can remain insensible to the beauties of this magic scene, to do justice to which the pencil of Claude himself were barely equal.  Often have I shed tears of rapture whilst I beheld it, and listened to the thrush and the nightingale piping forth their melodious songs in the woods, and inhaled the breeze laden with the perfume of the thousand orange gardens of Seville:

“Kennst du das land wo die citronem bluhen?”

The interior of Seville scarcely corresponds with the exterior: the streets are narrow, badly paved, and full of misery and beggary.  The houses are for the most part built in the Moorish fashion, with a quadrangular patio or court in the centre, where stands a marble fountain, constantly distilling limpid water.  These courts, during the time of the summer heats, are covered over with a canvas awning, and beneath this the family sit during the greater part of the day.  In many, especially those belonging to the houses of the wealthy, are to be found shrubs, orange trees, and all kinds of flowers, and perhaps a small aviary, so that no situation can be conceived more delicious than to lie here in the shade, hearkening to the song of the birds and the voice of the fountain.

Nothing is more calculated to interest the stranger as he wanders through Seville, than a view of these courts obtained from the streets, through the iron-grated door.  Oft have I stopped to observe them, and as often sighed that my fate did not permit me to reside in such an Eden for the remainder of my days.  On a former occasion, I have spoken of the cathedral of Seville, but only in a brief and cursory manner.  It is perhaps the most magnificent cathedral in all Spain, and though not so regular in its architecture as those of Toledo and Burgos, is far more worthy of admiration when considered as a whole.  It is utterly impossible to wander through the long aisles, and to raise one’s eyes to the richly inlaid roof, supported by colossal pillars, without experiencing sensations of sacred awe, and deep astonishment.  It is true that the interior, like those of the generality of the Spanish cathedrals, is somewhat dark and gloomy; yet it loses nothing by this gloom, which, on the contrary, rather increases the solemnity of the effect.  Notre Dame of Paris is a noble building, yet to him who has seen the Spanish cathedrals, and particularly this of Seville, it almost appears trivial and mean, and more like a town-hall than a temple of the Eternal.  The Parisian cathedral is entirely destitute of that solemn