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 sold
twelve Testaments among his fellow labourers.
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