Barcelona is one of the best places in Spain for one to be during the observance of remarkable festivals.  The celebration of Corpus Christi, which commences on the 30th, is said to be conducted here on a most magnificent scale.  Of this I can form some conception from the brilliant procession which I witnessed yesterday afternoon, it being Trinity Sunday.  The procession was preceded by two men on mules, over whose necks were strung a pair of tambours, (a kind of drum,) upon which the men were vigorously beating.  Then came a priest, bearing a large and elaborately worked cross; after him came the body of the procession in regular order, consisting of young priests in white gowns, chanting as they marched; citizens in black, with white waistcoats and without hats; little girls representing the angels, in snowy gauze dresses with flowers, garlands, and a light azure scarf flowing from their heads; numerous bands of music, some of them playing solemn airs, others quick-steps and polkas; a fine display of infantry, and after all a noble body of cavalry, on fine horses, in striking uniform, each of them carrying a spear-topped banner in their hands.  The general appearance of this procession, (each member of which, with the exception of the soldiers, carried a lighted candle or torch in his hand,) marching through one of the superb but narrow streets, while from almost every balcony was suspended a gay “trede,” (a scarf-like awning,) either of blue, or crimson, or yellow, the balconies themselves being crowded with clusters of bright-eyed girls,—­constituted one of the most brilliant and attractive spectacles that I ever witnessed.  Yet they tell me that the procession of Corpus Christi will be infinitely more splendid and elaborate.

I am living here very comfortably.  My rooms are pleasant and overlook the charming Rambla.  My mornings are generally spent in reading and studying Spanish.  At four o’clock my Irish friend and myself proceed to the fine restaurant where we are accustomed to dine:  here we meet an intelligent Spanish gentleman, who completes our party, and as he does not speak English, all conversation is conducted at the table in the Spanish language.  Dinner being over, we next visit a palverine cafe, where we meet a number of Spanish acquaintances, with whom we take coffee and a cigar.  We all sally out together, and walk for an hour or two, either in the environs of the city, or along their mural terrace, overlooking the blue waters of the Mediterranean, closing our promenade at length upon the crowded and animated Rambla.  After the theater, a stroll in the moonlight upon this magnificent promenade, and as the clock strikes the hour of midnight we retire, and bathe in the waters of oblivion till morn.  My days in Spain are drawing near their end.  I am ready to leave, though I shall cast many a lingering thought, many a fond recollection behind; and in future years, I shall sadly recall these hours, which, I fear, can