beauty of Seville, on approaching it.  The boat stops below the Alameda, where the passengers are received by Custom-House officers, who, in my case, did not verify the stories told of them in Cadiz.  I gave my carpet-bag to a boy, who conducted me along the hot and dusty banks to the bridge over the Guadalquivir, where he turned into the city.  On passing the gate, two loafer-like guards stopped my baggage, notwithstanding it had already been examined.  “What!” said I, “do you examine twice on entering Seville?” “Yes,” answered one; “twice, and even three times;” but added in a lower tone, “it depends entirely on yourself.”  With that he slipped behind me, and let one hand fall beside my pocket.  The transfer of a small coin was dexterously made, and I passed on without further stoppage to the Fonda de Madrid.

Sir John Potter engaged Antonio Bailli, the noted guide of Seville, who professes to have been the cicerone of all distinguished travellers, from Lord Byron and Washington Irving down to Owen Jones, and I readily accepted his invitation to join the party.  Bailli is recommended by Ford as “fat and good-humored” Fat he certainly is, and very good-humored when speaking of himself, but he has been rather spoiled by popularity, and is much too profuse in his critical remarks on art and architecture.  Nevertheless, as my stay in Seville is limited, I have derived no slight advantage from his services.

On the first morning I took an early stroll through the streets.  The houses are glaringly white, like those of Cadiz, but are smaller and have not the same stately exteriors.  The windows are protected by iron gratings, of florid patterns, and, as many of these are painted green, the general effect is pleasing.  Almost every door opens upon a patio, or courtyard, paved with black and white marble and adorned with flowers and fountains.  Many of these remain from the time of the Moors, and are still surrounded by the delicate arches and brilliant tile-work of that period.  The populace in the streets are entirely Spanish—­the jaunty majo in his queer black cap, sash, and embroidered jacket, and the nut-brown, dark-eyed damsel, swimming along in her mantilla, and armed with the irresistible fan.

We went first to the Cathedral, built on the site of the great mosque of Abou Youssuf Yakoub.  The tall Giralda beckoned to us over the tops of the intervening buildings, and finally a turn in the street brought us to the ancient Moorish gateway on the northern side.  This is an admirable specimen of the horse-shoe arch, and is covered with elaborate tracery.  It originally opened into the court, or haram, of the mosque, which still remains, and is shaded by a grove of orange trees.  The Giralda, to my eye, is a more perfect tower than the Campanile of Florence, or that of San Marco, at Venice, which is evidently an idea borrowed from it.  The Moorish structure, with a base of fifty feet square, rises