properly arranged, we mounted our horses, and were off. In spite of the bad reputation of the Spanish roads, we took no weapons, leaving even our pistols behind us.

The sun was shining with great power; but there was a cool breeze, which in some degree counteracted its effects, and often during our journey, when drenched by the rain which fell for hours without intermission, did we long for a sight of the great luminary. But I am anticipating. Passing along by the side of the Caños de Carmona, an aqueduct which supplies Seville with pure water, and which is, in some places, supported on high arches; forcing our horses through a deep layer of mud which covered the road, and winding for the last half mile along the banks of a picturesque stream, we reached Alcalá de Guadaira, a small town about eight miles from Seville. The ruins of an old Moorish castle at Alcalá are very fine; but we remained merely long enough to water our horses, and then proceeded on our way. The last two or three miles of our traveling that day led us through a very picturesque country, and afforded quite a relief from the monotonous fields through which we had previously passed. It was about seven in the evening when we rode into Carmona, our resting-place for the night. Glad were we to seat ourselves at dinner, and comfortable did we feel as we sat lazily puffing our cigars after sufficiently anathematizing the hard Moorish saddles on which we had ridden. The unaccustomed exercise had made us rather weary, and we retired early to our beds, after having looked through the city by starlight. Carmona possesses some fine Moorish ruins; the Alcazar is very fine, and her situation on the crest of a high hill, commanding an extensive view on both sides, makes this city a very pleasant residence. Early the next morning we rode forth through one of the graceful Moorish arches, which serves as a gateway, and, emerging from the narrow streets, were charmed with the beauty of the landscape beneath us. Directly in front of us was the morning sun, gilding with its rays the broad plain below; far off to the left was the Guadalquivir glancing in the sunlight, with the Suira Morena rising beyond; while behind, the old walls of Carmona rose grandly above us, crumbling, it is true, but still suggestive of pomp and glory, though past and gone.

We passed down a very steep descent to the plain below, and crossing this at a tearing gallop, toiled up the hill beyond, and then continued our journey through groves of olive-trees for many a mile. By twelve o'clock we had traveled quite far enough to be ready for luncheon, and entered a miserable venta to appease our appetite. We had providently filled our alforjas with bread, chicken, oranges, and other delicacies; and it was well that we were thus independent of the resources of the venta, for, on inquiring, we found that eggs constituted their sole provender. One can easily imagine the elegant cleanliness of the aforesaid venta, when I inform him that underneath our table, while we were eating, were two pigs, five cats, one dog, and several hens, all apparently in the last stage of starvation, if one might judge from the ravenous manner in which they devoured the crumbs which fell from our table. The hens actually amused themselves with leaping upon the table, until A. almost severed the head of one from her body with a back-handed stroke of the knife with which he was busily engaged in investigating the contents of an egg, for spoons were not to be obtained in that model hotel. In spite of all these obstacles, however, we managed to make a most substantial luncheon, and it was quite an agreeable episode on which to look back.

A very heavy shower had fallen while we were in this place, and we were congratulating ourselves on having escaped the rain and satisfied our hunger at the same time; but soon after our departure from that ever-to-be-remembered place, the clouds again gathered black and threatening, and the rain recommenced. For four hours we plodded on through deep mud, until we reached Ecija. The approach to Ecija, either from Cordova or Seville, is down a steep pitch, and as we neared the town and commenced the descent, the rain, which had been less violent for the preceding half hour, came down in torrents.

The population of Ecija is between thirty and forty thousand. It is situated in a valley through which pours the Ienil, a river which rises amid the snows of the Sierra Nevada, and on whose banks so many fierce conflicts took place between the Moors and Christians. From the extreme heat which is experienced in sum

mer at Ecija, it is called La Sartenilla, the "frying-pan” of Andalusia; and from this circumstance it derives its modest motto, "Una sola será clamada la Cuidad del Sol:""One alone shall be called the City of the Sun." Thus frying-pans assume the titles and decorations of a Heliopolis.

On our arrival at this aspiring place, Luis advised us to go to a posada, as being cheaper than a fonda. There are three classes of public houses in Spain, namely, fondas, posadas, and ventas. A fonda is like an ordinary hotel, where the traveler orders his meals as he wishes, and has no further trouble: at a posada, he sends some one to buy what he wishes, and it is then cooked for him in the house, where he can also obtain a bed a venta is an inferior posada, and there one must sleep❘ on straw by the side of his horses amid harmonious brayings, unless he can persuade the owner to give up his own couch. The latter class of houses of entertainment are found in the country, while the two former are in towns and cities. Of the above distinctions we were not aware, and therefore took the advice of Luis. Dismounting, we desired him to order dinner, and were astonished at his asking for money to buy the raw material; on our expressing surprise, he informed us that one of the peculiarities of a posada was, that the traveler must procure his own provisions. We were obliged to yield to this ridiculous custom, and patiently waited until he purchased and then cooked the long-wished-for meal.

