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 fountain