From Figueras to Junquera, the last town in Spain, I passed through a pleasant undulating country, and then entered the valley that lies under the Pyrenees,--a valley not fertile, but picturesque, traversed by a small mountain stream, covered with the olive and the cork tree, and winding into the recesses of the mighty barrier that shuts out the Peninsula from the rest of the world. Rising above the valley, I found myself inclosed among the mountains, and leaving Spain behind; I had left the carriage, to walk up the steep ascent; and soon, Bellegarde, upon the summit of the pass, and the pillars that mark the boundary of the kingdoms, appeared in sight. The valley behind was still visible through the defile; and as I turned round to look upon Spain for the last time, a thousand recollections and vague fancies crowded upon my mind. I felt a sensation something like pride, in having traversed Spain. Much I had seen to interest, much to delight, much to lament, much to remember; and as I turned away, regret was not unmingled with my other feelings. As I pursued my way up the mountains, that had now shut out the view of the valleys below, Spain, as fancy had once pictured it--and Spain, as I had seen it, rose successively to my memory. But it pleased me to discover, that romance had outlived reality, or was mingled with it; for the fragrant, and palmy valleys of Spain, still lay among the regions of fiction; Seville retained in my mind, its character of a fabled city; the Sierra Morena was yet traversed by the knight of La Mancha; and Spain, with all its realities before me, was still the land of romance. THE END. Printed by S. Manning and Co., London house-yard, St. Paul’s. FOOTNOTES: [A] Since this was put to press, Sir George Don has been recalled.