the house ; lounging in the Bois

de Boulogne; sitting at his window receiving impressions from

the passing objects, mirth, music, bridal, and burial ; and medi- tating in Wre la Chaise. A pedestrian excursion from Orleans to Tours along the banks of the Loire follows. A journey from Bourdeaux to Madrid in the diligence, and a brief sojourn at the Spanish capital, arc the next principal events in the Pilgrimage; and, with the journey from Madrid to Granada,

furnish the oppor-.

Utility for some pleasant sketches of Spain and Spaniards. The ensuing scene k Italy—done far too slightly, if it were to be touched at all; and the finale—a tour through Germany and down the Rhine—is huddled up in a few lines. In choosing the extracts, we shall have an eye to the main- tenance of the opinion we have hazarded: and what can he better than the two following passages ? The first is the opening of the antiquarian's gill ; and heretofore there has been but one man who could paint so happily the luxury of laziness in the first para- graph, or give so slily the satirical touch at the close of the second. In the piece of Monsieur D'Argentville, there is more of the pith of his prototype GoLesertii than Lien NG always exhibits; yet it seems to us to smack strongly of the Sketch-Book nevertheless.

Orr NI Nil or A TALE.

In times of old, there lived in the city of Rotten a tradesman named 11lartin Franc, who, by a seties of mi.flanoa.,, had been folio-ell from opulence to poverty. But poverty, which generally makes Own humble and Jabot itms, only stvyed to wake bite plow! ;11111 lazy ; and in proportion as he grew poorer and poorer, he grew also prouder and lazier. Ile contrived, however, to live on from slay to day, by now and then pawning a silken lobe of his wife, or selling a silver S1:11011. or some 01110 frill, ■11Vcol from the wreck of his better fortune ; and passed his time pleasantly enough in loiter lug .about the Market-place, and walking up and flown on the sunny side of the sum.

fitir Marguerite, his wile, celebrated through the whole city for her

beauty, her wit, and her virtue. She was a brunette, with the blacked eve, the whitest teeth, and the ripest not-brown cheek in all Normandy ; her figure was tall and stately, her hands and tint most &lie dely moulded, and her swimming gait like the motion of 41 511111. In happier days she had been the delight of the richest tradesmen in the (-Hy, and the envy of the fairest dames ; and when she !termite poor, her time was not a little increased by her et tieltv to several substantial burghers, who, without consulting their wives, had getwomsly offered to stand between her bushand and hankatiptey. and do all in their power to raise a svorthy and respectable family.

THE Si NA I:1A N.

personage sketched in the pteceding paragraph is...Monsieur d'.1rgentville, a scsagenatiam with %Omni I heealhe aryl rioted dun in;; Illy residence at the Maison de Sante of Auteuil. I found him there, and left hint there. Nobody knew when he came—he had !wen there front time immemorial ; nor xylem he was going away—for he himself did not know ; nor what ailed hint—for though lie was always complaining-, set he grew neitlwr better nor worse, never con- sulted a physician, and ate voraciously three times a day. At cad, he ryas rather petvish, n011114..1 his neighbour, willt his elbow s, and ed the nnountII Ill! /ash ! 1,Lther oftener titan good breeding and a ,!tie t!,•feretiee to the opinions of sPA1N NA Im HAL, .VNI, sr.\ 11,1 POLITICAL.

My recollections of Spain ate of the most lively and delightful kind. The character of the soil and of its inhabitants—the stormy mountains and free spirits of the North—the prodigal luxuriance and g Iv voluptuousnass of the South—the history and traditions of the past, resembling more the fables of

romance than the solemn chronicle of events—a soft and vet majestic language, that falls like martial music on the ear, and a literature rich in the attraetive lore of poetry and fictloo,—these, but not these alone, are my rentini•eences a Spain. With these I fecal the thousand little eitettoistances and enjoyment- which always give a colouring to cur recollections of the past : the clear sky, the pure, balmy air, the delirious fruits and flowers, the triad fig ia1,1 the aloe, paint gree and the olive by the all that makes existence so joy- ous. and tenders the sons and daughters of that clime the children of impulse awl sensation.

As I write these words, a shade of sadness steals over me. When I think what that glorious land might be. and what it is—what nature intended it should be, and what man has made it —my heart sinks within me. 3Iy miad instinc- tively reverts from the d,gradation I/f the present to the gluey of the past ; or, looking fin-ward with strung misgivings, but with yet stronger hopes, iuter- rogates the future.

