The dance and the song, the bull-fight more than any thing else in the season of it, make this city the home of the gayest, wildest, most dissolute men and women in the south of Europe. Corinth, in the days of Venus-worship, was not more wholly given up to the lust of the flesh and the pride of life than Seville to-day. Yet it was once the emporium of the New World. From its port set sail the fleet that carried Columbus to a land beyond the sea and brought back the wealth of the Western Ind. It has been the residence of kings; and successive dynasties, faiths, and customs have in turn made Seville their capital and terrestrial paradise. It is girt on every side by fertile plains, the orange and lemon trees hang loaded all the year with their golden fruit, and the silver river, whose name is poetry and whose banks are haunted with the memories of Eastern delights, washes the feet of this beautiful city. If there was ever an original to Byron’s Don Juan, and there was perhaps an original to him as to Cooper’s Spy or Irving’s Schoolmaster, then the tradition may be true that points to a low white-washed house, close to San Leandro, and belonging to the nuns of that convent, where that graceless scamp once lived. And the “Barber of Seville,” of course, had his shop somewhere in town, and it has been conveniently located in the same neighborhood, so that when you visit the St. Thomas Square you can see them both. They are nothing to see, unless you are at that age when the poetry of Byron has charms they lose as you get older and wiser.