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SEVILLE
REAT cities nearly always have some peculiarity
which is invariably associated with them, impart-
ing to every recollection of them a color and a mood,
sometimes even a slightly repellent flavor. There is,
for instance, the beer which flows sticky and odorous
of malt through Minchen’s gutters. There is the
penetrating noise of human voices echoing through
Naples day and night. In Rome, it is a soft murmur
of waters behind every wall; and who can behold
Venice in the mind’s eye without picturing the Cam-
panile as dominating the scene? The Campanile
towers over every memory of this city, though the be-
holder may remember quite well having seen the tower
in ruins at his feet.
There is something pleasing in the thought of a
tower which can evoke a whole city, floating like a song
over its hundreds of thousands of inhabitants, and re-
maining on its base though we know it has collapsed.
And every city has a tower to which such a place may
be assigned. Copenhagen has two such spires: that
of the Church of the Redeemer, and that of the City
Hall. But, in spite of their architectural beauties, not
all these towers have life and meaning in their
masonry; not all greet you from a distance as a sharp
far-seeing glance of the city itself, or constitute a lofty
background for every square, every petty alley.
In Seville, there is La Giralda! You can see La
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