{"collection":"myth-cosmogony","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_49872/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_49872","id":"gutenberg_49872","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/49872","summary":null,"tags":["Alhambra (Granada, Spain)","Alhambra (Granada, Spain) -- Fiction","Category: Essays, Letters & Speeches","Category: Mythology, Legends & Folklore","Category: Travel Writing","Irving, Washington, 1783-1859 -- Travel -- Spain","Palaces -- Spain -- Granada","Palaces -- Spain -- Granada -- Fiction","Spain -- Social life and customs","Spain -- Social life and customs -- Fiction"],"text":"Transcriber's Note:\n\n  Inconsistent hyphenation and spelling in the original document have\n  been preserved. Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.\n\n  On page 357, \"On the verge of great beetling bastion\" was changed\n  to \"On the verge of the great beetling bastion\".\n\n  On page 377, \"on which occasion he have\" was changed to \"on which\n  occasion he gave\".\n\n  On page 388, \"the talisman that hangs around my neck\" was changed\n  to the talisman that hangs around thy neck\".\n\n  Italic text is denoted by _underscores_ and bold text by +plus\n  signs+.\n\n\n\n\nTHE ALHAMBRA\n\n\n\n\n     MACMILLAN AND CO., LIMITED\n\n     LONDON . BOMBAY . CALCUTTA\n     MELBOURNE\n\n     THE MACMILLAN COMPANY\n\n     NEW YORK . BOSTON . CHICAGO\n     ATLANTA . SAN FRANCISCO\n\n     THE MACMILLAN CO. OF CANADA, LTD\n\n     TORONTO\n\n\n\n\n  [Illustration: _Washington Irving's rooms, overlooking the Garden of\n   Lindaraxa._]\n\n\n\n\n     THE ALHAMBRA\n\n     BY \u00b7 WASHINGTON \u00b7 IRVING\n     WITH AN INTRODUCTION BY\n     ELIZABETH ROBINS PENNELL\n     ILLUSTRATED WITH DRAWINGS\n     OF THE PLACES MENTIONED\n     BY JOSEPH PENNELL\n\n     LONDON: MACMILLAN AND CO., LTD.\n\n     NEW YORK:  THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY\n     1911\n\n\n\n\n     RICHARD CLAY AND SONS, LIMITED,\n     BRUNSWICK ST., STAMFORD ST.,\n     AND BUNGAY, SUFFOLK.\n\n     _First Edition (Cranford Series), 1896. Reprinted, 1906, 1911.\n     Pocket Classics, 1908_.\n\n\n\n\n  [Illustration]\n\nINTRODUCTION\n\n\nIt is not possible to forget Washington Irving in the Alhambra. With a\nsingle volume, the simple, gentle, kindly American man of letters became\nno less a figure in the Moor's Red Palace than Boabdil and Lindaraxa of\nwhom he wrote. And yet, never perhaps did a book make so unconscious\na bid for popularity. Irving visited Granada in 1828. He returned the\nfollowing year, when the Governor's apartments in the Alhambra were lent\nto him as lodgings. There he spent several weeks, his love for the place\ngrowing with every day and hour. It was this affection, and no more\ncomplex motive, that prompted him to describe its courts and gardens and\nto record its legends. The work was the amusement of his leisure moments,\nfilling the interval between the completion of one serious, and now all\nbut unknown, history and the beginning of the next.\n\nNot many other men just then could write about Spain or anything Spanish\nso naturally. For, in 1829, while, within the walls of Alhamar and\nYusef, he was listening to the prattle of Mateo and Dolores, in Paris,\nAlfred de Musset was writing his _Contes d'Espagne_, and Victor Hugo was\npublishing a new edition of his _Orientales_. A year later and the battle\nof _Hernani_ was to be fought at the _Com\u00e9die Fran\u00e7aise_; a few more,\nand Th\u00e9ophile Gautier would be on his way across the Pyrenees. Time had\npassed since Ch\u00e2teaubriand, the pioneer of romance, could dismiss the\nAlhambra with a word. Hugo, in turning all eyes to the East, had declared\nthat Spain also was Oriental, and to his disciples the journey, dreamed or\nmade, through the land where Irving travelled in single-minded enjoyment,\nwas an excuse for the profession of their literary faith. Irving, whatever\nhis accomplishments, was unencumbered with a mission and innocent of pose.\nThere is no reason to believe that he had ever heard of the Romanticists,\nor the part Spain was playing in the revolution; though he had been in\nParis when the storm was brewing; though he returned after the famous red\nwaistcoat had been sported in the public's face. At any rate, like the\noriginal genius of to-day, he kept his knowledge to himself.\n\nLiterary work took Irving to Spain. Several years before, in 1818, he had\nwatched the total wreck of his brother's business. This was the second\nevent of importance in his hitherto mild and colourless existence. The\nfirst had been the death of the girl he was to marry, a loss which left\nhim without interest or ambition. There was then no need for him to work,\nand his health was delicate. He travelled a little: an intelligent,\nsympathetic and observant tourist. He wrote a little, discovering\nthat he was an author with _Knickerbocker_. But his writing was of the\ndesultory sort until, when he was thirty-five years old, his brother's\nfailure forced him to make literature his profession. It was after he had\npublished his _Sketch-Book_ and _Bracebridge Hall_ and _Old Christmas_,\nafter their reception had been of the kind to satisfy even the present\ngeneration of writers who measure the excellence of work by the price\npaid for it, that some one suggested he should translate the journeys\nof Columbus, which Navarrete, a Spanish author, had in hand. Murray, it\nwas thought, would give a handsome sum down for the translation. Murray\nhimself, however, was not so sure: wanted, wise man, first to see a\nportion of the manuscript. This was just what could not be until Irving\nhad begun his task. But already in Madrid, and assured of nothing, he\nfound the _r\u00f4le_ of translator less congenial than that of historian, and\nthe Spanish work eventually resolved itself into his _Life of Columbus_.\n\"Delving in the rich ore\" of the old chronicles in the Jesuits' Library\nof St. Isidoro, there was one side issue in the history he was studying\nthat enchanted him above all else. This was the Conquest of Granada,\nthe brilliant episode which had fascinated him ever since, as a boy at\nplay on the banks of the Hudson, his allegiance had been divided between\nthe Spanish cavalier, in gold and silver armour, prancing over the\nVega, and the Red Indian brandishing his tomahawk on the war-path. Now,\noccasionally, Columbus was forgotten that he might collect the materials\nfor a new story of the Conquest to be told by himself. To consult further\ndocuments he started one spring (1828), when the almond trees were\nblossoming, for Andalusia; and Granada, of course, came into his journey.\nThus chance brought him to the Alhambra, while (1829) the courtesy of the\nGovernor and the kindness of old Tia Antonia put him in possession of the\nrooms of the beautiful Elizabeth of Parma, overlooking the oranges and\nfountains of the Garden of Lindaraxa.\n\nThe Alhambra reveals but half its charm to the casual visitor. I know, of\nmy own experience, how far custom is from staling its infinite variety,\nhow its beauty increases as day by day one watches the play of light\nand shadow on its walls, as day by day one yields to the indolent dreams\nfor which it was built. There was one summer when, all through July and\nAugust, its halls and courts gave me shelter from the burning, blinding\nsunshine of Andalusia, and the weeks in passing strengthened the spell\nthat held me there. For Gautier, the place borrowed new loveliness\nfrom the one night he slept in the Court of Lions. But by day and night\nalike, it belonged to Irving; he saw it before it had degenerated into a\ndisgracefully managed museum and annex to a _bric-\u00e0-brac_ shop for the\ntourist; and he had heard all its stories, or had had time to invent\nthem, before he was called away by his appointment to some useless and\nunnecessary diplomatic post at the American Legation in London.\n\nThe book was not published until more than two years later (1832).\nIrving, though a hack in a manner, had too much self-respect to rush into\nprint on the slightest provocation. Colburn and Bentley were his English\npublishers, their edition preceding by a few months the American, brought\nout by Lea and Carey of Philadelphia. The same year saw two further issues\nin Paris, one by Galignani, and the other in Baudry's Foreign Library, as\nwell as a French translation from the house of Fournier. The success of\n_The Alhambra_ was immediate. De Musset and Victor Hugo had left the great\npublic in France as indifferent as ever to the land beyond the Pyrenees.\nIrving raised a storm of popular applause in England and America, where,\nof a sudden, he made Spain, which the Romanticists would have snatched as\ntheir spoils, the prey of the \"_bourgeois_\" they despised. Nor was it the\ngeneral public only that applauded. There were few literary men in England\nwho did not welcome the book with delight.\n\nI think to-day, without suspicion of disloyalty, one may wonder a little\nat this success. Certainly, in its first edition, _The Alhambra_ is\ncrude and stilted, though, to compare it with the pompous trash which\nRoscoe published three years afterward, as text for the drawings of\nDavid Roberts, is to see in it a masterpiece. Irving, more critical than\nhis readers, knew it needed revision. \"It is generally labour lost,\"\nhe said once in a letter to Alexander Everett, \"to attempt to improve a\nbook that has already made its impression on the public.\" Nevertheless,\n_The Alhambra_ was all but re-written in 1857, when he was preparing a\ncomplete edition of his works for Putnam, the New York publisher, and it\ngained enormously in the process. It was not so much by the addition of\nnew chapters, or the re-arrangement of the old; but rather by the changes\nmade in the actual text--the light touch of local colour here, and there\nthe rounding of a period, the developing of an incident. For example \"The\nJourney,\" so gay and vivacious in the final version, was, at first, but a\nbare statement of facts, with no space for the little adventures by the\nway: the rest at the old mill near Seville; the glimpses of Archidona,\nAntiquero, Osuna, names that lend picturesque value to the ride; the talk\nand story-telling in the inn at Loxa. Another change, less commendable,\nis the omission from the late editions of the dedication to Wilkie. It\nwas a pleasant tribute to the British painter, who, with several of his\nfellows--Lewis and Roberts--was carried away by that wave of Orientalism\nwhich sent the French Marilhat and Decamps, Fromentin and Delacroix to\nthe East, and had not yet spent its force in the time of Regnault. The\ndedication was well-written, kindly, appreciative: an amiable reminder\nof the rambles the two men had taken together in Toledo and Seville, and\nthe interest they had shared in the beauty left by the Moor to mark his\npassage through the land both were learning to love. As a memorial to the\nfriendship between author and artist, it could less well have been spared\nthan any one of the historical chapters that go to swell the volume.\n\nEven in the revised edition it would be easy to belittle Irving's\nachievement, now that it is the fashion to disparage him as author.\nCertainly, _The Alhambra_ has none of the splendid melodrama of Borrow's\n_Bible in Spain_, none of the picturesqueness of Gautier's record. It\nis very far from being that \"something in the Haroun Alraschid style,\"\nwith dash of Arabian spice, which Wilkie had urged him to make it.\nNor are its faults wholly negative. It has its moments of dulness. It\nabounds in repetitions. Certain adjectives recur with a pertinacity that\nirritates. The Vega is blooming, the battle is bloody, the Moorish maiden\nis beauteous far more than once too often. Worse still, descriptions are\nduplicated, practically the same passage reappearing again and again, as\nif for the sake of padding, or else as the mere babble of the easy writer.\nIndeed, many of the purely historical chapters have been crowded in so\nobviously because they happened to be at hand, and he without better means\nto dispose of them, and then scattered discreetly, that there is less\nhesitation in omitting them altogether from the present edition. An edited\n_Tom Jones_, a bowdlerized Shakespeare may be an absurdity. But to drop\ncertain chapters from _The Alhambra_ is simply to anticipate the reader\nin the act of skipping. There is no loss, since all important facts and\ndescriptions are given more graphically and entertainingly elsewhere in\nthe book.\n\nPerhaps it may seem injudicious to introduce a new edition of so popular\na work by pointing out its defects. But one can afford to be honest about\nIrving. _The Alhambra_ might have more serious blemishes, and its charm\nwould still survive triumphantly the test of the harshest criticism.\nFor, whatever subtlety, whatever elegance Irving's style may lack, it is\nalways distinguished by that something which, for want of a better name,\nis called charm--a quality always as difficult to define as Lowell thought\nwhen he found it in verse or in perfume. But there it is in all Washington\nIrving wrote: a clue to the lavish praise of his contemporaries--of\nColeridge, who pronounced _The Conquest of Granada_ a _chef d'\u0153uvre_,\nand Campbell, who believed he had added clarity to the English tongue; of\nByron and Scott and Southey; of Dickens, whose pockets were at one time\nfilled with Irving's books worn to tatters; of Thackeray, who likened the\nAmerican to Goldsmith, describing him as \"one of the most charming masters\nof our lighter language.\"\n\nMuch of this power to please is due, no doubt, to the simplicity\nand sincerity of Irving's style at its best. Despite a tendency to\ndiffuseness, despite a fancy for the ornate, when there is a story to be\ntold, he can be as simple and straightforward as the child's \"Once upon a\ntime,\" with which he begins many a tale: appropriately, since the legends\nof the Alhambra are but stories for grown-up children. And there is no\nquestion of the sincerity of his love for everything savouring of romance.\nFor that matter, it is seldom that he does not mean what he says and does\nnot say it so truly with his whole heart, that you are convinced, where\nyou distrust the emotion of De Amicis, pumping up tears of admiration\nbefore the wrong thing, or of Maurice Barr\u00e8s seeing all Spain through\na haze of blood, voluptuousness, and death. It was the strength of his\nfeeling for the Alhambra that led Irving to write in its praise, not the\ndesire to write that manufactured the feeling. Humour and sentiment some\nof his critics have thought the predominant traits of his writing, as of\nhis character. It is a fortunate combination: his sentiment, though it\noften threatens, seldom overflows into gush, kept within bounds as it is\nby the sense of humour that so rarely fails him. His power of observation\nwas of still greater service. He could use his eyes. He could see things\nfor himself. And he was quick to detect character. Occasionally one\nfinds him slipping. In his landscape, the purple mountains of Alhama\nrise wherever he considers them most effective in the picture; and the\nsnow considerately never melts from the slopes of the Sierra Nevada,\nwhich I have seen all brown at midsummer. He could look only through the\nmagnifying glass of tradition at the hand and key on the Gate of Justice:\nsymbols so gigantic in fiction, so insignificant in fact that one might\nmiss them altogether, did not every book, paper, and paragraph, every\ncadging, swindling tout--I mean guide--in Granada bid one look for them.\nBut these are minor discrepancies. In essentials, his observation never\nplayed him false. There may not be a single passage to equal in force and\nbrilliance Gautier's wonderful description of the bull-fight at Malaga;\nbut his impressions were so clear, his record of them so faithful, that\nthe effect of his book remains, while the accomplishment of a finer artist\nin words may be remembered but vaguely. It is Irving who prepares one\nbest for the stern grandeur and rugged solemnity of the country between\nSeville and Granada. The journey can now be made by rail. But to travel\nby road as he did--as we have done--is to know that his arid mountains\nand savage passes are no more exaggerated than the pleasant valleys and\nplains that lie between. For Spain is not all gaiety as most travellers\nwould like to imagine it, as most painters have painted it, save Daumier\nin his pictures of Don Quixote among the barren hills of La Mancha. And if\nnothing in Granada and the Alhambra can be quite unexpected, it is because\none has seen it all beforehand with Irving, from the high Tower of Comares\nand the windows of the Hall of Ambassadors, or else, following him through\nthe baths and mosque and courts of the silent Palace, crossing the ravine\nto the cooler gardens of the Generalife, and climbing the Albaycin to the\nwhite church upon its summit.\n\nThere have been many changes in the Alhambra since Irving's day. The Court\nof Lions lost in loveliness when the roses with which he saw it filled\nwere uprooted. The desertion he found had more picturesqueness than the\npresent restoration and pretence of orderliness. Irving was struck with\nthe efforts which the then Commander, Don Francisco de Serna, was making\nto keep the Palace in a state of repair and to arrest its too certain\ndecay. Had the predecessors of De Serna, he thought, discharged the\nduties of their station with equal fidelity, the Alhambra might have been\nstill almost as the Moor, or at least Spanish royalty had left it. What\nwould he say, one wonders, to the Alhambra under its present management?\nFrank neglect is often less an evil than sham zeal. The student, watched,\nbadgered, oppressed by red-tapeism, has not gained by official vigilance;\nnor is the Palace the more secure because responsibility has been\ntransferred from a pleasant gossiping old woman to half a dozen indolent\nguides. The burnt roof in the ante-chamber to the Hall of Ambassadors\nshows the carelessness of which the new officers can be guilty; the\nmatches and cigarette ends with which courts and halls are strewn explain\nthat so eloquent a warning has been in vain. And if the restorer has\nbeen let loose in the Alhambra, at the Generalife there is an Italian\nproprietor, eager, it would seem, to initiate the somnolent Spaniard into\nthe brisker ways of Young Italy. Cypresses, old as Zora\u00efde, have already\nbeen cut down ruthlessly along that once unrivalled avenue, and their\ndestruction, one fears, is but the beginning of the end.\n\nBut whatever changes the past sixty years have brought about in Granada,\nthe popularity of Irving's book has not weakened with time. Not Ford, nor\nMurray, nor Hare has been able to replace it. The tourist reads it within\nthe walls it commemorates as conscientiously as the devout read Ruskin\nin Florence. It serves as text book in the Court of Lions and the Garden\nof Lindaraxa. It is the student's manual in the high _mirador_ of the\nSultanas and the court of the mosque where Fortuny painted. In a Spanish\ntranslation it is pressed upon you almost as you cross the threshold.\nIrving's rooms in the Palace are always locked, that the guide may get an\nextra fee for opening--as a special favour--an apartment which half the\npeople ask to see. As the steamers \"Rip Van Winkle\" and \"Knickerbocker\"\nply up and down the Hudson, so the Hotel Washington Irving rises under\nthe shadow of the Alhambra. Even the spirits and spooks that haunt every\ngrove and garden are all of his creation, as Spaniards themselves will\nbe quick to tell you; though who Irving--or, in their familiar speech,\n\"Vashington\"--was, but very few of them could explain. And thus his name\nhas become so closely associated with the place that, just as Diedrich\nKnickerbocker will be remembered while New York stands, so Washington\nIrving cannot be forgotten so long as the Red Palace looks down upon the\nVega and the tradition of the Moor lingers in Granada.\n\n     ELIZABETH ROBINS PENNELL.\n\n  [Illustration]\n\n  [Illustration]\n\n\n\n\n  [Illustration]\n\nCONTENTS\n\n\n                                                             PAGE\n  The Journey                                                   1\n  Palace of the Alhambra                                       46\n  Important Negotiations.--The Author Succeeds to\n    the Throne of Boabdil                                      79\n  Inhabitants of the Alhambra                                  90\n  The Hall of Ambassadors                                      96\n  The Mysterious Chambers                                     106\n  Panorama View from the Tower of Comares                     122\n  The Balcony                                                 134\n  The Adventure of the Mason                                  144\n  The Court of Lions                                          151\n  Mementoes of Boabdil                                        163\n  The House of the Weathercock                                172\n  Legend of the Arabian Astrologer                            176\n  Visitors to the Alhambra                                    199\n  The Generalife                                              207\n  Legend of Prince Ahmed al Kamel, or, the Pilgrim\n    of Love                                                   217\n  A Ramble Among the Hills                                    259\n  Legend of the Moor's Legacy                                 270\n  The Tower of Las Infantas                                   293\n  Legend of the Three Beautiful Princesses                    297\n  Legend of the Rose of the Alhambra                          326\n  The Veteran                                                 346\n  The Governor and the Notary                                 350\n  Governor Manco and the Soldier                              359\n  A F\u00eate in the Alhambra                                      377\n  Legend of the Two Discreet Statues                          383\n  The Crusade of the Grand Master of Alc\u00e1ntara                401\n  An Expedition in Quest of a Diploma                         413\n  The Legend of the Enchanted Soldier                         417\n  The Author's Farewell to Granada                            432\n\n  [Illustration]\n\n\n\n\n  [Illustration: _Seville_]\n\nTHE ALHAMBRA\n\nTHE JOURNEY\n\n\nIn the spring of 1829, the author of this work, whom curiosity had brought\ninto Spain, made a rambling expedition from Seville to Granada in company\nwith a friend, a member of the Russian Embassy at Madrid. Accident had\nthrown us together from distant regions of the globe and a similarity of\ntaste led us to wander together among the romantic mountains of Andalusia.\n\n  [Illustration: _A stern melancholy country._]\n\nAnd here, before setting forth, let me indulge in a few previous remarks\non Spanish scenery and Spanish travelling. Many are apt to picture\nSpain to their imaginations as a soft southern region, decked out with\nthe luxuriant charms of voluptuous Italy. On the contrary, though there\nare exceptions in some of the maritime provinces, yet, for the greater\npart, it is a stern, melancholy country, with rugged mountains, and\nlong sweeping plains, destitute of trees, and indescribably silent and\nlonesome, partaking of the savage and solitary character of Africa. What\nadds to this silence and loneliness, is the absence of singing-birds, a\nnatural consequence of the want of groves and hedges. The vulture and the\neagle are seen wheeling about the mountain-cliffs, and soaring over the\nplains, and groups of shy bustards stalk about the heaths; but the myriads\nof smaller birds, which animate the whole face of other countries, are\nmet with in but few provinces in Spain, and in those chiefly among the\norchards and gardens which surround the habitations of man.\n\n  [Illustration]\n\nIn the interior provinces the traveller occasionally traverses great\ntracts cultivated with grain as far as the eye can reach, waving at times\nwith verdure, at other times naked and sunburnt, but he looks round in\nvain for the hand that has tilled the soil. At length he perceives some\nvillage on a steep hill, or rugged crag, with mouldering battlements\nand ruined watch-tower: a stronghold, in old times, against civil war,\nor Moorish inroad: for the custom among the peasantry of congregating\ntogether for mutual protection is still kept up in most parts of Spain,\nin consequence of the maraudings of roving freebooters.\n\nBut though a great part of Spain is deficient in the garniture of groves\nand forests, and the softer charms of ornamental cultivation, yet its\nscenery is noble in its severity and in unison with the attributes of its\npeople; and I think that I better understand the proud, hardy, frugal,\nand abstemious Spaniard, his manly defiance of hardships, and contempt of\neffeminate indulgences, since I have seen the country he inhabits.\n\n  [Illustration]\n\n  [Illustration]\n\nThere is something, too, in the sternly simple features of the Spanish\nlandscape, that impresses on the soul a feeling of sublimity. The immense\nplains of the Castiles and of La Mancha, extending as far as the eye can\nreach, derive an interest from their very nakedness and immensity, and\npossess, in some degree, the solemn grandeur of the ocean. In ranging\nover these boundless wastes, the eye catches sight here and there of\na straggling herd of cattle attended by a lonely herdsman, motionless\nas a statue, with his long slender pike tapering up like a lance into\nthe air; or beholds a long train of mules slowly moving along the waste\nlike a train of camels in the desert; or a single horseman, armed with\nblunderbuss and stiletto, and prowling over the plain. Thus the country,\nthe habits, the very looks of the people, have something of the Arabian\ncharacter. The general insecurity of the country is evinced in the\nuniversal use of weapons. The herdsman in the field, the shepherd in the\nplain, has his musket and his knife. The wealthy villager rarely ventures\nto the market-town without his _trabuco_, and, perhaps, a servant on\nfoot with a blunderbuss on his shoulder; and the most petty journey is\nundertaken with the preparation of a warlike enterprise.\n\n  [Illustration: _Picturesque Ronda._]\n\n  [Illustration]\n\n  [Illustration: _Roman Bridge, Ronda._]\n\n  [Illustration]\n\nThe dangers of the road produce also a mode of travelling resembling,\non a diminutive scale, the caravans of the East. The _arrieros_, or\ncarriers, congregate in convoys, and set off in large and well-armed\ntrains on appointed days; while additional travellers swell their number,\nand contribute to their strength. In this primitive way is the commerce\nof the country carried on. The muleteer is the general medium of traffic,\nand the legitimate traverser of the land, crossing the peninsula from the\nPyrenees and the Asturias to the Alpuxarras, the _Serrania de Ronda_,\nand even to the gates of Gibraltar. He lives frugally and hardily: his\n_alforjas_ of coarse cloth hold his scanty stock of provisions; a leathern\nbottle, hanging at his saddle-bow, contains wine or water, for a supply\nacross barren mountains and thirsty plains; a mule-cloth spread upon the\nground is his bed at night, and his pack-saddle his pillow. His low, but\nclean-limbed and sinewy form betokens strength; his complexion is dark\nand sunburnt; his eye resolute, but quiet in its expression, except when\nkindled by sudden emotion; his demeanour is frank, manly, and courteous,\nand he never passes you without a grave salutation: \"_Dios guarde \u00e0\nusted!_\" \"_Va usted con Dios, Caballero!_\" \"God guard you!\" \"God be with\nyou, Cavalier!\"\n\n  [Illustration: _Serrania de Ronda._]\n\nAs these men have often their whole fortune at stake upon the burden of\ntheir mules, they have their weapons at hand, slung to their saddles, and\nready to be snatched out for desperate defence; but their united numbers\nrender them secure against petty bands of marauders, and the solitary\n_bandolero_, armed to the teeth, and mounted on his Andalusian steed,\nhovers about them, like a pirate about a merchant convoy, without daring\nto assault.\n\nThe Spanish muleteer has an inexhaustible stock of songs and ballads, with\nwhich to beguile his incessant wayfaring. The airs are rude and simple,\nconsisting of but few inflections. These he chants forth with a loud\nvoice, and long, drawling cadence, seated sideways on his mule, who seems\nto listen with infinite gravity, and to keep time, with his paces, to the\ntune. The couplets thus chanted are often old traditional romances about\nthe Moors, or some legend of a saint, or some love-ditty; or, what is\nstill more frequent, some ballad about a bold _contrabandista_, or hardy\n_bandolero_, for the smuggler and the robber are poetical heroes among\nthe common people of Spain. Often, the song of the muleteer is composed\nat the instant, and relates to some local scene, or some incident of the\njourney. This talent of singing and improvising is frequent in Spain, and\nis said to have been inherited from the Moors. There is something wildly\npleasing in listening to these ditties among the rude and lonely scenes\nthey illustrate; accompanied, as they are, by the occasional jingle of\nthe mule-bell.\n\n  [Illustration]\n\nIt has a most picturesque effect also to meet a train of muleteers in some\nmountain-pass. First you hear the bells of the leading mules, breaking\nwith their simple melody the stillness of the airy height; or, perhaps,\nthe voice of the muleteer admonishing some tardy or wandering animal, or\nchanting, at the full stretch of his lungs, some traditionary ballad.\nAt length you see the mules slowly winding along the cragged defile,\nsometimes descending precipitous cliffs, so as to present themselves in\nfull relief against the sky, sometimes toiling up the deep arid chasms\nbelow you. As they approach, you descry their gay decorations of worsted\nstuffs, tassels, and saddle-cloths, while, as they pass by, the ever\nready _trabuco_, slung behind the packs and saddles, gives a hint of the\ninsecurity of the road.\n\n  [Illustration: _Approach to Granada. From near Elvira._]\n\nThe ancient kingdom of Granada, into which we were about to penetrate, is\none of the most mountainous regions of Spain. Vast _sierras_, or chains\nof mountains, destitute of shrub or tree, and mottled with variegated\nmarbles and granites, elevate their sunburnt summits against a deep-blue\nsky; yet in their rugged bosoms lie ingulfed verdant and fertile valleys,\nwhere the desert and the garden strive for mastery, and the very rock is,\nas it were, compelled to yield the fig, the orange, and the citron, and\nto blossom with the myrtle and the rose.\n\n  [Illustration]\n\nIn the wild passes of these mountains the sight of walled towns and\nvillages, built like eagles' nests among the cliffs, and surrounded by\nMoorish battlements, or of ruined watch-towers perched on lofty peaks,\ncarries the mind back to the chivalric days of Christian and Moslem\nwarfare, and to the romantic struggle for the conquest of Granada. In\ntraversing these lofty _sierras_ the traveller is often obliged to alight,\nand lead his horse up and down the steep and jagged ascents and descents,\nresembling the broken steps of a staircase. Sometimes the road winds along\ndizzy precipices, without parapet to guard him from the gulfs below, and\nthen will plunge down steep and dark and dangerous declivities. Sometimes\nit struggles through rugged _barrancos_, or ravines, worn by winter\ntorrents, the obscure path of the _contrabandista_; while, ever and anon,\nthe ominous cross, the monument of robbery and murder, erected on a mound\nof stones at some lonely part of the road, admonishes the traveller that\nhe is among the haunts of banditti, perhaps at that very moment under\nthe eye of some lurking _bandolero_. Sometimes, in winding through the\nnarrow valleys, he is startled by a hoarse bellowing, and beholds above\nhim on some green fold of the mountain a herd of fierce Andalusian bulls,\ndestined for the combat of the arena. I have felt, if I may so express it,\nan agreeable horror in thus contemplating, near at hand, these terrific\nanimals, clothed with tremendous strength, and ranging their native\npastures in untamed wildness, strangers almost to the face of man: they\nknow no one but the solitary herdsman who attends upon them, and even he\nat times dares not venture to approach them. The low bellowing of these\nbulls, and their menacing aspect as they look down from their rocky\nheight, give additional wildness to the savage scenery.\n\nI have been betrayed unconsciously into a longer disquisition than I\nintended on the general features of Spanish travelling; but there is\na romance about all the recollections of the Peninsula dear to the\nimagination.\n\nAs our proposed route to Granada lay through mountainous regions, where\nthe roads are little better than mule-paths, and said to be frequently\nbeset by robbers, we took due travelling precautions. Forwarding the most\nvaluable part of our luggage a day or two in advance by the _arrieros_,\nwe retained merely clothing and necessaries for the journey and money\nfor the expenses of the road; with a little surplus of hard dollars\nby way of _robber purse_, to satisfy the gentlemen of the road should\nwe be assailed. Unlucky is the too wary traveller who, having grudged\nthis precaution, falls into their clutches empty-handed; they are apt\nto give him a sound rib-roasting for cheating them out of their dues.\n\"_Caballeros_ like them cannot afford to scour the roads and risk the\ngallows for nothing.\"\n\nA couple of stout steeds were provided for our own mounting, and a third\nfor our scanty luggage and the conveyance of a sturdy Biscayan lad,\nabout twenty years of age, who was to be our guide, our groom, our valet,\nand at all times our guard. For the latter office he was provided with\na formidable _trabuco_ or carbine, with which he promised to defend us\nagainst _rateros_ or solitary foot-pads; but as to powerful bands, like\nthat of the \"Sons of Ecija,\" he confessed they were quite beyond his\nprowess. He made much vainglorious boast about his weapon at the outset of\nthe journey; though, to the discredit of his generalship, it was suffered\nto hang unloaded behind his saddle.\n\nAccording to our stipulations, the man from whom we hired the horses was\nto be at the expense of their feed and stabling on the journey, as well\nas of the maintenance of our Biscayan squire, who of course was provided\nwith funds for the purpose; we took care, however, to give the latter\na private hint, that, though we made a close bargain with his master,\nit was all in his favour, as, if he proved a good man and true, both\nhe and the horses should live at our cost, and the money provided for\ntheir maintenance remain in his pocket. This unexpected largess, with the\noccasional present of a cigar, won his heart completely. He was, in truth,\na faithful, cheery, kind-hearted creature, as full of saws and proverbs\nas that miracle of squires, the renowned Sancho himself, whose name, by\nthe by, we bestowed upon him, and, like a true Spaniard, though treated\nby us with companionable familiarity, he never for a moment, in his utmost\nhilarity, overstepped the bounds of respectful decorum.\n\nSuch were our minor preparations for the journey, but above all we laid\nin an ample stock of good-humour, and a genuine disposition to be pleased;\ndetermining to travel in true _contrabandista_ style; taking things as we\nfound them, rough or smooth, and mingling with all classes and conditions\nin a kind of vagabond companionship. It is the true way to travel in\nSpain. With such disposition and determination, what a country is it for\na traveller, where the most miserable inn is as full of adventure as an\nenchanted castle, and every meal is in itself an achievement! Let others\nrepine at the lack of turnpike roads and sumptuous hotels, and all the\nelaborate comforts of a country cultivated and civilised into tameness\nand commonplace; but give me the rude mountain scramble; the roving,\nhap-hazard, wayfaring; the half wild, yet frank and hospitable manners,\nwhich impart such a true game-flavour to dear old romantic Spain!\n\n  [Illustration]\n\nThus equipped and attended, we cantered out of \"Fair Seville city\" at\nhalf-past six in the morning of a bright May day, in company with a\nlady and gentleman of our acquaintance, who rode a few miles with us, in\nthe Spanish mode of taking leave. Our route lay through old _Alcala de\nGuadaira_ (Alcala on the river Aira), the benefactress of Seville, that\nsupplies it with bread and water. Here live the bakers who furnish Seville\nwith that delicious bread for which it is renowned; here are fabricated\nthose _roscas_ well known by the well-merited appellation of _pan de Dios_\n(bread of God); with which, by the way, we ordered our man, Sancho, to\nstock his _alforjas_ for the journey. Well has this beneficent little city\nbeen denominated the \"Oven of Seville\"; well has it been called _Alcala de\nlos Panaderos_ (Alcala of the bakers), for a great part of its inhabitants\nby lines of mules and donkeys laden with great panniers of loaves and\n_roscas_.\n\n  [Illustration]\n\nI have said Alcala supplies Seville with water. Here are great tanks or\nreservoirs, of Roman and Moorish construction, whence water is conveyed\nto Seville by noble aqueducts. The springs of Alcala are almost as much\nvaunted as its ovens; and to the lightness, sweetness, and purity of its\nwater is attributed in some measure the delicacy of its bread.\n\n  [Illustration]\n\nHere we halted for a time, at the ruins of the old Moorish castle, a\nfavourite resort for picnic parties from Seville, where we had passed many\na pleasant hour. The walls are of great extent, pierced with loopholes;\nenclosing a huge square tower or keep, with the remains of _masmoras_, or\nsubterranean granaries. The Guadaira winds its stream round the hill, at\nthe foot of these ruins, whimpering among reeds, rushes, and pond-lilies,\nand overhung with rhododendron, eglantine, yellow myrtle, and a profusion\nof wild flowers and aromatic shrubs; while along its banks are groves of\noranges, citrons, and pomegranates, among which we heard the early note\nof the nightingale.\n\n  [Illustration]\n\nA picturesque bridge was thrown across the little river, at one end of\nwhich was the ancient Moorish mill of the castle, defended by a tower of\nyellow stone; a fisherman's net hung against the wall to dry, and hard\nby in the river was his boat; a group of peasant women in bright-coloured\ndresses, crossing the arched bridge, were reflected in the placid stream.\nAltogether it was an admirable scene for a landscape-painter.\n\n  [Illustration]\n\nThe old Moorish mills, so often found on secluded streams, are\ncharacteristic objects in Spanish landscape, and suggestive of the\nperilous times of old. They are of stone, and often in the form of towers\nwith loopholes and battlements, capable of defence in those warlike days\nwhen the country on both sides of the border was subject to sudden inroad\nand hasty ravage, and when men had to labour with their weapons at hand,\nand some place of temporary refuge.