t," he says, "I proceeded slowly,--sickness was in the land and
the face of nature was overcast,--heavy rain-clouds swam in the
heavens,--the blast howled amid the pines which nearly surround my lonely
dwelling, and the waters of the lake which lies before it, so quiet in
general and tranquil, were fearfully agitated. 'Bring lights hither, O
Hayim Ben Attar, son of the miracle!' And the Jew of Fez brought in the
lights, for though it was midday I could scarcely see in the little room
where I was writing. . . .

"A dreary summer and autumn passed by, and were succeeded by as gloomy a
winter. I still proceeded with 'The Bible in Spain.' The winter passed
and spring came with cold dry winds and occasional sunshine, whereupon I
arose, shouted, and mounting my horse, even Sidi Habismilk, I scoured all
the surrounding district, and thought but little of 'The Bible in Spain.'

"So I rode about the country, over the heaths, and through the green
lanes of my native land, occasionally visiting friends at a distance, and
sometimes, for variety's sake, I staid at home and amused myself by
catching huge pike, which lie perdue in certain deep ponds skirted with
lofty reeds, upon my land, and to which there is a communication from the
lagoon by a deep and narrow watercourse.--I had almost forgotten 'The
Bible in Spain.'

"Then came the summer with much heat and sunshine, and then I would lie
for hours in the sun and recall the sunny days I had spent in Andalusia,
and my thoughts were continually reverting to Spain, and at last I
remembered that 'The Bible in Spain' was still unfinished; whereupon I
arose and said: This loitering profiteth nothing,--and I hastened to my
summer-house by the side of the lake, and there I thought and wrote, and
every day I repaired to the same place, and thought and wrote until I had
finished 'The Bible in Spain.'

"And at the proper season 'The Bible in Spain' was given to the world;
and the world, both learned and unlearned, was delighted with 'The Bible
in Spain,' and the highest authority said, 'This is a much better book
than the Gypsies;' and the next great authority said, 'Something betwixt
Le Sage and Bunyan.' 'A far more entertaining work than Don Quixote,'
exclaimed a literary lady. 'Another Gil Blas,' said the cleverest writer
in Europe. 'Yes,' exclaimed the cool sensible Spectator, 'a Gil Blas _in
water colours_.'

"A _Gil Blas_ in water colours"--that, he says himself, pleased him