was told a hundred times in the Huerta of Valencia, that when any one wanted to get rid of another person, it was not difficult to find a peasant who, for five or six douros, would undertake the business. This appears to me barefaced calumny. In the country I have often met with individuals delighting in a frightful expression of countenance, but they always saluted me with the greatest politeness. One evening, we lost our way, and we were near being compelled to sleep in the open air, as the gates of the city were closed when we arrived there; but nothing happened to us, although it had been dark for some time, and though Valencia and its environs were in a state of revolution. By a singular contrast, the wives of these European Zabyles are pale and fair, _bionde e grassote_, as the women of Venice; they have a sweet, melancholy smile on their lips, and a tender look in their blue eyes; it would be impossible to conceive a stronger contrast. These dark demons of the paradise of the Huerta have fair angels for their wives, whose beautiful hair is kept in its place by a high-backed comb, or by long pins ornamented at the end by large silver or glass beads. Formerly, the Valencian women used to wear a lovely national costume, which resembled that of the women of Albania; but they have, unfortunately, cast it aside to make room for a frightful Anglo-French style of attire, for dresses with shoulder-of-mutton sleeves, and other abominations. It is worthy of remark that the women are always the first to quit the national costume; and almost the only persons in Spain who have preserved the ancient manner of dressing are the men of the lower classes. This want of discrimination with respect to costume in an essentially coquettish sex surprises us; but our astonishment ceases, when we reflect that women only possess the sentiment of fashion and not that of beauty. A woman will always think any wretched piece of rag lovely, if it is the height of fashion to wear this piece of rag.