ver, it is through dread of thee, and when the
grass of the field bends down it is to give thee thanks._

But it is the Hall of the Ambassadors which shows most fully the
unparalleled splendour of Moorish decoration. It is a square room, very
lofty, with alcoves on three sides, at the bottom of which are windows;
and the walls are covered, from the dado of tiles to the roof, with the
richest and most varied ornamentation. The Moorish workmen did not spare
themselves nor economise their exuberant invention. One pattern follows
another with infinite diversity. Even the alcoves, and there are nine,
are covered each with different designs, so that the mind is bewildered
by their graceful ingenuity. All kinds of geometrical figures are used,
enlacing with graceful intricacy, intersecting, combining and
dissolving; conventional foliage and fruit, Arabic inscriptions. An
industrious person has counted more than one hundred and fifty patterns
in the Hall of the Ambassadors, impressed with iron moulds on the moist
plaster of the walls. The roof is a low dome of larch wood, intricately
carved and inlaid with ivory and with mother-of-pearl; it has been
likened to the faceted surface of an elaborately cut gem. The effect is
so gorgeous that you are oppressed; you long for some perfectly plain
space whereon to rest the eye; but every inch is covered.

Now the walls have preserved only delicate tints of red and blue, pale
Wedgwood blues and faded terracottas, that make with the ivory of the
plaster most exquisite harmonies; but to accord with the tiles, their
brilliancy still undiminished, the colours must have been very bright.
The complicated patterns and the gay hues reproduce the oriental carpets
of the nomad's tent; for from the tent, it is said, (I know not with
what justification,) all oriental architecture is derived. The fragile
columns upon which rest masses of masonry are, therefore, direct
imitations of tent-poles, and the stalactite borders of the arches
represent the fringe of the woven hangings. The Moorish architect paid
no attention to the rules of architecture, and it has been well said
that if they existed for him at all it was only that he might
elaborately disregard them. His columns generally support nothing; his
arcades, so delicately worked that they seem like carved ivory, are of
the lightest wood and plaster.

And it is curious that there should be such durability in those dainty
materials: they express we