\n\nOur next halting-place was at Gandul, where were the remains of another\nMoorish castle, with its ruined tower, a nestling-place for storks,\nand commanding a view over a vast _campi\u00f1a_ or fertile plain, with the\nmountains of Ronda in the distance. These castles were strongholds to\nprotect the plains from the _talas_ or forays to which they were subject,\nwhen the fields of corn would be laid waste, the flocks and herds swept\nfrom the vast pastures, and, together with captive peasantry, hurried off\nin long _cavalgadas_ across the borders.\n\n  [Illustration]\n\nAt Gandul we found a tolerable _posada_; the good folks could not tell us\nwhat time of day it was, the clock only struck once in the day, two hours\nafter noon; until that time it was guess-work. We guessed it was full time\nto eat; so, alighting, we ordered a repast. While that was in preparation,\nwe visited the palace once the residence of the Marquis of Gandul. All\nwas gone to decay; there were but two or three rooms habitable, and very\npoorly furnished. Yet here were the remains of grandeur: a terrace, where\nfair dames and gentle cavaliers may once have walked; a fish-pond and\nruined garden, with grape-vines and date-bearing palm-trees. Here we were\njoined by a fat curate, who gathered a bouquet of roses, and presented\nit, very gallantly, to the lady who accompanied us.\n\nBelow the palace was the mill, with orange-trees and aloes in front, and a\npretty stream of pure water. We took a seat in the shade; and the millers,\nall leaving their work, sat down and smoked with us; for the Andalusians\nare always ready for a gossip. They were waiting for the regular visit\nof the barber, who came once a week to put all their chins in order.\nHe arrived shortly afterwards: a lad of seventeen, mounted on a donkey,\neager to display his new _alforjas_ or saddle-bags, just bought at a fair;\nprice one dollar, to be paid on St. John's day (in June), by which time\nhe trusted to have mown beards enough to put him in funds.\n\nBy the time the laconic clock of the castle had struck two we had finished\nour dinner. So, taking leave of our Seville friends, and leaving the\nmillers still under the hands of the barber, we set off on our ride across\nthe _campi\u00f1a_. It was one of those vast plains, common in Spain, where for\nmiles and miles there is neither house nor tree. Unlucky the traveller who\nhas to traverse it, exposed as we were to heavy and repeated showers of\nrain. There is no escape nor shelter. Our only protection was our Spanish\ncloaks, which nearly covered man and horse, but grew heavier every mile.\nBy the time we had lived through one shower we would see another slowly\nbut inevitably approaching; fortunately in the interval there would be an\noutbreak of bright, warm, Andalusian sunshine, which would make our cloaks\nsend up wreaths of steam, but which partially dried them before the next\ndrenching.\n\nShortly after sunset we arrived at Arahal, a little town among the hills.\nWe found it in a bustle with a party of _miquelets_, who were patrolling\nthe country to ferret out robbers. The appearance of foreigners like\nourselves was an unusual circumstance in an interior country town; and\nlittle Spanish towns of the kind are easily put in a state of gossip\nand wonderment by such an occurrence. Mine host, with two or three old\nwise-acre comrades in brown cloaks, studied our passports in a corner\nof the _posada_, while an _Alguazil_ took notes by the dim light of a\nlamp. The passports were in foreign languages and perplexed them, but\nour Squire Sancho assisted them in their studies, and magnified our\nimportance with the grandiloquence of a Spaniard. In the meantime the\nmagnificent distribution of a few cigars had won the hearts of all around\nus; in a little while the whole community seemed put in agitation to\nmake us welcome. The _Corregidor_ himself waited upon us, and a great\nrush-bottomed arm-chair was ostentatiously bolstered into our room by our\nlandlady, for the accommodation of that important personage. The commander\nof the patrol took supper with us: a lively, talking, laughing _Andaluz_,\nwho had made a campaign in South America, and recounted his exploits in\nlove and war with much pomp of phrase, vehemence of gesticulation, and\nmysterious rolling of the eye. He told us that he had a list of all the\nrobbers in the country, and meant to ferret out every mother's son of\nthem; he offered us at the same time some of his soldiers as an escort.\n\"One is enough to protect you, _se\u00f1ors_; the robbers know me, and know\nmy men; the sight of one is enough to spread terror through a whole\n_sierra_.\" We thanked him for his offer, but assured him, in his own\nstrain, that with the protection of our redoubtable squire, Sancho, we\nwere not afraid of all the _ladrones_ of Andalusia.\n\n  [Illustration]\n\nWhile we were supping with our drawcansir friend, we heard the notes of\na guitar, and the click of castanets, and presently a chorus of voices\nsinging a popular air. In fact, mine host had gathered together the\namateur singers and musicians, and the rustic belles of the neighbourhood,\nand, on going forth, the court-yard or _patio_ of the inn presented a\nscene of true Spanish festivity. We took our seats with mine host and\nhostess and the commander of the patrol, under an archway opening into the\ncourt; the guitar passed from hand to hand, but a jovial shoemaker was the\nOrpheus of the place. He was a pleasant-looking fellow, with huge black\nwhiskers; his sleeves were rolled up to his elbows. He touched the guitar\nwith masterly skill, and sang a little amorous ditty with an expressive\nleer at the women, with whom he was evidently a favourite. He afterwards\ndanced a _fandango_ with a buxom Andalusian damsel, to the great delight\nof the spectators. But none of the females present could compare with\nmine host's pretty daughter, Pepita, who had slipped away and made her\ntoilette for the occasion and had covered her head with roses; and who\ndistinguished herself in a _bolero_ with a handsome young dragoon. We\nordered our host to let wine and refreshment circulate freely among the\ncompany, yet, though there was a motley assembly of soldiers, muleteers,\nand villagers, no one exceeded the bounds of sober enjoyment. The scene\nwas a study for a painter: the picturesque group of dancers, the troopers\nin their half military dresses, the peasantry wrapped in their brown\ncloaks; nor must I omit to mention the old meagre _Alguazil_, in a short\nblack cloak, who took no notice of anything going on, but sat in a corner\ndiligently writing by the dim light of a huge copper lamp, that might have\nfigured in the days of Don Quixote.\n\nThe following morning was bright and balmy, as a May morning ought to\nbe, according to the poets. Leaving Arahal at seven o'clock, with all\nthe _posada_ at the door to cheer us off, we pursued our way through a\nfertile country, covered with grain and beautifully verdant; but which\nin summer, when the harvest is over and the fields parched and brown,\nmust be monotonous and lonely; for, as in our ride of yesterday, there\nwere neither houses nor people to be seen. The latter all congregate in\nvillages and strongholds among the hills, as if these fertile plains were\nstill subject to the ravages of the Moor.\n\nAt noon we came to where there was a group of trees, beside a brook in a\nrich meadow. Here we alighted to make our mid-day meal. It was really a\nluxurious spot, among wild flowers and aromatic herbs, with birds singing\naround us. Knowing the scanty larders of Spanish inns, and the houseless\ntracts we might have to traverse, we had taken care to have the _alforjas_\nof our squire well stocked with cold provisions, and his _bota_, or\nleathern bottle, which might hold a gallon, filled to the neck with choice\nValdepe\u00f1as wine.[1] As we depended more upon these for our well-being than\neven his _trabuco_, we exhorted him to be more attentive in keeping them\nwell charged; and I must do him the justice to say that his namesake,\nthe trencher-loving Sancho Panza, was never a more provident purveyor.\nThough the _alforjas_ and the _bota_ were frequently and vigorously\nassailed throughout the journey, they had a wonderful power of repletion,\nour vigilant squire sacking everything that remained from our repasts at\nthe inns to supplying these junketings by the road-side, which were his\ndelight.\n\n  [Illustration]\n\nOn the present occasion he spread quite a sumptuous variety of remnants\non the greensward before us, graced with an excellent ham brought from\nSeville; then, taking his seat at a little distance, he solaced himself\nwith what remained in the _alforjas_. A visit or two to the _bota_ made\nhim as merry and chirruping as a grasshopper filled with dew. On my\ncomparing his contents of the _alforjas_ to Sancho's skimming of the\nflesh-pots at the wedding of Camacho, I found he was well versed in the\nhistory of Don Quixote, but, like many of the common people of Spain,\nfirmly believed it to be a true history.\n\n\"All that happened a long time ago, _Se\u00f1or_,\" said he, with an inquiring\nlook.\n\n\"A very long time,\" I replied.\n\n\"I dare say more than a thousand years,\"--still looking dubiously.\n\n\"I dare say not less.\"\n\nThe squire was satisfied. Nothing pleased the simple-hearted valet more\nthan my comparing him to the renowned Sancho for devotion to the trencher;\nand he called himself by no other name throughout the journey.\n\n  [Illustration]\n\nOur repast being finished, we spread our cloaks on the greensward under\nthe tree, and took a luxurious _siesta_, in the Spanish fashion. The\nclouding up of the weather, however, warned us to depart, and a harsh wind\nsprang up from the southeast. Towards five o'clock we arrived at Osuna, a\ntown of fifteen thousand inhabitants, situated on the side of a hill, with\na church and a ruined castle. The _posada_ was outside of the walls; it\nhad a cheerless look. The evening being cold, the inhabitants were crowded\nround a _brasero_ in a chimney-corner; and the hostess was a dry old\nwoman, who looked like a mummy. Every one eyed us askance as we entered,\nas Spaniards are apt to regard strangers; a cheery, respectful salutation\non our part, caballeroing them and touching our sombreros, set Spanish\npride at ease; and when we took our seat among them, lit our cigars, and\npassed the cigar-box round among them, our victory was complete. I have\nnever known a Spaniard, whatever his rank or condition, who would suffer\nhimself to be outdone in courtesy; and to the common Spaniard the present\nof a cigar _puro_ is irresistible. Care, however, must be taken never to\noffer him a present with an air of superiority and condescension: he is\ntoo much of a _caballero_ to receive favours at the cost of his dignity.\n\n  [Illustration]\n\nLeaving Osuna at an early hour the next morning, we entered the _sierra_\nor range of mountains. The road wound through picturesque scenery, but\nlonely; and a cross here and there by the roadside, the sign of a murder,\nshowed that we were now coming among the \"robber haunts.\" This wild and\nintricate country, with its silent plains and valleys intersected by\nmountains, has ever been famous for banditti. It was here that Omar Ibn\nHassan, a robber-chief among the Moslems, held ruthless sway in the ninth\ncentury, disputing dominion even with the califs of Cordova. This too was\na part of the regions so often ravaged during the reign of Ferdinand and\nIsabella by Ali Atar, the old Moorish _alcayde_ of Loxa, father-in-law of\nBoabdil so that it was called Ali Atar's garden, and here \"Jose Maria,\"\nfamous in Spanish brigand story, had his favourite lurking-places.\n\n  [Illustration]\n\nIn the course of the day we passed through Fuente la Piedra, near a little\nsalt lake of the same name, a beautiful sheet of water, reflecting like\na mirror the distant mountains. We now came in sight of Antiquera, that\nold city of warlike reputation, lying in the lap of the great _sierra_\nwhich runs through Andalusia. A noble _vega_ spread out before it, a\npicture of mild fertility set in a frame of rocky mountains. Crossing a\ngentle river we approached the city between hedges and gardens, in which\nnightingales were pouring forth their evening song. About nightfall we\narrived at the gates. Everything in this venerable city has a decidedly\nSpanish stamp. It lies too much out of the frequented track of foreign\ntravel to have its old usages trampled out. Here I observed old men still\nwearing the _montero_, or ancient hunting-cap, once common throughout\nSpain; while the young men wore the little round-crowned hat, with brim\nturned up all round, like a cup turned down in its saucer; while the brim\nwas set off with little black tufts like cockades. The women, too, were\nall in _mantillas_ and _basquinas_. The fashions of Paris had not reached\nAntiquera.\n\n  [Illustration]\n\n  [Illustration]\n\nPursuing our course through a spacious street, we put up at the _posada_\nof San Fernando. As Antiquera, though a considerable city, is, as\nI observed, somewhat out of the track of travel, I had anticipated\nbad quarters and poor fare at the inn. I was agreeably disappointed,\ntherefore, by a supper-table amply supplied, and what were still more\nacceptable, good clean rooms and comfortable beds. Our man Sancho felt\nhimself as well off as his namesake when he had the run of the duke's\nkitchen, and let me know, as I retired for the night, that it had been a\nproud time for the _alforjas_.\n\n  [Illustration]\n\n  [Illustration]\n\nEarly in the morning (May 4th) I strolled to the ruins of the old Moorish\ncastle, which itself had been reared on the ruins of a Roman fortress.\nHere, taking my seat on the remains of a crumbling tower, I enjoyed a\ngrand and varied landscape, beautiful in itself, and full of storied and\nromantic associations; for I was now in the very heart of the country\nfamous for the chivalrous contests between Moor and Christian. Below\nme, in its lap of hills, lay the old warrior city so often mentioned\nin chronicle and ballad. Out of yon gate and down yon hill paraded the\nband of Spanish cavaliers, of highest rank and bravest bearing, to make\nthat foray during the war and conquest of Granada, which ended in the\nlamentable massacre among the mountains of Malaga, and laid all Andalusia\nin mourning. Beyond spread out the _vega_, covered with gardens and\norchards and fields of grain and enamelled meadows, inferior only to the\nfamous _vega_ of Granada. To the right the Rock of the Lovers stretched\nlike a cragged promontory into the plain, whence the daughter of the\nMoorish alcayde and her lover, when closely pursued, threw themselves in\ndespair.\n\n  [Illustration]\n\nThe matin peal from church and convent below me rang sweetly in the\nmorning air, as I descended. The market-place was beginning to throng with\nthe populace, who traffic in the abundant produce of the _vega_; for this\nis the mart of an agricultural region. In the market-place were abundance\nof freshly plucked roses for sale; for not a dame or damsel of Andalusia\nthinks her gala dress complete without a rose shining like a gem among\nher raven tresses.\n\nOn returning to the inn I found our man Sancho in high gossip with the\nlandlord and two or three of his hangers-on. He had just been telling some\nmarvellous story about Seville, which mine host seemed piqued to match\nwith one equally marvellous about Antiquera. There was once a fountain,\nhe said, in one of the public squares called _Il fuente del toro_ (the\nfountain of the bull), because the water gushed from the mouth of the\nbull's head, carved of stone. Underneath the head was inscribed,--\n\n     _En frente del toro\n     Se hallen tesoro._\n\nIn front of the bull there is treasure. Many digged in front of the\nfountain, but lost their labour and found no money. At last one knowing\nfellow construed the motto a different way. It is in the forehead _frente_\nof the bull that the treasure is to be found, said he to himself, and I\nam the man to find it. Accordingly he came, late at night, with a mallet,\nand knocked the head to pieces; and what do you think he found?\n\n  [Illustration]\n\n\"Plenty of gold and diamonds!\" cried Sancho, eagerly.\n\n\"He found nothing,\" rejoined mine host, dryly, \"and he ruined the\nfountain.\"\n\nHere a great laugh was set up by the landlord's hangers-on; who considered\nSancho completely taken in by what I presume was one of mine host's\nstanding jokes.\n\nLeaving Antiquera at eight o'clock, we had a delightful ride along the\nlittle river, and by gardens and orchards fragrant with the odours of\nspring and vocal with the nightingale. Our road passed round the Rock of\nthe Lovers (_el pe\u00f1on de los enamorados_), which rose in a precipice above\nus. In the course of the morning we passed through Archidona, situated\nin the breast of a high hill, with a three-pointed mountain towering\nabove it, and the ruins of a Moorish fortress. It was a great toil to\nascend a steep stony street leading up into the city, although it bore\nthe encouraging name of _Calle Real del Llano_ (the royal street of the\nplain), but it was a still greater toil to descend from this mountain city\non the other side.\n\n  [Illustration]\n\n  [Illustration]\n\nAt noon we halted in sight of Archidona, in a pleasant little meadow\namong hills covered with olive-trees. Our cloaks were spread on the grass,\nunder an elm by the side of a bubbling rivulet; our horses were tethered\nwhere they might crop the herbage, and Sancho was told to produce his\n_alforjas_. He had been unusually silent this morning ever since the laugh\nraised at his expense, but now his countenance brightened, and he produced\nhis _alforjas_ with an air of triumph. They contained the contributions\nof four days' journeying, but had been signally enriched by the foraging\nof the previous evening in the plenteous inn at Antiquera; and this seemed\nto furnish him with a set-off to the banter of mine host.\n\n     _En frente del toro\n     Se hallen tesoro_\n\nwould he exclaim, with a chuckling laugh, as he drew forth the\nheterogeneous contents one by one, in a series which seemed to have no\nend. First came forth a shoulder of roasted kid, very little the worse\nfor wear; then an entire partridge; then a great morsel of salted codfish\nwrapped in paper; then the residue of a ham; then the half of a pullet,\ntogether with several rolls of bread, and a rabble rout of oranges,\nfigs, raisins, and walnuts. His _bota_ also had been recruited with some\nexcellent wine of Malaga. At every fresh apparition from his larder, he\nwould enjoy our ludicrous surprise, throwing himself back on the grass,\nshouting with laughter, and exclaiming, \"_Frente del toro!--frente del\ntoro!_ Ah, _se\u00f1ors_, they thought Sancho a simpleton at Antiquera; but\nSancho knew where to find the _tesoro_.\"\n\nWhile we were diverting ourselves with his simple drollery, a solitary\nbeggar approached, who had almost the look of a pilgrim. He had a\nvenerable gray beard, and was evidently very old, supporting himself on\na staff, yet age had not bowed him down; he was tall and erect, and had\nthe wreck of a fine form. He wore a round Andalusian hat, a sheep-skin\njacket, and leathern breeches, gaiters, and sandals. His dress, though\nold and patched, was decent, his demeanour manly, and he addressed us\nwith the grave courtesy that is to be remarked in the lowest Spaniard. We\nwere in a favourable mood for such a visitor; and in a freak of capricious\ncharity gave him some silver, a loaf of fine wheaten bread, and a goblet\nof our choice wine of Malaga. He received them thankfully, but without\nany grovelling tribute of gratitude. Tasting the wine, he held it up\nto the light, with a slight beam of surprise in his eye; then quaffing\nit off at a draught, \"It is many years,\" said he, \"since I have tasted\nsuch wine. It is a cordial to an old man's heart.\" Then, looking at the\nbeautiful wheaten loaf, \"_bendito sea tal pan!_\" \"blessed be such bread!\"\nSo saying, he put it in his wallet. We urged him to eat it on the spot.\n\"No, _se\u00f1ors_,\" replied he, \"the wine I had either to drink or leave; but\nthe bread I may take home to share with my family.\"\n\nOur man Sancho sought our eye, and reading permission there, gave the old\nman some of the ample fragments of our repast, on condition, however, that\nhe should sit down and make a meal.\n\nHe accordingly took his seat at some little distance from us, and\nbegan to eat slowly, and with a sobriety and decorum that would have\nbecome a _hidalgo_. There was altogether a measured manner and a quiet\nself-possession about the old man, that made me think that he had seen\nbetter days: his language, too, though simple, had occasionally something\npicturesque and almost poetical in the phraseology. I set him down for\nsome broken-down cavalier. I was mistaken; it was nothing but the innate\ncourtesy of a Spaniard, and the poetical turn of thought and language\noften to be found in the lowest classes of this clear-witted people.\nFor fifty years, he told us, he had been a shepherd, but now he was out\nof employ and destitute. \"When I was a young man,\" said he, \"nothing\ncould harm or trouble me; I was always well, always gay; but now I am\nseventy-nine years of age, and a beggar, and my heart begins to fail me.\"\n\nStill he was not a regular mendicant: it was not until recently that want\nhad driven him to this degradation; and he gave a touching picture of the\nstruggle between hunger and pride, when abject destitution first came upon\nhim. He was returning from Malaga without money; he had not tasted food\nfor some time, and was crossing one of the great plains of Spain, where\nthere were but few habitations. When almost dead with hunger, he applied\nat the door of a venta or country inn. \"_Perdon usted por Dios hermano!_\"\n(Excuse us, brother, for God's sake!) was the reply--the usual mode in\nSpain of refusing a beggar. \"I turned away,\" said he, \"with shame greater\nthan my hunger, for my heart was yet too proud. I came to a river with\nhigh banks, and deep, rapid current, and felt tempted to throw myself\nin: 'What should such an old, worthless, wretched man as I live for?' But\nwhen I was on the brink of the current, I thought on the blessed Virgin,\nand turned away. I travelled on until I saw a country-seat at a little\ndistance from the road, and entered the outer gate of the court-yard.\nThe door was shut, but there were two young _se\u00f1oras_ at a window. I\napproached and begged;--'Perdon _usted por Dios hermano!_'--and the window\nclosed. I crept out of the court-yard, but hunger overcame me, and my\nheart gave way: I thought my hour at hand, so I laid myself down at the\ngate, commended myself to the Holy Virgin, and covered my head to die.\nIn a little while afterwards the master of the house came home: seeing me\nlying at his gate, he uncovered my head, had pity on my gray hairs, took\nme into his house, and gave me food. So, _se\u00f1ors_, you see that one should\nalways put confidence in the protection of the Virgin.\"\n\n  [Illustration]\n\nThe old man was on his way to his native place, Archidona, which was in\nfull view on its steep and rugged mountain. He pointed to the ruins of its\ncastle. \"That castle,\" he said, \"was inhabited by a Moorish king at the\ntime of the wars of Granada. Queen Isabella invaded it with a great army;\nbut the king looked down from his castle among the clouds, and laughed\nher to scorn! Upon this the Virgin appeared to the queen, and guided her\nand her army up a mysterious path in the mountains, which had never before\nbeen known. When the Moor saw her coming, he was astonished, and springing\nwith his horse from a precipice, was dashed to pieces! The marks of his\nhorse's hoofs,\" said the old man, \"are to be seen in the margin of the\nrock to this day. And see, _se\u00f1ors_, yonder is the road by which the queen\nand her army mounted: you see it like a ribbon up the mountain's side; but\nthe miracle is, that, though it can be seen at a distance, when you come\nnear it disappears!\"\n\nThe ideal road to which he pointed was undoubtedly a sandy ravine of the\nmountain, which looked narrow and defined at a distance, but became broad\nand indistinct on an approach.\n\nAs the old man's heart warmed with wine and wassail, he went on to tell us\na story of the buried treasure left under the castle by the Moorish king.\nHis own house was next to the foundations of the castle. The curate and\nnotary dreamed three times of the treasure, and went to work at the place\npointed out in their dreams. His own son-in-law heard the sound of their\npick-axes and spades at night. What they found, nobody knows; they became\nsuddenly rich, but kept their own secret. Thus the old man had once been\nnext door to fortune, but was doomed never to get under the same roof.\n\n  [Illustration]\n\nI have remarked that the stories of treasure buried by the Moors, so\npopular throughout Spain, are most current among the poorest people. Kind\nnature consoles with shadows for the lack of substantials. The thirsty man\ndreams of fountains and running streams; the hungry man of banquets; and\nthe poor man of heaps of hidden gold: nothing certainly is more opulent\nthan the imagination of a beggar.\n\nOur afternoon's ride took us through a steep and rugged defile of the\nmountains, called _Puerta del Rey_, the Pass of the King; being one of\nthe great passes into the territories of Granada, and the one by which\nKing Ferdinand conducted his army. Towards sunset the road, winding round\na hill, brought us in sight of the famous little frontier city of Loxa,\nwhich repulsed Ferdinand from its walls. Its Arabic name implies guardian,\nand such it was to the _vega_ of Granada, being one of its advanced\nguards. It was the stronghold of that fiery veteran, old Ali Atar, father\nin-law of Boabdil; and here it was that the latter collected his troops,\nand sallied forth on that disastrous foray which ended in the death of\nthe old _alcayde_ and his own captivity. From its commanding position at\nthe gate, as it were, of this mountain-pass, Loxa has not unaptly been\ntermed the key of Granada. It is wildly picturesque; built along the\nface of an arid mountain. The ruins of a Moorish _alcazar_ or citadel\ncrown a rocky mound which rises out of the centre of the town. The river\nXenil washes its base, winding among rocks, and groves, and gardens, and\nmeadows, and crossed by a Moorish bridge. Above the city all is savage\nand sterile, below is the richest vegetation and the freshest verdure. A\nsimilar contrast is presented by the river: above the bridge it is placid\nand grassy, reflecting groves and gardens; below it is rapid, noisy, and\ntumultuous. The Sierra Nevada, the royal mountains of Granada, crowned\nwith perpetual snow, form the distant boundary to this varied landscape,\none of the most characteristic of romantic Spain.\n\n  [Illustration]\n\nAlighting at the entrance of the city, we gave our horses to Sancho to\nlead them to the inn, while we strolled about to enjoy the singular beauty\nof the environs. As we crossed the bridge to a fine _alameda_, or public\nwalk, the bells tolled the hour of orison. At the sound the wayfarers,\nwhether on business or pleasure, paused, took off their hats, crossed\nthemselves, and repeated their evening prayer: a pious custom still\nrigidly observed in retired parts of Spain. Altogether it was a solemn\nand beautiful evening scene, and we wandered on as the evening gradually\nclosed, and the new moon began to glitter between the high elms of the\n_alameda_. We were roused from this quiet state of enjoyment by the voice\nof our trusty squire hailing us from a distance. He came up to us, out\nof breath. \"_Ah, se\u00f1ores_\" cried he, \"_el pobre Sancho no es nada sin\nDon Quixote._\" (Ah, se\u00f1ors, poor Sancho is nothing without Don Quixote.)\nHe had been alarmed at our not coming to the inn; Loxa was such a wild\nmountain place, full of _contrabandistas_, enchanters, and _infiernos_;\nhe did not well know what might have happened, and set out to seek us,\ninquiring after us of every person he met, until he traced us across\nthe bridge, and, to his great joy, caught sight of us strolling in the\n_alameda_.\n\n  [Illustration]\n\nThe inn to which he conducted us was called the _Corona_, or Crown,\nand we found it quite in keeping with the character of the place, the\ninhabitants of which seem still to retain the bold, fiery spirit of the\nolden time. The hostess was a young and handsome Andalusian widow, whose\ntrim _basqui\u00f1a_ of black silk, fringed with bugles, set off the play of\na graceful form and round pliant limbs. Her step was firm and elastic;\nher dark eye was full of fire and the coquetry of her air, and varied\nornaments of her person, showed that she was accustomed to be admired.\n\nShe was well matched by a brother, nearly about her own age; they were\nperfect models of the Andalusian Majo and Maja. He was tall, vigorous,\nand well-formed, with a clear olive complexion, a dark beaming eye,\nand curling chestnut whiskers that met under his chin. He was gallantly\ndressed in a short green velvet jacket, fitted to his shape, profusely\ndecorated with silver buttons, with a white handkerchief in each pocket.\nHe had breeches of the same, with rows of buttons from the hips to the\nknees; a pink silk handkerchief round his neck, gathered through a ring,\non the bosom of a neatly plaited shirt; a sash round the waist to match;\n_bottinas_, or spatterdashes, of the finest russet leather, elegantly\nworked, and open at the calf to show his stocking; and russet shoes,\nsetting off a well-shaped foot.\n\nAs he was standing at the door, a horseman rode up and entered into low\nand earnest conversation with him. He was dressed in a similar style, and\nalmost with equal finery; a man about thirty, square-built, with strong\nRoman features, handsome, though slightly pitted with the small-pox;\nwith a free, bold, and somewhat daring air. His powerful black horse\nwas decorated with tassels and fanciful trappings, and a couple of\nbroad-mouthed blunderbusses hung behind the saddle. He had the air of\none of those _contrabandistas_ I have seen in the mountains of Ronda,\nand evidently had a good understanding with the brother of mine hostess;\nnay, if I mistake not, he was a favoured admirer of the widow. In fact,\nthe whole inn and its inmates had something of a _contrabandista_ aspect,\nand a blunderbuss stood in a corner beside the guitar. The horseman\nI have mentioned passed his evening in the _posada_, and sang several\nbold mountain romances with great spirit. As we were at supper, two poor\nAsturians put in, in distress, begging food and a night's lodging. They\nhad been waylaid by robbers as they came from a fair among the mountains,\nrobbed of a horse which carried all their stock in trade, stripped\nof their money, and most of their apparel, beaten for having offered\nresistance, and left almost naked in the road. My companion, with a prompt\ngenerosity natural to him, ordered them a supper and a bed, and gave them\na sum of money to help them forward towards their home.\n\n  [Illustration: _Moorish Gate, Ronda._]\n\nAs the evening advanced, the _dramatis person\u00e6_ thickened. A large man,\nabout sixty years of age, of powerful frame, came strolling in, to gossip\nwith mine hostess. He was dressed in the ordinary Andalusian costume,\nbut had a huge sabre tucked under his arm; wore large moustaches, and had\nsomething of a lofty swaggering air. Every one seemed to regard him with\ngreat deference.\n\nOur man Sancho whispered to us that he was Don Ventura Rodriguez, the\nhero and champion of Loxa, famous for his prowess and the strength of his\narm. In the time of the French invasion he surprised six troopers who were\nasleep; he first secured their horses, then attacked them with his sabre,\nkilled some, and took the rest prisoners. For this exploit the king allows\nhim a peseta (the fifth of a duro, or dollar) per day, and has dignified\nhim with the title of Don.\n\nI was amused to behold his swelling language and demeanour. He was\nevidently a thorough Andalusian, boastful as brave. His sabre was always\nin his hand or under his arm. He carries it always about with him as a\nchild does its doll, calls it his Santa Teresa, and says, \"When I draw\nit, the earth trembles\" (_tiembla la tierra_).\n\nI sat until a late hour listening to the varied themes of this motley\ngroup, who mingled together with the unreserve of a Spanish _posada_. We\nhad _contrabandista_ songs, stories of robbers, guerrilla exploits, and\nMoorish legends. The last were from our handsome landlady, who gave a\npoetical account of the _infiernos_, or infernal regions of Loxa,--dark\ncaverns, in which subterranean streams and waterfalls make a mysterious\nsound. The common people say that there are money-coiners shut up\nthere from the time of the Moors; and that the Moorish kings kept their\ntreasures in those caverns.\n\nI retired to bed with my imagination excited by all that I had seen and\nheard in this old warrior city. Scarce had I fallen asleep when I was\naroused by a horrid din and uproar, that might have confounded the hero\nof La Mancha himself, whose experience of Spanish inns was a continual\nuproar. It seemed for a moment as if the Moors were once more breaking\ninto the town; or the _infiernos_ of which mine hostess talked had broken\nloose. I sallied forth, half dressed, to reconnoitre. It was nothing more\nnor less than a _charivari_ to celebrate the nuptials of an old man with\na buxom damsel. Wishing him joy of his bride and his serenade, I returned\nto my more quiet bed, and slept soundly until morning.\n\nWhile dressing, I amused myself in reconnoitring the populace from my\nwindow. There were groups of fine-looking young men in the trim fanciful\nAndalusian costume, with brown cloaks, thrown about them in true Spanish\nstyle, which cannot be imitated, and little round majo hats stuck on\nwith a peculiar knowing air. They had the same galliard look which I have\nremarked among the dandy mountaineers of Ronda. Indeed, all this part of\nAndalusia abounds with such game-looking characters. They loiter about\nthe towns and villages; seem to have plenty of time and plenty of money;\n\"horse to ride and weapon to wear.\" Great gossips, great smokers, apt at\ntouching the guitar, singing couplets to their maja belles, and famous\ndancers of the _bolero_. Throughout all Spain the men, however poor, have\na gentlemanlike abundance of leisure; seeming to consider it the attribute\nof a true _cavaliero_ never to be in a hurry; but the Andalusians are\ngay as well as leisurely, and have none of the squalid accompaniments\nof idleness. The adventurous contraband trade which prevails throughout\nthese mountain regions, and along the maritime borders of Andalusia, is\ndoubtless at the bottom of this galliard character.\n\nIn contrast to the costume of these groups was that of two long-legged\nValencians conducting a donkey, laden with articles of merchandise; their\nmuskets slung crosswise over his back, ready for action. They wore round\njackets (_jalecos_), wide linen _bragas_ or drawers scarce reaching to\nthe knees and looking like kilts, red _fajas_ or sashes swathed tightly\nround their waists, sandals of _espartal_ or bass weed, coloured kerchiefs\nround their heads somewhat in the style of turbans, but leaving the top\nof the head uncovered; in short, their whole appearance having much of\nthe traditional Moorish stamp.\n\nOn leaving Loxa we were joined by a cavalier, well mounted and well\narmed, and followed on foot by an _escopetero_ or musketeer. He saluted\nus courteously, and soon let us into his quality. He was chief of the\ncustoms, or rather, I should suppose, chief of an armed company whose\nbusiness it is to patrol the roads and look out for _contrabandistas_. The\n_escopetero_ was one of his guards. In the course of our morning's ride I\ndrew from him some particulars concerning the smugglers, who have risen to\nbe a kind of mongrel chivalry in Spain. They come into Andalusia, he said,\nfrom various parts, but especially from La Mancha; sometimes to receive\ngoods, to be smuggled on an appointed night across the line at the _plaza_\nor strand of Gibraltar; sometimes to meet a vessel, which is to hover on a\ngiven night off a certain part of the coast. They keep together and travel\nin the night. In the daytime they lie quiet in _barrancos_, gullies of the\nmountains, or lonely farmhouses; where they are generally well received,\nas they make the family liberal presents of their smuggled wares. Indeed,\nmuch of the finery and trinkets worn by the wives and daughters of the\nmountain hamlets and farm-houses are presents from the gay and open-handed\n_contrabandistas_.\n\nArrived at the part of the coast where a vessel is to meet them, they look\nout at night from some rocky point or headland. If they descry a sail\nnear the shore they make a concerted signal; sometimes it consists in\nsuddenly displaying a lantern three times from beneath the folds of the\ncloak. If the signal is answered, they descend to the shore and prepare\nfor quick work. The vessel runs close in; all her boats are busy landing\nthe smuggled goods, made up into snug packages for transportation on\nhorseback. These are hastily thrown on the beach, as hastily gathered up\nand packed on the horses, and then the _contrabandistas_ clatter off to\nthe mountains. They travel by the roughest, wildest, and most solitary\nroads, where it is almost fruitless to pursue them. The custom-house\nguards do not attempt it: they take a different course. When they hear\nof one of these bands returning full freighted through the mountains,\nthey go out in force, sometimes twelve infantry and eight horsemen, and\ntake their station where the mountain defile opens into the plain. The\ninfantry, who lie in ambush some distance within the defile, suffer the\nband to pass, then rise and fire upon them. The _contrabandistas_ dash\nforward, but are met in front by the horsemen. A wild skirmish ensues.\nThe _contrabandistas_, if hard pressed, become desperate. Some dismount,\nuse their horses as breastworks, and fire over their backs; others cut\nthe cords, let the packs fall off to delay the enemy, and endeavour\nto escape with their steeds. Some get off in this way with the loss of\ntheir packages; some are taken, horses, packages, and all; others abandon\neverything, and make their escape by scrambling up the mountains. \"And\nthen,\" cried Sancho, who had been listening with a greedy ear, \"_se hacen\nladrones legitimos_,\"--and then they become legitimate robbers.\n\n  [Illustration]\n\nI could not help laughing at Sancho's idea of a legitimate calling of\nthe kind; but the chief of customs told me it was really the case that\nthe smugglers, when thus reduced to extremity, thought they had a kind\nof right to take to the road, and lay travellers under contribution,\nuntil they had collected funds enough to mount and equip themselves in\n_contrabandista_ style.\n\nTowards noon our wayfaring companion took leave of us and turned up a\nsteep defile, followed by his _escopetero_; and shortly afterwards we\nemerged from the mountains, and entered upon the far-famed _vega_ of\nGranada.