I was fortunate in the possession of these quadrupeds, inasmuch as it afforded me an opportunity of enjoying to a greater extent the beauties of the surrounding country.  I know of few things in this life more delicious than a ride in the spring or summer season in the neighbourhood of Seville.  My favourite one was in the direction of Xerez, over the wide Dehesa, as it is called, which extends from Seville to the gates of the former town, a distance of nearly fifty miles, with scarcely a town or village intervening.  The ground is irregular and broken, and is for the most part covered with that species of brushwood called carrasco, amongst which winds a bridle-path, by no means well defined, chiefly trodden by the arrieros, with their long train of mules and borricos.  It is here that the balmy air of beautiful Andalusia is to be inhaled in full perfection.  Aromatic herbs and flowers are growing in abundance, diffusing their perfume around.  Here dark and gloomy cares are dispelled as if by magic from the bosom, as the eyes wander over the prospect, lighted by unequalled sunshine, in which gaily-painted butterflies wanton, and green and golden Salamanquesas lie extended, enjoying the luxurious warmth, and occasionally startling the traveller, by springing up and making off with portentous speed to the nearest coverts, whence they stare upon him with their sharp and lustrous eyes.  I repeat, that it is impossible to continue melancholy in regions like these, and the ancient Greeks and Romans were right in making them the site of their Elysian fields.  Most beautiful they are even in their present desolation, for the hand of man has not cultivated them since the fatal era of the expulsion of the Moors, which drained Andalusia of at least two thirds of its population.

Every evening it was my custom to ride along the Dedesa, until the topmost towers of Seville were no longer in sight.  I then turned about, and pressing my knees against the sides of Sidi Habismilk, my Arabian, the fleet creature, to whom spur or lash had never been applied, would set off in the direction of the town with the speed of a whirlwind, seeming in his headlong course to devour the ground of the waste, until he had left it behind, then dashing through the elm-covered road of the Delicias, his thundering hoofs were soon heard beneath the vaulted archway of the Puerta de Xerez, and in another moment he would stand stone still before the door of my solitary house in the little silent square of the Pila Seca.

It is eight o’clock at night, I am returned from the Dehesa, and am standing on the sotea, or flat roof of my house, enjoying the cool breeze.  Johannes Chrysostom has just arrived from his labour.  I have not spoken to him, but I hear him below in the courtyard, detailing to Antonio the progress he has made in the last two days.  He speaks barbarous Greek, plentifully interlarded with Spanish words; but I gather from his discourse, that he has already