Society in Seville takes its pleasure seriously, but the seriousness is not the dullness that attends the Englishman's attempts at hilarity. The Spaniard is less demonstrative than the Frenchman, less mercurial than the Italian. Notwithstanding, the crowd at the races, at the battle of flowers, or watching the religious processions, or at the opera, is happy in its quiet intentness. The enthusiasm for bullfighting is perhaps the strongest visible emotion in Seville, the Alma Mater of the champions of the arena. At the _corrida_ the Sevillian allows himself to become excited. He loses his restraint, he shouts himself hoarse, waves his hat, and thrashes the wooden seats with his cane in the ecstasy of his delight, when a great performer plunges his sword into the vital spot of the furious bull that tears the earth with its foot, and prepares for a charge. Bullfights, gorgeous ecclesiastic spectacles, and dancing--these are the recreations of rich and poor alike in Seville to-day. In this city of pleasure you will see the _majo_, the Andalusian dandy, as he struts up and down the Sierpes--the only busy street of shops--spruce, self-conscious, casting fervent glances at the señoras accompanied by their duennas. Go into the meaner alleys and market streets, and you will see the very vagrants that Murillo painted, tattered wastrels who address one another as Señor, and hold licences to beg. Cross the Bridge of Isabella to the suburb of Triana, and you will find a mixed and curious population of mendicants, thieves, desperadoes, and a colony of Gitanos, who live by clipping horses, hawking, fortune-telling, dancing and begging. Peep through the delicate trellises of the Moorish gates of the patios, and you will see fountains, and flowers, and palms, and the slender columns supporting galleries, as in the Alhambra and other ancient buildings. Very delightful are these cool courtyards, with their canvas screens, ensuring shade at noonday, their splash of water, and their scent of roses clustering on columns and clothing walls. Some of these courtyards are open to the visitor, and one of the finest is the Casa de Pilatos in the Plaza de Pilatos. A pleasant garden within a court is that of my friend, Don J. Lopez-Cepero, who lives in the old house of Murillo, and allows the stranger to see his fine collection of pictures. Here Murillo died, in 1682, and some of his paintings are treasured in the gallery. The house is Number Seven, Plaza de Alfaro.