\n\nOur last mid-day's repast was taken under a grove of olive-trees on the\nborder of a rivulet. We were in a classical neighbourhood; for not far\noff were the groves and orchards of the Soto de Roma. This, according to\nfabulous tradition, was a retreat founded by Count Julian to console his\ndaughter Florinda. It was a rural resort of the Moorish kings of Granada;\nand has in modern times been granted to the Duke of Wellington.\n\n  [Illustration]\n\nOur worthy squire made a half melancholy face as he drew forth, for the\nlast time, the contents of his _alforjas_, lamenting that our expedition\nwas drawing to a close, for, with such cavaliers, he said, he could travel\nto the world's end. Our repast, however, was a gay one; made under such\ndelightful auspices. The day was without a cloud. The heat of the sun\nwas tempered by cool breezes from the mountains. Before us extended the\nglorious _vega_. In the distance was romantic Granada surmounted by the\nruddy towers of the Alhambra, while far above it the snowy summits of the\nSierra Nevada shone like silver.\n\nOur repast finished, we spread our cloaks and took our last siesta _al\nfresco_, lulled by the humming of bees among the flowers and the notes\nof doves among the olive-trees. When the sultry hours were passed we\nresumed our journey. After a time we overtook a pursy little man, shaped\nnot unlike a toad and mounted on a mule. He fell into conversation with\nSancho, and finding we were strangers, undertook to guide us to a good\n_posada_. He was an _escribano_ (notary), he said, and knew the city as\nthoroughly as his own pocket. \"_Ah Dios, Se\u00f1ores!_ what a city you are\ngoing to see. Such streets! such squares! such palaces! and then the\nwomen--ah, _Santa Maria purisima_--what women!\" \"But the _posada_ you talk\nof,\" said I, \"are you sure it is a good one?\"\n\n  [Illustration]\n\n\"Good! _Santa Maria!_ the best in Granada, _Salones grandes--camas de\nluxo--colchones de pluma_ (grand saloons--luxurious sleeping-rooms--beds\nof down). Ah, _Se\u00f1ores_, you will fare like King Chico in the Alhambra.\"\n\n\"And how will my horses fare?\" cried Sancho.\n\n\"Like King Chico's horses. _Chocolate con leche y bollos para almuerza_\"\n(chocolate and milk with sugar cakes for breakfast), giving the squire a\nknowing wink and a leer.\n\nAfter such satisfactory accounts, nothing more was to be desired on that\nhead. So we rode quietly on, the squab little notary taking the lead, and\nturning to us every moment with some fresh exclamation about the grandeurs\nof Granada and the famous times we were to have at the _posada_.\n\n  [Illustration]\n\nThus escorted, we passed between hedges of aloes and Indian figs, and\nthrough that wilderness of gardens with which the _vega_ is embroidered,\nand arrived about sunset at the gates of the city. Our officious little\nconductor conveyed us up one street and down another, until he rode\ninto the court-yard of an inn where he appeared to be perfectly at home.\nSummoning the landlord by his Christian name, he committed us to his care\nas two _cavalleros de mucho valor_, worthy of his best apartments and most\nsumptuous fare. We were instantly reminded of the patronising stranger\nwho introduced Gil Blas with such a flourish of trumpets to the host\nand hostess of the inn at Pennaflor, ordering trouts for his supper, and\neating voraciously at his expense. \"You know not what you possess,\" cried\nhe to the innkeeper and his wife. \"You have a treasure in your house.\nBehold in this young gentleman the eighth wonder of the world--nothing in\nthis house is too good for Se\u00f1or Gil Blas of Santillane, who deserves to\nbe entertained like a prince.\"\n\nDetermined that the little notary should not eat trouts at our expense,\nlike his prototype of Pennaflor, we forbore to ask him to supper; nor\nhad we reason to reproach ourselves with ingratitude, for we found before\nmorning the little varlet, who was no doubt a good friend of the landlord,\nhad decoyed us into one of the shabbiest _posadas_ in Granada.\n\n  [Illustration]\n\n\nFOOTNOTE:\n\n    [1] It may be as well to note here, that the _alforjas_ are square\n    pockets at each end of a long cloth about a foot and a half\n    wide, formed by turning up its extremities. The cloth is then\n    thrown over the saddle, and the pockets hang on each side like\n    saddle-bags. It is an Arab invention. The _bota_ is a leathern bag\n    or bottle, of portly dimensions, with a narrow neck. It is also\n    Oriental. Hence the scriptural caution which perplexed me in my\n    boyhood, not to put new wine into old bottles.\n\n\n\n\n  [Illustration: _Piedralga Cassla._]\n\nPALACE OF THE ALHAMBRA\n\n\n  [Illustration]\n\nTo the traveller imbued with a feeling for the historical and poetical,\nso inseparately intertwined in the annals of romantic Spain, the Alhambra\nis as much an object of devotion as is the Caaba to all true Moslems.\nHow many legends and traditions, true and fabulous,--how many songs and\nballads, Arabian and Spanish, of love and war and chivalry, are associated\nwith this Oriental pile! It was the royal abode of the Moorish kings,\nwhere, surrounded with the splendours and refinements of Asiatic luxury,\nthey held dominion over what they vaunted as a terrestrial paradise, and\nmade their last stand for empire in Spain. The royal palace forms but\na part of a fortress, the walls of which, studded with towers, stretch\nirregularly round the whole crest of a hill, a spur of the Sierra Nevada\nor Snowy Mountains, and overlook the city; externally it is a rude\ncongregation of towers and battlements, with no regularity of plan nor\ngrace of architecture, and giving little promise of the grace and beauty\nwhich prevail within.\n\n  [Illustration]\n\n  [Illustration]\n\n  [Illustration]\n\nIn the time of the Moors the fortress was capable of containing within its\noutward precincts an army of forty thousand men, and served occasionally\nas a stronghold of the sovereigns against their rebellious subjects. After\nthe kingdom had passed into the hands of the Christians, the Alhambra\ncontinued to be a royal demesne, and was occasionally inhabited by the\nCastilian monarchs. The emperor Charles V. commenced a sumptuous palace\nwithin its walls, but was deterred from completing it by repeated shocks\nof earthquakes. The last royal residents were Philip V. and his beautiful\nqueen, Elizabetta of Parma, early in the eighteenth century. Great\npreparations were made for their reception. The palace and gardens were\nplaced in a state of repair, and a new suite of apartments erected, and\ndecorated by artists brought from Italy. The sojourn of the sovereigns was\ntransient, and after their departure the palace once more became desolate.\nStill the place was maintained with some military state. The governor\nheld it immediately from the crown, its jurisdiction extended down into\nthe suburbs of the city, and was independent of the captain-general\nof Granada. A considerable garrison was kept up; the governor had his\napartments in the front of the old Moorish palace, and never descended\ninto Granada without some military parade. The fortress, in fact, was a\nlittle town of itself, having several streets of houses within its walls,\ntogether with a Franciscan convent and a parochial church.\n\n  [Illustration]\n\n  [Illustration]\n\nThe desertion of the court, however, was a fatal blow to the Alhambra.\nIts beautiful halls became desolate, and some of them fell to ruin; the\ngardens were destroyed, and the fountains ceased to play. By degrees\nthe dwellings became filled with a loose and lawless population:\n_contrabandistas_, who availed themselves of its independent jurisdiction\nto carry on a wide and daring course of smuggling, and thieves and rogues\nof all sorts, who made this their place of refuge whence they might\ndepredate upon Granada and its vicinity. The strong arm of government\nat length interfered; the whole community was thoroughly sifted; none\nwere suffered to remain but such as were of honest character, and had\nlegitimate right to a residence; the greater part of the houses were\ndemolished and a mere hamlet left, with the parochial church and the\nFranciscan convent. During the recent troubles in Spain, when Granada was\nin the hands of the French, the Alhambra was garrisoned by their troops,\nand the palace was occasionally inhabited by the French commander. With\nthat enlightened taste which has ever distinguished the French nation\nin their conquests, this monument of Moorish elegance and grandeur was\nrescued from the absolute ruin and desolation that were overwhelming\nit. The roofs were repaired, the saloons and galleries protected from\nthe weather, the gardens cultivated, the watercourses restored, the\nfountains once more made to throw up their sparkling showers; and Spain\nmay thank her invaders for having preserved to her the most beautiful and\ninteresting of her historical monuments.\n\n  [Illustration]\n\nOn the departure of the French they blew up several towers of the outer\nwall, and left the fortifications scarcely tenable. Since that time the\nmilitary importance of the post is at an end. The garrison is a handful\nof invalid soldiers, whose principal duty is to guard some of the outer\ntowers, which serve occasionally as a prison of state; and the governor,\nabandoning the lofty hill of the Alhambra, resides in the centre of\nGranada, for the more convenient despatch of his official duties.\n\nOur first object of course, on the morning after our arrival, was a visit\nto this time-honoured edifice; it has been so often, however, and so\nminutely described by travellers, that I shall not undertake to give a\ncomprehensive and elaborate account of it, but merely occasional sketches\nof parts, with the incidents and associations connected with them.\n\n  [Illustration]\n\nLeaving our _posada_, and traversing the renowned square of the\nVivarrambla, once the scene of Moorish jousts and tournaments, now a\ncrowded market-place, we proceeded along the Zacatin, the main street\nof what, in the time of the Moors, was the Great Bazaar, and where\nsmall shops and narrow alleys still retain the Oriental character.\nCrossing an open place in front of the palace of the captain-general,\nwe ascended a confined and winding street, the name of which reminded\nus of the chivalric days of Granada. It is called the Calle, or street\nof the Gomeres, from a Moorish family famous in chronicle and song. This\nstreet led up to the Puerta de las Granadas, a massive gateway of Grecian\narchitecture, built by Charles V., forming the entrance to the domains of\nthe Alhambra.\n\nAt the gate were two or three ragged superannuated soldiers, dozing on\na stone bench, the successors of the Zegris and the Abencerrages; while\na tall meagre varlet, whose rusty-brown cloak was evidently intended\nto conceal the ragged state of his nether garments, was lounging in the\nsunshine and gossiping with an ancient sentinel on duty. He joined us as\nwe entered the gate, and offered his services to show us the fortress.\n\n  [Illustration]\n\nI have a traveller's dislike to officious ciceroni, and did not altogether\nlike the garb of the applicant.\n\n\"You are well acquainted with the place, I presume?\"\n\n\"_Ninguno mas; pues se\u00f1or, soy hijo de la Alhambra._\"\n\n(Nobody better; in fact, sir, I am a son of the Alhambra!)\n\nThe common Spaniards have certainly a most poetical way of expressing\nthemselves. \"A son of the Alhambra!\" the appellation caught me at once;\nthe very tattered garb of my new acquaintance assumed a dignity in my\neyes. It was emblematic of the fortunes of the place, and befitted the\nprogeny of a ruin.\n\n  [Illustration]\n\nI put some further questions to him, and found that his title was\nlegitimate. His family had lived in the fortress from generation to\ngeneration ever since the time of the Conquest. His name was Mateo\nXimenes. \"Then, perhaps,\" said I, \"you may be a descendant from the great\nCardinal Ximenes?\"--\"_Dios sabe!_ God knows, Se\u00f1or! It may be so. We are\nthe oldest family in the Alhambra,--_Christianos viejos_, old Christians,\nwithout any taint of Moor or Jew. I know we belong to some great family or\nother, but I forgot whom. My father knows all about it: he has the coat\nof arms hanging up in his cottage, up in the fortress.\" There is not any\nSpaniard, however poor, but has some claim to high pedigree. The first\ntitle of this ragged worthy, however, had completely captivated me; so I\ngladly accepted the services of the \"son of the Alhambra.\"\n\n  [Illustration]\n\n  [Illustration]\n\n  [Illustration]\n\nWe now found ourselves in a deep narrow ravine, filled with beautiful\ngroves, with a steep avenue, and various footpaths winding through it,\nbordered with stone seats, and ornamented with fountains. To our left we\nbeheld the towers of the Alhambra beetling above us; to our right, on the\nopposite side of the ravine, we were equally dominated by rival towers\non a rocky eminence. These, we were told, were the Torres Vermejos, or\nvermilion towers, so called from their ruddy hue. No one knows their\norigin. They are of a date much anterior to the Alhambra: some suppose\nthem to have been built by the Romans; others, by some wandering colony\nof Ph\u0153nicians. Ascending the steep and shady avenue, we arrived at the\nfoot of a huge square Moorish tower, forming a kind of barbican, through\nwhich passed the main entrance to the fortress. Within the barbican was\nanother group of veteran invalids, one mounting guard at the portal, while\nthe rest, wrapped in their tattered cloaks, slept on the stone benches.\nThis portal is called the Gate of Justice, from the tribunal held within\nits porch during the Moslem domination, for the immediate trial of petty\ncauses: a custom common to the Oriental nations, and occasionally alluded\nto in the sacred Scriptures. \"Judges and officers shalt thou make thee\n_in all thy gates_, and they shall judge the people with just judgment.\"\n\n  [Illustration]\n\nThe great vestibule, or porch of the gate, is formed by an immense Arabian\narch, of the horseshoe form, which springs to half the height of the\ntower. On the keystone of this arch is engraven a gigantic hand. Within\nthe vestibule, on the keystone of the portal, is sculptured, in like\nmanner, a gigantic key. Those who pretend to some knowledge of Mohammedan\nsymbols, affirm that the hand is the emblem of doctrine; the five fingers\ndesignating the five principal commandments of the creed of Islam,\nfasting, pilgrimage, alms-giving, ablution, and war against infidels. The\nkey, say they, is the emblem of the faith or of power; the key of Daoud,\nor David, transmitted to the prophet. \"And the key of the house of David\nwill I lay upon his shoulder; so he shall open, and none shall shut, and\nhe shall shut, and none shall open.\" (Isaiah xxii. 22.) The key we are\ntold was emblazoned on the standard of the Moslems in opposition to the\nChristian emblem of the cross, when they subdued Spain or Andalusia. It\nbetokened the conquering power invested in the prophet. \"He that hath the\nkey of David, he that openeth, and no man shutteth; and shutteth, and no\nman openeth.\" (Rev. iii. 7.)\n\n  [Illustration]\n\nA different explanation of these emblems, however, was given by the\nlegitimate son of the Alhambra, and one more in unison with the notions of\nthe common people, who attach something of mystery and magic to everything\nMoorish, and have all kinds of superstitions connected with this old\nMoslem fortress. According to Mateo, it was a tradition handed down from\nthe oldest inhabitants, and which he had from his father and grandfather,\nthat the hand and key were magical devices on which the fate of the\nAlhambra depended. The Moorish king who built it was a great magician, or,\nas some believed, had sold himself to the devil, and had laid the whole\nfortress under a magic spell. By this means it had remained standing, for\nseveral years, in defiance of storms and earthquakes, while almost all\nother buildings of the Moors had fallen to ruin and disappeared. This\nspell, the tradition went on to say, would last until the hand on the\nouter arch should reach down and grasp the key, when the whole pile would\ntumble to pieces, and all the treasures buried beneath it by the Moors\nwould be revealed.\n\n  [Illustration]\n\nNotwithstanding this ominous prediction, we ventured to pass through\nthe spell-bound gateway, feeling some little assurance against magic art\nin the protection of the Virgin, a statue of whom we observed above the\nportal.\n\n  [Illustration]\n\nAfter passing through the barbican, we ascended a narrow lane, winding\nbetween walls, and came on an open esplanade within the fortress, called\nthe Plaza de los Algibes, or Place of the Cisterns, from great reservoirs\nwhich undermine it, cut in the living rock by the Moors to receive the\nwater brought by conduits from the Darro, for the supply of the fortress.\nHere, also, is a well of immense depth, furnishing the purest and coldest\nof water,--another monument of the delicate taste of the Moors, who were\nindefatigable in their exertions to obtain that element in its crystal\npurity.\n\nIn front of this esplanade is the splendid pile commenced by Charles V.,\nand intended, it is said, to eclipse the residence of the Moorish kings.\nMuch of the Oriental edifice intended for the winter season was demolished\nto make way for this massive pile. The grand entrance was blocked up;\nso that the present entrance to the Moorish palace is through a simple\nand almost humble portal in a corner. With all the massive grandeur and\narchitectural merit of the palace of Charles V., we regarded it as an\narrogant intruder, and passing by it with a feeling almost of scorn, rang\nat the Moslem portal.\n\n  [Illustration]\n\nWhile waiting for admittance, our self-imposed cicerone, Mateo Ximenes,\ninformed us that the royal palace was intrusted to the care of a worthy\nold maiden dame called Do\u00f1a Antonia-Molina, but who, according to Spanish\ncustom, went by the more neighbourly appellation of Tia Antonia (Aunt\nAntonia), who maintained the Moorish halls and gardens in order and showed\nthem to strangers. While we were talking, the door was opened by a plump\nlittle black-eyed Andalusian damsel, whom Mateo addressed as Dolores, but\nwho from her bright looks and cheerful disposition evidently merited a\nmerrier name. Mateo informed me in a whisper that she was the niece of Tia\nAntonia, and I found she was the good fairy who was to conduct us through\nthe enchanted palace. Under her guidance we crossed the threshold, and\nwere at once transported, as if by magic wand, into other times and an\noriental realm, and were treading the scenes of Arabian story. Nothing\ncould be in greater contrast than the unpromising exterior of the pile\nwith the scene now before us. We found ourselves in a vast _patio_ or\ncourt, one hundred and fifty feet in length, and upwards of eighty feet\nin breadth, paved with white marble, and decorated at each end with\nlight Moorish peristyles, one of which supported an elegant gallery of\nfretted architecture. Along the mouldings of the cornices and on various\nparts of the walls were escutcheons and ciphers, and cufic and Arabic\ncharacters in high relief, repeating the pious mottoes of the Moslem\nmonarchs, the builders of the Alhambra, or extolling their grandeur and\nmunificence. Along the centre of the court extended an immense basin or\ntank (_estanque_), a hundred and twenty-four feet in length, twenty-seven\nin breadth, and five in depth, receiving its water from two marble vases.\nHence it is called the Court of the Alberca (from _al beerkah_, the Arabic\nfor a pond or tank). Great numbers of gold-fish were to be seen gleaming\nthrough the waters of the basin, and it was bordered by hedges of roses.\n\n  [Illustration]\n\n  [Illustration]\n\n  [Illustration: _The Gardens_]\n\n  [Illustration: _Court of the Tank._]\n\n  [Illustration: _Fishponds of the Alhambra._]\n\nPassing from the court of the Alberca under a Moorish archway, we entered\nthe renowned court of Lions. No part of the edifice gives a more complete\nidea of its original beauty than this, for none has suffered so little\nfrom the ravages of time. In the centre stands the fountain famous in\nsong and story. The alabaster basins still shed their diamond drops; the\ntwelve lions which support them, and give the court its name, still cast\nforth crystal streams as in the days of Boabdil. The lions, however, are\nunworthy of their fame, being of miserable sculpture, the work probably of\nsome Christian captive. The court is laid out in flower-beds, instead of\nits ancient and appropriate pavement of tiles or marble; the alteration,\nan instance of bad taste was made by the French when in possession of\nGranada. Round the four sides of the court are light Arabian arcades of\nopen filigree work, supported by slender pillars of white marble, which\nit is supposed were originally gilded. The architecture, like that in\nmost parts of the interior of the palace, is characterised by elegance\nrather than grandeur, bespeaking a delicate and graceful taste, and a\ndisposition to indolent enjoyment. When one looks upon the fairy traces\nof the peristyles, and the apparently fragile fretwork of the walls, it\nis difficult to believe that so much has survived the wear and tear of\ncenturies, the shocks of earthquakes, the violence of war, and the quiet,\nthough no less baneful, pilferings of the tasteful traveller: it is almost\nsufficient to excuse the popular tradition, that the whole is protected\nby a magic charm.\n\n  [Illustration: _Tower of Comares._]\n\n  [Illustration: _The Court of Myrtles._]\n\nOn one side of the court a rich portal opens into the Hall of the\nAbencerrages: so called from the gallant cavaliers of that illustrious\nline who were here perfidiously massacred. There are some who doubt the\nwhole story, but our humble cicerone Mateo pointed out the very wicket of\nthe portal through which they were introduced one by one into the court\nof Lions, and the white marble fountain in the centre of the hall beside\nwhich they were beheaded. He showed us also certain broad ruddy stains on\nthe pavement, traces of their blood, which, according to popular belief,\ncan never be effaced.\n\n  [Illustration: _Alhambra from Mountain of the Sun._]\n\n  [Illustration]\n\nFinding we listened to him apparently with easy faith, he added, that\nthere was often heard at night, in the court of Lions, a low confused\nsound, resembling the murmuring of a multitude, and now and then a faint\ntinkling, like the distant clank of chains. These sounds were made by the\nspirits of the murdered Abencerrages, who nightly haunt the scene of their\nsuffering and invoke the vengeance of Heaven on their destroyer.\n\n  [Illustration]\n\nThe sounds in question had no doubt been produced, as I had afterwards an\nopportunity of ascertaining, by the bubbling currents and tinkling falls\nof water conducted under the pavement through pipes and channels to supply\nthe fountains; but I was too considerate to intimate such an idea to the\nhumble chronicler of the Alhambra.\n\n  [Illustration: _Entrance to Hall of Abencerrages._]\n\nEncouraged by my easy credulity, Mateo gave me the following as an\nundoubted fact, which he had from his grandfather:--\n\nThere was once an invalid soldier, who had charge of the Alhambra to show\nit to strangers; as he was one evening, about twilight, passing through\nthe court of Lions, he heard footsteps on the hall of the Abencerrages;\nsupposing some strangers to be lingering there, he advanced to attend\nupon them, when to his astonishment he beheld four Moors richly dressed,\nwith gilded cuirasses and cimeters, and poniards glittering with precious\nstones. They were walking to and fro, with solemn pace; but paused and\nbeckoned to him. The old soldier, however, took to flight, and could never\nafterwards be prevailed upon to enter the Alhambra. Thus it is that men\nsometimes turn their backs upon fortune; for it is the firm opinion of\nMateo, that the Moors intended to reveal the place where their treasures\nlay buried. A successor to the invalid soldier was more knowing; he came\nto the Alhambra poor; but at the end of a year went off to Malaga, bought\nhouses, set up a carriage, and still lives there, one of the richest as\nwell as oldest men of the place; all which, Mateo sagely surmised, was in\nconsequence of his finding out the golden secret of these phantom Moors.\n\n  [Illustration: _Court of Lions._]\n\nI now perceived I had made an invaluable acquaintance in this son of the\nAlhambra, one who knew all the apocryphal history of the place and firmly\nbelieved in it, and whose memory was stuffed with a kind of knowledge\nfor which I have a lurking fancy, but which is too apt to be considered\nrubbish by less indulgent philosophers. I determined to cultivate the\nacquaintance of this learned Theban.\n\n  [Illustration: _Fountain of Abencerrages._]\n\nImmediately opposite the hall of the Abencerrages, a portal, richly\nadorned, leads into a hall of less tragical associations. It is light\nand lofty, exquisitely graceful in its architecture, paved with white\nmarble, and bears the suggestive name of the Hall of the Two Sisters. Some\ndestroy the romance of the name by attributing it to two enormous slabs of\nalabaster which lie side by side, and form a great part of the pavement:\nan opinion strongly supported by Mateo Ximenes. Others are disposed to\ngive the name a more poetical significance, as the vague memorial of\nMoorish beauties who once graced this hall, which was evidently a part\nof the royal harem. This opinion I was happy to find entertained by\nour little bright-eyed guide, Dolores, who pointed to a balcony over an\ninner porch, which gallery, she had been told, belonged to the women's\napartment. \"You see, _se\u00f1or_,\" said she, \"it is all grated and latticed,\nlike the gallery in a convent chapel where the nuns hear mass; for the\nMoorish kings,\" added she, indignantly, \"shut up their wives just like\nnuns.\"\n\n  [Illustration]\n\nThe latticed _jalousies_, in fact, still remain, whence the dark-eyed\nbeauties of the harem might gaze unseen upon the _zambras_ and other\ndances and entertainments of the hall below.\n\n  [Illustration]\n\nOn each side of this hall are recesses or alcoves for ottomans and\ncouches, on which the voluptuous lords of the Alhambra indulged in that\ndreamy repose so dear to the Orientalists. A cupola or lantern admits a\ntempered light from above and a free circulation of air; while on one\nside is heard the refreshing sound of waters from the fountain of the\nlions, and on the other side the soft plash from the basin in the garden\nof Lindaraxa.\n\n  [Illustration: _Alcove, Hall of Two Sisters._]\n\nIt is impossible to contemplate this scene, so perfectly Oriental, without\nfeeling the early associations of Arabian romance, and almost expecting to\nsee the white arm of some mysterious princess beckoning from the gallery,\nor some dark eye sparkling through the lattice. The abode of beauty is\nhere as if it had been inhabited but yesterday; but where are the two\nsisters, where the Zoraydas and Lindaraxas!\n\nAn abundant supply of water, brought from the mountains by old Moorish\naqueducts, circulates throughout the palace, supplying its baths and\nfish-pools, sparkling in jets within its halls or murmuring in channels\nalong the marble pavements. When it has paid its tribute to the royal\npile, and visited its gardens and parterres, it flows down the long\navenue leading to the city, tinkling in rills, gushing in fountains, and\nmaintaining a perpetual verdure in those groves that embower and beautify\nthe whole hill of the Alhambra.\n\n  [Illustration]\n\nThose only who have sojourned in the ardent climates of the South can\nappreciate the delights of an abode combining the breezy coolness of\nthe mountain with the freshness and verdure of the valley. While the\ncity below pants with the noontide heat, and the parched Vega trembles\nto the eye, the delicate airs from the Sierra Nevada play through these\nlofty halls, bringing with them the sweetness of the surrounding gardens.\nEverything invites to that indolent repose, the bliss of southern climes;\nand while the half-shut eye looks out from shaded balconies upon the\nglittering landscape, the ear is lulled by the rustling of groves and the\nmurmur of running streams.\n\nI forbear for the present, however, to describe the other delightful\napartments of the palace. My object is merely to give the reader a general\nintroduction into an abode where, if so disposed, he may linger and\nloiter with me day by day until we gradually become familiar with all its\nlocalities.\n\n  [Illustration]\n\n\n\n\n  [Illustration: _Cabra._]\n\nIMPORTANT NEGOTIATIONS.--THE AUTHOR SUCCEEDS TO THE THRONE OF BOABDIL\n\n\nThe day was nearly spent before we could tear ourselves from this region\nof poetry and romance to descend to the city and return to the forlorn\nrealities of a Spanish _posada_. In a visit of ceremony to the Governor of\nthe Alhambra, to whom we had brought letters, we dwelt with enthusiasm on\nthe scenes we had witnessed, and could not but express surprise that he\nshould reside in the city when he had such a paradise at his command. He\npleaded the inconvenience of a residence in the palace from its situation\non the crest of a hill, distant from the seat of business and the resorts\nof social intercourse. It did very well for monarchs, who often had need\nof castle walls to defend them from their own subjects. \"But, _se\u00f1ors_,\"\nadded he, smiling, \"if you think a residence there so desirable, my\napartments in the Alhambra are at your service.\"\n\nIt is a common and almost indispensable point of politeness in a Spaniard,\nto tell you his house is yours.--\"_Esta casa es siempre \u00e0 la disposicion\nde Vm._\"--\"This house is always at the command of your Grace.\" In fact,\nanything of his which you admire, is immediately offered to you. It is\nequally a mark of good breeding in you not to accept it; so we merely\nbowed our acknowledgments of the courtesy of the Governor in offering us\na royal palace. We were mistaken, however. The Governor was in earnest.\n\"You will find a rambling set of empty, unfurnished rooms,\" said he; \"but\nTia Antonia, who has charge of the palace, may be able to put them in\nsome kind of order, and to take care of you while you are there. If you\ncan make any arrangement with her for your accommodation, and are content\nwith scanty fare in a royal abode, the palace of King Chico is at your\nservice.\"\n\n  [Illustration]\n\nWe took the Governor at his word, and hastened up the steep Calle de los\nGomeres, and through the Great Gate of Justice, to negotiate with Dame\nAntonia,--doubting at times if this were not a dream, and fearing at times\nthat the sage _Due\u00f1a_ of the fortress might be slow to capitulate. We knew\nwe had one friend at least in the garrison, who would be in our favour,\nthe bright-eyed little Dolores, whose good graces we had propitiated\non our first visit; and who hailed our return to the palace with her\nbrightest looks.\n\nAll, however, went smoothly. The good Tia Antonia had a little furniture\nto put in the rooms, but it was of the commonest kind. We assured her\nwe could bivouac on the floor. She could supply our table, but only in\nher own simple way;--we wanted nothing better. Her niece, Dolores, would\nwait upon us; and at the word we threw up our hats and the bargain was\ncomplete.\n\n  [Illustration]\n\nThe very next day we took up our abode in the palace, and never did\nsovereigns share a divided throne with more perfect harmony. Several days\npassed by like a dream, when my worthy associate, being summoned to Madrid\non diplomatic duties, was compelled to abdicate, leaving me sole monarch\nof this shadowy realm. For myself, being in a manner a haphazard loiterer\nabout the world, and prone to linger in its pleasant places, here have I\nbeen suffering day by day to steal away unheeded, spell-bound, for aught\nI know, in this old enchanted pile. Having always a companionable feeling\nfor my reader, and being prone to live with him on confidential terms, I\nshall make it a point to communicate to him my reveries and researches\nduring this state of delicious thraldom. If they have the power of\nimparting to his imagination any of the witching charms of the place, he\nwill not repine at lingering with me for a season in the legendary halls\nof the Alhambra.\n\n  [Illustration: _Gate of the Alhambra_]\n\nAnd first it is proper to give him some idea of my domestic arrangements:\nthey are rather of a simple kind for the occupant of a regal palace; but\nI trust they will be less liable to disastrous reverses than those of my\nroyal predecessors.\n\n  [Illustration]\n\nMy quarters are at one end of the Governor's apartment, a suite of\nempty chambers, in front of the palace, looking out upon the great\nesplanade called _la plaza de los algibes_ (the place of the cisterns);\nthe apartment is modern, but the end opposite to my sleeping-room\ncommunicates with a cluster of little chambers, partly Moorish, partly\nSpanish, allotted to the _ch\u00e2telaine_ Do\u00f1a Antonia and her family. In\nconsideration of keeping the palace in order, the good dame is allowed\nall the perquisites received from visitors, and all the produce of the\ngardens; excepting that she is expected to pay an occasional tribute of\nfruits and flowers to the Governor. Her family consists of a nephew and\nniece, the children of two different brothers. The nephew, Manuel Molina,\nis a young man of sterling worth and Spanish gravity. He had served in the\narmy, both in Spain and the West Indies, but is now studying medicine in\nthe hope of one day or other becoming physician to the fortress, a post\nworth at least one hundred and forty dollars a year. The niece is the\nplump little black-eyed Dolores already mentioned; and who, it is said,\nwill one day inherit all her aunt's possessions, consisting of certain\npetty tenements in the fortress, in a somewhat ruinous condition it is\ntrue, but which, I am privately assured by Mateo Ximenes, yield a revenue\nof nearly one hundred and fifty dollars; so that she is quite an heiress\nin the eyes of the ragged son of the Alhambra. I am also informed by the\nsame observant and authentic personage, that a quiet courtship is going on\nbetween the discreet Manuel and his bright-eyed cousin, and that nothing\nis wanting to enable them to join their hands and expectations but his\ndoctor's diploma, and a dispensation from the Pope on account of their\nconsanguinity.\n\n  [Illustration]\n\nThe good dame Antonia fulfils faithfully her contract in regard to my\nboard and lodging; and as I am easily pleased, I find my fare excellent;\nwhile the merry-hearted little Dolores keeps my apartment in order, and\nofficiates as handmaid at meal-times. I have also at my command a tall,\nstuttering, yellow-haired lad, named P\u00e9pe, who works in the gardens, and\nwould fain have acted as valet; but in this he was forestalled by Mateo\nXimenes, the \"son of the Alhambra.\" This alert and officious wight has\nmanaged, somehow or other, to stick by me ever since I first encountered\nhim at the outer gate of the fortress, and to weave himself into all my\nplans, until he has fairly appointed and installed himself my valet,\ncicerone, guide, guard, and historiographic squire; and I have been\nobliged to improve the state of his wardrobe, that he may not disgrace his\nvarious functions; so that he has cast his old brown mantle, as a snake\ndoes his skin, and now appears about the fortress with a smart Andalusian\nhat and jacket, to his infinite satisfaction, and the great astonishment\nof his comrades. The chief fault of honest Mateo is an over-anxiety to\nbe useful. Conscious of having foisted himself into my employ, and that\nmy simple and quiet habits render his situation a sinecure, he is at his\nwits' ends to devise modes of making himself important to my welfare. I\nam in a manner the victim of his officiousness; I cannot put my foot over\nthe threshold of the palace to stroll about the fortress, but he is at\nmy elbow, to explain everything I see; and if I venture to ramble among\nthe surrounding hills, he insists upon attending me as a guard, though I\nvehemently suspect he would be more apt to trust to the length of his legs\nthan the strength of his arms, in case of attack. After all, however, the\npoor fellow is at times an amusing companion; he is simple-minded and of\ninfinite good humour, with the loquacity and gossip of a village barber,\nand knows all the small-talk of the place and its environs; but what he\nchiefly values himself on, is his stock of local information, having the\nmost marvellous stories to relate of every tower, and vault, and gateway\nof the fortress, in all of which he places the most implicit faith.\n\n  [Illustration]\n\nMost of these he has derived, according to his own account, from his\ngrandfather, a little legendary tailor, who lived to the age of nearly\na hundred years, during which he made but two migrations beyond the\nprecincts of the fortress. His shop, for the greater part of a century,\nwas the resort of a knot of venerable gossips, where they would pass half\nthe night talking about old times, and the wonderful events and hidden\nsecrets of the place. The whole living, moving, thinking, and acting of\nthis historical little tailor had thus been bounded by the walls of the\nAlhambra; within them he had been born, within them he lived, breathed,\nand had his being; within them he died and was buried. Fortunately for\nposterity his traditionary lore died not with him. The authentic Mateo,\nwhen an urchin, used to be an attentive listener to the narratives of his\ngrandfather, and of the gossiping group assembled round the shop-board,\nand is thus possessed of a stock of valuable knowledge concerning the\nAlhambra, not to be found in books, and well worthy the attention of every\ncurious traveller.\n\n  [Illustration: _The Surrounding Hills._]\n\nSuch are the personages that constitute my regal household; and I question\nwhether any of the potentates, Moslem or Christian, who have preceded me\nin the palace, have been waited upon with greater fidelity, or enjoyed a\nserener sway.\n\nWhen I rise in the morning, P\u00e9pe, the stuttering lad from the gardens,\nbrings me a tribute of fresh-culled flowers, which are afterwards arranged\nin vases by the skilful hand of Dolores, who takes a feminine pride in the\ndecoration of my chambers. My meals are made wherever caprice dictates;\nsometimes in one of the Moorish halls, sometimes under the arcades of the\ncourt of Lions, surrounded by flowers and fountains: and when I walk out,\nI am conducted by the assiduous Mateo to the most romantic retreats of\nthe mountains, and delicious haunts of the adjacent valleys, not one of\nwhich but is the scene of some wonderful tale.