the leaves also evaporate nearly twothirds of the water which the roots have imbibed, and sent up to them through the interior of the plant. The moment, however, this now perfectly pure water is exhaled, it is dissolved in the air and becomes invisible to the eye.

Another duty, which the leaves of plants perform with still greater energy, is the drawing of water from the atmosphere. They drink it in, from the first moment of their short life, to the last day, by all possible means and contrivances. The young leaves, as yet wholly or in part rolled up, are but so many cups or spoons, turned to heaven to gather all the moisture they can hold. As the young plants grow, they unfold leaf after leaf, and all perform the same duty with the same eagerness. From the cedar of Lebanon down to the bashful violet, each plant holds forth its gigantic mass of foliage or its tiny goblet, to have its share of the precious moisture. All are greedy consumers of water, and know how to obtain it, by some peculiar, as yet unknown process, even in such regions of the Tropics, where for half the year no cloud darkens the ever-serene sky, and where not even dew is given to refresh the panting vegetation. Their power, in this respect, is as great as it is mysterious. The most succulent plants of the Tropics cling to the faces of barren cliffs, or rise from dry, dust-like sand. It is true, their leaves contain both caoutchouc and wax, and are covered with a thin layer of these substances, as with a water-proof cloak, to prevent evaporation under a burning sun. Some plants, however, support themselves not only, but actually increase in weight when suspended in the air, and unconnected with any soil, as the common houseleak and the aloe. The so-called air-plant, perhaps the most remarkable of the whole vegetable kingdom, is but a single leaf, without stem or root, and yet it is able to maintain life, to grow and to blossom, if only hung up in a warm and damp atmosphere, though it be not even in contact with any other substance. It puts out buds, these become leaves, drop tiny roots into the air, and soon exist as independent plants.

And here again we cannot help observng, how quietly the work of Nature is going on, unsuspected and unheeded by

us.

The innumerable leaves of our forest and arbor trees form a vast summer laboratory, in which the great work of plants is incessantly continued, and which contributes, to an incalculable extent, to the support and the health of all animal

existence. They afford us thus another of the thousand proofs of creative design, which we may, at a glance, obtain from the vegetable world. They labor and work for themselves apparently all the while, but render the earth and all life thereon invaluable service. Even when they greedily draw up all moisture by roots or leaves, they become our benefactors. The despised mosses hold up their little cups to drink in the waters of heaven, and make most ample return for its bounty. They clothe the steep sides of lofty hills and mountain ranges, and their densely-crowded delicate leaflets attract and condense the watery vapors constantly floating in the air, and thus become the living fountains of many a proud stream. The tall trees of the forest draw down the rain-filled cloud, as the lightning-rod invites the thunder cloud, and the moisture so distilled is condensed into little streamlets which trickle down from twig and bough, even when the ground is dry and dusty. This gives fertility also to adjoining fields. The heavy, damp air, gathered by the woods, sinks down as fog or mist when the still cool evening comes, and rich dew pearls in the morning on the meadows and refreshes the fields. Trees thus affect materially the climate and general character of countries. Thickly-wooded regions, like our own continent, are colder and more humid than cultivated or broad treeless savannahs; they abound in rain and fertile dew; and to cut down our trees is seriously to impair the supply furnished by them to springs and rivers. Some lands would not be habitable but for trees. In one of the Canaries neither springs nor rivers are found; but there grows a large, tall tree, called with veneration the Saint, in some of the deep recesses of the mountains. It keeps its lofty head all night long wrapped up in-mist and clouds, from which it dispenses its timely, never-ceasing moisture in little rivulets, running merrily down from the leaves. Small reservoirs are built for the purpose of catching the precious gift, and thus alone the island is made a fit dwelling-place for

man.

