( 250 ) 

 SIR PAUL BAGHOTT'S LETTERS FROM SPAIN. No. 1 



Torla in Aragon, Spain. Sept. 18, 1834. 

 DEAR SIR, 



I ENTERED this romantic valley yesterday, after crossing the gigantic 

 barrier which connects the peninsula with the continent, just as the 

 dusk was creeping into the dark denies leading to the little town of 

 Torla in Aragon. 



The Alcaldy having inspected my passport, I hastened to the church, 

 the chiming of bells calling the inhabitants to evening vespers, and 

 found the congregation in communion with the priest, assisted by a 

 tolerably good organ. It was dimly lit up, and cast a dizzy curtain over 

 the altar and various chapels, ornamented by clumsily carved figures of 

 the Santa Patrona, and other apostolicos, generally deposited in Spanish 

 churches. 



The service being concluded, I introduced myself to the cura, an 

 affable and pleasant man, who informed me he had been a prisoner 

 during the French war in 1823, and could speak French; this led me 

 to conclude he was a Liberal ; and I ventured to engage in conversation 

 with him, although the Proverb says, " En boca cerada no entra moscas," 

 viz. in a shut mouth no flies enter. 



The object of my journey being confined solely to observation, I 

 said, " Hay Carlistas aque Senor ? " Are there any Carlists here ? (< No, 

 we are tranquil, but how soon the thunder may be heard in this pro- 

 vince I know not," was the reply of the pastor. I then informed him 

 of their queen's death ; it made a deep impression on his mind ; he 

 silently breathed, " Que Castima !" what a pity ! He wished to know 

 my employ, and whither I was going, I told him to Sarragossa, and from 

 thence into Navarre. " Be cautious what you say," observed he ; " there 

 is a mixed political party in that city : independent of that dreadful 

 scourge the cholera." I thanked him for his friendly advice and bade 

 him adieu. 



Having an hour or two to spare and an opportunity of conveying this 

 letter to France by a muleteer, perhaps it will not be deemed unin- 

 teresting to give you a brief narration of my journey of yesterday over 

 the Pyrenees, the road I ventured to go into Spain being seldom used, 

 but by avaros or muleteers, nor has it ever, I think, been described by 

 any English traveller. 



I shall avoid saying any thing of the picturesque and romantic 

 scenery of the Haught Pyrenees in France, whither I had been so- 

 journing for some time, and enjoying the waters at Baniers Canteris, 

 and that memorable little place San Savour, with their glaciers, cas- 

 cades, cataracts, lakes, and lofty mountains, whose summits are covered 

 by eternal snow, but commence my description at Gavernie, the last 

 village in France, the highest inhabited, the Pyrenees on the Spanish 

 frontier. 