\n\n  [Illustration]\n\n  [Illustration]\n\nThough fond of passing the greater part of my day alone, yet I\noccasionally repair in the evenings to the little domestic circle of\nDo\u00f1a Antonia. This is generally held in an old Moorish chamber, which\nserves the good dame for parlour, kitchen, and hall of audience, and\nwhich must have boasted of some splendour in the time of the Moors, if\nwe may judge from the traces yet remaining; but a rude fireplace has been\nmade in modern times in one corner, the smoke from which has discoloured\nthe walls, and almost obliterated the ancient arabesques. A window,\nwith a balcony overhanging the valley of the Darro, lets in the cool\nevening breeze; and here I take my frugal supper of fruit and milk, and\nmingle with the conversation of the family. There is a natural talent\nor mother-wit, as it is called, about the Spaniards, which renders them\nintellectual and agreeable companions, whatever may be their condition in\nlife, or however imperfect may have been their education: add to this,\nthey are never vulgar; nature has endowed them with an inherent dignity\nof spirit. The good Tia Antonia is a woman of strong and intelligent,\nthough uncultivated mind; and the bright-eyed Dolores, though she has read\nbut three or four books in the whole course of her life, has an engaging\nmixture of na\u00efvet\u00e9 and good sense, and often surprises me by the pungency\nof her artless sallies. Sometimes the nephew entertains us by reading some\nold comedy of Calderon or Lope de Vega, to which he is evidently prompted\nby a desire to improve as well as amuse his cousin Dolores; though, to\nhis great mortification, the little damsel generally falls asleep before\nthe first act is completed. Sometimes Tia Antonia has a little lev\u00e9e of\nhumble friends and dependants, the inhabitants of the adjacent hamlet,\nor the wives of the invalid soldiers. These look up to her with great\ndeference, as the custodian of the palace, and pay their court to her by\nbringing the news of the place, or the rumours that may have straggled\nup from Granada. In listening to these evening gossipings I have picked\nup many curious facts illustrative of the manners of the people and the\npeculiarities of the neighbourhood.\n\nThese are simple details of simple pleasures; it is the nature of the\nplace alone that gives them interest and importance. I tread haunted\nground, and am surrounded by romantic associations. From earliest boyhood,\nwhen, on the banks of the Hudson, I first pored over the pages of old\nGines Perez de Hytas's apocryphal but chivalresque history of the civil\nwars of Granada, and the feuds of its gallant cavaliers, Zegries and\nAbencerrages, that city has ever been a subject of my waking dreams; and\noften have I trod in fancy the romantic halls of the Alhambra. Behold\nfor once a day-dream realised; yet I can scarce credit my senses, or\nbelieve that I do indeed inhabit the palace of Boabdil, and look down\nfrom its balconies upon chivalric Granada. As I loiter through these\nOriental chambers, and hear the murmur of fountains and the song of the\nnightingale; as I inhale the odour of the rose, and feel the influence of\nthe balmy climate, I am almost tempted to fancy myself in the paradise\nof Mahomet, and that the plump little Dolores is one of the bright-eyed\nhouris, destined to administer to the happiness of true believers.\n\n  [Illustration: _Alcandite._]\n\n\n\n\n  [Illustration: _A Moorish Mill._]\n\nINHABITANTS OF THE ALHAMBRA\n\n\nI have often observed that the more proudly a mansion has been tenanted\nin the day of its prosperity, the humbler are its inhabitants in the day\nof its decline, and that the palace of a king commonly ends in being the\nnestling-place of the beggar.\n\nThe Alhambra is in a rapid state of similar transition. Whenever a\ntower falls to decay, it is seized upon by some tatterdemalion family,\nwho become joint-tenants, with the bats and owls, of its gilded halls;\nand hang their rags, those standards of poverty, out of its windows and\nloopholes.\n\nI have amused myself with remarking some of the motley characters that\nhave thus usurped the ancient abode of royalty, and who seem as if placed\nhere to give a farcical termination to the drama of human pride. One of\nthese even bears the mockery of a regal title. It is a little old woman\nnamed Maria Antonia Sabonea, but who goes by the appellation of _la Reyna\nCoquina_, or the Cockle-queen. She is small enough to be a fairy; and a\nfairy she may be for aught I can find out, for no one seems to know her\norigin. Her habitation is in a kind of closet under the outer staircase\nof the palace, and she sits in the cool stone corridor, plying her needle\nand singing from morning till night, with a ready joke for every one that\npasses; for though one of the poorest, she is one of the merriest little\nwomen breathing. Her great merit is a gift for story-telling, having,\nI verily believe, as many stories at her command as the inexhaustible\nScheherezade of the Thousand and One Nights. Some of these I have heard\nher relate in the evening tertulias of Dame Antonia, at which she is\noccasionally a humble attendant.\n\n  [Illustration]\n\nThat there must be some fairy gift about this mysterious little old\nwoman, would appear from her extraordinary luck, since, notwithstanding\nher being very little, very ugly, and very poor, she has had, according\nto her own account, five husbands and a half, reckoning as a half one a\nyoung dragoon, who died during courtship. A rival personage to this little\nfairy queen is a portly old fellow with a bottle-nose, who goes about in\na rusty garb, with a cocked hat of oil-skin and a red cockade. He is one\nof the legitimate sons of the Alhambra, and has lived here all his life,\nfilling various offices, such as deputy alguazil, sexton of the parochial\nchurch, and marker of a fives-court, established at the foot of one of the\ntowers. He is as poor as a rat, but as proud as he is ragged, boasting\nof his descent from the illustrious house of Aguilar, from which sprang\nGonzalvo of Cordova, the grand captain. Nay, he actually bears the name\nof Alonzo de Aguilar, so renowned in the history of the Conquest; though\nthe graceless wags of the fortress have given him the title of _el padre\nsanto_, or the holy father, the usual appellation of the Pope, which I had\nthought too sacred in the eyes of true Catholics to be thus ludicrously\napplied. It is a whimsical caprice of fortune to present, in the grotesque\nperson of this tatterdemalion, a namesake and descendant of the proud\nAlonzo de Aguilar, the mirror of Andalusian chivalry, leading an almost\nmendicant existence about this once haughty fortress, which his ancestor\naided to reduce; yet such might have been the lot of the descendants of\nAgamemnon and Achilles, had they lingered about the ruins of Troy!\n\n  [Illustration]\n\nOf this motley community, I find the family of my gossiping squire, Mateo\nXimenes, to form, from their numbers at least, a very important part.\nHis boast of being a son of the Alhambra is not unfounded. His family has\ninhabited the fortress ever since the time of the Conquest, handing down\nan hereditary poverty from father to son; not one of them having ever been\nknown to be worth a _maravedi_. His father, by trade a ribbon-weaver, and\nwho succeeded the historical tailor as the head of the family, is now near\nseventy years of age, and lives in a hovel of reeds and plaster, built\nby his own hands, just above the iron gate. The furniture consists of a\ncrazy bed, a table, and two or three chairs; a wooden chest, containing,\nbesides his scanty clothing, the \"archives of the family.\" These are\nnothing more nor less than the papers of various lawsuits sustained\nby different generations; by which it would seem that, with all their\napparent carelessness and good-humour, they are a litigious brood. Most of\nthe suits have been brought against gossiping neighbours for questioning\nthe purity of their blood, and denying their being _Christianos viejos_,\n_i.e._ old Christians, without Jewish or Moorish taint. In fact, I doubt\nwhether this jealousy about their blood has not kept them so poor in\npurse: spending all their earnings on _escribanos_ and _alguazils_. The\npride of the hovel is an escutcheon suspended against the wall, in which\nare emblazoned quarterings of the arms of the Marquis of Caiesedo, and of\nvarious other noble houses, with which this poverty-stricken brood claim\naffinity.\n\n  [Illustration]\n\nAs to Mateo himself, who is now about thirty-five years of age, he has\ndone his utmost to perpetuate his line and continue the poverty of the\nfamily, having a wife and a numerous progeny, who inhabit an almost\ndismantled hovel in the hamlet. How they manage to subsist, He only who\nsees into all mysteries can tell; the subsistence of a Spanish family of\nthe kind is always a riddle to me; yet they do subsist, and what is more,\nappear to enjoy their existence. The wife takes her holiday stroll on the\nPaseo of Granada, with a child in her arms and half a dozen at her heels;\nand the eldest daughter, now verging into womanhood, dresses her hair with\nflowers, and dances gaily to the castanets.\n\n  [Illustration]\n\nThere are two classes of people to whom life seems one long holiday,--the\nvery rich and the very poor; one, because they need do nothing; the other,\nbecause they have nothing to do; but there are none who understand the art\nof doing nothing and living upon nothing, better than the poor classes of\nSpain. Climate does one half, and temperament the rest. Give a Spaniard\nthe shade in summer and the sun in winter, a little bread, garlic, oil,\nand _garbances_, an old brown cloak and a guitar, and let the world roll\non as it pleases. Talk of poverty! with him it has no disgrace. It sits\nupon him with a grandiose style, like his ragged cloak. He is a _hidalgo_,\neven when in rags.\n\nThe \"sons of the Alhambra\" are an eminent illustration of this practical\nphilosophy. As the Moors imagined that the celestial paradise hung over\nthis favoured spot, so I am inclined at times to fancy that a gleam of\nthe golden age still lingers about this ragged community. They possess\nnothing, they do nothing, they care for nothing. Yet, though apparently\nidle all the week, they are as observant of all holy days and saints' days\nas the most laborious artisan. They attend all _f\u00eates_ and dancings in\nGranada and its vicinity, light bonfires on the hills on St. John's eve,\nand dance away the moonlight nights on the harvest-home of a small field\nwithin the precincts of the fortress, which yield a few bushels of wheat.\n\nBefore concluding these remarks, I must mention one of the amusements of\nthe place, which has particularly struck me. I had repeatedly observed a\nlong lean fellow perched on the top of one of the towers, man\u0153uvring\ntwo or three fishing-rods, as though he were angling for the stars. I\nwas for some time perplexed by the evolutions of this a\u00ebrial fisherman,\nand my perplexity increased on observing others employed in like manner\non different parts of the battlements and bastions; it was not until I\nconsulted Mateo Ximenes that I solved the mystery.\n\nIt seems that the pure and airy situation of this fortress has rendered\nit, like the castle of Macbeth, a prolific breeding-place for swallows\nand martlets, who sport about its towers in myriads, with the holiday\nglee of urchins just let loose from school. To entrap these birds in\ntheir giddy circlings, with hooks baited with flies, is one of the\nfavourite amusements of the ragged \"sons of the Alhambra,\" who, with the\ngood-for-nothing ingenuity of arrant idlers, have thus invented the art\nof angling in the sky.\n\n\n\n\n  [Illustration]\n\nTHE HALL OF AMBASSADORS\n\n\nIn one of my visits to the old Moorish chamber where the good Tia Antonia\ncooks her dinner and receives her company, I observed a mysterious\ndoor in one corner, leading apparently into the ancient part of the\nedifice. My curiosity being aroused, I opened it, and found myself in\na narrow, blind corridor, groping along which I came to the head of a\ndark winding staircase, leading down an angle of the tower of Comares.\nDown this staircase I descended darkling, guiding myself by the wall\nuntil I came to a small door at the bottom, throwing which open, I was\nsuddenly dazzled by emerging into the brilliant antechamber of the Hall\nof Ambassadors; with the fountain of the court of the Alberca sparkling\nbefore me. The antechamber is separated with the court by an elegant\ngallery, supported by slender columns with spandrels of openwork in the\nMorisco style. At each end of the antechamber are alcoves, and its ceiling\nis richly stuccoed and painted. Passing through a magnificent portal, I\nfound myself in the far-famed Hall of Ambassadors, the audience chamber\nof the Moslem monarchs. It is said to be thirty-seven feet square, and\nsixty feet high; occupies the whole interior of the Tower of Comares; and\nstill bears the traces of past magnificence. The walls are beautifully\nstuccoed and decorated with Morisco fancifulness; the lofty ceiling was\noriginally of the same favourite material, with the usual frostwork\nand pensile ornaments or stalactites; which, with the embellishments\nof vivid colouring and gilding, must have been gorgeous in the extreme.\nUnfortunately it gave way during an earthquake, and brought down with it\nan immense arch which traversed the hall. It was replaced by the present\nvault or dome of larch or cedar, with intersecting ribs, the whole\ncuriously wrought and richly coloured; still Oriental in its character,\nreminding one of \"those ceilings of cedar and vermilion that we read of\nin the Prophets and the _Arabian Nights_.\"[2]\n\nFrom the great height of the vault above the windows, the upper part of\nthe hall is almost lost in obscurity; yet there is a magnificence as well\nas solemnity in the gloom, as through it we have gleams of rich gilding\nand the brilliant tints of the Moorish pencil.\n\n  [Illustration]\n\n  [Illustration]\n\nThe royal throne was placed opposite the entrance in a recess, which still\nbears an inscription intimating that Yusef I. (the monarch who completed\nthe Alhambra) made this the throne of his empire. Everything in this noble\nhall seems to have been calculated to surround the throne with impressive\ndignity and splendour; there was none of the elegant voluptuousness which\nreigns in other parts of the palace. The tower is of massive strength,\ndomineering over the whole edifice and overhanging the steep hillside. On\nthree sides of the Hall of Ambassadors are windows cut through the immense\nthickness of the walls and commanding extensive prospects. The balcony\nof the central window especially looks down upon the verdant valley\nof the Darro, with its walks, its groves, and gardens. To the left it\nenjoys a distant prospect of the Vega; while directly in front rises the\nrival height of the Albaycin, with its medley of streets, and terraces,\nand gardens, and once crowned by a fortress that vied in power with the\nAlhambra. \"Ill fated the man who lost all this!\" exclaimed Charles V., as\nhe looked forth from this window upon the enchanting scenery it commands.\n\n  [Illustration]\n\nThe balcony of the window where this royal exclamation was made, has of\nlate become one of my favourite resorts. I have just been seated there,\nenjoying the close of a brilliant long day. The sun, as he sank behind\nthe purple mountains of Alhama, sent a stream of effulgence up the valley\nof the Darro, that spread a melancholy pomp over the ruddy towers of the\nAlhambra; while the Vega, covered with a slight sultry vapour that caught\nthe setting ray, seemed spread out in the distance like a golden sea.\nNot a breath of air disturbed the stillness of the hour, and though the\nfaint sound of music and merriment now and then rose from the gardens of\nthe Darro, it but rendered more impressive the monumental silence of the\npile which overshadowed me. It was one of those hours and scenes in which\nmemory asserts an almost magical power: and, like the evening sun beaming\non these mouldering towers, sends back her retrospective rays to light up\nthe glories of the past.\n\n  [Illustration: Mountains of Alhambra.]\n\nAs I sat watching the effect of the declining daylight upon this Moorish\npile, I was led into a consideration of the light, elegant, and voluptuous\ncharacter prevalent throughout its internal architecture, and to contrast\nit with the grand but gloomy solemnity of the Gothic edifices reared by\nthe Spanish conquerors. The very architecture thus bespeaks the opposite\nand irreconcilable natures of the two warlike people who so long battled\nhere for the mastery of the Peninsula. By degrees I fell into a course\nof musing upon the singular fortunes of the Arabian or Morisco-Spaniards,\nwhose whole existence is as a tale that is told, and certainly forms one\nof the most anomalous yet splendid episodes in history. Potent and durable\nas was their dominion, we scarcely know how to call them. They were a\nnation without a legitimate country or name. A remote wave of the great\nArabian inundation, cast upon the shores of Europe, they seem to have all\nthe impetus of the first rush of the torrent. Their career of conquest,\nfrom the rock of Gibraltar to the cliffs of the Pyrenees, was as rapid and\nbrilliant as the Moslem victories of Syria and Egypt. Nay, had they not\nbeen checked on the plains of Tours, all France, all Europe, might have\nbeen overrun with the same facility as the empires of the East, and the\nCrescent at this day have glittered on the fanes of Paris and London.\n\n  [Illustration: _Tomb of St. Ferdinand, Seville._]\n\n  [Illustration]\n\nRepelled within the limits of the Pyrenees, the mixed hordes of Asia and\nAfrica, that formed this great irruption, gave up the Moslem principle\nof conquest, and sought to establish in Spain a peaceful and permanent\ndominion. As conquerors, their heroism was only equalled by their\nmoderation; and in both, for a time, they excelled the nations with whom\nthey contended. Severed from their native homes, they loved the land given\nthem as they supposed by Allah, and strove to embellish it with everything\nthat could administer to the happiness of man. Laying the foundations of\ntheir power in a system of wise and equitable laws, diligently cultivating\nthe arts and sciences, and promoting agriculture, manufactures, and\ncommerce, they gradually formed an empire unrivalled for its prosperity\nby any of the empires of Christendom; and diligently drawing round them\nthe graces and refinements which marked the Arabian empire in the East, at\nthe time of its greatest civilisation, they diffused the light of Oriental\nknowledge through the western regions of benighted Europe.\n\nThe cities of Arabian Spain became the resort of Christian artisans,\nto instruct themselves in the useful arts. The universities of Toledo,\nCordova, Seville, and Granada were sought by the pale student from other\nlands to acquaint himself with the sciences of the Arabs and the treasured\nlore of antiquity; the lovers of the gay science resorted to Cordova and\nGranada, to imbibe the poetry and music of the East; and the steel-clad\nwarriors of the North hastened thither to accomplish themselves in the\ngraceful exercises and courteous usages of chivalry.\n\n  [Illustration: _Court of Mosque, Cordova._]\n\nIf the Moslem monuments in Spain, if the Mosque of Cordova, the Alcazar\nof Seville, and the Alhambra of Granada, still bear inscriptions fondly\nboasting of the power and permanency of their dominion, can the boast\nbe derided as arrogant and vain? Generation after generation, century\nafter century, passed away, and still they maintained possession of the\nland. A period elapsed longer than that which has passed since England\nwas subjugated by the Norman Conqueror, and the descendants of Musa and\nTaric might as little anticipate being driven into exile across the same\nstraits, traversed by their triumphant ancestors, as the descendants of\nRollo and William, and their veteran peers, may dream of being driven back\nto the shores of Normandy.\n\nWith all this, however, the Moslem empire in Spain was but a brilliant\nexotic, that took no permanent root in the soil it embellished. Severed\nfrom all their neighbours in the West by impassable barriers of faith and\nmanners, and separated by seas and deserts from their kindred of the East,\nthe Morisco-Spaniards were an isolated people. Their whole existence was\na prolonged, though gallant and chivalric struggle for a foothold in a\nusurped land.\n\n  [Illustration: _Garden of Alcazar, Seville._]\n\nThey were the outposts and frontiers of Islamism. The Peninsula was the\ngreat battle-ground where the Gothic conquerors of the north and the\nMoslem conquerors of the East met and strove for mastery; and the fiery\ncourage of the Arab was at length subdued by the obstinate and persevering\nvalour of the Goth.\n\nNever was the annihilation of a people more complete than that of\nthe Morisco-Spaniards. Where are they? Ask the shores of Barbary and\nits desert places. The exiled remnant of their once powerful empire\ndisappeared among the barbarians of Africa, and ceased to be a nation.\nThey have not even left a distinct name behind them, though for nearly\neight centuries they were a distinct people. The home of their adoption,\nand of their occupation for ages, refuses to acknowledge them, except as\ninvaders and usurpers. A few broken monuments are all that remain to bear\nwitness to their power and dominion, as solitary rocks, left far in the\ninterior, bear testimony to the extent of some vast inundation. Such is\nthe Alhambra;--a Moslem pile in the midst of a Christian land; an Oriental\npalace amidst the Gothic edifices of the West; an elegant memento of a\nbrave, intelligent, and graceful people, who conquered, ruled, flourished,\nand passed away.\n\n  [Illustration: _Cadiz._]\n\n\nFOOTNOTE:\n\n  [2] Urquhart's _Pillars of Hercules_.\n\n\n\n\n  [Illustration]\n\nTHE MYSTERIOUS CHAMBERS\n\n\nAs I was rambling one day about the Moorish halls, my attention was, for\nthe first time, attracted to a door in a remote gallery, communicating\napparently with some part of the Alhambra which I had not yet explored. I\nattempted to open it, but it was locked. I knocked, but no one answered,\nand the sound seemed to reverberate through empty chambers. Here then was\na mystery. Here was the haunted wing of the castle. How was I to get at\nthe dark secrets here shut up from the public eye? Should I come privately\nat night with lamp and sword, according to the prying custom of heroes of\nromance; or should I endeavour to draw the secret from P\u00e9pe the stuttering\ngardener; or the ingenuous Dolores, or the loquacious Mateo? Or should\nI go frankly and openly to Dame Antonia the chatelaine, and ask her all\nabout it? I chose the latter course, as being the simplest though the\nleast romantic; and found, somewhat to my disappointment, that there was\nno mystery in the case. I was welcome to explore the apartment, and there\nwas the key.\n\n  [Illustration]\n\nThus provided, I returned forthwith to the door. It opened, as I had\nsurmised, to a range of vacant chambers; but they were quite different\nfrom the rest of the palace. The architecture, though rich and antiquated,\nwas European. There was nothing Moorish about it. The first two rooms were\nlofty; the ceilings, broken in many places, were of cedar, deeply panelled\nand skilfully carved with fruits and flowers, intermingled with grotesque\nmasks or faces.\n\nThe walls had evidently in ancient times been hung with damask; but now\nwere naked, and scrawled over by that class of aspiring travellers who\ndefile noble monuments with their worthless names. The windows, dismantled\nand open to wind and weather, looked out into a charming little secluded\ngarden, where an alabaster fountain sparkled among roses and myrtles,\nand was surrounded by orange and citron trees, some of which flung their\nbranches into the chambers. Beyond these rooms were two saloons, longer\nbut less lofty, looking also into the garden. In the compartments of\nthe panelled ceilings were baskets of fruit and garlands of flowers,\npainted by no mean hand, and in tolerable preservation. The walls also\nhad been painted in fresco in the Italian style, but the paintings were\nnearly obliterated; the windows were in the same shattered state with\nthose of the other chambers. This fanciful suite of rooms terminated in\nan open gallery with balustrades, running at right angles along another\nside of the garden. The whole apartment, so delicate and elegant in its\ndecorations, so choice and sequestered in its situation along this retired\nlittle garden, and so different in architecture from the neighbouring\nhalls, awakened an interest in its history. I found on inquiry that it was\nan apartment fitted up by Italian artists in the early part of the last\ncentury, at the time when Philip V. and his second wife, the beautiful\nElizabetta of Farnese, daughter of the Duke of Parma, were expected at the\nAlhambra. It was destined for the queen and the ladies of her train. One\nof the loftiest chambers had been her sleeping-room. A narrow staircase,\nnow walled up, led up to a delightful belvidere, originally a mirador of\nthe Moorish sultanas, communicating with the harem; but which was fitted\nup as a boudoir for the fair Elizabetta, and still retains the name of\n_el tocador de la Reyna_, or the queen's toilette.\n\n  [Illustration]\n\n  [Illustration: _Garden of Lindaraxa_]\n\n  [Illustration: _Fountain of Lindaraxa._]\n\nOne window of the royal sleeping-room commanded a prospect of the\nGeneralife and its embowered terraces; another looked out into the\nlittle secluded garden I have mentioned, which was decidedly Moorish\nin its character, and also had its history. It was in fact the garden\nof Lindaraxa, so often mentioned in descriptions of the Alhambra, but\nwho this Lindaraxa was I had never heard explained. A little research\ngave me the few particulars known about her. She was a Moorish beauty\nwho flourished in the court of Muhamed the Left-Handed, and was the\ndaughter of his loyal adherent, the _alcayde_ of Malaga, who sheltered\nhim in his city when driven from the throne. On regaining his crown, the\n_alcayde_ was rewarded for his fidelity. His daughter had her apartment\nin the Alhambra, and was given by the king in marriage to Nasar, a young\nCetimerien prince descended from Aben Hud the Just. Their espousals were\ndoubtless celebrated in the royal palace and their honeymoon may have\npassed among these very bowers.[3]\n\nFour centuries had elapsed since the fair Lindaraxa passed away, yet\nhow much of the fragile beauty of the scenes she inhabited remained! The\ngarden still bloomed in which she delighted; the fountain still presented\nthe crystal mirror in which her charms may once have been reflected;\nthe alabaster, it is true, had lost its whiteness; the basin beneath,\noverrun with weeds, had become the lurking-place of the lizard, but there\nwas something in the very decay that enhanced the interest of the scene,\nspeaking as it did of that mutability, the irrevocable lot of man and all\nhis works.\n\nThe desolation too of these chambers, once the abode of the proud and\nelegant Elizabetta, had a more touching charm for me than if I had beheld\nthem in their pristine splendour, glittering with the pageantry of a\ncourt.\n\nWhen I returned to my quarters, in the governor's apartment, everything\nseemed tame and commonplace after the poetic region I had left. The\nthought suggested itself: Why could I not change my quarters to these\nvacant chambers? that would indeed be living in the Alhambra, surrounded\nby its gardens and fountains, as in the time of the Moorish sovereigns. I\nproposed the change to Dame Antonia and her family, and it occasioned vast\nsurprise. They could not conceive any rational inducement for the choice\nof an apartment so forlorn, remote, and solitary. Dolores exclaimed at\nits frightful loneliness; nothing but bats and owls flitting about,--and\nthen a fox and wildcat, kept in the vaults of the neighbouring baths,\nroamed about at night. The good Tia had more reasonable objections. The\nneighbourhood was infested by vagrants: gipsies swarmed in the caverns\nof the adjacent hills; the palace was ruinous and easy to be entered in\nmany places; the rumour of a stranger quartered alone in one of the remote\nand ruined apartments, out of the hearing of the rest of the inhabitants,\nmight tempt unwelcome visitors in the night, especially as foreigners were\nalways supposed to be well stocked with money. I was not to be diverted\nfrom my humour, however, and my will was law with these good people. So,\ncalling in the assistance of a carpenter, and the ever officious Mateo\nXimenes, the doors and windows were soon placed in a state of tolerable\nsecurity, and the sleeping-room of the stately Elizabetta prepared for\nmy reception. Mateo kindly volunteered as a body-guard to sleep in my\nantechamber; but I did not think it worth while to put his valour to the\nproof.\n\n  [Illustration]\n\n  [Illustration: _Prospect from the Hall of Ambassadors._]\n\nWith all the hardihood I had assumed and all the precautions I had taken,\nI must confess the first night passed in these quarters was inexpressibly\ndreary. I do not think it was so much the apprehension of dangers from\nwithout that affected me, as the character of the place itself, with\nall its strange associations: the deeds of violence committed there; the\ntragical ends of many of those who had once reigned there in splendour. As\nI passed beneath the fated halls of the tower of Comares on the way to my\nchamber, I called to mind a quotation that used to thrill me in the days\nof boyhood:\n\n     \"Fate sits on these dark battlements and frowns;\n     And, as the portal opens to receive me,\n     A voice in sullen echoes through the courts\n     Tells of a nameless deed!\"\n\nThe whole family escorted me to my chamber, and took leave of me as of one\nengaged in a perilous enterprise; and when I heard their retreating steps\ndie away along the waste antechambers and echoing galleries, and turned\nthe key of my door, I was reminded of those hobgoblin stories, where the\nhero is left to accomplish the adventure of an enchanted house.\n\nEven the thoughts of the fair Elizabetta and the beauties of her court,\nwho had once graced these chambers, now, by a perversion of fancy, added\nto the gloom. Here was the scene of their transient gaiety and loveliness;\nhere were the very traces of their elegance and enjoyment; but what and\nwhere were they? Dust and ashes! tenants of the tomb! phantoms of the\nmemory!\n\nA vague and indescribable awe was creeping over me. I would fain\nhave ascribed it to the thoughts of robbers awakened by the evening's\nconversation, but I felt it was something more unreal and absurd. The\nlong-buried superstitions of the nursery were reviving, and asserting\ntheir power over my imagination. Everything began to be affected by the\nworking of my mind. The whispering of the wind among the citron-trees\nbeneath my window had something sinister. I cast my eyes into the garden\nof Lindaraxa; the groves presented a gulf of shadows; the thickets,\nindistinct and ghastly shapes. I was glad to close the window, but\nmy chamber itself became infected. There was a slight rustling noise\noverhead; a bat suddenly emerged from a broken panel of the ceiling,\nflitting about the room and athwart my solitary lamp; and as the fateful\nbird almost flouted my face with his noiseless wing, the grotesque faces\ncarved in high relief in the cedar ceiling, whence he had emerged, seemed\nto mope and mow at me.\n\n  [Illustration]\n\nRousing myself, and half smiling at this temporary weakness, I resolved\nto brave it out in the true spirit of the hero of the enchanted house;\nso, taking lamp in hand, I sallied forth to make a tour of the palace.\nNotwithstanding every mental exertion the task was a severe one. I had\nto traverse waste halls and mysterious galleries, where the rays of the\nlamp extended but a short distance around me. I walked, as it were, in\na mere halo of light, walled in by impenetrable darkness. The vaulted\ncorridors were as caverns; the ceilings of the halls were lost in gloom.\nI recalled all that had been said of the danger from interlopers in these\nremote and ruined apartments. Might not some vagrant foe be lurking before\nor behind me, in the outer darkness? My own shadow, cast upon the wall,\nbegan to disturb me. The echoes of my own footsteps along the corridors\nmade me pause and look around. I was traversing scenes fraught with dismal\nrecollections. One dark passage led down to the mosque where Yusef, the\nMoorish monarch, the finisher of the Alhambra, had been basely murdered.\nIn another place I trod the gallery where another monarch had been struck\ndown by the poniard of a relative whom he had thwarted in his love.\n\nA low murmuring sound, as of stifled voices and clanking chains, now\nreached me. It seemed to come from the Hall of the Abencerrages. I knew\nit to be the rush of water through subterranean channels, but it sounded\nstrangely in the night, and reminded me of the dismal stories to which it\nhad given rise.\n\nSoon, however, my ear was assailed by sounds too fearfully real to be\nthe work of fancy. As I was crossing the Hall of Ambassadors, low moans\nand broken ejaculations rose, as it were, from beneath my feet. I paused\nand listened. They then appeared to be outside of the tower--then again\nwithin. Then broke forth howlings as of an animal--then stifled shrieks\nand inarticulate ravings. Heard in that dead hour and singular place,\nthe effect was thrilling. I had no desire for further perambulation; but\nreturned to my chamber with infinitely more alacrity than I had sallied\nforth, and drew my breath more freely when once more within its walls\nand the door bolted behind me. When I awoke in the morning, with the sun\nshining in at my window and lighting up every part of the building with\nhis cheerful and truth-telling beams, I could scarcely recall the shadows\nand fancies conjured up by the gloom of the preceding night; or believe\nthat the scenes around me, so naked and apparent, could have been clothed\nwith such imaginary horrors.\n\nStill, the dismal howlings and ejaculations I had heard were not ideal;\nthey were soon accounted for, however, by my handmaid Dolores: being\nthe ravings of a poor maniac, a brother of her aunt, who was subject to\nviolent paroxysms, during which he was confined in a vaulted room beneath\nthe Hall of Ambassadors.\n\nIn the course of a few evenings a thorough change took place in the scene\nand its associations. The moon, which when I took possession of my new\napartments was invisible, gradually gained each evening upon the darkness\nof the night, and at length rolled in full splendour above the towers,\npouring a flood of tempered light into every court and hall. The garden\nbeneath my window, before wrapped in gloom, was gently lighted up; the\norange and citron trees were tipped with silver; the fountain sparkled in\nthe moonbeams, and even the blush of the rose was faintly visible.\n\nI now felt the poetic merit of the Arabic inscription on the walls,--\"How\nbeauteous is this garden; where the flowers of the earth vie with the\nstars of heaven. What can compare with the vase of yon alabaster fountain\nfilled with crystal water? nothing but the moon in her fulness, shining\nin the midst of an unclouded sky!\"\n\n  [Illustration]\n\nOn such heavenly nights I would sit for hours at my window inhaling the\nsweetness of the garden, and musing on the chequered fortunes of those\nwhose history was dimly shadowed out in the elegant memorials around.\nSometimes, when all was quiet, and the clock from the distant cathedral of\nGranada struck the midnight hour, I have sallied out on another tour and\nwandered over the whole building; but how different from my first tour!\nNo longer dark and mysterious; no longer peopled with shadowy foes; no\nlonger recalling scenes of violence and murder; all was open, spacious,\nbeautiful; everything called up pleasing and romantic fancies; Lindaraxa\nonce more walked in her garden; the gay chivalry of Moslem Granada once\nmore glittered about the Court of Lions! Who can do justice to a moonlight\nnight in such a climate and such a place? The temperature of a summer\nmidnight in Andalusia is perfectly ethereal. We seem lifted up into a\npurer atmosphere; we feel a serenity of soul, a buoyancy of spirits,\nan elasticity of frame, which render mere existence happiness. But when\nmoonlight is added to all this, the effect is like enchantment. Under its\nplastic sway the Alhambra seems to regain its pristine glories. Every rent\nand chasm of time; every mouldering tint and weather-stain is gone; the\nmarble resumes its original whiteness; the long colonnades brighten in the\nmoonbeams; the halls are illuminated with a softened radiance,--we tread\nthe enchanted palace of an Arabian tale!\n\n  [Illustration: _El Tocador de la Reyna._]\n\n  [Illustration]\n\n  [Illustration]\n\nWhat a delight, at such a time, to ascend to the little airy pavilion of\nthe queen's toilette (_el tocador de la reyna_), which, like a bird-cage,\noverhangs the valley of the Darro, and gaze from its light arcades upon\nthe moonlight prospect! To the right, the swelling mountains of the Sierra\nNevada, robbed of their ruggedness and softened into a fairy land, with\ntheir snowy summits gleaming like silver clouds against the deep blue\nsky. And then to lean over the parapet of the Tocador and gaze down upon\nGranada and the Albaycin spread out like a map below; all buried in deep\nrepose; the white palaces and convents sleeping in the moonshine, and\nbeyond all these the vapoury Vega fading away like a dreamland in the\ndistance.\n\n  [Illustration: _House of the Grand Captain._]\n\nSometimes the faint click of castanets rise from the Alameda, where some\ngay Andalusians are dancing away the summer night. Sometimes the dubious\ntones of a guitar and the notes of an amorous voice, tell perchance the\nwhereabout of some moonstruck lover serenading his lady's window.\n\nSuch is a faint picture of the moonlight nights I have passed loitering\nabout the courts and halls and balconies of this most suggestive pile;\n\"feeding my fancy with sugared suppositions,\" and enjoying that mixture\nof reverie and sensation which steal away existence in a southern climate;\nso that it has been almost morning before I have retired to bed, and been\nlulled to sleep by the falling waters of the fountain of Lindaraxa.\n\n  [Illustration: _Tower of Iron_]\n\n\nFOOTNOTES\n\n    [3] Una de las cosas en que tienen precisa intervencion los Reyes\n    Moros as en el matrimonio de sus grandes: de aqui nace que todos\n    los se\u00f1ores llegadas \u00e0 la persona real si casan en palacio, y\n    siempre huvo su quarto destinado para esta ceremonia.\n\n    One of the things in which the Moorish kings interfered was in\n    the marriage of their nobles: hence it came that all the se\u00f1ors\n    attached to the royal person were married in the palace; and\n    there was always a chamber destined for the ceremony.--_Paseos\n    por Granada_, Paseo XXI.