Humbler plants store up water in smaller quantities, but not the less pure or welcome. The melon cactuses have been called the vegetable fountains of the desert, because they conceal under their hideous prickly envelope, covered with dry lichens, an ample supply of watery pith. The great Humboldt tells us graphically, how, in the dry season, when all life has fled from the pampas, and

even snakes lie buried in the dried-up mud, the wild mule, perishing with thirst, gallops up to the ill-shapen plants, strikes with its hoofs at the powerful prickles, until it has made an opening, and then warily approaches with long protruding lips, to drink the well-defended, cool and refreshing juice. Brazil, also, has a plantthe Rainy one, it is called-which is remarkable for a constant flow of water from the points of its leaves, which falls upon the parched ground like a gentle shower of rain-drops. Quite a number of plants, it is well known, have regular pitchers, in which they accumulate moisture-some from within, and others by holding them open in rain or damp weather and closing a curiously-fashioned lid, when they are filled. Such are the side-saddle flower of our own country, with leaves like pitchers, covered with a top, half full of water; the monkey-cup of South America, to which it was once believed the monkeys resorted to quench their thirst, and, the distilling nepenthe, which holds up its capacious and elegantly-formed pitchers, full of a cool, colorless water, in the burning sands of the desert. A few trees change the nature of the fluid, and one, the cow-tree, is even good enough to satisfy hunger as well as thirst. It yields a rich, bland and oily juice, closely resembling milk, and that in sufficient abundance to refresh and to satisfy the hunger of several persons. But if the leaves of plants are so industriously and incessantly at work, it must not be forgotten, that some go regularly to rest, and sleep so profoundly that in a clover-field not a leaf opens until after sunrise, and others in South America are universally known as the "sleepers." Most mimosas fold up their delicate, feathery leaves, as night approaches, and when the sun rises once more, the little sleeping ones unfold again, slowly, and, as it were, reluctant, like some of us, to begin their work anew. It has even been observed, that these socalled sensitive plants, when wounded or otherwise suffering, cannot sleep, but keep their leaves open and erect all night long, until they perish. Other plants close their leaves during the day, and awake from their slumbers at night, while a few even droop and clasp the stem, as if seeking support in its strength, whenever the sky is overcast and a storm is threatening.

This peculiar faculty of sleep, stands in immediate connection with the general power of certain leaves to move, either upon coming in contact with other bodies, or. apparently, in spontaneous motion.

All the above-mentioned mimosas fold up their leaves, when merely touched; first one little leaflet will be closed, then another, until the whole leaf proper, with its delicate footstalk, droops down and clasps the stem of the parent. If the plant be very irritable-and nervousness is here found to be in proportion to good health-the other leaves will follow the example, until the whole little plant plays, to use a Virginia phrase, "possum," and looks, for all the world, as if it were asleep. The oxalis of this continent requires several successive strokes to produce the same effect, and the robinia, our locust, which sleeps at night, must be violently shaken. The common wild lettuce, also, shows a great irritability, and, curiously enough, only when the plant is in flower. Upon being touched, the leaves contract beneath, and force out, above, a milky juice, with which they soon become covered.

The so-called spontaneous movements of leaves and other parts of plants arise mostly, though not always, from their general tendency to turn towards the light. Little is as yet known with accuracy of this interesting feature in the life of plants. A great number of leaves, however, alter their position by night and by day. Some make a half, some a quarter revolution, and then turn their points downward. Others again fold up, in regular order, the youngest leaf first, as if it required most rest, whilst the oldest are apt to do entirely without it. In other plants it is the state of the atmosphere, which determines such movements -the beards of the geranium and the wild oat, curl up in dry weather, and straighten again in damp days-other plants do the contrary. The hygrometrica of South America closes the leaflets of its finely pinnated foliage long before the clouds rise, and thus foretells the impending change of the weather, and the plant, known among us as the fly-trap, is called in its home on the warm plains on the banks of the Senegal, the good-morning flower, because at that season of the day it gracefully bends over and lowers to the passerby. On the banks of the Ganges, however, exists a vegetable form, so quick of life as to resemble some of the minor animals in its motion. The leaflets of this singular plant are in perpetual motion: one leaflet will rise by a succession of little starts and then fall in like manner; while one rises, another droops, and thus the motion continues and extends over the whole foliage. Nor does it cease at night; in fact it is said to be more vigorous even in the shade, and in the still, hot hours of

THE RAMBLA AND THE MURALLA DE TIERRA.

