Seville is situated on the banks of the Guadalquiver, in a large plain, whence it derives its name of Hispalis, which, in Carthagenian, means a flat piece of ground, if we may believe Arias Montano and Samuel Bockhart. It is a vast, straggling town, of very recent date, gay, smiling, and animated, and must really appear a charming place to Spaniards. It would be impossible to find a more striking contrast to Cordova. The town of Cordova is dead; it is an ossuary, a catacomb in the open air, on which Neglect is slowly sprinkling its white dust; the few inhabitants whom you meet at the corners of its narrow streets look like apparitions which have mistaken the hour. Seville, on the contrary, is full of all the petulance and busy hum of life; the sound of gaiety floats over her at every instant of the day; she hardly allows herself time to take her siesta. She cares little for yesterday, and still less for to-morrow; she exists altogether for the present. Memory and Hope are the consolation of those who are unhappy, and Sevilla is happy. She enjoys herself, while her sister, Cordova, wrapt in silence and solitude, appears to be dreaming mournfully of Abderama; of the great captain and all his departed glories, brilliant meteors in the nights of the Past, while all she now possesses are ashes. To the great disappointment of travellers and antiquaries, whitewash reigns supreme at Seville; the houses have a new coat of it three or four times a year; this gives them a look of cleanness and neatness, but effectually prevents any investigation of the remains of the Arabic and Gothic sculptures which formerly adorned the place. Nothing can be less varied than this network of streets, where the eye sees but two tints--the indigo of the sky and the chalky white of the walls on which the azure shadows of the neighbouring buildings are thrown; for in warm countries the shadows are blue instead of being grey, so that the objects appear to be lighted up on one side by the moon, and on the other by the sun; the absence, however, of all sombre tints produces a general appearance of life and gaiety. Doorways closed with iron gates allow you to look through and see the _patios_ ornamented with columns, mosaic pavement, fountains, flower-pots, shrubs, and pictures. As regards the external architecture, it offers no particularly remarkable feature; the houses are rarely more than two or three stories high, and you hardly meet with a dozen façades that are interesting in an artistic point of view. The streets are paved, like those of all Spanish towns, with small pebbles, but, on each side, there is a kind of pavement consisting of tolerably large flat stones on which the crowd walks in single file. If a man and woman meet, the man always makes way for the woman with that exquisite politeness which is natural to Spaniards, even of the very lowest classes. The women of Seville quite deserve the reputation for beauty which they enjoy; they are almost all alike,