In order to explain this strange scene I must inform you that this morning I visited the petty bookseller of the place, Longoria, and having arranged preliminaries with him I sent him in the evening a package of forty Testaments, all I possess, with some advertisements. At the time he assured me that, though he was willing to undertake the sale, there was nevertheless not a prospect of success, as a whole month had elapsed since he had sold a book of any description, on account of the uncertainty of the times and the poverty which pervaded the land. I therefore sat down to write this letter much dispirited; this incident has, however, admonished me not to be cast down when things look gloomiest, as the hand of the Lord is generally then most busy: that men may learn to perceive that whatever good is accomplished is not theirs but His. I shall quit Oviedo in a few days, but whither I shall now direct my course I have not determined. It would be easy for me to reach Santander, which is but thirty leagues [distant] and the road tolerably free from accidents; but the state of affairs at Madrid gives me considerable uneasiness, for I remember that Madrid is the depot of our books, and I am apprehensive that in the revolutions and disturbances which at present seem to threaten it, our whole stock may perish. True it is that in order to reach Madrid I should have to pass through the midst of the Carlist hordes, who would perhaps slay or make me prisoner; but I am at present so much accustomed to perilous adventure, and have hitherto experienced so many fortunate escapes, that the dangers which infest the route would not deter me a moment from venturing. But there is no certain intelligence, and Madrid may be in safety or on the brink of falling; perhaps a few hours will inform us, when I shall at once decide. My next letter will therefore be either from Santander or the capital of Spain. Oviedo is picturesquely situated between two mountains, Morcin and Naranco; the former is very high and ragged, and during the greatest part of the year is covered with snow; the sides of the latter are cultivated and planted with vines. The town itself possesses nothing very remarkable with the exception of the cathedral, the tower of which is very high, and is perhaps the purest specimen of Gothic architecture at present in existence. The interior of the edifice is neat and appropriate but simple and unadorned, for I observed but one picture, the Conversion of St. Paul. One of the chapels is a cemetery, in which rest the bones of eleven Gothic kings, whose souls I trust in Christ have been accepted. I will now conclude in the words of Heber: 'From Greenland's icy mountains, From India's coral strand-- Where Afric's sunny fountains Roll down the yellow sand-- From many an ancient river, From many a palmy plain, They call us to deliver Their land from error's chain.' Most truly yours,