ARCELONA is the city of promenades.

fellow is all velvet. He is nothing if not tag and tassel. And yet he might better be described as a walking pair of trousers. These come fully up to his armpits, redu

and they will find opportunities for their favorite amusement unsurpassed by those of any town in Europe. First is the imitable Rambla. Here are the principal hotels, the theatres, the cafés, the post-office, the college, the library, the clubs, the reading rooms, the fruit and flower markets; and here at different hours of the day, or in different parts of the walk, are to be met all classes and conditions of men, from hidalgos to gypsies, from Dulcineas to ragazzas. Even the day-laborers who take up their stand at certain points in the spacious avenue, add to its picturesqueness. Of these none are more noticeable than the whitewashers, a group of whom may be seen at almost any hour at their particular rendezvous; and whose long brushes rise in the air almost high enough to remind one of the masts in the great square of Venice. But picturesque as they are at a distance, on coming near enough to inspect their persons, one is tempted to suggest to them that they would do a very sensible thing if they would set to and whitewash one another. Yet whatever may be the condition of their persons, their dress is always of the gayest. A whitewasher's gambote, in which during the winter months he stands wrapped liko a Roman in his toga, is bright with more colorsthe red predominating-than ever was Joseph's. A cloak by day, it is a blanket at night. It is wardrobe and bedfurniture; mat and umbrella. He makes as much show with it as a peacock with his tail. And well may he be proud of it, for this and his brush constitute well nigh his earthly all. This winter cloak

is worn by all the lower classes; and though used for all sorts of purposes, it must be acknowledged, to the credit of the wearers, that it generally has a clean look. The colors seem too bright to be susceptible of tarnish. Add to this universal garment a pair of breeches, which may be plush-a pair of leggings, which may be leathern-white hempen sandals -and a brilliant kerchief twisted gayly around the brows-and you have before you that coxcomb of day-laborers, the Barcelonese.

But he has a rival in the Catalan peasant, who comes in from the country. This

span; and they descend to his feet with such ample folds that, if inflated with gas, they would bear aloft the wear as in a double balloon. His feet are in sandals; his breast is covered with a short, richly wrought vest; a braided and buttoned jacket is thrown jauntily over his left shoulder; and a long woollen gorro, red as heart's blood, or purple as the dye of Tyre, either hangs down over one ear, or is folded regally up on the forehead.

But more than by the red gambote of the hireling, or the dark velvets of the mountaineer, will the stranger's eye be attracted by the gay molados of the peasant girls, and the unadorned heads of the town ragazzas. He will not fall in love indeed with either of them-for they are just a hairbreadth too tall. To tell the truth, they border on the strapping. Not fitted to excite the passion of love in any but vulgar breasts, they are made to give suck to a half-gigantic race of hewers of wood and drawers of water. Still, if you look sharply enough, you will not fail of finding, here and there, a ragazza sufficiently picola to please your fancy, and to make the promenade graceful. Unlike the maid of softer Andalusia, the Catalonian does not deck her hair with flowers. It is itself its only ornament. Black, glossy, abundant, it needs no other adorning. She wears her head uncovered by a veil. No mantilla graces her shoulders. Her robe is a simple calico. Only the large heavy Moorish ear-rings of amethyst or emerald set off her natural beauty, and prove her not destitute of the vanity of a woman. You are half pleased. And, at last, when you observe, how well she walks-how easily and modestly she carries herself; when you get a chance of seeing how well her shoe fits, and how neatly her hand is gloved, you hesitate no longer. Buying the neatest bouquet at hand, you despatch the first errand boy you meet with after the fair promenader, to present with your offering of flowers the humble and respectful compliments of an Estrangero. Of course, the thing is utterly absurd-or would be out of Spain; but you don't think twice of it, and go on your way as if nothing had happened.

