Honest old Blanco prepared me a cup of chocolate by sunrise next morning, and accompanied me down to the quay, to embark for Seville.  A furious wind was blowing from the south-east, and the large green waves raced and chased one another incessantly over the surface of the bay.  I took a heavy craft, which the boatmen pushed along under cover of the pier, until they reached the end, when the sail was dropped in the face of the wind, and away we shot into the watery tumult.  The boat rocked and bounced over the agitated surface, running with one gunwale on the waves, and sheets of briny spray broke over me.  I felt considerably relieved when I reached the deck of the steamer, but it was then diversion enough to watch those who followed.  The crowd of boats pitching tumultuously around the steamer, jostling against each other, their hulls gleaming with wet, as they rose on the beryl-colored waves, striped with long, curded lines of wind-blown foam, would have made a fine subject for the pencil of Achenbach.

At last we pushed off, with a crowd of passengers fore and aft, and a pyramid of luggage piled around the smoke-pipe.  There was a party of four Englishmen on board, and, on making their acquaintance, I found one of them to be a friend to some of my friends—­Sir John Potter, the progressive ex-Mayor of Manchester.  The wind being astern, we ran rapidly along the coast, and in two hours entered the mouth of the Guadalquivir. [This name comes from the Arabic wadi el-kebeer—­literally, the Great Valley.] The shores are a dead flat.  The right bank is a dreary forest of stunted pines, abounding with deer and other game; on the left is the dilapidated town of San Lucar, whence Magellan set sail on his first voyage around the world.  A mile further is Bonanza, the port of Xeres, where we touched and took on board a fresh lot of passengers.  Thenceforth, for four hours, the scenery of the Guadalquivir had a most distressing sameness.  The banks were as flat as a board, with here and there a straggling growth of marshy thickets.  Now and then we passed a herdsman’s hut, but there were no human beings to be seen, except the peasants who tended the large flocks of sheep and cattle.  A sort of breakfast was served in the cabin, but so great was the number of guests that I had much difficulty in getting anything to eat.  The waiters were models of calmness and deliberation.

As we approached Seville, some low hills appeared on the left, near the river.  Dazzling white villages were planted at their foot, and all the slopes were covered with olive orchards, while the banks of the stream were bordered with silvery birch trees.  This gave the landscape, in spite of the African warmth and brightness of the day, a gray and almost wintry aspect.  Soon the graceful Giralda, or famous Tower of Seville, arose in the distance; but, from the windings of the river, we were half an hour in reaching the landing-place.  One sees nothing of the far-famed