The b mishol armour of the ('id stand, in the archives of the !loyal Museum of Madrid ; and there, too, L. sera the at moor of Fertliieuld and Isalwl, of ;oz. man the (Mod, and ilIonzalo de toolova, and of other eat ly ell tutpiuns of Spain : but what hand shall now wield the sword of Oa, Canipeador, or lift tip the banner of Leo.[ and Castile ? The ruins of Christian eagle rill 110..6,11 al-

cazar still look forth from the hills of Sp tin; where. 0 where is the spirit of freedom that once tired the children of ie 1■11111 ? the :pit it of

Bernardo del Carpitt, and Perez de Varga.. :t11.1 .1h.fizo de Aguilat ? shall it for ever sleep? Shall it never ag sin ben high in the hearts of their degenerate sons ? Shall the. descendants of Pelayo bow for ever beneath ;111 iron yoke, "like cattle whose despair is 'loud)? " The dust of the Cid lies mingling with the dust of Ohl (' otile ; but liis spirit is not bullied with his ashes. it sleeps, but is not dead. The day will come when the font of the tyrant stall lie shaken from the neck of Spain ; When a brave and generous people• though now ignot ant, deg' adtd, and touch abused, shall "know their rights, and knowing, dare maintain." But I ant no political seer—I will dwell no longer on this theme.

THE ter 11TA •01.—mAi)ittii.

There, take that chair upon the balcony, and let us looli down upon the busy

scene line all Whlt a colltililli,1 ra tr the crowded thoroughfare semis up r. Though three stories high, we can hardly hear the soutol of our own voices. The London cries are whispers when comp teed with the cites of ALtdri41.

See, vonder stalks 4 giganti,• peasant it New C 'stile. with a minden cap, brown jacket and breech,s, and coarse Moo ■tot.kinz,. forcing his way through the crowd, 31141 leading a donkey laden with charroal, whose sonorous bray is in unison with the harsh voice of his master. Close at Li, elbow goes a rosy - checked damsel selling calico. She is an Asturian, from the mountains of San- Lander. )low do you know ? By her short yellow petticoats, her blue budlike, her coral necklace and ear-rings. Through the middle of the square struts a peasant of Old Castile, with his yellow leather jerkin strum...a round Lis waist, his brown leggins and his blue garters, (hiving berme him a set of gabbling turkies, and crying, at the top of his voice, " Pao, pan, pavitos.. pans !" Next comes a Valentian, with his loose linen trousers and saudal she* m. holding a huge sack of water-melons upon his shoulder with his left hand. and with his right balancing high iu air a specimen of his luscious fi Mt, upon which is perched a little pyramid of the crimson pulp, while lie tempts the wedsers by with " A cala, y calando; una &India vewlo-o 11, Si c,111 es slItigt ' " (By the slice—come and try it—water-melon kir sale. This is the real blood ]) Ills companion near him has a pair of scales thrown over his shoultler. aid holds both arms full of musk-melons. Ile chimes into the harnotnious ditty Is ith the '' Mela—nieto'o-o—n'cloncitos ; aqui esta el azilear ! " ( inchins; Isere is the real sugar I ) Behind than creeps in slow-moving !Stan rang in heavy wtssieti shoes, crying water-tresses; and a peasant woman front the (fttal.1.1r4n)a 101m tains, with a montera cocked up in front, and a blue kerchief tied mott' her chin, swings in each hand a bunch of live chickens, that haug Ly toe claws, head downwards Ilotteting, scratching-, crowing, with all their might. 'slide the good woman tries to drown their vItire* in the discordant cry of 'ie. Qiilori me eonipra un gaffe—un pat de gallinas" (Who buys a Ci /A --a brute of hel14-- whn hIlyS?) That tall fellow in blue, with a pot of flowers upon his shin:bier, is a wag, beyond all dispute. See how C1111111:111ly he corks his eye op at us, and " Si yo tuviera baltom !" ( If I torly had alolooty- ! what next? A Manehegro, with in sack of oil nutlet lii• arm ; a Galls u, with- a huge water-jar upon his slundolers ; an Italian prilhlr, with imap.es oil stints and 31,olontias; a razor•grinder,withhis tvbee!; a Mender of pots and kettles, making music as he goes, with in shovel and a fayil t. 11411; :ltd, in 111/e, 3 noisy, patch-work, ever-changing crowd, whose di-toed:tot cries mingle whit the 111ing of wheels, the clatotr of hoofs, anti the cl log nt church tftelk, and 11,41;0 the Puerta del Sol, at certa:u hours of the t/ay, like a street in Babylon the (treat.

I3esides the contents we have described, there arc scattered throughout the volumes several notices of the poetry at.il romances of the middle ages. They are written with taste, elegance, and discrimination, though with a leaning to hoar antiqui'y. But these, with one or two other papers, might have been composed without making a journey to the OldWorld.And—else we are cloyed with unvarying sweetness—some passages in the second volume might have been dispensed with, being fitter for filling space than exciting interest.