\n\n\n\n\n  [Illustration]\n\nPANORAMA FROM THE TOWER OF COMARES\n\n\nIt is a serene and beautiful morning: the sun has not gained sufficient\npower to destroy the freshness of the night. What a morning to mount to\nthe summit of the Tower of Comares, and take a bird's-eye view of Granada\nand its environs!\n\nCome then, worthy reader and comrade, follow my steps into this vestibule,\nornamented with rich tracery, which opens into the Hall of Ambassadors. We\nwill not enter the hall, however, but turn to this small door opening into\nthe wall. Have a care! here are steep winding steps and but scanty light;\nyet up this narrow, obscure, and spiral staircase, the proud monarchs\nof Granada and their queens have often ascended to the battlements to\nwatch the approach of invading armies, or gaze with anxious hearts on the\nbattles in the Vega.\n\nAt length we have reached the terraced roof, and may take breath for a\nmoment, while we cast a general eye over the splendid panorama of city and\ncountry; of rocky mountain, verdant valley, and fertile plain; of castle,\ncathedral, Moorish towers, and Gothic domes, crumbling ruins, and blooming\ngroves. Let us approach the battlements, and cast our eyes immediately\nbelow. See, on this side we have the whole plain of the Alhambra laid\nopen to us, and can look down into its courts and gardens. At the foot of\nthe tower is the Court of the Alberca, with its great tank or fishpool,\nbordered with flowers; and yonder is the Court of Lions, with its famous\nfountain, and its light Moorish arcades; and in the centre of the pile is\nthe little garden of Lindaraxa, buried in the heart of the building, with\nits roses and citrons and shrubbery of emerald green.\n\n  [Illustration]\n\nThat belt of battlements, studded with square towers, straggling round\nthe whole brow of the hill, is the outer boundary of the fortress. Some\nof the towers, you may perceive, are in ruins, and their massive fragments\nburied among vines, fig-trees, and aloes.\n\n  [Illustration]\n\nLet us look on this northern side of the tower. It is a giddy height;\nthe very foundations of the tower rise above the groves of the steep\nhill-side. And see! a long fissure in the massive walls shows that the\ntower has been rent by some of the earthquakes which from time to time\nhave thrown Granada into consternation; and which, sooner or later,\nmust reduce this crumbling pile to a mere mass of ruin. The deep narrow\nglen below us, which gradually widens as it opens from the mountains,\nis the valley of the Darro; you see the little river winding its way\nunder embowered terraces, and among orchards and flower-gardens. It is\na stream famous in old times for yielding gold, and its sands are still\nsifted occasionally, in search of the precious ore. Some of those white\npavilions, which here and there gleam from among groves and vineyards,\nwere rustic retreats of the Moors, to enjoy the refreshment of their\ngardens. Well have they been compared by one of their poets to so many\npearls set in a bed of emeralds.\n\n  [Illustration]\n\n  [Illustration]\n\nThe airy palace, with its tall white towers and long arcades, which\nbreasts yon mountain, among pompous groves and hanging gardens, is the\nGeneralife, a summer palace of the Moorish kings, to which they resorted\nduring the sultry months to enjoy a still more breezy region than that\nof the Alhambra. The naked summit of the height above it, where you\nbehold some shapeless ruins, is the Silla del Moro, or seat of the Moor,\nso called from having been a retreat of the unfortunate Boabdil during\nthe time of an insurrection, where he seated himself and looked down\nmournfully upon his rebellious city.\n\nA murmuring sound of water now and then rises from the valley. It is\nfrom the aqueduct of yon Moorish mill, nearly at the foot of the hill.\nThe avenue of trees beyond is the Alameda, along the bank of the Darro;\na favourite resort in evenings, and a rendezvous of lovers in the summer\nnights, when the guitar may be heard at a late hour from the benches\nalong its walks. At present you see none but a few loitering monks there,\nand a group of water-carriers. The latter are burdened with water-jars\nof ancient Oriental construction, such as were used by the Moors. They\nhave been filled at the cold and limpid spring called the fountain of\nAvellanos. Yon mountain path leads to the fountain, a favourite resort\nof Moslems as well as Christians; for this is said to be the Adinamar\n(_Aynu-l-adamar_), the \"Fountain of Tears,\" mentioned by Ibn Batuta the\ntraveller, and celebrated in the histories and romances of the Moors.\n\n  [Illustration]\n\nYou start! 'tis nothing but a hawk that we have frightened from his nest.\nThis old tower is a complete breeding-place for vagrant birds; the swallow\nand martlet abound in every chink and cranny, and circle about it the\nwhole day long; while at night, when all other birds have gone to rest,\nthe moping owl comes out of its lurking-place, and utters its boding cry\nfrom the battlements. See how the hawk we have dislodged sweeps away below\nus, skimming over the tops of the trees, and sailing up to the ruins above\nthe Generalife!\n\n  [Illustration: _Puente Pinos._]\n\nI see you raise your eyes to the snowy summit of yon pile of mountains,\nshining like a white summer cloud in the blue sky. It is the Sierra\nNevada, the pride and delight of Granada; the source of her cooling\nbreezes and perpetual verdure; of her gushing fountains and perennial\nstreams. It is this glorious pile of mountains which gives to Granada that\ncombination of delights so rare in a southern city,--the fresh vegetation\nand temperate airs of a northern climate, with the vivifying ardour of a\ntropical sun, and the cloudless azure of a southern sky. It is this a\u00ebrial\ntreasury of snow, which, melting in proportion to the increase of the\nsummer heat, sends down rivulets and streams through every glen and gorge\nof the Alpuxarras, diffusing emerald verdure and fertility throughout a\nchain of happy and sequestered valleys.\n\nThose mountains may be well called the glory of Granada. They dominate the\nwhole extent of Andalusia, and may be seen from its most distant parts.\nThe muleteer hails them, as he views their frosty peaks from the sultry\nlevel of the plain; and the Spanish mariner on the deck of his bark,\nfar, far off on the bosom of the blue Mediterranean, watches them with a\npensive eye, thinks of delightful Granada, and chants, in low voice, some\nold romance about the Moors.\n\n  [Illustration]\n\nSee to the south at the foot of those mountains a line of arid hills,\ndown which a long train of mules is slowly moving. Here was the closing\nscene of Moslem domination. From the summit of one of those hills the\nunfortunate Boabdil cast back his last look upon Granada, and gave vent\nto the agony of his soul. It is the spot famous in song and story, \"The\nlast sigh of the Moor.\"\n\n  [Illustration: _Santa Fe._]\n\nFurther this way these arid hills slope down into the luxurious Vega, from\nwhich he had just emerged: a blooming wilderness of grove and garden,\nand teeming orchard, with the Xenil winding through it in silver links,\nand feeding innumerable rills; which, conducted through ancient Moorish\nchannels, maintain the landscape in perpetual verdure. Here were the\nbeloved bowers and gardens, and rural pavilions, for which the unfortunate\nMoors fought with such desperate valour. The very hovels and rude granges,\nnow inhabited by boors, show, by the remains of arabesques and other\ntasteful decoration, that they were elegant residences in the days of the\nMoslems. Behold, in the very centre of this eventful plain, a place which\nin a manner links the history of the Old World with that of the New. Yon\nline of walls and towers gleaming in the morning sun, is the city of Santa\nFe, built by the Catholic sovereigns during the siege of Granada, after a\nconflagration had destroyed their camp. It was to these walls Columbus was\ncalled back by the heroic queen, and within them the treaty was concluded\nwhich led to the discovery of the Western World. Behind yon promontory to\nthe west is the bridge of Pinos, renowned for many a bloody fight between\nMoors and Christians. At this bridge the messenger overtook Columbus when,\ndespairing of success with the Spanish sovereigns, he was departing to\ncarry his project of discovery to the court of France.\n\n  [Illustration: _Pass of Elvira._]\n\n  [Illustration: _Alcala._]\n\nAbove the bridge a range of mountains bounds the Vega to the west,--the\nancient barrier between Granada and the Christian territories. Among\ntheir heights you may still discern warrior towns; their gray walls and\nbattlements seeming of a piece with the rocks on which they are built.\nHere and there a solitary _atalaya_, or watchtower, perched on a mountain\npeak, looks down as it were from the sky into the valley on either side.\nHow often have these _atalayas_ given notice, by fire at night or smoke\nby day, of an approaching foe! It was down a cragged defile of these\nmountains, called the Pass of Lope, that the Christian armies descended\ninto the Vega. Round the base of yon gray and naked mountain (the\nmountain of Elvira), stretching its bold rocky promontory into the bosom\nof the plain, the invading squadrons would come bursting into view, with\nflaunting banners and clangour of drum and trumpet.\n\n  [Illustration: _Alcaudete._]\n\nFive hundred years have elapsed since Ismael ben Ferrag, a Moorish king\nof Granada, beheld from this very tower an invasion of the kind, and an\ninsulting ravage of the Vega; on which occasion he displayed an instance\nof chivalrous magnanimity, often witnessed in the Moslem princes; \"whose\nhistory,\" says an Arabian writer, \"abounds in generous actions and noble\ndeeds that will last through all succeeding ages, and live for ever in the\nmemory of man.\"--But let us sit down on this parapet, and I will relate\nthe anecdote.\n\n  [Illustration: _Illora._]\n\nIt was in the year of Grace 1319, that Ismael ben Ferrag beheld from this\ntower a Christian camp whitening the skirts of yon mountain of Elvira.\nThe royal princes, Don Juan and Don Pedro, regents of Castile during\nthe minority of Alphonso XI., had already laid waste the country from\nAlcaudete to Alcal\u00e1 la Real, capturing the castle of Illora, and setting\nfire to its suburbs, and they now carried their insulting ravages to\nthe very gates of Granada, defying the king to sally forth and give them\nbattle.\n\nIsmael, though a young and intrepid prince, hesitated to accept the\nchallenge. He had not sufficient force at hand, and awaited the arrival\nof troops summoned from the neighbouring towns. The Christian princes,\nmistaking his motives, gave up all hope of drawing him forth, and having\nglutted themselves with ravage, struck their tents and began their\nhomeward march. Don Pedro led the van, and Don Juan brought up the\nrear, but their march was confused and irregular, the army being greatly\nencumbered by the spoils and captives they had taken.\n\n  [Illustration]\n\nBy this time King Ismael had received his expected resources, and putting\nthem under the command of Osmyn, one of the bravest of his generals, sent\nthem forth in hot pursuit of the enemy. The Christians were overtaken in\nthe defiles of the mountains. A panic seized them; they were completely\nrouted, and driven with great slaughter across the borders. Both of the\nprinces lost their lives. The body of Don Pedro was carried off by his\nsoldiers, but that of Don Juan was lost in the darkness of the night. His\nson wrote to the Moorish king, entreating that the body of his father\nmight be sought and honourably treated. Ismael forgot in a moment that\nDon Juan was an enemy, who had carried ravage and insult to the very gate\nof his capital; he only thought of him as a gallant cavalier and a royal\nprince. By his command diligent search was made for the body. It was found\nin a _barranco_ and brought to Granada. There Ismael caused it to be laid\nout in state on a lofty bier, surrounded by torches and tapers, in one of\nthese halls of the Alhambra. Osmyn and other of the noblest cavaliers were\nappointed as a guard of honour, and the Christian captives were assembled\nto pray around it.\n\nIn the meantime, Ismael wrote to the son of Prince Juan to send a convoy\nfor the body, assuring him it should be faithfully delivered up. In due\ntime, a band of Christian cavaliers arrived for the purpose. They were\nhonourably received and entertained by Ismael, and, on their departure\nwith the body, the guard of honour of Moslem cavaliers escorted the\nfuneral train to the frontier.\n\nBut enough; the sun is high above the mountains, and pours his full\nfervour on our heads. Already the terraced roof is hot beneath our feet;\nlet us abandon it, and refresh ourselves under the Arcades by the Fountain\nof the Lions.\n\n  [Illustration]\n\n\n\n\n  [Illustration]\n\nTHE BALCONY\n\n\nI have spoken of a balcony of the central window of the Hall of\nAmbassadors. It served as a kind of observatory, where I used often to\ntake my seat, and consider not merely the heaven above but the earth\nbeneath. Besides the magnificent prospect which it commanded of mountain,\nvalley, and Vega, there was a little busy scene of human life laid open to\ninspection immediately below. At the foot of the hill was an _alameda_,\nor public walk, which, though not so fashionable as the more modern and\nsplendid _paseo_ of the Xenil, still boasted a varied and picturesque\nconcourse. Hither resorted the small gentry of the suburbs, together with\npriests and friars, who walked for appetite and digestion; _majos_ and\n_majas_, the beaux and belles of the lower classes, in their Andalusian\ndresses; swaggering _contrabandistas_, and sometimes half-muffled and\nmysterious loungers of the higher ranks, on some secret assignation.\n\nIt was a moving picture of Spanish life and character, which I delighted\nto study; and as the astronomer has his grand telescope with which\nto sweep the skies, and, as it were, bring the stars nearer for his\ninspection, so I had a smaller one, of pocket size, for the use of my\nobservatory, with which I could sweep the regions below, and bring the\ncountenances of the motley groups so close as almost, at times, to make\nme think I could divine their conversation by the play and expression\nof their features. I was thus, in a manner, an invisible observer, and,\nwithout quitting my solitude, could throw myself in an instant into the\nmidst of society,--a rare advantage to one of somewhat shy and quiet\nhabits, and fond, like myself, of observing the drama of life without\nbecoming an actor in the scene.\n\n  [Illustration]\n\nThere was a considerable suburb lying below the Alhambra, filling the\nnarrow gorge of the valley, and extending up the opposite hill of the\nAlbaycin. Many of the houses were built in the Moorish style, round\n_patios_, or courts, cooled by fountains and open to the sky; and as the\ninhabitants passed much of their time in these courts, and on the terraced\nroofs during the summer season, it follows that many a glance of their\ndomestic life might be obtained by an a\u00ebrial spectator like myself, who\ncould look down on them from the clouds.\n\nI enjoyed in some degree the advantages of the student in the famous old\nSpanish story, who beheld all Madrid unroofed for his inspection; and my\ngossiping squire, Mateo Ximenes, officiated occasionally as my Asmodeus,\nto give me anecdotes of the different mansions and their inhabitants.\n\n  [Illustration]\n\nI preferred, however, to form conjectural histories for myself, and thus\nwould sit for hours, weaving, from casual incidents and indications\npassing under my eye, a whole tissue of schemes, intrigues, and\noccupations of the busy mortals below. There was scarce a pretty face or\na striking figure that I daily saw, about which I had not thus gradually\nframed a dramatic story, though some of my characters would occasionally\nact in direct opposition to the part assigned them, and disconcert the\nwhole drama. Reconnoitring one day with my glass the streets of the\nAlbaycin, I beheld the procession of a novice about to take the veil; and\nremarked several circumstances which excited the strongest sympathy in the\nfate of the youthful being thus about to be consigned to a living tomb.\nI ascertained to my satisfaction that she was beautiful, and, from the\npaleness of her cheek, that she was a victim rather than a votary. She was\narrayed in bridal garments, and decked with a chaplet of white flowers,\nbut her heart evidently revolted at this mockery of a spiritual union, and\nyearned after its earthly loves. A tall stern-looking man walked near her\nin the procession: it was, of course, the tyrannical father, who, from\nsome bigoted or sordid motive, had compelled this sacrifice. Amid the\ncrowd was a dark handsome youth, in Andalusian garb, who seemed to fix on\nher an eye of agony. It was doubtless the secret lover from whom she was\nfor ever to be separated. My indignation rose as I noted the malignant\nexpression painted on the countenances of the attendant monks and friars.\nThe procession arrived at the chapel of the convent; the sun gleamed for\nthe last time upon the chaplet of the poor novice, as she crossed the\nfatal threshold and disappeared within the building. The throng poured\nin with cowl, and cross, and minstrelsy; the lover paused for a moment\nat the door. I could divine the tumult of his feelings; but he mastered\nthem, and entered. There was a long interval. I pictured to myself the\nscene passing within: the poor novice despoiled of her transient finery,\nand clothed in the conventual garb; the bridal chaplet taken from her\nbrow, and her beautiful head shorn of its long silken tresses. I heard her\nmurmur the irrevocable vow. I saw her extended on a bier; the death pall\nspread over her; the funeral service performed that proclaimed her dead\nto the world; her sighs were drowned in the deep tones of the organ, and\nthe plaintive requiem of the nuns; the father looked on, unmoved, without\na tear; the lover--no--my imagination refused to portray the anguish of\nthe lover--there the picture remained a blank.\n\nAfter a time the throng again poured forth, and dispersed various ways, to\nenjoy the light of the sun and mingle with the stirring scenes of life;\nbut the victim, with her bridal chaplet, was no longer there. The door\nof the convent closed that severed her from the world for ever. I saw\nthe father and the lover issue forth; they were in earnest conversation.\nThe latter was vehement in his gesticulations; I expected some violent\ntermination to my drama; but an angle of a building interfered and closed\nthe scene. My eye afterwards was frequently turned to that convent with\npainful interest. I remarked late at night a solitary light twinkling from\na remote lattice of one of its towers. \"There,\" said I, \"the unhappy nun\nsits weeping in her cell, while perhaps her lover paces the street below\nin unavailing anguish.\"\n\n  [Illustration]\n\nThe officious Mateo interrupted my meditations and destroyed in an instant\nthe cobweb tissue of my fancy. With his usual zeal he had gathered facts\nconcerning the scene, which put my fictions all to flight. The heroine\nof my romance was neither young nor handsome; she had no lover; she had\nentered the convent of her own free will, as a respectable asylum, and\nwas one of the most cheerful residents within its walls.\n\nIt was some little while before I could forgive the wrong done me by the\nnun in being thus happy in her cell, in contradiction to all the rules\nof romance; I diverted my spleen, however, by watching, for a day or two,\nthe pretty coquetries of a dark-eyed brunette, who, from the covert of a\nbalcony shrouded with flowering shrubs and a silken awning, was carrying\non a mysterious correspondence with a handsome, dark, well-whiskered\ncavalier, who lurked frequently in the street beneath her window.\nSometimes I saw him at an early hour stealing forth wrapped to the eyes\nin a mantle. Sometimes he loitered at a corner, in various disguises,\napparently waiting for a private signal to slip into the house. Then there\nwas the tinkling of a guitar at night and a lantern shifted from place to\nplace in the balcony. I imagined another intrigue like that of Almaviva,\nbut was again disconcerted in all my suppositions. The supposed lover\nturned out to be the husband of the lady, and a noted _contrabandista_;\nand all his mysterious signs and movements had doubtless some smuggling\nscheme in view.\n\nI occasionally amused myself with noting from this balcony the gradual\nchanges of the scenes below, according to the different stages of the day.\n\nScarce has the gray dawn streaked the sky, and the earliest cock crowed\nfrom the cottages of the hill-side, when the suburbs give sign of reviving\nanimation; for the fresh hours of dawning are precious in the summer\nseason in a sultry climate. All are anxious to get the start of the sun,\nin the business of the day. The muleteer drives forth his loaded train\nfor the journey; the traveller slings his carbine behind his saddle, and\nmounts his steed at the gate of the hostel; the brown peasant from the\ncountry urges forward his loitering beasts, laden with panniers of sunny\nfruit and fresh dewy vegetables, for already the thrifty housewives are\nhastening to the market.\n\nThe sun is up and sparkles along the valley, tipping the transparent\nfoliage of the groves. The matin bells resound melodiously through the\npure bright air, announcing the hour of devotion. The muleteer halts his\nburdened animals before the chapel, thrusts his staff through his belt\nbehind, and enters with hat in hand, smoothing his coal-black hair to\nhear a mass, and to put up a prayer for a prosperous wayfaring across\nthe _sierra_. And now steals forth on fairy foot the gentle _se\u00f1ora_, in\ntrim _basqui\u00f1a_, with restless fan in hand, and dark eye flashing from\nbeneath the gracefully folded mantilla; she seeks some well-frequented\nchurch to offer up her morning orisons; but the nicely adjusted dress, the\ndainty shoe and cobweb stocking, the raven tresses exquisitely braided,\nthe fresh-plucked rose, gleaming among them like a gem, show that earth\ndivides with Heaven the empire of her thoughts. Keep an eye upon her,\ncareful mother, or virgin aunt, or vigilant _duenna_, whichever you may\nbe, that walk behind!\n\n  [Illustration: _The Market._]\n\nAs the morning advances, the din of labour augments on every side; the\nstreets are thronged with man, and steed, and beast of burden, and there\nis a hum and murmur, like the surges of the ocean. As the sun ascends to\nhis meridian, the hum and bustle gradually decline; at the height of noon\nthere is a pause. The panting city sinks into lassitude, and for several\nhours there is a general repose. The windows are closed, the curtains\ndrawn, the inhabitants retire into the coolest recesses of their mansions;\nthe full-fed monk snores in his dormitory; the brawny porter lies\nstretched on the pavement beside his burden; the peasant and the labourer\nsleep beneath the trees of the Alameda, lulled by the sultry chirping of\nthe locust. The streets are deserted, except by the water-carrier, who\nrefreshes the ear by proclaiming the merits of his sparkling beverage,\n\"colder than the mountain snow (_mas fria que la nieve_).\"\n\n  [Illustration: _House of the Darro._]\n\nAs the sun declines, there is again a gradual reviving, and when the\nvesper bell rings out his sinking knell, all nature seems to rejoice that\nthe tyrant of the day has fallen. Now begins the bustle of enjoyment, when\nthe citizens pour forth to breathe the evening air, and revel away the\nbrief twilight in the walks and gardens of the Darro and Xenil.\n\n  [Illustration: _The Convent._]\n\nAs night closes, the capricious scene assumes new features. Light after\nlight gradually twinkles forth; here a taper from a balconied window;\nthere a votive lamp before the image of a saint. Thus, by degrees, the\ncity emerges from the pervading gloom, and sparkles with scattered lights,\nlike the starry firmament. Now break forth from court and garden, and\nstreet and lane, the tinkling of innumerable guitars, and the clicking of\ncastanets; blending, at this lofty height, in a faint but general concert.\n\"Enjoy the moment\" is the creed of the gay and amorous Andalusian, and\nat no time does he practise it more zealously than on the balmy nights\nof summer, wooing his mistress with the dance, the love-ditty, and the\npassionate serenade.\n\nI was one evening seated in the balcony, enjoying the light breeze that\ncame rustling along the side of the hill, among the tree-tops, when my\nhumble historiographer Mateo, who was at my elbow, pointed out a spacious\nhouse, in an obscure street of the Albaycin, about which he related, as\nnearly as I can recollect, the following anecdote.\n\n  [Illustration: _In the Sierras._]\n\n\n\n\n  [Illustration: _Mosque._]\n\nTHE ADVENTURE OF THE MASON\n\n\nThere was once upon a time a poor mason, or bricklayer, in Granada, who\nkept all the saints' days and holidays, and Saint Monday into the bargain,\nand yet, with all his devotion, he grew poorer and poorer, and could\nscarcely earn bread for his numerous family. One night he was roused from\nhis first sleep by a knocking at his door. He opened it, and beheld before\nhim a tall, meagre cadaverous-looking priest.\n\n\"'Hark ye, honest friend!' said the stranger; 'I have observed that you\nare a good Christian, and one to be trusted; will you undertake a job this\nvery night?'\n\n\"'With all my heart, _Se\u00f1or_ Padre, on condition that I am paid\naccordingly.'\n\n\"'That you shall be; but you must suffer yourself to be blindfolded.'\n\n  [Illustration: _House of the Priests._]\n\n\"To this the mason made no objection. So, being hoodwinked, he was led\nby the priest through various rough lanes and winding passages, until\nthey stopped before the portal of a house. The priest then applied a key,\nturned a creaking lock, and opened what sounded like a ponderous door.\nThey entered, the door was closed and bolted, and the mason was conducted\nthrough an echoing corridor and a spacious hall to an interior part of the\nbuilding. Here the bandage was removed from his eyes, and he found himself\nin a _patio_, or court, dimly lighted by a single lamp. In the centre\nwas the dry basin of an old Moorish fountain, under which the priest\nrequested him to form a small vault, bricks and mortar being at hand for\nthe purpose. He accordingly worked all night, but without finishing the\njob. Just before daybreak the priest put a piece of gold into his hand,\nand having again blindfolded him, conducted him back to his dwelling.\n\n  [Illustration]\n\n\"'Are you willing,' said he, 'to return and complete your work?'\n\n\"'Gladly, Se\u00f1or Padre, provided I am so well paid.'\n\n\"'Well, then, to-morrow at midnight I will call again.'\n\n\"He did so, and the vault was completed.\n\n\"'Now, 'said the priest, 'you must help me to bring forth the bodies that\nare to be buried in this vault.'\n\n  [Illustration]\n\n\"The poor mason's hair rose on his head at these words: he followed the\npriest, with trembling steps, into a retired chamber of the mansion,\nexpecting to behold some ghastly spectacle of death, but was relieved on\nperceiving three or four portly jars standing in one corner. They were\nevidently full of money, and it was with great labour that he and the\npriest carried them forth and consigned them to their tomb. The vault\nwas then closed, the pavement replaced, and all traces of the work were\nobliterated. The mason was again hoodwinked and led forth by a route\ndifferent from that by which he had come. After they had wandered for a\nlong time through a perplexed maze of lanes and alleys, they halted. The\npriest then put two pieces of gold into his hand: 'Wait here,' said he,\n'until you hear the cathedral bell toll for matins. If you presume to\nuncover your eyes before that time, evil will befall you:' so saying, he\ndeparted. The mason waited faithfully, amusing himself by weighing the\ngold pieces in his hand, and clinking them against each other. The moment\nthe cathedral bell rang its matin peal, he uncovered his eyes, and found\nhimself on the banks of the Xenil; whence he made the best of his way\nhome, and revelled with his family for a whole fortnight on the profits\nof his two nights' work; after which he was as poor as ever.\n\n  [Illustration: _The Moorish Fountain._]\n\n\"He continued to work a little, and pray a good deal, and keep saints'\ndays and holidays, from year to year, while his family grew up as gaunt\nand ragged as a crew of gipsies. As he was seated one evening at the door\nof his hovel, he was accosted by a rich old curmudgeon, who was noted for\nowning many houses, and being a griping landlord. The man of money eyed\nhim for a moment from beneath a pair of anxious shagged eyebrows.\n\n\"'I am told, friend, that you are very poor.'\n\n\"'There is no denying the fact, _se\u00f1ors_,--it speaks for itself.'\n\n\"'I presume, then, that you will be glad of a job, and will work cheap.'\n\n\"'As cheap, my master, as any mason in Granada.'\n\n  [Illustration: _Banks of Xenil._]\n\n\"'That's what I want. I have an old house fallen into decay, which costs\nme more money than it is worth to keep it in repair, for nobody will live\nin it; so I must contrive to patch it up and keep it together at as small\nexpense as possible.'\n\n\"The mason was accordingly conducted to a large deserted house that\nseemed going to ruin. Passing through several empty halls and chambers,\nhe entered an inner court, where his eye was caught by an old Moorish\nfountain. He paused for a moment, for a dreaming recollection of the place\ncame over him.\n\n\"'Pray,' said he, 'who occupied this house formerly?'\n\n\"'A pest upon him!' cried the landlord; 'it was an old miserly priest,\nwho cared for nobody but himself. He was said to be immensely rich, and,\nhaving no relations, it was thought he would leave all his treasures to\nthe Church. He died suddenly, and the priests and friars thronged to take\npossession of his wealth; but nothing could they find but a few ducats in\na leathern purse. The worst luck has fallen on me, for, since his death,\nthe old fellow continues to occupy my house without paying rent, and\nthere is no taking the law of a dead man. The people pretend to hear the\nclinking of gold all night in the chamber where the old priest slept, as\nif he were counting over his money, and sometimes a groaning and moaning\nabout the court. Whether true or false, these stories have brought a bad\nname on my house, and not a tenant will remain in it.'\n\n\"'Enough,' said the mason sturdily: 'let me live in your house rent-free\nuntil some better tenant present, and I will engage to put it in repair,\nand to quiet the troubled spirit that disturbs it. I am a good Christian\nand a poor man, and am not to be daunted by the Devil himself, even though\nhe should come in the shape of a big bag of money!'\n\n\"The offer of the honest mason was gladly accepted; he moved with his\nfamily into the house, and fulfilled all his engagements. By little and\nlittle he restored it to its former state; the clinking of gold was no\nmore heard at night in the chamber of the defunct priest, but began to be\nheard by day in the pocket of the living mason. In a word, he increased\nrapidly in wealth, to the admiration of all his neighbours, and became one\nof the richest men in Granada: he gave large sums to the Church, by way,\nno doubt, of satisfying his conscience, and never revealed the secret of\nthe vault until on his death-bed to his son and heir.\"\n\n\n\n\n  [Illustration]\n\nTHE COURT OF LIONS\n\n\nThe peculiar charm of this old dreamy palace is its power of calling\nup vague reveries and picturings of the past, and thus clothing naked\nrealities with the illusions of the memory and the imagination. As I\ndelight to walk in these \"vain shadows,\" I am prone to seek those parts\nof the Alhambra which are most favourable to this phantasmagoria of the\nmind; and none are more so than the Court of Lions, and its surrounding\nhalls. Here the hand of time has fallen the lightest, and the traces of\nMoorish elegance and splendour exist in almost their original brilliancy.\nEarthquakes have shaken the foundations of this pile, and rent its rudest\ntowers; yet see! not one of those slender columns has been displaced,\nnot an arch of that light and fragile colonnade given way, and all the\nfairy fretwork of these domes, apparently as unsubstantial as the crystal\nfabrics of a morning's frost, exist after the lapse of centuries, almost\nas fresh as if from the hand of the Moslem artist. I write in the midst\nof these mementoes of the past, in the fresh hour of early morning, in the\nfated Hall of the Abencerrages. The blood-stained fountain, the legendary\nmonument of their massacre, is before me; the lofty jet almost casts its\ndew upon my paper. How difficult to reconcile the ancient tale of violence\nand blood with the gentle and peaceful scene around! Everything here\nappears calculated to inspire kind and happy feelings, for everything is\ndelicate and beautiful. The very light falls tenderly from above, through\nthe lantern of a dome tinted and wrought as if by fairy hands. Through\nthe ample and fretted arch of the portal I behold the Court of Lions,\nwith brilliant sunshine gleaming along its colonnades and sparkling in\nits fountains. The lively swallow dives into the court, and, rising with\na surge, darts away twittering over the roofs; the busy bee toils humming\namong the flower-beds; and painted butterflies hover from plant to plant,\nand flutter up and sport with each other in the sunny air. It needs but a\nslight exertion of the fancy to picture some pensive beauty of the harem,\nloitering in these secluded haunts of Oriental luxury.\n\nHe, however, who would behold this scene under an aspect more in unison\nwith its fortunes, let him come when the shadows of evening temper the\nbrightness of the court, and throw a gloom into the surrounding halls.\nThen nothing can be more serenely melancholy, or more in harmony with the\ntale of departed grandeur.\n\n  [Illustration: _Court of Lions._]\n\nAt such times I am apt to seek the Hall of Justice, whose deep shadowy\narcades extend across the upper end of the court. Here was performed,\nin presence of Ferdinand and Isabella and their triumphant court, the\npompous ceremonial of high mass, on taking possession of the Alhambra.\nThe very cross is still to be seen upon the wall, where the altar was\nerected, and where officiated the Grand Cardinal of Spain, and others of\nthe highest religious dignitaries of the land. I picture to myself the\nscene when this place was filled with the conquering host, that mixture\nof mitred prelate and shaven monk, and steel-clad knight and silken\ncourtier; when crosses and crosiers and religious standards were mingled\nwith proud armorial-ensigns and the banners of the haughty chiefs of\nSpain, and flaunted in triumph through these Moslem halls. I picture to\nmyself Columbus, the future discoverer of a world, taking his modest stand\nin a remote corner, the humble and neglected spectator of the pageant. I\nsee in imagination the Catholic sovereigns prostrating themselves before\nthe altar, and pouring forth thanks for their victory; while the vaults\nresound with sacred minstrelsy, and the deep-toned _Te Deum_.\n\n  [Illustration: _Hall of Justice._]\n\nThe transient illusion is over,--the pageant melts from the\nfancy,--monarch, priest, and warrior return into oblivion with the poor\nMoslems over whom they exulted. The hall of their triumph is waste and\ndesolate. The bat flits about its twilight vault, and the owl hoots from\nthe neighbouring tower of Comares.\n\n  [Illustration: _Hall of Justice._]\n\nEntering the Court of the Lions a few evenings since, I was almost\nstartled at beholding a turbaned Moor quietly seated near the fountain.\nFor a moment one of the fictions of the place seemed realised: an\nenchanted Moor had broken the spell of centuries, and become visible.\nHe proved, however, to be a mere ordinary mortal: a native of Tetuan in\nBarbary, who had a shop in the Zacatin of Granada, where he sold rhubarb,\ntrinkets, and perfumes. As he spoke Spanish fluently, I was enabled to\nhold conversation with him, and found him shrewd and intelligent. He told\nme that he came up the hill occasionally in the summer, to pass a part of\nthe day in the Alhambra, which reminded him of the old palaces in Barbary,\nbeing built and adorned in similar style, though with more magnificence.\n\nAs we walked about the palace, he pointed out several of the Arabic\ninscriptions, as possessing much poetic beauty.\n\n  [Illustration]\n\n\"Ah, _se\u00f1ors_,\" said he, \"when the Moors held Granada, they were a gayer\npeople than they are nowadays. They thought only of love, music, and\npoetry. They made stanzas upon every occasion, and set them all to music.\nHe who could make the best verses, and she who had the most tuneful voice,\nmight be sure of favour and preferment. In those days, if any one asked\nfor bread, the reply was, make me a couplet; and the poorest beggar, if\nhe begged in rhyme, would often be rewarded with a piece of gold.\"\n\n\"And is the popular feeling for poetry,\" said I, \"entirely lost among you?\"\n\n\"By no means, _se\u00f1ors_; the people of Barbary, even those of the lower\nclasses, still make couplets, and good ones too, as in old times; but\ntalent is not rewarded as it was then; the rich prefer the jingle of their\ngold to the sound of poetry or music.\"\n\nAs he was talking, his eye caught one of the inscriptions which foretold\nperpetuity to the power and glory of the Moslem monarchs, the masters\nof this pile. He shook his head, and shrugged his shoulders, as he\ninterpreted it. \"Such might have been the case,\" said he; \"the Moslems\nmight still have been reigning in the Alhambra, had not Boabdil been a\ntraitor, and given up his capital to the Christians. The Spanish monarchs\nwould never have been able to conquer it by open force.\"\n\n  [Illustration: _A Window in the Hall of Justice._]\n\nI endeavoured to vindicate the memory of the unlucky Boabdil from this\naspersion, and to show that the dissensions which led to the downfall of\nthe Moorish throne originated in the cruelty of his tiger-hearted father;\nbut the Moor would admit of no palliation.\n\n\"Muley Abul Hassan,\" said he, \"might have been cruel; but he was brave,\nvigilant, and patriotic. Had he been properly seconded, Granada would\nstill have been ours; but his son Boabdil thwarted his plans, crippled\nhis power, sowed treason in his palace, and dissension in his camp. May\nthe curse of God light upon him for his treachery!\" With these words the\nMoor left the Alhambra.\n\nThe indignation of my turbaned companion agrees with an anecdote related\nby a friend, who, in the course of a tour in Barbary, had an interview\nwith the Pacha of Tetuan. The Moorish governor was particular in his\ninquiries about Spain, and especially concerning the favoured region of\nAndalusia, the delights of Granada, and the remains of its royal palace.\nThe replies awakened all those fond recollections, so deeply cherished by\nthe Moors, of the power and splendour of their ancient empire in Spain.