th and veering with every
breeze, and the artist has surrounded his work with the motto: _Nomen
Domini Fortissima Turris_.

But the older portion gains another charm from the Moorish windows that
pierce it, one above the other, with horseshoe arches; and from the
arabesque network with which the upper part is diapered, a brick
trellis-work against the brick walls, of the most graceful and delicate
intricacy. The Giralda is almost toylike in the daintiness of its
decoration. Notwithstanding its great size it is a masterpiece of
exquisite proportion. At night it stands out with strong lines against
the bespangled sky, and the lights of the watchers give it a magic
appearance of some lacelike tower of imagination; but on high festivals
it is lit with countless lamps, and then, as Richard Ford puts it, hangs
from the dark vault of heaven like a brilliant chandelier.

I looked down at Seville from above. A Spanish town wears always its
most picturesque appearance thus seen, but it is never different; the
_patios_ glaring with whitewash, the roofs of brown and yellow tiles,
and the narrow streets, winding in unexpected directions, narrower than
ever from such a height and dark with shade, so that they seem black
rivulets gliding stealthily through the whiteness. Looking at a northern
city from a tall church tower all things are confused with one another,
the slate roofs join together till it is like a huge uneven sea of grey;
but in Seville the atmosphere is so limpid, the colour so brilliant,
that every house is clearly separated from its neighbour, and sometimes
there appears to be between them a preternatural distinctness. Each
stands independently of any other; you might suppose yourself in a
strange city of the _Arabian Nights_ where a great population lived in
houses crowded together, but invisibly, so that each person fancied
himself in isolation.

Immediately below was the Cathedral and to remind you of Cordova, the
Court of Oranges; but here was no sunny restfulness, nor old-world
quiet. The Court is gloomy and dark, and the trim rows of orange-trees
contrast oddly with the grey stone of the Cathedral, its huge porches,
and the flamboyant exuberance of its decoration. The sun never shines in
it and no fruit splash the dark foliage with gold. You do not think of
the generations of priests who have wandered in it on the summer
evenings, basking away their peaceful lives in the sunshine; but rather
of the busy mercha