Within the old cathedral are noble classic arches composed of rare and various marbles. Lofty Corinthian columns support magnificent domes, from the coloured windows of which the sun-rays stream upon the curling smoke of incense which, rising in circling clouds, gradually disappears in the immense arched vault above. The choir, so richly adorned with carved oak, is filled with crimson-clad priests, attended by dark-eyed boys swinging silver censers, and bearing aloft great flaming candles. Besides the display of wonderful carving and gilding, there are brazen railings of the finest workmanship, a multitude of gems of dazzling brightness, and figures of the Virgin Mother and Christ arrayed in robes of unexampled magnificence--altogether such a display of ecclesiastical wealth as is seen nowhere but in Spain in these modern days. On the walls are portraits of saints and paintings of scenes from sacred history, most of them, if not all, works of great value. In strange contrast to the wealth of the church are the crowds of beggars crawling in an unutterable state along the marble pavements, on which all sorts of foul abomination are allowed to lie for days. In the midst of this ecclesiastical splendour, the altars are specially to be noted for the wealth that has been expended on them, and for the beauty of their design. But from these we turn to the arches and pillars of stone which carry us back to that remote era, darkened by ages, when the church was founded. The organ too is evidently a noble instrument, as we can judge by the fine tones which it emits while accompanying the monotonous chaunt of the priests. The rich coloured glass of the windows gives such variety to the hue of the light which it admits, as to add very much to the solemn impression produced by so magnificent a temple. We climbed up to the summit of the cathedral tower, panting in the hot air and dust, and amidst those sour unpleasant odours which seem to be a _sine quâ non_ with all the interiors of Spanish and Italian churches, not excepting the towers. If these are the odours of sanctity of which we hear so much, they are certainly far from agreeable. Arrived on the summit of the old lofty yellow belfry, from which a beautiful young woman had thrown herself for love a week before, a view of fairy beauty was spread out before us. Beneath lay the city with all its domes, towers, and pinnacles, its fantastic architecture, its gloomy Moorish gateways, and its piles of Saracenic ruin towering in melancholy grandeur, like ghosts of departed power, amidst the downfall of all their pride.