The first Sunday after my arrival in Seville, I walked, after dinner, to the Paseo, always an admirable place, in Spain, for making observations upon the population. There is more than one Paseo in Seville; but the most recently formed is the pleasantest and the most frequented: it is a broad paved walk, lying parallel with the river, elevated about ten feet above the surrounding country, and set round with two rows of stone benches. It is the work of the present Intendente, who is also laying out a garden around the Paseo. I found the walk crowded from end to end; and all the benches occupied by friars, whiffing their cigars, and enjoying the cool breeze off the river. The universal dress of the ladies was black, with white silk stockings, and the mantilla; and a few wore veils. At Madrid, when I used to speak without any enthusiasm of Spanish beauty, I was told to reserve my opinion till I had seen the ladies of Seville and Cadiz; but, on the Paseo of Seville, I saw no good reason to alter the opinion I had already formed. If splendid eyes and graceful forms are of themselves sufficient for female beauty, then are the ladies of Seville beautiful. The step and air of the Andalusian, are even more striking than the grace of the Castilian; but the gait of an Andalusian woman, we should scarcely consider decorous in England: this opinion was well expressed by a French lady at Barcellona, to whom I remarked, that the Spanish women walked _tres bien_. “_Trop bien_,” she replied. I took care to be on the Paseo before sunset, that I might witness that impressive ceremony, called _oracion_,--now banished from Madrid and the northern parts of Spain, and found only in the provinces last occupied by the Moors. Nothing can be more imposing than this old usage: at the same instant that every church and convent bell in the city, peals forth the signal for prayer,--motion and conversation are suspended; the whole multitude stands still; every head is uncovered; the laugh and the jest are silent; and a monotonous hum of prayer rises from the crowd: but this expression of devotion lasts but a moment--the next, it is past; heads are covered; every one turns to his neighbour, and says, “_Buenas noches_;” and the multitude moves on. During the heats of summer, the Paseo is crowded till midnight; at that season, it is impossible to stir out till after eight o’clock; and it is not unusual to rise at four in the morning, and ride or walk for an hour or two, and then return to bed.