But let us pass the gate and leave the town behind. As we cross by the drawbridge beyond moat and mound, we find ourselves on the promenade of the Muralla de tierra-a broad belt of green lying between the walls and the open country. This is thrown like a scarf around the city, encircling it on all sides, excepting that which looks to the sea. It makes a spacious promenade for both pedestrians and equestrians; while outside of it runs a road for carriages.

It is a winter morning; but the sun shines warmly out of a cloudless sky upon a greensward decked with daisies, and upon broad fields of waving wheat beyond. As we wind up the hill to the overhanging fortress of Monjuich, how fair the scene! Below us in the near distance the limestone-built town reflects the yellow sunlight. On one side it is washed by the blue Mediterranean, and on the other it is skirted by the green fields of the country. In the harbor rides at anchor a small fleet of vessels. In the offing are seen a goodly number of sails bearing in for the port; a government steamer is running up the coast to look for smugglers; and the fishing boats which went off at day-break are already bringing in their freights for the hour of dinner. If turning from the pleasant sight of the sea, we look along the winding shore, we see it thickly settled with bright colored towns and villages. Hamlets innumerable and cits' boxes hang suspended half-way up the sides of the mountains, which here run parallel with the shore. And over the tops of the more distant ranges behind, hangs the white fringe of that mantle of snows which now overspreads the North.

Retracing our footsteps, we meet gentlemen prancing on Andalusian horses over the green; we see companies of soldiers, both foot and horse, exercising on the broad parade grounds; we hear the roll of practising drummers; and if we stop on our way too near the ramparts, we are ordered to move on by the sentinel stationed on the inner wall. Crowds of idlers are attracted outside the walls to see the drill and listen to the music. Beggars, leaving their trade in town, come here to change the scene, and bask like vermin in the sunshine. Unemployed laborers come out to make a holiday by sitting about in squads on the grass, or lying asleep on the sunny banks. And so gay and picturesque is the costume of the lower classes, so graceful and easy are their attitudes, that wherever as many as three of them either sit or stand toge

ther, it makes a group worthy of being transferred to canvas.

At the hour of noon many of them will be seen in places a little retired from town collected in families around their dinner. The earthen pot has been set up on three stones, a few sticks and dried grape-vines have been placed under it to make the fire. At first the stranger wonders how any thing could be cooked by the use of so little fuel; but he soon learns that it is the sun which makes the pot boil in this country. At any rate, by twelve o'clock the dinner is always forthcoming. Cloaks are spread on the turf around the steaming tripod. The father reclines on his elbow; the children lie and sit about in every conceivable posture which is not constrained or awkward. The mother serves on plates of tin the simple pot-luck. It is probably beans. If not that, it is a vegetable olla, in which all kinds of greens are commingled. The substance of it will be cabbage; but the soul and relish of it is garlic. An enormous tortell loaf furnishes a supply of bread; oil is the only additional condiment; and wine takes the place of both meat and water.

The physiologists say the pure juice of the grape produces in the animal economy the same ultimate effects as roast beef. Napoleon's soldiers, we know, made the tour of Europe on biscuit and brandy; and these powerful Spanish frames are reared from wine and onions. One thing is certain, that the Catalonian is too poor to have his joint of meat at dinner; and if he can get the same result from his bottle of vino ordinario, which costs him tuppence, it would be rather a hard case to bring him under any "teetotal" law. To take away his porron, would, in fact, be taking the chicken out of his pot. However, the millennium of "total abstinence" not having yet dawned on the Spanish coasts, and being probably destined to bless only the brandy and whiskey latitudes, there is a prospect that the happy natives of these wine-lands will continue to sit for generations to come in the pleasant and, in their case, very innocent shade of their own vines and fig-trees.

vey

But upon entering the town, let us surthis crowd outside the Puerta del Angel. It is a hackney-coach stand-if such carriages as these may be described by so dignified an appellation. Strictly speaking, they are two-wheeled carts, with a leathern cover to keep off sun and rain, and an entrance from behind like an omnibus. They are drawn by one horse or mule, or by half a dozen of them, and generally with a good degree of speed.