\nTurning to his Moslem attendants, the Pacha stroked his beard, and broke\nforth in passionate lamentations, that such a sceptre should have fallen\nfrom the sway of true believers. He consoled himself, however, with the\npersuasion, that the power and prosperity of the Spanish nation were on\nthe decline; that a time would come when the Moors would conquer their\nrightful domains; and that the day was perhaps not far distant when\nMohammedan worship would again be offered up in the mosque of Cordova,\nand a Mohammedan prince sit on his throne in the Alhambra.\n\nSuch is the general aspiration and belief among the Moors of Barbary; who\nconsider Spain, or Andaluz, as it was anciently called, their rightful\nheritage, of which they have been despoiled by treachery and violence.\nThese ideas are fostered and perpetuated by the descendants of the exiled\nMoors of Granada, scattered among the cities of Barbary. Several of these\nreside in Tetuan, preserving their ancient names, such as Paez and Medina,\nand refraining from intermarriage with any families who cannot claim\nthe same high origin. Their vaunted lineage is regarded with a degree of\npopular deference rarely shown in Mohammedan communities to any hereditary\ndistinction, excepting in the royal line.\n\nThese families, it is said, continue to sigh after the terrestrial\nparadise of their ancestors, and to put up prayers in their mosques\non Fridays, imploring Allah to hasten the time when Granada shall be\nrestored to the faithful: an event to which they look forward as fondly\nand confidently as did the Christian Crusaders to the recovery of the Holy\nSepulchre. Nay, it is added, that some of them retain the ancient maps\nand deeds of the estates and gardens of their ancestors at Granada, and\neven the keys of the houses; holding them as evidences of their hereditary\nclaims, to be produced at the anticipated day of restoration.\n\n  [Illustration: _Mosque Cordova._]\n\nMy conversation with the Moor set me to musing on the fate of Boabdil.\nNever was surname more applicable than that bestowed upon him by his\nsubjects of el Zogoybi, or the Unlucky. His misfortunes began almost in\nhis cradle, and ceased not even with his death. If ever he cherished the\ndesire of leaving an honourable name on the historic page, how cruelly has\nhe been defrauded of his hopes! Who is there that has turned the least\nattention to the romantic history of the Moorish domination in Spain,\nwithout kindling with indignation at the alleged atrocities of Boabdil?\nWho has not been touched with the woes of his lovely and gentle queen,\nsubjected by him to a trial of life and death, on a false charge of\ninfidelity? Who has not been shocked by his alleged murder of his sister\nand her two children, in a transport of passion? Who has not felt his\nblood boil at the inhuman massacre of the gallant Abencerrages, thirty-six\nof whom, it is affirmed, he ordered to be beheaded in the Court of Lions?\nAll these charges have been reiterated in various forms; they have passed\ninto ballads, dramas, and romances, until they have taken too thorough\npossession of the public mind to be eradicated. There is not a foreigner\nof education that visits the Alhambra, but asks for the fountain where the\nAbencerrages were beheaded; and gazes with horror at the grated gallery\nwhere the queen is said to have been confined; not a peasant of the Vega\nor the Sierra, but sings the story in rude couplets, to the accompaniment\nof his guitar, while his hearers learn to execrate the very name of\nBoabdil.\n\nNever, however, was name more foully and unjustly slandered. I have\nexamined all the authentic chronicles and letters written by Spanish\nauthors, contemporary with Boabdil; some of whom were in the confidence of\nthe Catholic sovereigns, and actually present in the camp throughout the\nwar. I have examined all the Arabian authorities I could get access to,\nthrough the medium of translation, and have found nothing to justify these\ndark and hateful accusations. The most of these tales may be traced to a\nwork commonly called _The Civil Wars of Granada_, containing a pretended\nhistory of the feuds of the Zegries and Abencerrages, during the last\nstruggle of the Moorish empire. The work appeared originally in Spanish,\nand professed to be translated from the Arabic by one Gines Perez de Hita,\nan inhabitant of Murcia. It has since passed into various languages, and\nFlorian has taken from it much of the fable of his Gonsalvo of Cordova:\nit has thus, in a great measure, usurped the authority of real history,\nand is currently believed by the people, and especially the peasantry of\nGranada. The whole of it, however, is a mass of fiction, mingled with\na few disfigured truths, which give it an air of veracity. It bears\ninternal evidence of its falsity; the manners and customs of the Moors\nbeing extravagantly misrepresented in it, and scenes depicted totally\nincompatible with their habits and their faith, and which never could have\nbeen recorded by a Mohammedan writer.\n\n  [Illustration]\n\nI confess there seems to me something almost criminal in the wilful\nperversions of this work: great latitude is undoubtedly to be allowed to\nromantic fiction, but there are limits which it must not pass; and the\nnames of the distinguished dead, which belong to history, are no more\nto be calumniated than those of the illustrious living. One would have\nthought, too, that the unfortunate Boabdil had suffered enough for his\njustifiable hostility to the Spaniards, by being stripped of his kingdom,\nwithout having his name thus wantonly traduced, and rendered a byword\nand a theme of infamy in his native land, and in the very mansion of his\nfathers!\n\n  [Illustration: _Entrance to Hall of Abencerrages_]\n\n\n\n\n  [Illustration]\n\nMEMENTOES OF BOABDIL\n\n\nWhile my mind was still warm with the subject of the unfortunate Boabdil,\nI set forth to trace the mementoes of him still existing in this scene\nof his sovereignty and misfortunes. In the tower of Comares, immediately\nunder the Hall of Ambassadors, are two vaulted rooms, separated by a\nnarrow passage; these are said to have been the prisons of himself and his\nmother, the virtuous Ayxa la Horra; indeed, no other part of the tower\nwould have served for the purpose. The external walls of these chambers\nare of prodigious thickness, pierced with small windows secured by iron\nbars. A narrow stone gallery, with a low parapet, extends along three\nsides of the tower just below the windows, but at a considerable height\nfrom the ground. From this gallery, it is presumed, the queen lowered\nher son with the scarves of herself and her female attendants during\nthe darkness of the night to the hill-side, where some of his faithful\nadherents waited with fleet steeds to bear him to the mountains.\n\nBetween three and four hundred years have elapsed, yet this scene of the\ndrama remains almost unchanged. As I paced the gallery, my imagination\npictured the anxious queen leaning over the parapet, listening, with the\nthrobbings of a mother's heart, to the last echoes of the horse's hoofs\nas her son scoured along the narrow valley of the Darro.\n\n  [Illustration]\n\nI next sought the gate by which Boabdil made his last exit from the\nAlhambra, when about to surrender his capital and kingdom. With the\nmelancholy caprice of a broken spirit, or perhaps with some superstitious\nfeeling, he requested of the Catholic monarchs that no one afterwards\nmight be permitted to pass through it. His prayer, according to ancient\nchronicles, was complied with, through the sympathy of Isabella, and the\ngate was walled up.\n\nI inquired for some time in vain for such a portal; at length my humble\nattendant, Mateo Ximenes, said it must be one closed up with stones,\nwhich, according to what he had heard from his father and grandfather,\nwas the gateway by which King Chico had left the fortress. There was a\nmystery about it, and it had never been opened within the memory of the\noldest inhabitant.\n\nHe conducted me to the spot. The gateway is in the centre of what was\nonce an immense pile, called the Tower of the Seven Floors (_la Torre\nde los siete suelos_). It is famous in the neighbourhood as the scene\nof strange apparitions and Moorish enchantments. According to Swinburne\nthe traveller, it was originally the great gate of entrance. The\nantiquaries of Granada pronounce it the entrance to that quarter of the\nroyal residence where the king's bodyguards were stationed. It therefore\nmight well form an immediate entrance and exit to the palace; while the\ngrand Gate of Justice served as the entrance of state to the fortress.\nWhen Boabdil sallied by this gate to descend to the Vega, where he was\nto surrender the keys of the city to the Spanish sovereigns, he left his\nvizier Aben Comixa to receive, at the gate of Justice, the detachment from\nthe Christian army and the officers to whom the fortress was to be given\nup.\n\n  [Illustration]\n\nThe once redoubtable Tower of the Seven Floors is now a mere wreck,\nhaving been blown up with gunpowder by the French, when they abandoned\nthe fortress. Great masses of the wall lie scattered about, buried in\nluxuriant herbage, or overshadowed by vines and fig-trees. The arch of\nthe gateway, though rent by the shock, still remains; but the last wish\nof poor Boabdil has again, though unintentionally, been fulfilled, for\nthe portal has been closed up by loose stones gathered from the ruins,\nand remains impassable.\n\n  [Illustration]\n\nMounting my horse, I followed up the route of the Moslem monarch from this\nplace of his exit. Crossing the hill of Los Martyros, and keeping along\nthe garden-wall of a convent bearing the same name, I descended a rugged\nravine beset by thickets of aloes and Indian figs, and lined with caves\nand hovels swarming with gipsies. The descent was so steep and broken\nthat I was fain to alight and lead my horse. By this _via dolorosa_ poor\nBoabdil took his sad departure to avoid passing through the city; partly,\nperhaps, through unwillingness that its inhabitants should behold his\nhumiliation; but chiefly, in all probability, lest it might cause some\npopular agitation. For the last reason, undoubtedly, the detachment sent\nto take possession of the fortress ascended by the same route.\n\n  [Illustration]\n\nEmerging from this rough ravine, so full of melancholy associations, and\npassing by the _puerta de los molinos_ (the gate of the mills), I issued\nforth upon the public promenade called the Prado; and pursuing the course\nof the Xenil, arrived at a small chapel, once a mosque, now the Hermitage\nof San Sebastian. Here, according to tradition, Boabdil surrendered\nthe keys of Granada to King Ferdinand. I rode slowly thence across the\nVega to a village where the family and household of the unhappy king\nawaited him, for he had sent them forward on the preceding night from the\nAlhambra, that his mother and wife might not participate in his personal\nhumiliation, or be exposed to the gaze of the conquerors. Following on in\nthe route of the melancholy band of royal exiles, I arrived at the foot of\na chain of barren and dreary heights, forming the skirt of the Alpuxarra\nMountains. From the summit of one of these the unfortunate Boabdil took\nhis last look at Granada; it bears a name expressive of his sorrows, _La\nCuesta de las Lagrimas_ (the hill of tears). Beyond it, a sandy road winds\nacross a rugged cheerless waste, doubly dismal to the unhappy monarch, as\nit led to exile.\n\n  [Illustration]\n\nI spurred my horse to the summit of a rock, where Boabdil uttered his last\nsorrowful exclamation, as he turned his eyes from taking their farewell\ngaze: it is still denominated _el ultimo suspiro del Moro_ (the last sigh\nof the Moor). Who can wonder at his anguish at being expelled from such a\nkingdom and such an abode? With the Alhambra he seemed to be yielding up\nall the honours of his line, and all the glories and delights of life.\n\n  [Illustration]\n\nIt was here, too, that his affliction was embittered by the reproach of\nhis mother, Ayxa, who had so often assisted him in times of peril, and had\nvainly sought to instil into him her own resolute spirit. \"You do well,\"\nsaid she, \"to weep as a woman over what you could not defend as a man;\"\na speech savouring more of the pride of the princess than the tenderness\nof the mother.\n\nWhen this anecdote was related to Charles V., by Bishop Guevara, the\nemperor joined in the expression of scorn at the weakness of the wavering\nBoabdil. \"Had I been he, or he been I,\" said the haughty potentate,\n\"I would rather have made this Alhambra my sepulchre than have lived\nwithout a kingdom in the Alpuxarra.\" How easy it is for those in power\nand prosperity to preach heroism to the vanquished! how little can they\nunderstand that life itself may rise in value with the unfortunate when\nnaught but life remains!\n\n  [Illustration]\n\n  [Illustration]\n\nSlowly descending the \"Hill of Tears,\" I let my horse take his own\nloitering gait back to Granada, while I turned the story of the\nunfortunate Boabdil over in my mind. In summing up the particulars, I\nfound the balance inclining in his favour. Throughout the whole of his\nbrief, turbulent, and disastrous reign, he gives evidence of a mild and\namiable character. He, in the first instance, won the hearts of his people\nby his affable and gracious manners; he was always placable, and never\ninflicted any severity of punishment upon those who occasionally rebelled\nagainst him. He was personally brave, but wanted moral courage; and, in\ntimes of difficulty and perplexity, was wavering and irresolute. This\nfeebleness of spirit hastened his downfall, while it deprived him of that\nheroic grace which would have given grandeur and dignity to his fate, and\nrendered him worthy of closing the splendid drama of the Moslem domination\nin Spain.\n\n  [Illustration: _Rubbing from the Commemorative Plaque in the wall of the\n   Hermitage of San Sebastian._]\n\n\n\n\n  [Illustration: _Pass of Lope._]\n\nTHE HOUSE OF THE WEATHERCOCK\n\n\nOn the brow of the lofty hill of the Albaycin, the highest part of\nGranada, and which rises from the narrow valley of the Darro, directly\nopposite to the Alhambra, stands all that is left of what was once a\nroyal palace of the Moors. It has, in fact, fallen into such obscurity,\nthat it cost me much trouble to find it, though aided in my researches by\nthe sagacious and all-knowing Mateo Ximenes. This edifice has borne for\ncenturies the name of \"The House of the Weathercock\" (_La casa del Gallo\nde Viento_), from a bronze figure on one of its turrets, in ancient times,\nof a warrior on horseback, and turning with every breeze. This weathercock\nwas considered by the Moslems of Granada a portentous talisman. According\nto some traditions, it bore the following Arabic inscription:\n\n     _Calet el Bedici Aben Habuz,\n     Quidat ehahet Lindabuz._\n\nWhich has been rendered into Spanish:\n\n     _Dice el sabio Aben Habuz,\n     Que asi se defiende el Anduluz._\n\nAnd into English:\n\n     In this way, says Aben Habuz the Wise,\n     Andaluz guards against surprise.\n\nThis Aben Habuz, according to some of the old Moorish chronicles, was a\ncaptain in the invading army of Taric, one of the conquerors of Spain,\nwho left him as _Alcayde_ of Granada. He is supposed to have intended this\neffigy as a perpetual warning to the Moslems of Andaluz, that, surrounded\nby foes, their safety depended upon their being always on their guard and\nready for the field.\n\n  [Illustration: _The Alhambra, from the Albaycin._]\n\n  [Illustration]\n\nOthers, among whom is the Christian historian Marmol, affirms \"_Badis Aben\nHabus_\" to have been a Moorish sultan of Granada, and that the weathercock\nwas intended as a perpetual admonition of the instability of Moslem power,\nbearing the following words in Arabic:\n\n\"Thus _Ibn Habus al badise_ predicts Andaluz shall one day vanish and pass\naway.\"\n\nAnother version of this portentous inscription is given by a Moslem\nhistorian, on the authority of Sidi Hasan, a _faquir_ who flourished about\nthe time of Ferdinand and Isabella, and who was present at the taking down\nof the weathercock, when the old Kassaba was undergoing repairs.\n\n\"I saw it,\" says the venerable _faquir_, \"with my own eyes; it was of a\nheptagonal shape, and had the following inscription in verse:\n\n    \"The palace at fair Granada presents a talisman.\"\n    \"The horseman, though a solid body, turns with every wind.\"\n    \"This to a wise man reveals a mystery. In a little while comes a\n     calamity to ruin both the palace and its owner.\"\n\nIn effect it was not long after this meddling with the portentous\nweathercock that the following event occurred. As old Muley Abul Hassan,\nthe king of Granada, was seated under a sumptuous pavilion, reviewing his\ntroops, who paraded before him in armour of polished steel and gorgeous\nsilken robes, mounted on fleet steeds, and equipped with swords, spears,\nand shields embossed with gold and silver,--suddenly a tempest was seen\nhurrying from the south-west. In a little while black clouds overshadowed\nthe heavens and burst forth with a deluge of rain. Torrents came roaring\ndown from the mountains, bringing with them rocks and trees; the Darro\noverflowed its banks; mills were swept away, bridges destroyed, gardens\nlaid waste; the inundation rushed into the city, undermining houses,\ndrowning their inhabitants, and overflowing even the square of the Great\nMosque. The people rushed in affright to the mosques to implore the\nmercy of Allah, regarding this uproar of the elements as the harbinger of\ndreadful calamities; and, indeed, according to the Arabian historian Al\nMakkari, it was but a type and prelude of the direful war which ended in\nthe downfall of the Moslem kingdom of Granada.\n\nI have thus given historic authorities sufficient to show the portentous\nmysteries connected with the House of the Weathercock, and its talismanic\nhorseman.\n\nI now proceed to relate still more surprising things about Aben Habuz and\nhis palace; for the truth of which, should any doubt be entertained, I\nrefer the dubious reader to Mateo Ximenes and his fellow-historiographers\nof the Alhambra.\n\n\n\n\n  [Illustration: _Among the Hills._]\n\nLEGEND OF THE ARABIAN ASTROLOGER.\n\n\nIn old times, many hundred years ago, there was a Moorish king named\nAben Habuz, who reigned over the kingdom of Granada. He was a retired\nconqueror, that is to say, one who, having in his more youthful days led a\nlife of constant foray and depredation, now that he was grown feeble and\nsuperannuated, \"languished for repose,\" and desired nothing more than to\nlive at peace with all the world, to husband his laurels, and to enjoy in\nquiet the possessions he had wrested from his neighbours.\n\nIt so happened, however, that this most reasonable and pacific old monarch\nhad young rivals to deal with; princes full of his early passion for fame\nand fighting, and who were disposed to call him to account for the scores\nhe had run up with their fathers. Certain distant districts of his own\nterritories, also, which during the days of his vigour he had treated\nwith a high hand, were prone, now that he languished for repose, to rise\nin rebellion and threaten to invest him in his capital. Thus he had foes\non every side; and as Granada is surrounded by wild and craggy mountains,\nwhich hide the approach of an enemy, the unfortunate Aben Habuz was kept\nin a constant state of vigilance and alarm, not knowing in what quarter\nhostilities might break out.\n\n  [Illustration: _The Tomb of Ferdinand and Isabella._]\n\nIt was in vain that he built watch-towers on the mountains, and stationed\nguards at every pass with orders to make fires by night and smoke by day,\non the approach of an enemy. His alert foes, baffling every precaution,\nwould break out of some unthought-of defile, ravage his lands beneath his\nvery nose, and then make off with prisoners and booty to the mountains.\nWas ever peaceable and retired conqueror in a more uncomfortable\npredicament?\n\nWhile Aben Habuz was harassed by these perplexities and molestations, an\nancient Arabian physician arrived at his court. His gray beard descended\nto his girdle, and he had every mark of extreme age, yet he had travelled\nalmost the whole way from Egypt on foot, with no other aid than a staff,\nmarked with hieroglyphics. His fame had preceded him. His name was Ibrahim\nEbn Abu Ayub; he was said to have lived ever since the days of Mahomet,\nand to be son of Abu Ayub; the last of the companions of the Prophet. He\nhad, when a child, followed the conquering army of Amru into Egypt, where\nhe had remained many years studying the dark sciences, and particularly\nmagic, among the Egyptian priests.\n\nIt was, moreover, said that he had found out the secret of prolonging\nlife by means of which he had arrived to the great age of upwards of two\ncenturies, though, as he did not discover the secret until well stricken\nin years, he could only perpetuate his gray hairs and wrinkles.\n\nThis wonderful old man was honourably entertained by the king; who, like\nmost superannuated monarchs, began to take physicians into great favour.\nHe would have assigned him an apartment in his palace, but the astrologer\npreferred a cave in the side of the hill which rises above the city of\nGranada, being the same on which the Alhambra has since been built. He\ncaused the cave to be enlarged so as to form a spacious and lofty hall,\nwith a circular hole at the top, through which, as through a well, he\ncould see the heavens and behold the stars even at mid-day. The walls\nof this hall were covered with Egyptian hieroglyphics with cabalistic\nsymbols, and with the figures of the stars in their signs. This hall he\nfurnished with many implements, fabricated under his directions by cunning\nartificers of Granada, but the occult properties of which were known only\nto himself.\n\n  [Illustration: _The Road up to the Alhambra._]\n\nIn a little while the sage Ibrahim became the bosom counsellor of the\nking, who applied to him for advice in every emergency. Aben Habuz was\nonce inveighing against the injustice of his neighbours, and bewailing\nthe restless vigilance he had to observe to guard himself against their\ninvasions; when he had finished, the astrologer remained silent for a\nmoment, and then replied, \"Know, O king, that, when I was in Egypt, I\nbeheld a great marvel devised by a pagan priestess of old. On a mountain,\nabove the city of Borsa, and overlooking the great valley of the Nile,\nwas a figure of a ram, and above it a figure of a cock, both of molten\nbrass, and turning upon a pivot. Whenever the country was threatened with\ninvasion, the ram would turn in the direction of the enemy, and the cock\nwould crow; upon this the inhabitants of the city knew of the danger, and\nof the quarter from which it was approaching, and could take timely means\nto guard against it.\"\n\n\"God is great!\" exclaimed the pacific Aben Habuz, \"what a treasure would\nbe such a ram to keep an eye upon these mountains around me; and then such\na cock, to crow in time of danger! _Allah Akbah!_ how securely I might\nsleep in my palace with such sentinels on the top!\"\n\nThe astrologer waited until the ecstasies of the king had subsided, and\nthen proceeded:\n\n\"After the victorious Amru (may he rest in peace!) had finished his\nconquest of Egypt, I remained among the priests of the land, studying the\nrites and ceremonies of their idolatrous faith, and seeking to make myself\nmaster of the hidden knowledge for which they are renowned. I was one day\nseated on the banks of the Nile, conversing with an ancient priest, when\nhe pointed to the mighty pyramids which rose like mountains out of the\nneighbouring desert. 'All that we can teach thee,' said he, 'is nothing\nto the knowledge locked up in those mighty piles. In the centre of the\ncentral pyramid is a sepulchral chamber, in which is enclosed the mummy\nof the high priest who aided in rearing that stupendous pile; and with\nhim is buried a wondrous book of knowledge, containing all the secrets of\nmagic and art. This book was given to Adam after his fall, and was handed\ndown from generation to generation to King Solomon the Wise, and by its\naid he built the Temple of Jerusalem. How it came into the possession of\nthe builder of the pyramids is known to Him alone who knows all things.'\n\n\"When I heard these words of the Egyptian priest, my heart burned to\nget possession of that book. I could command the services of many of\nthe soldiers of our conquering army, and of a number of the native\nEgyptians: with these I set to work, and pierced the solid mass of the\npyramid, until, after great toil, I came upon one of its interior and\nhidden passages. Following this up, and threading a fearful labyrinth, I\npenetrated into the very heart of the pyramids, even to the sepulchral\nchamber, where the mummy of the high-priest had lain for ages. I broke\nthrough the outer cases of the mummy, unfolded its many wrappers and\nbandages, and at length found the precious volume on its bosom. I seized\nit with a trembling hand, and groped my way out of the pyramid, leaving\nthe mummy in its dark and silent sepulchre, there to await the final day\nof resurrection and judgment.\"\n\n\"Son of Abu Ayub,\" exclaimed Aben Habuz, \"thou hast been a great\ntraveller, and seen marvellous things; but of what avail to me is the\nsecret of the pyramid, and the volume of knowledge of the wise Solomon?\"\n\n\"This it is, O king! By the study of that book I am instructed in all\nmagic arts, and can command the assistance of genii to accomplish my\nplans. The mystery of the Talisman of Borsa is therefore familiar to me,\nand such a talisman can I make, nay, one of greater virtues.\"\n\n\"O wise son of Abu Ayub,\" cried Aben Habuz, \"better were such a talisman\nthan all the watch towers on the hills, and sentinels upon the borders.\nGive me such a safeguard, and the riches of my treasury are at thy\ncommand.\"\n\nThe astrologer immediately set to work to gratify the wishes of the\nmonarch. He caused a great tower to be erected upon the top of the royal\npalace, which stood on the brow of the hill of the Albaycin. The tower was\nbuilt of stones brought from Egypt, and taken, it is said, from one of the\npyramids. In the upper part of the tower was a circular hall, with windows\nlooking towards every point of the compass, and before each window was a\ntable on which was arranged, as on a chess-board, a mimic army of horse\nand foot, with the effigy of the potentate that ruled in that direction,\nall carved of wood. To each of these tables there was a small lance, no\nbigger than a bodkin, on which were engraved certain Chaldaic characters.\nThis hall was kept constantly closed, by a gate of brass, with a great\nlock of steel, the key of which was in possession of the king.\n\nOn the top of the tower was a bronze figure of a Moorish horseman,\nfixed on a pivot, with a shield on one arm, and his lance elevated\nperpendicularly. The face of this horseman was towards the city, as if\nkeeping guard over it; but if any foe were at hand, the figure would turn\nin that direction, and would level the lance as if for action.\n\nWhen this talisman was finished, Aben Habuz was all impatient to try its\nvirtues, and longed as ardently for an invasion as he had ever sighed\nafter repose. His desire was soon gratified. Tidings were brought, early\none morning, by the sentinel appointed to watch the tower, that the face\nof the bronze horseman was turned towards the mountains of Elvira, and\nthat his lance pointed directly against the Pass of Lope.\n\n\"Let the drums and trumpets sound to arms, and all Granada be put on the\nalert,\" said Aben Habuz.\n\n\"O king,\" said the astrologer, \"let not your city be disquieted, nor your\nwarriors called to arms; we need no aid of force to deliver you from your\nenemies. Dismiss your attendants, and let us proceed alone to the secret\nhall of the tower.\"\n\n  [Illustration: _The Gate of Justice._]\n\nThe ancient Aben Habuz mounted the staircase of the tower, leaning on\nthe arm of the still more ancient Ibrahim Ebn Abu Ayub. They unlocked the\nbrazen door and entered. The window that looked towards the Pass of Lope\nwas open.\n\n\"In this direction,\" said the astrologer, \"lies the danger; approach, O\nking, and behold the mystery of the table.\"\n\nKing Aben Habuz approached the seeming chessboard, on which were arranged\nthe small wooden effigies, when, to his surprise, he perceived that\nthey were all in motion. The horses pranced and curveted, the warriors\nbrandished their weapons, and there was a faint sound of drums and\ntrumpets, and the clang of arms, and neighing of steeds; but all no\nlouder, nor more distinct, than the hum of the bee, or the summer-fly, in\nthe drowsy ear of him who lies at noontide in the shade.\n\n\"Behold, O king,\" said the astrologer, \"a proof that thy enemies are even\nnow in the field. They must be advancing through yonder mountains, by the\nPass of Lope. Would you produce a panic and confusion amongst them, and\ncause them to retreat without loss of life, strike these effigies with\nthe butt-end of this magic lance; would you cause bloody feud and carnage,\nstrike with the point.\"\n\nA livid streak passed across the countenance of Aben Abuz; he seized the\nlance with trembling eagerness; his gray beard wagged with exultation\nas he tottered toward the table: \"Son of Abu Ayub,\" exclaimed he, in\nchuckling tone, \"I think we will have a little blood!\"\n\nSo saying, he thrust the magic lance into some of the pigmy effigies, and\nbelaboured others with the butt-end, upon which the former fell as dead\nupon the board, and the rest turning upon each other, began, pell-mell,\na chance-medley fight.\n\nIt was with difficulty the astrologer could stay the hand of the most\npacific of monarchs and prevent him from absolutely exterminating his\nfoes; at length he prevailed upon him to leave the tower, and to send out\nscouts to the mountains by the Pass of Lope.\n\nThey returned with the intelligence that a Christian army had advanced\nthrough the heart of the Sierra, almost within sight of Granada, where\na dissension had broken out among them; they had turned their weapons\nagainst each other, and after much slaughter had retreated over the\nborder.\n\nAben Habuz was transported with joy on thus proving the efficacy of the\ntalisman. \"At length,\" said he, \"I shall lead a life of tranquillity, and\nhave all my enemies in my power. O wise son of Abu Ayub, what can I bestow\non thee in reward for such a blessing?\"\n\n\"The wants of an old man and a philosopher, O king, are few and simple;\ngrant me but the means of fitting up my cave as a suitable hermitage, and\nI am content.\"\n\n\"How noble is the moderation of the truly wise!\" exclaimed Aben Habuz,\nsecretly pleased at the cheapness of the recompense. He summoned his\ntreasurer, and bade him dispense whatever sums might be required by\nIbrahim to complete and furnish his hermitage.\n\nThe astrologer now gave orders to have various chambers hewn out of\nthe solid rock, so as to form ranges of apartments connected with his\nastrological hall; these he caused to be furnished with luxurious ottomans\nand divans, and the walls to be hung with the richest silks of Damascus.\n\"I am an old man,\" said he, \"and can no longer rest my bones on stone\ncouches, and these damp walls require covering.\"\n\nHe had baths too constructed, and provided with all kinds of perfumes\nand aromatic oils. \"For a bath,\" said he, \"is necessary to counteract\nthe rigidity of age, and to restore freshness and suppleness to the frame\nwithered by study.\"\n\nHe caused the apartments to be hung with innumerable silver and crystal\nlamps, which he filled with a fragrant oil prepared according to a receipt\ndiscovered by him in the tombs of Egypt. This oil was perpetual in its\nnature, and diffused a soft radiance like the tempered light of day. \"The\nlight of the sun,\" said he, \"is too garish and violent for the eyes of an\nold man, and the light of the lamp is more congenial to the studies of a\nphilosopher.\"\n\nThe treasurer of King Aben Habuz groaned at the sums daily demanded to fit\nup this hermitage, and he carried his complaints to the king. The royal\nword, however, had been given; Aben Habuz shrugged his shoulders: \"We must\nhave patience,\" said he; \"this old man has taken his idea of a philosophic\nretreat from the interior of the pyramids, and of the vast ruins of Egypt;\nbut all things have an end, and so will the furnishing of his cavern.\"\n\nThe king was in the right; the hermitage was at length complete, and\nformed a sumptuous subterranean palace. The astrologer expressed himself\nperfectly content, and, shutting himself up, remained for three whole days\nburied in study. At the end of that time he appeared again before the\ntreasurer. \"One thing more is necessary,\" said he, \"one trifling solace\nfor the intervals of mental labour.\"\n\n\"O wise Ibrahim, I am bound to furnish everything necessary for thy\nsolitude; what more dost thou require?\"\n\n\"I would fain have a few dancing-women.\"\n\n\"Dancing-women,\" echoed the treasurer, with surprise.\n\n\"Dancing-women,\" replied the sage gravely; \"and let them be young and fair\nto look upon; for the sight of youth and beauty is refreshing. A few will\nsuffice, for I am a philosopher of simple habits and easily satisfied.\"\n\nWhile the philosophic Ibrahim Ebn Abu Ayub passed his time thus sagely\nin his hermitage, the pacific Aben Habuz carried on furious campaigns in\neffigy in his tower. It was a glorious thing for an old man, like himself,\nof quiet habits, to have war made easy, and to be enabled to amuse himself\nin his chamber by brushing away whole armies like so many swarms of flies.\n\nFor a time he rioted in the indulgence of his humours, and even taunted\nand insulted his neighbours, to induce them to make incursions; but by\ndegrees they grew wary from repeated disasters, until no one ventured\nto invade his territories. For many months the bronze horseman remained\non the peace establishment, with his lance elevated in the air; and the\nworthy old monarch began to repine at the want of his accustomed sport,\nand to grow peevish at his monotonous tranquillity.\n\nAt length, one day, the talismanic horseman veered suddenly round, and\nlowering his lance, made a dead point towards the mountains of Guadix.\nAben Habuz hastened to his tower, but the magic table in that direction\nremained quiet: not a single warrior was in motion. Perplexed at the\ncircumstance, he sent forth a troop of horse to scour the mountains and\nreconnoitre. They returned after three days' absence.\n\n\"We have searched every mountain pass,\" said they, \"but not a helm nor\nspear was stirring. All that we have found in the course of our foray,\nwas a Christian damsel of surpassing beauty, sleeping at noontide beside\na fountain, whom we have brought away captive.\"\n\n\"A damsel of surpassing beauty!\" exclaimed Aben Habuz, his eyes gleaming\nwith animation; \"let her be conducted into my presence.\"\n\nThe beautiful damsel was accordingly conducted into his presence. She\nwas arrayed with all the luxury of ornament that had prevailed among the\nGothic Spaniards at the time of the Arabian conquest. Pearls of dazzling\nwhiteness were entwined with her raven tresses; and jewels sparkled on her\nforehead, rivalling the lustre of her eyes. Around her neck was a golden\nchain, to which was suspended a silver lyre, which hung by her side.\n\nThe flashes of her dark refulgent eye were like sparks of fire on\nthe withered, yet combustible, heart of Aben Habuz; the swimming\nvoluptuousness of her gait made his senses reel. \"Fairest of women,\" cried\nhe, with rapture, \"who and what art thou?\"\n\n\"The daughter of one of the Gothic princes, who but lately ruled over\nthis land. The armies of my father have been destroyed, as if by magic,\namong these mountains; he has been driven into exile, and his daughter is\na captive.\"\n\n\"Beware, O king!\" whispered Ibrahim Ebn Abu Ayub, \"this may be one of\nthose northern sorceresses of whom we have heard, who assume the most\nseductive forms to beguile the unwary. Methinks I read witchcraft in her\neye, and sorcery in every movement. Doubtless this is the enemy pointed\nout by the talisman.\"\n\n\"Son of Abu Ayub,\" replied the king, \"thou art a wise man, I grant, a\nconjuror for aught I know; but thou art little versed in the ways of\nwoman. In that knowledge will I yield to no man; no, not to the wise\nSolomon himself, notwithstanding the number of his wives and concubines.\nAs to this damsel, I see no harm in her; she is fair to look upon, and\nfinds favour in my eyes.\"\n\n\"Hearken, O king!\" replied the astrologer. \"I have given thee many\nvictories by means of my talisman, but have never shared any of the spoil.\nGive me then this stray captive, to solace me in my solitude with her\nsilver lyre. If she be indeed a sorceress, I have counter spells that set\nher charms at defiance.\"\n\n\"What! more women!\" cried Aben Habuz. \"Hast thou not already dancing-women\nenough to solace thee?\"\n\n\"Dancing-women have I, it is true, but no singing-women. I would fain\nhave a little minstrelsy to refresh my mind when weary with the toils of\nstudy.\"\n\n\"A truce with thy hermit cravings,\" said the king, impatiently. \"This\ndamsel have I marked for my own. I see much comfort in her: even such\ncomfort as David, the father of Solomon the Wise, found in the society of\nAbishag the Shunammite.\"\n\nFurther solicitations and remonstrances of the astrologer only provoked\na more peremptory reply from the monarch, and they parted in high\ndispleasure. The sage shut himself up in his hermitage to brood over\nhis disappointment; ere he departed, however, he gave the king one more\nwarning to beware of his dangerous captive. But where is the old man in\nlove that will listen to counsel? Aben Habuz resigned himself to the full\nsway of his passion. His only study was how to render himself amiable in\nthe eyes of the Gothic beauty. He had not youth to recommend him, it is\ntrue, but then he had riches; and when a lover is old, he is generally\ngenerous. The Zacatin of Granada was ransacked for the most precious\nmerchandise of the East; silks, jewels, precious gems, exquisite perfumes,\nall that Asia and Africa yielded of rich and rare, were lavished upon the\nprincess. All kinds of spectacles and festivities were devised for her\nentertainment; minstrelsy, dancing, tournaments, bull-fights;--Granada\nfor a time was a scene of perpetual pageant. The Gothic princess regarded\nall this splendour with the air of one accustomed to magnificence. She\nreceived everything as a homage due to her rank, or rather to her beauty;\nfor beauty is more lofty in its exactions even than rank. Nay, she seemed\nto take a secret pleasure in exciting the monarch to expenses that made\nhis treasury shrink, and then treating his extravagant generosity as a\nmere matter of course. With all his assiduity and munificence, also, the\nvenerable lover could not flatter himself that he had made any impression\non her heart. She never frowned on him, it is true, but then she never\nsmiled. Whenever he began to plead his passion, she struck her silver\nlyre. There was a mystic charm in the sound. In an instant the monarch\nbegan to nod; a drowsiness stole over him, and he gradually sank into a\nsleep, from which he awoke wonderfully refreshed, but perfectly cooled\nfor the time of his passion. This was very baffling to his suit; but then\nthese slumbers were accompanied by agreeable dreams, which completely\nenthralled the senses of the drowsy lover; so he continued to dream on,\nwhile all Granada scoffed at his infatuation, and groaned at the treasures\nlavished for a song.