the packet of the 1st April," said my father, speaking of me as
though I were a bale of goods. "Ah! that will be so nice," said
Maria, settling her dress in the carriage; "the oranges will be ripe
for him then!"

On the 17th April I did sail, and felt still very like a bale of
goods. I had received one letter from her, in which she merely
stated that her papa would have a room ready for me on my arrival;
and, in answer to that, I had sent an epistle somewhat longer, and,
as I then thought, a little more to the purpose. Her turn of mind
was more practical than mine, and I must confess my belief that she
did not appreciate my poetry.

I landed at Cadiz, and was there joined by an old family friend, one
of the very best fellows that ever lived. He was to accompany me up
as far as Seville; and, as he had lived for a year or two at Xeres,
was supposed to be more Spanish almost than a Spaniard. His name was
Johnson, and he was in the wine trade; and whether for travelling or
whether for staying at home--whether for paying you a visit in your
own house, or whether for entertaining you in his--there never was
(and I am prepared to maintain there never will be) a stancher
friend, choicer companion, or a safer guide than Thomas Johnson.
Words cannot produce a eulogium sufficient for his merits. But, as I
have since learned, he was not quite so Spanish as I had imagined.
Three years among the bodegas of Xeres had taught him, no doubt, to
appreciate the exact twang of a good, dry sherry; but not, as I now
conceive, the exactest flavour of the true Spanish character. I was
very lucky, however, in meeting such a friend, and now reckon him as
one of the stanchest allies of the house of Pomfret, Daguilar, and
Pomfret.