After a comfortable night's rest, we left Ecija early in the morning of March 27th, on our way to Cordova. The storm had passed away for the time, and we anticipated a pleasant journey in spite of a cold wind then blowing. Our hopes were disappointed, however, for the rain soon commenced, and the muddy roads grew muddier. We stopped at a village posada to lunch and feed our horses; and here again Luis displayed his culinary abilities, and then we pushed on. At about six P. M., while yet two leagues distant from Cordova, we caught a glimpse of that city, as we reached the summit of a high hill. The clouds were breaking, and we rode rapidly forward in hopes of enjoying the fine view of Cordova, of which we had heard so much, before the sun had disappeared. We were not disappointed; de

scending from our first point of view, we crossed a narrow plain, pressed eagerly up the last hill, and beneath us was Cordova. Just as we reached the top of the hill, the sun burst forth from the clouds, which had hitherto obscured it, and its golden radiance cast an evanescent halo over all; then the shadows crept up the face of the Sierra Morena, and twilight reigned. The view for those few moments that the sunlight lasted, was too glorious to continue long; but while its brilliancy tinged the landscape, we were lost in silent admiration. Cordova, with queenly magnificence, her feathery palms waving amid the spires like the plumes of royalty, sat peacefully gazing on her fair possessions. The Guadalquivir rolled its tide at her very feet, foaming and leaping as its waters struck the piers of a noble bridge; a broad plain stretched out on the opposite side of the river from the city, glowing with the early shoots of grain; while the Sierra Morena loomed up majestically behind the monarch city; its convent-covered summits standing out boldly against the pale sky beyond. One last look, and we mounted, hurried on, and reached the city just in time to enter before the gates were closed.

The beauty of Cordova is not that of an ordinary city; the tall palms waving their light branches as each breath of wind sweeps over them, impart an Oriental appearance, and one feels as if he had left the commonplace towns of Europe to gaze upon the glories of some eastern city, of whose traditions Schehezerade might weave the web of many a romantic tale. Within the city walls all, alas! is decay. We crossed the river over a massive stone bridge, and all our romantic ideas were lost for the moment immediately on entering the dirty, narrow streets of this once proud capital.

Next morning we sallied forth to see the lions. Cordova is soon seen, for besides the Mosque there is little else to interest the traveler. The Mosque La Mezquita is one of the most singular remains of Moorish grandeur now existing in Spain. It should be entered through the Court of Orange Trees, El Patio de Naranjos, which is a large rectangular inclosure planted with orange trees and enlivened by fountains. On entering this the delicious fragrance of the orange blos. som stole over us, and this, aided by the

harmonious plash of falling water, prepared us for any beauty however great. Here the devout Moors performed their ablutions before entering the Mosque, and strove thereby to render their orisons more acceptable to their God. Now, alas! the scene is changed; in place of turbaned Moors we saw the stalwart Spanish beggars, whose eager importunities drove away each bright illusion, and whose harsh voices broke the fragrance-freighted air.

Crossing El Patio de Naranjos, we passed through a small door into the interior of the Mosque, and were immediately lost in a forest of pillars. The Cathedral, as it now is, although it still retains its ancient name, is a huge square building, but thirtyfive feet in height, the ceiling supported by a vast number of stone columns, some of jasper, some of porphyry, verd-antique, and other choice marbles, which France, Spain, Constantinople, and even Carthage and other cities of Africa have contributed to furnish; there were formerly twelve hundred of them, but many have disappeared, and the number is now given as eight hundred and fifty-four, and I have heard that there are but three hundred and sixty-five, although the latter figure would seem too low. The Mosque was built toward the end of the eighth century of our era. One of the most singular objects shown in the building is an irregular cross, said to have been made by a Christian captive with repeated scratchings of his nail. The inscription beneath it reads, "Hizo el Cautivo con la Uña," "The captive made this with his nail." "Credat Judæus Apella;" although if we read "Clavo," "an iron nail," it might easily be true, for it is not very deeply cut, and the upright stroke is not more than seven inches in length, and the cross piece but three or four.

The tomb of the chivalric Don Alonzo de Aquilar is shown in one of the churches at Cordova, and this city has given its name to the Great Commander, the brother of Don Alonzo, Gonsalvo de Cordova. Cordova, too, was once famed for the literary men whose birthplace it was. Lucan and the two Senecas, born here, but writing in Latin, sustained for a time the decline of Roman poetry and literature. Under the Moors, also, Cordova flourished, but they were driven forth from Spain, carrying away with them science, art, and literature. The convents which,

once rich in the wealth of this world, looked down from the Sierra Morena, afford another instance of the decay of all things Spanish. No longer do pampered monks dream away their manhood within the walls of San Jeronimo; royal edicts have stripped them of most of their possessions, leaving them but a scanty pittance for their support: stone is falling from stone; their end is near at hand.

We had passed Friday, the 28th, in Cordova, and early in the morning of the 29th we were in the saddle and on our way to Ardea del Rio, where we proposed to pass the night. At two leagues from Cordova we crossed the Guadalquivir over the noble bridge of dark marble at Alcolea; this is one of the finest idges in Spain, and it is said that the French, when they saw it, asked if it were not made in France, so puffed up were they with success that they affected to believe that nothing of note could be constructed without the borders of their own land. Lunching at Corpio, a small town with a ruined Moorish castle, we rode on toward Ardea, and emerging just at sunset from a fine wood through which we had been passing for half an hour, we saw the town at the distance of a mile, situated in a plain at the foot of high hills with the Guadalquivir rushing through it. The view was very pretty, and the soft tinkling of bells from the flocks on the hillside, mingling with the gush of the river, called to mind scenes of home when the summer's day is over.

We left Ardea, at which place we arrived the previous evening, in a drizzling rain, and for ten long hours walked our horses through the deep mud, while the pitiless rain never ceased, sometimes pelting down with violence, sometimes oozing between the mackintosh and the coat collar, and meandering gently down the back with most revivifying effect.

All romantic notions of everlasting summer and cloudless skies were discarded from our ideas of Spain and washed away by that charming rain. We stopped to rest and lunch at Andujar, a town on the Guadalquivir, which we crossed just before reaching the walls. This town was once surrounded by strong walls, but these are now crumbling away beneath the hand of time. After luncheon we mounted and splashed on through the mud until 4 P.M., when the clouds began to break away. Up to this time we had been passing