\n\nAt length a danger burst on the head of Aben Habuz, against which his\ntalisman yielded him no warning. An insurrection broke out in his very\ncapital; his palace was surrounded by an armed rabble, who menaced his\nlife and the life of his Christian paramour. A spark of his ancient\nwarlike spirit was awakened in the breast of the monarch. At the head of\na handful of his guards he sallied forth, put the rebels to flight, and\ncrushed the insurrection in the bud.\n\nWhen quiet was again restored, he sought the astrologer, who still\nremained shut up in his hermitage, chewing the bitter cud of resentment.\n\nAben Habuz approached him with a conciliatory tone. \"O wise son of Abu\nAyub,\" said he, \"well didst thou predict dangers to me from this captive\nbeauty: tell me then, thou who art so quick at foreseeing peril, what I\nshould do to avert it.\"\n\n\"Put from thee the infidel damsel who is the cause.\"\n\n\"Sooner would I part with my kingdom,\" cried Aben Habuz.\n\n\"Thou art in danger of losing both,\" replied the astrologer.\n\n\"Be not harsh and angry, O most profound of philosophers; consider\nthe double distress of a monarch and a lover, and devise some means\nof protecting me from the evils by which I am menaced. I care not for\ngrandeur, I care not for power, I languish only for repose; would that I\nhad some quiet retreat where I might take refuge from the world, and all\nits cares, and pomps, and troubles, and devote the remainder of my days\nto tranquillity and love.\"\n\nThe astrologer regarded him for a moment from under his bushy eyebrows.\n\n\"And what wouldst thou give, if I could provide thee such a retreat?\"\n\n\"Thou shouldst name thy own reward; and whatever it might be, if within\nthe scope of my power, as my soul liveth, it should be thine.\"\n\n\"Thou hast heard, O king, of the garden of Irem, one of the prodigies of\nArabia the happy.\"\n\n\"I have heard of that garden; it is recorded in the Koran, even in the\nchapter entitled 'The Dawn of Day.' I have, moreover, heard marvellous\nthings related of it by pilgrims who had been to Mecca; but I considered\nthem wild fables, such as travellers are wont to tell who have visited\nremote countries.\"\n\n\"Discredit not, O king, the tales of travellers,\" rejoined the astrologer,\ngravely, \"for they contain precious rarities of knowledge brought from the\nends of the earth. As to the palace and garden of Irem, what is generally\ntold of them is true; I have seen them with mine own eyes;--listen to my\nadventure, for it has a bearing upon the object of your request.\n\n\"In my younger days, when a mere Arab of the desert, I tended my father's\ncamels. In traversing the desert of Aden, one of them strayed from the\nrest, and was lost. I searched after it for several days, but in vain,\nuntil, wearied and faint, I laid myself down at noontide, and slept under\na palm-tree by the side of a scanty well. When I awoke I found myself at\nthe gate of a city. I entered, and beheld noble streets, and squares,\nand market-places; but all were silent and without an inhabitant. I\nwandered on until I came to a sumptuous palace, with a garden adorned with\nfountains and fish-ponds, and groves and flowers, and orchards laden with\ndelicious fruit; but still no one was to be seen. Upon which, appalled at\nthis loneliness, I hastened to depart; and, after issuing forth at the\ngate of the city, I turned to look upon the place, but it was no longer\nto be seen: nothing but the silent desert extended before my eyes.\n\n\"In the neighbourhood I met with an aged dervise, learned in the\ntraditions and secrets of the land, and related to him what had befallen\nme. 'This,' said he, 'is the far-famed garden of Irem, one of the wonders\nof the desert. It only appears at times to some wanderer like thyself,\ngladdening him with the sight of towers and palaces and garden-walls\noverhung with richly-laden fruit trees, and then vanishes, leaving nothing\nbut a lonely desert. And this is the story of it. In old times, when\nthis country was inhabited by the Addites, King Sheddad, the son of Ad,\nthe great grandson of Noah, founded here a splendid city. When it was\nfinished, and he saw its grandeur, his heart was puffed up with pride and\narrogance, and he determined to build a royal palace, with gardens which\nshould rival all related in the Koran of the celestial paradise. But the\ncurse of heaven fell upon him for his presumption. He and his subjects\nwere swept from the earth, and his splendid city, and palace, and gardens,\nwere laid under a perpetual spell, which hides them from human sight,\nexcepting that they are seen at intervals, by way of keeping his sin in\nperpetual remembrance.'\n\n\"This story, O king, and the wonders I had seen, ever dwelt in my mind;\nand in after years, when I had been in Egypt, and was possessed of the\nbook of knowledge of Solomon the Wise, I determined to return and revisit\nthe garden of Irem. I did so, and found it revealed to my instructed\nsight. I took possession of the palace of Sheddad, and passed several days\nin his mock paradise. The genii who watch over the place were obedient\nto my magic power, and revealed to me the spells by which the whole\ngarden had been, as it were, conjured into existence, and by which it was\nrendered invisible. Such a palace and garden, O king, can I make for thee,\neven here, on the mountain above thy city. Do I not know all the secret\nspells? and am I not in possession of the book of knowledge of Solomon\nthe Wise?\"\n\n\"O wise son of Abu Ayub!\" exclaimed Aben Habuz, trembling with eagerness,\n\"thou art a traveller indeed, and hast seen and learned marvellous things!\nContrive me such a paradise, and ask any reward, even to the half of my\nkingdom.\"\n\n\"Alas!\" replied the other, \"thou knowest I am an old man, and a\nphilosopher, and easily satisfied; all the reward I ask is the first\nbeast of burden, with its load, which shall enter the magic portal of the\npalace.\"\n\nThe monarch gladly agreed to so moderate a stipulation, and the\nastrologer began his work. On the summit of the hill, immediately above\nhis subterranean hermitage, he caused a great gateway or barbican to be\nerected, opening through the centre of a strong tower.\n\nThere was an outer vestibule or porch, with a lofty arch, and within it\na portal secured by massive gates. On the keystone of the portal the\nastrologer, with his own hand, wrought the figure of a huge key; and\non the keystone of the outer arch of the vestibule, which was loftier\nthan that of the portal, he carved a gigantic hand. These were potent\ntalismans, over which he repeated many sentences in an unknown tongue.\n\nWhen this gateway was finished, he shut himself up for two days in\nhis astrological hall, engaged in secret incantations; on the third he\nascended the hill, and passed the whole day on its summit. At a late hour\nof the night he came down, and presented himself before Aben Habuz. \"At\nlength, O king,\" said he, \"my labour is accomplished. On the summit of\nthe hill stands one of the most delectable palaces that ever the head of\nman devised, or the heart of man desired. It contains sumptuous halls and\ngalleries, delicious gardens, cool fountains, and fragrant baths; in a\nword, the whole mountain is converted into a paradise. Like the garden of\nIrem, it is protected by a mighty charm, which hides it from the view and\nsearch of mortals, excepting such as possess the secret of its talismans.\"\n\n\"Enough!\" cried Aben Habuz, joyfully, \"to-morrow morning with the first\nlight we will ascend and take possession.\" The happy monarch slept but\nlittle that night. Scarcely had the rays of the sun begun to play about\nthe snowy summit of the Sierra Nevada, when he mounted his steed, and,\naccompanied only by a few chosen attendants, ascended a steep and narrow\nroad leading up the hill. Beside him, on a white palfrey, rode the Gothic\nprincess, her whole dress sparkling with jewels, while round her neck\nwas suspended her silver lyre. The astrologer walked on the other side of\nthe king, assisting his steps with his hieroglyphic staff, for he never\nmounted steed of any kind.\n\n  [Illustration: _The Mystic Hand._]\n\nAben Habuz looked to see the towers of the palace brightening above\nhim, and the embowered terraces of its gardens stretching along the\nheights; but as yet nothing of the kind was to be descried. \"That is the\nmystery and safeguard of the place,\" said the astrologer, \"nothing can be\ndiscerned until you have passed the spell-bound gateway, and been put in\npossession of the place.\"\n\nAs they approach the gateway, the astrologer paused, and pointed out to\nthe king the mystic hand and key carved upon the portal of the arch.\n\"These,\" said he, \"are the talismans which guard the entrance to this\nparadise. Until yonder hand shall reach down and seize that key, neither\nmortal power nor magic artifice can prevail against the lord of this\nmountain.\"\n\nWhile Aben Habuz was gazing, with open mouth and silent wonder, at these\nmystic talismans, the palfrey of the princess proceeded and bore her in\nat the portal, to the very centre of the barbican.\n\n\"Behold,\" cried the astrologer, \"my promised reward; the first animal with\nits burden which should enter the magic gateway.\"\n\nAben Habuz smiled at what he considered a pleasantry of the ancient man;\nbut when he found him to be in earnest, his gray beard trembled with\nindignation.\n\n\"Son of Abu Ayub,\" said he, sternly, \"what equivocation is this? Thou\nknowest the meaning of my promise: the first beast of burden, with\nits load, that should enter this portal. Take the strongest mule in my\nstables, load it with the most precious things of my treasury, and it is\nthine; but dare not raise thy thoughts to her who is the delight of my\nheart.\"\n\n\"What need I of wealth?\" cried the astrologer, scornfully; \"have I not the\nbook of knowledge of Solomon the Wise, and through it the command of the\nsecret treasures of the earth? The princess is mine by right; thy royal\nword is pledged; I claim her as my own.\"\n\nThe princess looked down haughtily from her palfrey, and a light smile of\nscorn curled her rosy lip at this dispute between two gray beards for the\npossession of youth and beauty. The wrath of the monarch got the better of\nhis discretion. \"Base son of the desert,\" cried he, \"thou mayst be master\nof many arts, but know me for thy master, and presume not to juggle with\nthy king.\"\n\n\"My master! my king!\" echoed the astrologer,--\"the monarch of a mole-hill\nto claim sway over him who possesses the talismans of Solomon! Farewell,\nAben Habuz; reign over thy petty kingdom, and revel in thy paradise of\nfools; for me I will laugh at thee in my philosophic retirement.\"\n\nSo saying, he seized the bridle of the palfrey, smote the earth with\nhis staff, and sank with the Gothic princess through the centre of the\nbarbican. The earth closed over them, and no trace remained of the opening\nby which they had descended.\n\nAben Habuz was struck dumb for a time with astonishment. Recovering\nhimself, he ordered a thousand workmen to dig, with pickaxe and spade,\ninto the ground where the astrologer had disappeared. They digged\nand digged, but in vain; the flinty bosom of the hill resisted their\nimplements; or if they did penetrate a little way, the earth filled in\nagain as fast as they threw it out. Aben Habuz sought the mouth of the\ncavern at the foot of the hill, leading to the subterranean palace of\nthe astrologer; but it was nowhere to be found. Where once had been an\nentrance, was now a solid surface of primeval rock. With the disappearance\nof Ibrahim Ebn Abu Ayub ceased the benefit of his talismans. The bronze\nhorseman remained fixed, with his face turned toward the hill, and his\nspear pointed to the spot where the astrologer had descended, as if there\nstill lurked the deadliest foe of Aben Habuz.\n\nFrom time to time the sound of music, and the tones of a female voice,\ncould be faintly heard from the bosom of the hill; and a peasant one\nday brought word to the king, that in the preceding night he had found a\nfissure in the rock, by which he had crept in, until he looked down into\na subterranean hall, in which sat the astrologer, on a magnificent divan,\nslumbering and nodding to the silver lyre of the princess, which seemed\nto hold a magic sway over his senses.\n\nAben Habuz sought the fissure in the rock, but it was again closed. He\nrenewed the attempt to unearth his rival, but all in vain. The spell of\nthe hand and key was too potent to be counteracted by human power. As to\nthe summit of the mountain, the site of the promised palace and garden,\nit remained a naked waste; either the boasted elysium was hidden from\nsight by enchantment, or was a mere fable of the astrologer. The world\ncharitably supposed the latter, and some used to call the place \"The\nKing's Folly\"; while others named it \"The Fool's Paradise.\"\n\nTo add to the chagrin of Aben Habuz, the neighbours whom he had defied\nand taunted, and cut up at his leisure while master of the talismanic\nhorseman, finding him no longer protected by magic spell, made inroads\ninto his territories from all sides, and the remainder of the life of the\nmost pacific of monarchs was a tissue of turmoils.\n\nAt length Aben Habuz died, and was buried. Ages have since rolled away.\nThe Alhambra has been built on the eventful mountain, and in some measure\nrealises the fabled delights of the garden of Irem. The spellbound gateway\nstill exists entire, protected no doubt by the mystic hand and key, and\nnow forms the Gate of Justice, the grand entrance to the fortress. Under\nthat gateway, it is said, the old astrologer remains in his subterranean\nhall, nodding on his divan lulled by the silver lyre of the princess.\n\nThe old invalid sentinels who mount guard at the gate hear the strains\noccasionally in the summer nights; and, yielding to their soporific\npower, doze quietly at their posts. Nay, so drowsy an influence pervades\nthe place, that even those who watch by day may generally be seen\nnodding on the stone benches of the barbican, or sleeping under the\nneighbouring trees; so that in fact it is the drowsiest military post\nin all Christendom. All this, say the ancient legends, will endure from\nage to age. The princess will remain captive to the astrologer; and the\nastrologer, bound up in magic slumber by the princess, until the last day,\nunless the mystic hand shall grasp the fated key, and dispel the whole\ncharm of this enchanted mountain.\n\n  [Illustration]\n\n\n\n\n  [Illustration]\n\nVISITORS TO THE ALHAMBRA\n\n\nFor nearly three months had I enjoyed undisturbed my dream of sovereignty\nin the Alhambra,--a longer term of quiet than had been the lot of many\nof my predecessors. During this lapse of time the progress of the season\nhad wrought the usual change. On my arrival I had found everything in\nthe freshness of May; the foliage of the trees was still tender and\ntransparent; the pomegranate had not yet shed its brilliant crimson\nblossoms; the orchards of the Xenil and the Darro were in full bloom;\nthe rocks were hung with wild-flowers, and Granada seemed completely\nsurrounded by a wilderness of roses; among which innumerable nightingales\nsang, not merely in the night, but all day long.\n\nNow the advance of summer had withered the rose and silenced the\nnightingale, and the distant country began to look parched and sunburnt;\nthough a perennial verdure reigned immediately round the city and in the\ndeep narrow valleys at the foot of the snow-capped mountains.\n\n  [Illustration: _Sanctum Sanctorum._]\n\nThe Alhambra possesses retreats graduated to the heat of the weather,\namong which the most peculiar is the almost subterranean apartment of\nthe baths. This still retains its ancient Oriental character, though\nstamped with the touching traces of decline. At the entrance, opening\ninto a small court formerly adorned with flowers, is a hall, moderate in\nsize, but light and graceful in architecture. It is overlooked by a small\ngallery supported by marble pillars and moresco arches. An alabaster\nfountain in the centre of the pavement still throws up a jet of water\nto cool the place. On each side are deep alcoves with raised platforms,\nwhere the bathers, after their ablutions, reclined on cushions, soothed\nto voluptuous repose by the fragrance of the perfumed air and the\nnotes of soft music from the gallery. Beyond this hall are the interior\nchambers, still more retired; the _sanctum sanctorum_ of female privacy;\nfor here the beauties of the Harem indulged in the luxury of the baths.\nA soft mysterious light reigns through the place, admitted through small\napertures (_lumbreras_) in the vaulted ceiling. The traces of ancient\nelegance are still to be seen; and the alabaster baths in which the\nsultanas once reclined. The prevailing obscurity and silence have made\nthese vaults a favourite resort of bats, who nestle during the day in the\ndark nooks and corners, and on being disturbed, flit mysteriously about\nthe twilight chambers, heightening, in an indescribable degree, their air\nof desertion and decay.\n\n  [Illustration: _The Small Court._]\n\nIn this cool and elegant, though dilapidated retreat, which had the\nfreshness and seclusion of a grotto, I passed the sultry hours of the\nday as summer advanced, emerging towards sunset; and bathing, or rather\nswimming, at night in the great reservoir of the main court. In this\nway I was enabled in a measure to counteract the relaxing and enervating\ninfluence of the climate.\n\nMy dream of absolute sovereignty, however, came at length to an end. I was\nroused one morning by the report of firearms, which reverberated among the\ntowers as if the castle had been taken by surprise. On sallying forth, I\nfound an old cavalier with a number of domestics in possession of the Hall\nof Ambassadors. He was an ancient count who had come up from his palace\nin Granada to pass a short time in the Alhambra for the benefit of purer\nair; and who, being a veteran and inveterate sportsman, was endeavouring\nto get an appetite for his breakfast by shooting at swallows from the\nbalconies. It was a harmless amusement; for though, by the alertness of\nhis attendants in loading his pieces, he was enabled to keep up a brisk\nfire, I could not accuse him of the death of a single swallow. Nay, the\nbirds themselves seemed to enjoy the sport, and to deride his want of\nskill, skimming in circles close to the balconies, and twittering as they\ndarted by.\n\n  [Illustration: _The Great Reservoir._]\n\n  [Illustration: _Entrance to Hall of Ambassadors._]\n\nThe arrival of this old gentleman changed essentially the aspect of\naffairs, but caused no jealousy nor collision. We tacitly shared the\nempire between us, like the last kings of Granada, excepting that we\nmaintained a most amicable alliance. He reigned absolute over the Court of\nthe Lions and its adjacent halls, while I maintained peaceful possession\nof the regions of the baths and the little garden of Lindaraxa. We took\nour meals together under the arcades of the court, where the fountains\ncooled the air, and bubbling rills ran along the channels of the marble\npavement.\n\n  [Illustration: _Garden of Lindaraxa._]\n\nIn the evenings a domestic circle would gather about the worthy old\ncavalier. The countess, his wife by a second marriage, would come up\nfrom the city accompanied by her step-daughter Carmen, an only child, a\ncharming little being, still in her girlish years. Then there were always\nsome of his official dependants, his chaplain, his lawyer, his secretary,\nhis steward, and other officers and agents of his extensive possessions,\nwho brought him up the news or gossip of the city, and formed his evening\nparty of _tresillo_ or _ombre_. Thus he held a kind of domestic court,\nwhere each one paid him deference, and sought to contribute to his\namusement, without, however, any appearance of servility, or any sacrifice\nof self-respect. In fact, nothing of the kind was exacted by the demeanour\nof the count; for whatever may be said of Spanish pride, it rarely chills\nor constrains the intercourse of social or domestic life. Among no people\nare the relations between kindred more unreserved and cordial, or between\nsuperior and dependant more free from haughtiness on the one side, and\nobsequiousness on the other. In these respects there still remains in\nSpanish life, especially in the provinces, much of the vaunted simplicity\nof the olden time.\n\n  [Illustration]\n\nThe most interesting member of this family group, in my eyes, was the\ndaughter of the count, the lovely little Carmen. She was but about\nsixteen years of age, and appeared to be considered a mere child, though\nthe idol of the family, going generally by the childlike but endearing\nappellation of _la Ni\u00f1a_. Her form had not yet attained full maturity\nand development, but possessed already the exquisite symmetry and pliant\ngrace so prevalent in this country. Her blue eyes, fair complexion, and\nlight hair, were unusual in Andalusia, and gave a mildness and gentleness\nto her demeanour in contrast to the usual fire of Spanish beauty, but in\nunison with the guileless and confiding innocence of her manners. She had\nat the same time the innate aptness and versatility of her fascinating\ncountrywomen. Whatever she undertook to do she did well and apparently\nwithout effort. She sang, played the guitar and other instruments, and\ndanced the picturesque dances of her country to admiration, but never\nseemed to seek admiration. Everything was spontaneous, prompted by her\nown gay spirits and happy temper.\n\nThe presence of this fascinating little being spread a new charm about\nthe Alhambra, and seemed to be in unison with the place. While the count\nand countess, with the chaplain or secretary, were playing their game\nof _tresillo_ under the vestibule of the Court of Lions, she, attended\nby Dolores, who acted as her maid of honour, would sit by one of the\nfountains, and accompanying herself on the guitar, would sing some of\nthose popular romances which abound in Spain, or, what was still more to\nmy taste, some traditional ballad about the Moors.\n\nNever shall I think of the Alhambra without remembering this lovely little\nbeing, sporting in happy and innocent girlhood in its marble halls,\ndancing to the sound of the Moorish castanets, or mingling the silver\nwarbling of her voice with the music of its fountains.\n\n  [Illustration]\n\n\n\n\n  [Illustration]\n\nTHE GENERALIFE\n\n  [Illustration]\n\n\nHigh above the Alhambra, on the breast of the mountain, amidst embowered\ngardens and stately terraces, rise the lofty towers and white walls of the\nGeneralife; a fairy palace full of storied recollections. Here are still\nto be seen the famous cypresses of enormous size which flourished in the\ntime of the Moors, and which tradition has connected with the fabulous\nstory of Boabdil and his sultana.\n\n  [Illustration: _Hall of Portraits._]\n\nHere are preserved the portraits of many who figured in the romantic\ndrama of the Conquest. Ferdinand and Isabella, Ponce de Leon, the\ngallant Marquis of Cadiz, and Garcilaso de la Vega, who slew in desperate\nfight Tarfe the Moor, a champion of Herculean strength. Here too hangs\na portrait which has long passed for that of the unfortunate Boabdil,\nbut which is said to be that of Aben Hud, the Moorish king from whom\ndescended the princes of Almeria. From one of these princes, who joined\nthe standard of Ferdinand and Isabella towards the close of the Conquest,\nand was Christianised by the name of Don Pedro de Granada Venegas, was\ndescended the present proprietor of the palace, the Marquis of Campotejar.\nThe proprietor, however, dwells in a foreign land, and the palace has no\nlonger a princely inhabitant.\n\n  [Illustration: _Outer Court of the Generalife._]\n\n  [Illustration: _Generalife from Alhambra._]\n\nYet here is everything to delight a southern voluptuary: fruits, flowers,\nfragrance, green arbours and myrtle hedges, delicate air and gushing\nwaters. Here I had an opportunity of witnessing those scenes which\npainters are fond of depicting about southern palaces and gardens. It was\nthe saint's day of the count's daughter, and she had brought up several of\nher youthful companions from Granada, to sport away a long summer's day\namong the breezy halls and bowers of the Moorish palaces. A visit to the\nGeneralife was the morning's entertainment. Here some of the gay company\ndispersed itself in groups about the green walks, the bright fountains,\nthe flights of Italian steps, the noble terraces and marble balustrades.\nOthers, among whom I was one, took their seats in an open gallery or\ncolonnade commanding a vast prospect; with the Alhambra, the city, and\nthe Vega, far below, and the distant horizon of mountains--a dreamy\nworld, all glimmering to the eye in summer sunshine. While thus seated,\nthe all-pervading tinkling of the guitar and click of the castanets came\nstealing up from the valley of the Darro, and half-way down the mountain\nwe descried a festive party under the trees, enjoying themselves in true\nAndalusian style; some lying on the grass, others dancing to the music.\n\n  [Illustration: _Alhambra from Generalife._]\n\n  [Illustration]\n\n  [Illustration: _The Red Palace._]\n\n  [Illustration]\n\nAll these sights and sounds together with the princely seclusion of the\nplace, the sweet quiet which prevailed around, and the delicious serenity\nof the weather, had a witching effect upon the mind, and drew from some\nof the company, versed in local story, several of the popular fancies\nand traditions connected with this old Moorish palace; they were \"such\nstuff as dreams are made of,\" but out of them I have shaped the following\nlegend, which I hope may have the good fortune to prove acceptable to the\nreader.\n\n  [Illustration: _Court of the Aqueduct._]\n\n  [Illustration: _The Cypress Walk, Generalife, destroyed in 1896._]\n\n\n\n\n  [Illustration]\n\nLEGEND OF PRINCE AHMED AL KAMEL;\n\nOR,\n\nTHE PILGRIM OF LOVE\n\n\nThere was once a Moorish king of Granada, who had but one son, whom he\nnamed Ahmed, to which his courtiers added the surname of _al Kamel_, or\nthe Perfect, from the indubitable signs of super-excellence which they\nperceived in him in his very infancy. The astrologers countenanced them\nin their foresight, predicting everything in his favour that could make a\nperfect prince and a prosperous sovereign. One cloud only rested upon his\ndestiny, and even that was of a roseate hue: he would be of an amorous\ntemperament, and run great perils from the tender passion. If, however,\nhe could be kept from the allurements of love until of mature age, these\ndangers would be averted, and his life thereafter be one uninterrupted\ncourse of felicity.\n\nTo prevent all danger of the kind, the king wisely determined to rear the\nprince in a seclusion where he should never see a female face, nor hear\neven the name of love. For this purpose he built a beautiful palace on the\nbrow of the hill above the Alhambra, in the midst of delightful gardens,\nbut surrounded by lofty walls, being, in fact, the same palace known at\nthe present day by the name of the Generalife. In this palace the youthful\nprince was shut up, and intrusted to the guardianship and instruction\nof Eben Bonabben, one of the wisest and dryest of Arabian sages, who had\npassed the greater part of his life in Egypt, studying hieroglyphics, and\nmaking researches among the tombs and pyramids, and who saw more charms in\nan Egyptian mummy than in the most tempting of living beauties. The sage\nwas ordered to instruct the prince in all kinds of knowledge but one,--he\nwas to be kept utterly ignorant of love. \"Use every precaution for the\npurpose you may think proper,\" said the king, \"but remember, O Eben\nBonabben, if my son learns aught of that forbidden knowledge while under\nyour care, your head shall answer for it.\" A withered smile came over the\ndry visage of the wise Bonabben at the menace. \"Let your majesty's heart\nbe as easy about your son, as mine is about my head: am I a man likely to\ngive lessons in the idle passion?\"\n\nUnder the vigilant care of the philosopher, the prince grew up in the\nseclusion of the palace and its gardens. He had black slaves to attend\nupon him--hideous mutes who knew nothing of love, or if they did, had not\nwords to communicate it. His mental endowments were the peculiar care of\nEben Bonabben, who sought to initiate him into the abstruse lore of Egypt;\nbut in this the prince made little progress, and it was soon evident that\nhe had no turn for philosophy.\n\nHe was, however, amazingly ductile for a youthful prince, ready to follow\nany advice, and always guided by the last counsellor. He suppressed\nhis yawns, and listened patiently to the long and learned discourses of\nEben Bonabben, from which he imbibed a smattering of various kinds of\nknowledge, and thus happily attained his twentieth year, a miracle of\nprincely wisdom--but totally ignorant of love.\n\n  [Illustration: _Fountain of the Generalife._]\n\nAbout this time, however, a change came over the conduct of the prince. He\ncompletely abandoned his studies, and took to strolling about the gardens,\nand musing by the sides of the fountains. He had been taught a little\nmusic among his various accomplishments; it now engrossed a great part of\nhis time, and a turn for poetry became apparent. The sage Eben Bonabben\ntook the alarm, and endeavoured to work these idle humours out of him by\na severe course of Algebra; but the prince turned from it with distaste.\n\"I cannot endure algebra,\" said he; \"it is an abomination to me. I want\nsomething that speaks more to the heart.\"\n\nThe sage Eben Bonabben shook his dry head at the words.\n\n\"Here is an end to philosophy,\" thought he. \"The prince has discovered\nhe has a heart!\" He now kept anxious watch upon his pupil, and saw that\nthe latent tenderness of his nature was in activity, and only wanted an\nobject. He wandered about the gardens of the Generalife in an intoxication\nof feelings of which he knew not the cause. Sometimes he would sit plunged\nin a delicious reverie; then he would seize his lute and draw from it the\nmost touching notes, and then throw it aside, and break forth into sighs\nand ejaculations.\n\nBy degrees this loving disposition began to extend to inanimate objects;\nhe had his favourite flowers, which he cherished with tender assiduity;\nthen he became attached to various trees, and there was one in particular,\nof a graceful form and drooping foliage, on which he lavished his amorous\ndevotion, carving his name on its bark, hanging garlands on its branches,\nand singing couplets in its praise, to the accompaniment of his lute.\n\nEben Bonabben was alarmed at this excited state of his pupil. He saw him\non the very brink of forbidden knowledge--the least hint might reveal\nto him the fatal secret. Trembling for the safety of the prince and the\nsecurity of his own head, he hastened to draw him from the seductions\nof the garden, and shut him up in the highest tower of the Generalife.\nIt contained beautiful apartments, and commanded an almost boundless\nprospect, but was elevated far above that atmosphere of sweets and those\nwitching bowers so dangerous to the feelings of the too susceptible Ahmed.\n\nWhat was to be done, however, to reconcile him to this restraint and to\nbeguile the tedious hours? He had exhausted almost all kinds of agreeable\nknowledge; and algebra was not to be mentioned. Fortunately Eben Bonabben\nhad been instructed, when in Egypt, in the language of birds by a Jewish\nRabbin, who had received it in lineal transmission from Solomon the Wise,\nwho had been taught it by the queen of Sheba. At the very mention of such\na study, the eyes of the prince sparkled with animation, and he applied\nhimself to it with such avidity, that he soon became as great an adept as\nhis master.\n\n  [Illustration: _The highest Tower._]\n\nThe tower of the Generalise was no longer a solitude; he had companions\nat hand with whom he could converse. The first acquaintance he formed was\nwith a hawk, who built his nest in a crevice of the lofty battlements,\nwhence he soared far and wide in quest of prey. The prince, however,\nfound little to like or esteem in him. He was a mere pirate of the air,\nswaggering and boastful, whose talk was all about rapine and carnage, and\ndesperate exploits.\n\nHis next acquaintance was an owl, a mighty wise-looking bird, with a\nhuge head and staring eyes, who sat blinking and goggling all day in a\nhole in the wall, but roamed forth at night. He had great pretensions to\nwisdom, talked something of astrology and the moon, and hinted at the dark\nsciences; he was grievously given to metaphysics, and the prince found\nhis prosings even more ponderous than those of the sage Eben Bonabben.\n\nThen there was a bat, that hung all day by his heels in the dark corner of\na vault, but sallied out in slipshod style at twilight. He, however, had\nbut twilight ideas on all subjects, derided things of which he had taken\nbut an imperfect view, and seemed to take delight in nothing.\n\nBesides these there was a swallow, with whom the prince was at first much\ntaken. He was a smart talker, but restless, bustling, and for ever on\nthe wing; seldom remaining long enough for any continued conversation.\nHe turned out in the end to be a mere smatterer, who did but skim over\nthe surface of things, pretending to know everything, but knowing nothing\nthoroughly.\n\nThese were the only feathered associates with whom the prince had any\nopportunity of exercising his newly acquired language; the tower was\ntoo high for any other birds to frequent it. He soon grew weary of his\nnew acquaintances, whose conversation spoke so little to the head and\nnothing to the heart, and gradually relapsed into his loneliness. A\nwinter passed away, spring opened with all its bloom and verdure and\nbreathing sweetness, and the happy time arrived for birds to pair and\nbuild their nests. Suddenly, as it were, a universal burst of song and\nmelody broke forth from the groves and gardens of the Generalife, and\nreached the prince in the solitude of his tower. From every side he heard\nthe same universal theme--love--love--love--chanted forth, and responded\nto in every variety of note and tone. The prince listened in silence and\nperplexity. \"What can be this love,\" thought he, \"of which the world seems\nso full, and of which I know nothing?\" He applied for information to his\nfriend the hawk. The ruffian bird answered in a tone of scorn: \"You must\napply,\" said he, \"to the vulgar peaceable birds of earth, who are made\nfor the prey of us princes of the air. My trade is war, and fighting my\ndelight. I am a warrior, and know nothing of this thing called love.\"\n\nThe prince turned from him with disgust, and sought the owl in his\nretreat. \"This is a bird,\" said he, \"of peaceful habits, and may be able\nto solve my question.\" So he asked the owl to tell him what was this love\nabout which all the birds in the groves below were singing.\n\n  [Illustration]\n\nUpon this the owl put on a look of offended dignity. \"My nights,\" said he,\n\"are taken up in study and research, and my days in ruminating in my cell\nupon all that I have learnt. As to these singing birds of whom you talk, I\nnever listen to them--I despise them and their themes. Allah be praised,\nI cannot sing; I am a philosopher, and know nothing of this thing called\nlove.\"\n\nThe prince now repaired to the vault, where his friend the bat was hanging\nby the heels, and propounded the same question. The bat wrinkled up\nhis nose into a most snappish expression. \"Why do you disturb me in my\nmorning's nap with such an idle question?\" said he, peevishly. \"I only\nfly by twilight, when all birds are asleep, and never trouble myself with\ntheir concerns. I am neither bird nor beast, and I thank heaven for it.\nI have found out the villainy of the whole of them, and hate them one and\nall. In a word, I am a misanthrope--and know nothing of this thing called\nlove.\"\n\nAs a last resort, the prince now sought the swallow, and stopped him just\nas he was circling about the summit of the tower. The swallow, as usual,\nwas in a prodigious hurry, and had scarce time to make a reply. \"Upon my\nword,\" said he, \"I have so much public business to attend to, and so many\npursuits to follow, that I have had no time to think on the subject. I\nhave every day a thousand visits to pay; a thousand affairs of importance\nto examine into, that leave me not a moment of leisure for these little\nsing-song matters. In a word, I am a citizen of the world--I know nothing\nof this thing called love.\" So saying, the swallow dived into the valley,\nand was out of sight in a moment.\n\nThe prince remained disappointed and perplexed, but with his curiosity\nstill more piqued by the difficulty of gratifying it. While in this mood,\nhis ancient guardian entered the tower. The prince advanced eagerly to\nmeet him. \"O Eben Bonabben,\" cried he, \"thou hast revealed to me much of\nthe wisdom of the earth; but there is one thing of which I remain in utter\nignorance, and would fain be informed.\"\n\n\"My prince has but to make the inquiry, and everything within the limited\nrange of his servant's intellect is at his command.\"\n\n\"Tell me then, O most profound of sages, what is the nature of this thing\ncalled love?\"\n\nEben Bonabben was struck as with a thunderbolt. He trembled and turned\npale, and felt as if his head sat but loosely on his shoulders.\n\n\"What could suggest such a question to my prince,--where could he have\nlearnt so idle a word?\"\n\nThe prince led him to the window of the tower. \"Listen, Eben Bonabben,\"\nsaid he. The sage listened. The nightingale sat in a thicket below the\ntower, singing to his paramour the rose; from every blossomed spray and\ntufted grove rose a strain of melody; and love--love--love was still the\nunvarying strain.\n\n\"Allah Akbar! God is great!\" exclaimed the wise Bonabben. \"Who shall\npretend to keep this secret from the heart of man, when even the birds of\nthe air conspire to betray it?\"\n\nThen turning to Ahmed--\"O my prince,\" cried he, \"shut thine ears to these\nseductive strains. Close thy mind against this dangerous knowledge. Know\nthat this love is the cause of half the ills of wretched mortality. It is\nthis which produces bitterness and strife between brethren and friends;\nwhich causes treacherous murder and desolating war. Care and sorrow, weary\ndays and sleepless nights, are its attendants. It withers the bloom and\nblights the joy of youth, and brings on the ills and griefs of premature\nold age. Allah preserve thee, my prince, in total ignorance of this thing\ncalled love!\"\n\nThe sage Eben Bonabben hastily retired, leaving the prince plunged in\nstill deeper perplexity. It was in vain he attempted to dismiss the\nsubject from his mind; it still continued uppermost in his thoughts,\nand teased and exhausted him with vain conjectures. Surely, said he to\nhimself, as he listened to the tuneful strains of the birds, there is no\nsorrow in those notes; everything seems tenderness and joy. If love be a\ncause of such wretchedness and strife, why are not these birds drooping\nin solitude, or tearing each other in pieces, instead of fluttering\ncheerfully about the groves, or sporting with each other among the\nflowers?\n\nHe lay one morning on his couch, meditating on this inexplicable matter.\nThe window of his chamber was open to admit the soft morning breeze, which\ncame laden with the perfume of orange-blossoms from the valley of the\nDarro. The voice of the nightingale was faintly heard, still chanting the\nwonted theme. As the prince was listening and sighing, there was a sudden\nrushing noise in the air; a beautiful dove, pursued by a hawk, darted in\nat the window, and fell panting on the floor, while the pursuer, balked\nof his prey, soared off to the mountains.\n\n  [Illustration: _Bridge on the Darro._]\n\nThe prince took up the gasping bird, smoothed its feathers, and nestled\nit in his bosom. When he had soothed it by his caresses, he put it in a\ngolden cage, and offered it, with his own hands, the whitest and finest\nof wheat and the purest of water. The bird, however, refused food, and\nsat drooping and pining, and uttering piteous moans.\n\n\"What aileth thee?\" said Ahmed. \"Hast thou not everything thy heart can\nwish?\"\n\n\"Alas, no!\" replied the dove; \"am I not separated from the partner of my\nheart, and that too in the happy spring-time, the very season of love!\"\n\n\"Of love!\" echoed Ahmed. \"I pray thee, my pretty bird, canst thou then\ntell me what is love?\"\n\n  [Illustration: _The Moorish Mint._]\n\n\"Too well can I, my prince. It is the torment of one, the felicity of\ntwo, the strife and enmity of three. It is a charm which draws two beings\ntogether, and unites them by delicious sympathies, making it happiness to\nbe with each other, but misery to be apart. Is there no being to whom you\nare drawn by these ties of tender affection?\"\n\n\"I like my old teacher Eben Bonabben better than any other being; but\nhe is often tedious, and I occasionally feel myself happier without his\nsociety.\"\n\n\"That is not the sympathy I mean. I speak of love, the great mystery and\nprinciple of life: the intoxicating revel of youth; the sober delight of\nage. Look forth, my prince, and behold how at this blest season all nature\nis full of love. Every created being has its mate; the most insignificant\nbird sings to its paramour; the very beetle woos its lady-beetle in the\ndust, and yon butterflies which you see fluttering high above the tower\nand toying in the air, are happy in each other's loves. Alas, my prince!\nhast thou spent so many of the precious days of youth without knowing\nanything of love? Is there no gentle being of another sex--no beautiful\nprincess nor lovely damsel who has ensnared your heart, and filled your\nbosom with a soft tumult of pleasing pains and tender wishes?\"\n\n\"I begin to understand,\" said the prince, sighing; \"such a tumult I have\nmore than once experienced, without knowing the cause; and where should\nI seek for an object such as you describe in this dismal solitude?\"\n\nA little further conversation ensued, and the first amatory lesson of the\nprince was complete.\n\n\"Alas!\" said he, \"if love be indeed such a delight, and its interruption\nsuch a misery, Allah forbid that I should mar the joy of any of its\nvotaries.\" He opened the cage, took out the dove, and having fondly kissed\nit, carried it to the window. \"Go, happy bird,\" said he, \"rejoice with\nthe partner of thy heart in the days of youth and spring-time. Why should\nI make thee a fellow-prisoner in this dreary tower, where love can never\nenter?\"\n\nThe dove flapped its wings in rapture, gave one vault into the air, and\nthen swooped downward on whistling wings to the blooming bowers of the\nDarro.\n\nThe prince followed him with his eyes, and then gave way to bitter\nrepining. The singing of the birds, which once delighted him, now added\nto his bitterness. Love! love! love! Alas, poor youth! he now understood\nthe strain.\n\nHis eyes flashed fire when next he beheld the sage Bonabben. \"Why hast\nthou kept me in this abject ignorance?\" cried he. \"Why has the great\nmystery and principle of life been withheld from me, in which I find\nthe meanest insect is so learned? Behold all nature is in a revel of\ndelight. Every created being rejoices with its mate. This--this is the\nlove about which I have sought instruction. Why am I alone debarred its\nenjoyment? Why has so much of my youth been wasted without a knowledge of\nits raptures?\"\n\n  [Illustration: _Generalife. The First Court's Cool Canal._]\n\nThe sage Bonabben saw that all further reserve was useless; for the\nprince had acquired the dangerous and forbidden knowledge. He revealed\nto him, therefore, the predictions of the astrologers and the precautions\nthat had been taken in his education to avert the threatened evils. \"And\nnow, my prince,\" added he, \"my life is in your hands. Let the king your\nfather discover that you have learned the passion of love while under my\nguardianship, and my head must answer for it.\"\n\nThe prince was as reasonable as most young men of his age, and easily\nlistened to the remonstrances of his tutor, since nothing pleaded against\nthem. Besides, he really was attached to Eben Bonabben, and being as yet\nbut theoretically acquainted with the passion of love, he consented to\nconfine the knowledge of it to his own bosom, rather than endanger the\nhead of the philosopher.\n\nHis discretion was doomed, however, to be put to still further proofs. A\nfew mornings afterwards, as he was ruminating on the battlements of the\ntower, the dove which had been released by him came hovering in the air,\nand alighted fearlessly upon his shoulder.\n\nThe prince fondled it to his heart. \"Happy bird,\" said he, \"who can fly,\nas it were, with the wings of the morning to the uttermost parts of the\nearth. Where hast thou been since we parted?\"\n\n  [Illustration: _Seville Cathedral._]\n\n\"In a far country, my prince, whence I bring you tidings in reward for\nmy liberty. In the wild compass of my flight, which extends over plain\nand mountain, as I was soaring in the air, I beheld below me a delightful\ngarden with all kinds of fruits and flowers. It was in a green meadow,\non the banks of a wandering stream: and in the centre of the garden was a\nstately palace. I alighted in one of the bowers to repose after my weary\nflight. On the green bank below me was a youthful princess, in the very\nsweetness and bloom of her years. She was surrounded by female attendants,\nyoung like herself, who decked her with garlands and coronets of flowers;\nbut no flower of field or garden could compare with her for loveliness.\nHere, however, she bloomed in secret, for the garden was surrounded by\nhigh walls, and no mortal man was permitted to enter. When I beheld this\nbeauteous maid, thus young and innocent and unspotted by the world, I\nthought, here is the being formed by heaven to inspire my prince with\nlove.\"\n\nThe description was a spark of fire to the combustible heart of Ahmed; all\nthe latent amorousness of his temperament had at once found an object, and\nhe conceived an immeasurable passion for the princess. He wrote a letter,\ncouched in the most impassioned language, breathing his fervent devotion,\nbut bewailing the unhappy thraldom of his person, which prevented him\nfrom seeking her out and throwing himself at her feet. He added couplets\nof the most tender and moving eloquence, for he was a poet by nature, and\ninspired by love. He addressed his letter--\"To the Unknown Beauty, from\nthe captive Prince Ahmed;\" then perfuming it with musk and roses, he gave\nit to the dove.\n\n\"Away, trustiest of messengers!\" said he. \"Fly over mountain, and valley,\nand river, and plain; rest not in bower, nor set foot on earth, until thou\nhast given this letter to the mistress of my heart.\"\n\nThe dove soared high in air, and taking his course darted away in one\nundeviating direction. The prince followed him with his eye until he was\na mere speck on a cloud, and gradually disappeared behind a mountain.\n\nDay after day he watched for the return of the messenger of love, but he\nwatched in vain. He began to accuse him of forgetfulness, when towards\nsunset one evening the faithful bird fluttered into his apartment, and\nfalling at his feet expired. The arrow of some wanton archer had pierced\nhis breast, yet he had struggled with the lingerings of life to execute\nhis mission. As the prince bent with grief over this gentle martyr to\nfidelity, he beheld a chain of pearls round his neck, attached to which,\nbeneath his wing, was a small enamelled picture. It represented a lovely\nprincess in the very flower of her years. It was doubtless the unknown\nbeauty of the garden; but who and where was she?--how had she received\nhis letter? and was this picture sent as a token of her approval of his\npassion? Unfortunately the death of the faithful dove left everything in\nmystery and doubt.\n\nThe prince gazed on the picture till his eyes swam with tears. He pressed\nit to his lips and to his heart; he sat for hours contemplating it almost\nin an agony of tenderness. \"Beautiful image!\" said he, \"alas, thou art\nbut an image! Yet thy dewy eyes beam tenderly upon me; those rosy lips\nlook as though they would speak encouragement: vain fancies! Have they\nnot looked the same on some more happy rival? But where in this wide world\nshall I hope to find the original? Who knows what mountains, what realms\nmay separate us; what adverse chances may intervene? Perhaps now, even\nnow, lovers may be crowding around her, while I sit here a prisoner in a\ntower, wasting my time in adoration of a painted shadow.\"\n\nThe resolution of Prince Ahmed was taken. \"I will fly from this palace,\"\nsaid he, \"which has become an odious prison; and, a pilgrim of love,\nwill seek this unknown princess throughout the world.\" To escape from the\ntower in the day when every one was awake, might be a difficult matter;\nbut at night the palace was slightly guarded; for no one apprehended any\nattempt of the kind from the prince, who had always been so passive in his\ncaptivity. How was he to guide himself, however, in his darkling flight,\nbeing ignorant of the country? He bethought him of the owl, who was\naccustomed to roam at night, and must know every by-lane and secret pass.\nSeeking him in his hermitage, he questioned him touching his knowledge\nof the land. Upon this the owl put on a mighty self-important look. \"You\nmust know, O prince,\" said he, \"that we owls are of a very ancient and\nextensive family, though rather fallen to decay, and possess ruinous\ncastles and palaces in all parts of Spain. There is scarcely a tower of\nthe mountains, or a fortress of the plains, or an old citadel of a city,\nbut has some brother, or uncle, or cousin, quartered in it; and in going\nthe rounds to visit this my numerous kindred, I have pried into every nook\nand corner, and made myself acquainted with every secret of the land.\"\n\nThe prince was overjoyed to find the owl so deeply versed in topography,\nand now informed him, in confidence, of his tender passion and his\nintended elopement, urging him to be his companion and counsellor.\n\n\"Go to!\" said the owl, with a look of displeasure; \"am I a bird to engage\nin a love-affair?--I, whose whole time is devoted to meditation and the\nmoon?\"\n\n\"Be not offended, most solemn owl,\" replied the prince; \"abstract thyself\nfor a time from meditation and the moon, and aid me in my flight, and thou\nshalt have whatever heart can wish.\"\n\n\"I have that already,\" said the owl: \"a few mice are sufficient for my\nfrugal table, and this hole in the wall is spacious enough for my studies;\nand what more does a philosopher like myself desire?\"\n\n\"Bethink thee, most wise owl, that while moping in thy cell and gazing\nat the moon, all thy talents are lost to the world. I shall one day\nbe a sovereign prince, and may advance thee to some post of honour and\ndignity.\"\n\nThe owl, though a philosopher and above the ordinary wants of life, was\nnot above ambition, so he was finally prevailed on to elope with the\nprince, and be his guide and mentor in his pilgrimage.\n\nThe plans of a lover are promptly executed. The prince collected all his\njewels, and concealed them about his person as travelling funds. That\nvery night he lowered himself by his scarf from a balcony of the tower,\nclambered over the outer walls of the Generalife, and, guided by the owl,\nmade good his escape before morning to the mountains.\n\nHe now held a council with his mentor as to his future course.\n\n  [Illustration: _The Giralda Tower, Seville._]\n\n  [Illustration: _The Alcazar, Seville._]\n\n\"Might I advise,\" said the owl, \"I would recommend you to repair to\nSeville. You must know that many years since I was on a visit to an uncle,\nan owl of great dignity and power, who lived in a ruined wing of the\nAlcazar of that place. In my hoverings at night over the city I frequently\nremarked a light burning in a lonely tower. At length I alighted on the\nbattlements, and found it to proceed from the lamp of an Arabian magician:\nhe was surrounded by his magic books, and on his shoulder was perched\nhis familiar, an ancient raven who had come with him from Egypt. I am\nacquainted with that raven, and owe to him a great part of the knowledge\nI possess. The magician is since dead, but the raven still inhabits the\ntower, for these birds are of wonderful long life. I would advise you, O\nprince, to seek that raven, for he is a soothsayer and a conjurer, and\ndeals in the black art, for which all ravens, and especially those of\nEgypt, are renowned.\"\n\nThe prince was struck with the wisdom of this advice, and accordingly bent\nhis course towards Seville. He travelled only in the night to accommodate\nhis companion, and lay by during the day in some dark cavern or mouldering\nwatch-tower, for the owl knew every hiding-hole of the kind, and had a\nmost antiquarian taste for ruins.\n\nAt length one morning at daybreak they reached the city of Seville, where\nthe owl, who hated the glare and bustle of crowded streets, halted without\nthe gate, and took up his quarters in a hollow tree.\n\nThe prince entered the gate, and readily found the magic tower, which\nrose above the houses of the city, as a palm-tree rises above the shrubs\nof the desert; it was in fact the same tower standing at the present day,\nand known as the Giralda, the famous Moorish tower of Seville.\n\nThe prince ascended by a great winding staircase to the summit of\nthe tower, where he found the cabalistic raven,--an old, mysterious,\ngray-headed bird, ragged in feather, with a film over one eye that gave\nhim the glare of a spectre. He was perched on one leg, with his head\nturned on one side, poring with his remaining eye on a diagram described\non the pavement.\n\nThe prince approached him with the awe and reverence naturally inspired by\nhis venerable appearance and supernatural wisdom. \"Pardon me, most ancient\nand darkly wise raven,\" exclaimed he, \"if for a moment I interrupt those\nstudies which are the wonder of the world. You behold before you a votary\nof love, who would fain seek your counsel how to obtain the object of his\npassion.\"\n\n\"In other words,\" said the raven, with a significant look, \"you seek to\ntry my skill in palmistry. Come, show me your hand, and let me decipher\nthe mysterious lines of fortune.\"\n\n\"Excuse me,\" said the prince, \"I come not to pry into the decrees of fate,\nwhich are hidden by Allah from the eyes of mortals; I am a pilgrim of\nlove, and seek but to find a clue to the object of my pilgrimage.\"\n\n\"And can you be at any loss for an object in amorous Andalusia?\" said the\nold raven, leering upon him with his single eyes; \"above all, can you be\nat a loss in wanton Seville, where black-eyed damsels dance _the zambra_\nunder every orange grove?\"\n\nThe prince blushed, and was somewhat shocked at hearing an old bird with\none foot in the grave talk thus loosely. \"Believe me,\" said he gravely,\n\"I am on no such light and vagrant errand as thou dost insinuate. The\nblack-eyed damsels of Andalusia who dance among the orange groves of\nthe Guadalquivir are as nought to me. I seek one unknown but immaculate\nbeauty, the original of this picture; and I beseech thee, most potent\nraven, if it be within the scope of thy knowledge or the reach of thy\nheart, inform me where she may be found?\"\n\nThe gray-headed raven was rebuked by the gravity of the prince.\n\n\"What know I,\" replied he, dryly, \"of youth and beauty? my visits are to\nthe old and withered, not the fresh and fair; the harbinger of fate am I;\nwho croak bodings of death from the chimney-top, and flap my wings at the\nsick man's window. You must seek elsewhere for tidings of your unknown\nbeauty.\"\n\n\"And where can I seek if not among the sons of wisdom, versed in the book\nof destiny? Know that I am a royal prince, fated by the stars, and sent\non a mysterious enterprise on which may hang the destiny of empires.\"\n\n  [Illustration: _The Palm Tree, Cordova._]\n\nWhen the raven heard that it was a matter of vast moment, in which the\nstars took interest, he changed his tone and manner, and listened with\nprofound attention to the story of the prince. When it was concluded,\nhe replied, \"Touching this princess, I can give thee no information of\nmyself, for my flight is not among gardens, or around ladies' bowers; but\nhie thee to Cordova, seek the palm-tree of the great Abderahman, which\nstands in the court of the principal mosque: at the foot of it thou wilt\nfind a great traveller who has visited all countries and courts, and been\na favourite with queens and princesses. He will give thee tidings of the\nobject of thy search.\"\n\n\"Many thanks for this precious information,\" said the prince. \"Farewell,\nmost venerable conjurer.\"\n\n\"Farewell, pilgrim of love,\" said the raven, dryly, and again fell to\npondering on the diagram.\n\nThe prince sallied forth from Seville, sought his fellow-traveller the\nowl, who was still dozing in the hollow tree, and set off for Cordova.\n\nHe approached it along hanging gardens, and orange and citron groves,\noverlooking the fair valley of the Guadalquivir. When arrived at its gates\nthe owl flew up to a dark hole in the wall, and the prince proceeded in\nquest of the palm-tree planted in days of yore by the great Abderahman. It\nstood in the midst of the great court of the mosque, towering from amidst\norange and cypress trees. Dervishes and Faquirs were seated in groups\nunder the cloisters of the court, and many of the faithful were performing\ntheir ablutions at the fountains before entering the mosque.\n\nAt the foot of the palm-tree was a crowd listening to the words of one\nwho appeared to be talking with great volubility. \"This,\" said the prince\nto himself, \"must be the great traveller who is to give me tidings of the\nunknown princess.\" He mingled in the crowd, but was astonished to perceive\nthat they were all listening to a parrot, who with his bright-green coat,\npragmatical eye, and consequential top-knot, had the air of a bird on\nexcellent terms with himself.\n\n\"How is this,\" said the prince to one of the by-standers, \"that so many\ngrave persons can be delighted with the garrulity of a chattering bird?\"\n\n  [Illustration: _Entrance to Mosque, Cordova._]\n\n\"You know not whom you speak of,\" said the other; \"this parrot is a\ndescendant of the famous parrot of Persia, renowned for his story-telling\ntalent. He has all the learning of the East at the tip of his tongue, and\ncan quote poetry as fast as he can talk. He has visited various foreign\ncourts, where he has been considered an oracle of erudition. He has been\na universal favourite also with the fair sex, who have a vast admiration\nfor erudite parrots that can quote poetry.\"\n\n\"Enough,\" said the prince, \"I will have some private talk with this\ndistinguished traveller.\"\n\nHe sought a private interview, and expounded the nature of his errand.\nHe had scarcely mentioned it when the parrot burst into a fit of dry\nrickety laughter, that absolutely brought tears into his eyes. \"Excuse\nmy merriment,\" said he, \"but the mere mention of love always sets me\nlaughing.\"\n\nThe prince was shocked at this ill-timed mirth. \"Is not love,\" said he,\n\"the great mystery of nature, the secret principle of life, the universal\nbond of sympathy?\"\n\n\"A fig's end!\" cried the parrot, interrupting him; \"prithee where\nhast thou learned this sentimental jargon? trust me, love is quite out\nof vogue; one never hears of it in the company of wits and people of\nrefinement.\"\n\nThe prince sighed as he recalled the different language of his friend the\ndove. But this parrot, thought he, has lived about the court, he affects\nthe wit and the fine gentleman, he knows nothing of the thing called\nlove. Unwilling to provoke any more ridicule of the sentiment which filled\nhis heart, he now directed his inquiries to the immediate purport of his\nvisit.\n\n\"Tell me,\" said he, \"most accomplished parrot, thou who hast everywhere\nbeen admitted to the most secret bowers of beauty, hast thou in the course\nof thy travels met with the original of this portrait?\"\n\nThe parrot took the picture in his claw, turned his head from side to\nside, and examined it curiously with either eye. \"Upon my honour,\" said\nhe, \"a very pretty face, very pretty; but then one sees so many pretty\nwomen in one's travels that one can hardly--but hold--bless me! now I\nlook at it again--sure enough, this is the Princess Aldegonda: how could\nI forget one that is so prodigious a favourite with me!\"\n\n\"The Princess Aldegonda!\" echoed the prince; \"and where is she to be\nfound?\"\n\n\"Softly, softly,\" said the parrot, \"easier to be found than gained. She\nis the only daughter of the Christian king who reigns at Toledo, and is\nshut up from the world until her seventeenth birthday, on account of some\nprediction of those meddlesome fellows the astrologers. You'll not get a\nsight of her; no mortal man can see her. I was admitted to her presence\nto entertain her, and I assure you, on the word of a parrot who has seen\nthe world, I have conversed with much sillier princesses in my time.\"\n\n\"A word in confidence, my dear parrot,\" said the prince. \"I am heir to a\nkingdom, and shall one day sit upon a throne. I see that you are a bird\nof parts, and understand the world. Help me to gain possession of this\nprincess, and I will advance you to some distinguished place about court.\"\n\n\"With all my heart,\" said the parrot; \"but let it be a sinecure if\npossible, for we wits have a great dislike to labour.\"\n\nArrangements were promptly made: the prince sallied forth from Cordova\nthrough the same gate by which he had entered; called the owl down from\nthe hole in the wall, introduced him to his new travelling companion as\na brother savant, and away they set off on their journey.\n\nThey travelled much more slowly than accorded with the impatience of the\nprince; but the parrot was accustomed to high life, and did not like to\nbe disturbed early in the morning. The owl, on the other hand, was for\nsleeping at mid-day, and lost a great deal of time by his long siestas.\nHis antiquarian taste also was in the way; for he insisted on pausing\nand inspecting every ruin, and had long legendary tales to tell about\nevery old tower and castle in the country. The prince had supposed that\nhe and the parrot, being both birds of learning, would delight in each\nother's society, but never had he been more mistaken. They were eternally\nbickering. The one was a wit, the other a philosopher. The parrot quoted\npoetry, was critical on new readings and eloquent on small points of\nerudition; the owl treated all such knowledge as trifling, and relished\nnothing but metaphysics. Then the parrot would sing songs and repeat _bons\nmots_ and crack jokes upon his solemn neighbour, and laugh outrageously\nat his own wit; all which proceedings the owl considered as a grievous\ninvasion of his dignity, and would scowl and sulk and swell, and be\nsilent for a whole day together. The prince heeded not the wranglings\nof his companions being wrapped up in the dreams of his own fancy and\nthe contemplation of the portrait of the beautiful princess. In this\nway they journeyed through the stern passes of the Sierra Morena, across\nthe sunburnt plains of La Mancha and Castile, and along the banks of the\n\"Golden Tagus,\" which winds its wizard mazes over one half of Spain and\nPortugal. At length they came in sight of a strong city with walls and\ntowers built on a rocky promontory, round the foot of which the Tagus\ncircled with brawling violence.\n\n  [Illustration]\n\n  [Illustration]\n\n\"Behold,\" exclaimed the owl, \"the ancient and renowned city of Toledo; a\ncity famous for its antiquities. Behold those venerable domes and towers,\nhoary with time and clothed with legendary grandeur in which so many of\nmy ancestors have meditated.\"\n\n\"Pish!\" cried the parrot, interrupting his solemn antiquarian rapture,\n\"what have we to do with antiquities, and legends, and your ancestry?\nBehold what is more to the purpose--behold the abode of youth and\nbeauty--behold at length, O prince, the abode of your long-sought\nprincess.\"\n\n  [Illustration: _Toledo._]\n\nThe prince looked in the direction indicated by the parrot, and beheld,\nin a delightful green meadow on the banks of the Tagus, a stately palace\nrising from amidst the bowers of a delicious garden. It was just such a\nplace as had been described by the dove as the residence of the original\nof the picture. He gazed at it with a throbbing heart; \"perhaps at this\nmoment,\" thought he, \"the beautiful princess is sporting beneath those\nshady bowers, or pacing with delicate step those stately terraces, or\nreposing beneath those lofty roofs!\" As he looked more narrowly, he\nperceived that the walls of the garden were of great height, so as to defy\naccess, while numbers of armed guards patrolled around them.\n\nThe prince turned to the parrot. \"O most accomplished of birds,\" said\nhe, \"thou hast the gift of human speech. Hie thee to yon garden; seek the\nidol of my soul, and tell her that Prince Ahmed, a pilgrim of love, and\nguided by the stars, has arrived in quest of her on the flowery banks of\nthe Tagus.\"\n\n  [Illustration]\n\nThe parrot, proud of his embassy, flew away to the garden, mounted above\nits lofty walls, and after soaring for a time over the lawns and groves,\nalighted on the balcony of a pavilion that overhung the river. Here,\nlooking in at the casement, he beheld the princess reclining on a couch,\nwith her eyes fixed on a paper, while tears gently stole after each other\ndown her pallid cheek.\n\nPluming his wings for a moment, adjusting his bright-green coat, and\nelevating his top-knot, the parrot perched himself beside her with a\ngallant air; then assuming a tenderness of tone, \"Dry thy tears, most\nbeautiful of princesses,\" said he; \"I come to bring solace to thy heart.\"\n\nThe princess was startled on hearing a voice, but turning and seeing\nnothing but a little green-coated bird bobbing and bowing before her,\n\"Alas! what solace canst thou yield,\" said she, \"seeing thou art but a\nparrot?\"\n\nThe parrot was nettled at the question. \"I have consoled many beautiful\nladies in my time,\" said he; \"but let that pass. At present I come as\nambassador from a royal prince. Know that Ahmed, the prince of Granada,\nhas arrived in quest of thee, and is encamped even now on the flowery\nbanks of the Tagus.\"\n\nThe eyes of the beautiful princess sparkled at these words even brighter\nthan the diamonds in her coronet. \"O sweetest of parrots,\" cried she,\n\"joyful indeed are thy tidings, for I was faint and weary, and sick almost\nunto death with doubt of the constancy of Ahmed. Hie thee back, and tell\nhim that the words of his letter are engraven in my heart, and his poetry\nhas been the food of my soul. Tell him, however, that he must prepare to\nprove his love by force of arms; to-morrow is my seventeenth birthday,\nwhen the king my father holds a great tournament; several princes are to\nenter the lists, and my hand is to be the prize of the victor.\"\n\nThe parrot again took wing, and rustling through the groves, flew back to\nwhere the prince awaited his return. The rapture of Ahmed on finding the\noriginal of his adored portrait, and finding her kind and true, can only\nbe conceived by those favoured mortals who have had the good fortune to\nrealise daydreams and turn a shadow into substance: still there was one\nthing that alloyed his transport--this impending tournament. In fact, the\nbanks of the Tagus were already glittering with arms, and resounding with\ntrumpets of the various knights, who, with proud retinues, were prancing\non towards Toledo to attend the ceremonial. The same star that had\ncontrolled the destiny of the prince had governed that of the princess,\nand until her seventeenth birthday she had been shut up from the world, to\nguard her from the tender passion. The fame of her charms, however, had\nbeen enhanced rather than obscured by this seclusion. Several powerful\nprinces had contended for her hand; and her father, who was a king of\nwondrous shrewdness, to avoid making enemies by showing partiality, had\nreferred them to the arbitrament of arms. Among the rival candidates were\nseveral renowned for strength and prowess. What a predicament for the\nunfortunate Ahmed, unprovided as he was with weapons, and unskilled in the\nexercise of chivalry! \"Luckless prince that I am!\" said he, \"to have been\nbrought up in seclusion under the eye of a philosopher! Of what avail are\nalgebra and philosophy in affairs of love? Alas, Eben Bonabben! why hast\nthou neglected to instruct me in the management of arms?\" Upon this the\nowl broke silence, preluding his harangue with a pious ejaculation, for\nhe was a devout Mussulman.\n\n\"_Allah Akbar!_ God is great!\" exclaimed he; \"in his hands are all secret\nthings--he alone governs the destiny of princes! Know, O prince, that this\nland is full of mysteries, hidden from all but those who, like myself,\ncan grope after knowledge in the dark. Know that in the neighbouring\nmountains there is a cave, and in that cave there is an iron table, and\non that table there lies a suit of magic armour, and beside that table\nthere stands a spell-bound steed, which have been shut up there for many\ngenerations.\"\n\nThe prince stared with wonder, while the owl, blinking his huge round\neyes, and erecting his horns, proceeded.\n\n\"Many years since I accompanied my father to these parts on a tour of\nhis estates, and we sojourned in that cave; and thus became I acquainted\nwith the mystery. It is a tradition in our family which I have heard\nfrom my grandfather, when I was yet but a very little owlet, that this\narmour belonged to a Moorish magician, who took refuge in this cavern when\nToledo was captured by the Christians, and died here, leaving his steed\nand weapons under a mystic spell, never to be used but by a Moslem, and\nby him only from sunrise to mid-day. In that interval, whoever uses them\nwill overthrow every opponent.\"\n\n\"Enough: let us seek this cave!\" exclaimed Ahmed.\n\n  [Illustration]\n\nGuided by his legendary mentor, the prince found the cavern, which was\nin one of the wildest recesses of those rocky cliffs which rise around\nToledo; none but the mousing eye of an owl or an antiquary could have\ndiscovered the entrance to it. A sepulchral lamp of everlasting oil shed\na solemn light through the place. On an iron table in the centre of the\ncavern lay the magic armour, against it leaned the lance, and beside it\nstood an Arabian steed, caparisoned for the field, but motionless as a\nstatue. The armour was bright and unsullied as it had gleamed in days of\nold; the steed in as good condition as if just from the pasture; and when\nAhmed laid his hand upon his neck, he pawed the ground and gave a loud\nneigh of joy that shook the walls of the cavern. Thus amply provided with\n\"horse and rider and weapon to wear,\" the prince determined to defy the\nfield in the impending tourney.\n\nThe eventful morning arrived. The lists for the combat were prepared in\nthe _Vega_, or plain, just below the cliff-built walls of Toledo, where\nstages and galleries were erected for the spectators, covered with rich\ntapestry, and sheltered from the sun by silken awnings. All the beauties\nof the land were assembled in those galleries, while below pranced plumed\nknights with their pages and esquires, among whom figured conspicuously\nthe princes who were to contend in the tourney. All the beauties of the\nland, however, were eclipsed when the Princess Aldegonda appeared in\nthe royal pavilion, and for the first time broke forth upon the gaze\nof an admiring world. A murmur of wonder ran through the crowd at her\ntranscendent loveliness; and the princes who were candidates for her hand,\nmerely on the faith of her reported charms, now felt tenfold ardour for\nthe conflict.\n\n  [Illustration: _Toledo._]\n\nThe princess, however, had a troubled look. The colour came and went from\nher cheek, and her eye wandered with a restless and unsatisfied expression\nover the plumed throng of knights. The trumpets were about sounding for\nthe encounter, when the herald announced the arrival of a strange knight;\nand Ahmed rode into the field. A steel helmet studded with gems rose\nabove his turban; his cuirass was embossed with gold; his cimeter and\ndagger were of the workmanship of Fez, and flamed with precious stones.\nA round shield was at his shoulder, and in his hand he bore the lance of\ncharmed virtue. The caparison of his Arabian steed was richly embroidered\nand swept the ground, and the proud animal pranced and sniffed the air,\nand neighed with joy at once more beholding the array of arms. The lofty\nand graceful demeanour of the prince struck every eye, and when his\nappellation was announced, \"The Pilgrim of Love,\" a universal flutter and\nagitation prevailed among the fair dames in the galleries.\n\n  [Illustration: _The Castle, Toledo._]\n\nWhen Ahmed presented himself at the lists, however, they were closed\nagainst him: none but princes, he was told, were admitted to the contest.\nHe declared his name and rank. Still worse!--he was a Moslem, and could\nnot engage in a tourney where the hand of a Christian princess was the\nprize.\n\nThe rival princes surrounded him with haughty and menacing aspects;\nand one of insolent demeanour and herculean frame sneered at his light\nand youthful form, and scoffed at his amorous appellation. The ire of\nthe prince was roused. He defied his rival to the encounter. They took\ndistance, wheeled, and charged; and at the first touch of the magic lance,\nthe brawny scoffer was tilted from his saddle. Here the prince would have\npaused, but, alas! he had to deal with a demoniac horse and armour; once\nin action, nothing could control them. The Arabian steed charged into the\nthickest of the throng; the lance overturned everything that presented;\nthe gentle prince was carried pell-mell about the field, strewing it\nwith high and low, gentle and simple, and grieving at his own involuntary\nexploits. The king stormed and raged at this outrage on his subjects and\nhis guests. He ordered out all his guards--they were unhorsed as fast as\nthey came up. The king threw off his robes, grasped buckler and lance,\nand rode forth to awe the stranger with the presence of majesty itself.\nAlas! majesty fared no better than the vulgar; the steel and lance were\nno respecters of persons; to the dismay of Ahmed, he was borne full tilt\nagainst the king, and in a moment the royal heels were in the air, and\nthe crown was rolling in the dust.\n\nAt this moment the sun reached the meridian; the magic spell resumed\nits power; the Arabian steed scoured across the plain, leaped the\nbarrier, plunged into the Tagus, swam its raging current, bore the prince\nbreathless and amazed to the cavern, and resumed his station, like a\nstatue, beside the iron table. The prince dismounted right gladly, and\nreplaced the armour, to abide the further decrees of fate. Then seating\nhimself in the cavern, he ruminated on the desperate state to which this\ndemoniac steed and armour had reduced him. Never should he dare to show\nhis face at Toledo after inflicting such disgrace upon its chivalry,\nand such an outrage on its king. What too would the princess think of\nso rude and riotous an achievement? Full of anxiety, he sent forth his\nwinged messengers to gather tidings. The parrot resorted to all the\npublic places and crowded resorts of the city, and soon returned with a\nworld of gossip. All Toledo was in consternation. The princess had been\nborne off senseless to the palace; the tournament had ended in confusion;\nevery one was talking of the sudden apparition, prodigious exploits, and\nstrange disappearance of the Moslem knight. Some pronounced him a Moorish\nmagician; others thought him a demon who had assumed a human shape, while\nothers related traditions of enchanted warriors hidden in the caves of\nthe mountains, and thought it might be one of these, who had made a sudden\nirruption from his den. All agreed that no mere ordinary mortal could have\nwrought such wonders, or unhorsed such accomplished and stalwart Christian\nwarriors.\n\n  [Illustration: _The Royal Palace._]\n\nThe owl flew forth at night and hovered about the dusky city, perching on\nroofs and chimneys. He then wheeled his flight up to the royal palace,\nwhich stood on a rocky summit of Toledo, and went prowling about its\nterraces and battlements, eavesdropping at every cranny, and glaring in\nwith his big goggling eyes at every window where there was a light, so as\nto throw two or three maids of honour into fits. It was not until the grey\ndawn began to peer above the mountains that he returned from his mousing\nexpedition, and related to the prince what he had seen.\n\n\"As I was prying about one of the loftiest towers of the palace,\" said\nhe, \"I beheld through a casement a beautiful princess. She was reclining\non a couch with attendants and physicians around her, but she would\nnone of their ministry and relief. When they retired, I beheld her draw\nforth a letter from her bosom, and read and kiss it, and give way to\nloud lamentations; at which, philosopher as I am, I could but be greatly\nmoved.\"\n\nThe tender heart of Ahmed was distressed at these tidings. \"Too true\nwere thy words, O sage Eben Bonabben,\" cried he; \"care and sorrow and\nsleepless nights are the lot of lovers. Allah preserve the princess from\nthe blighting influence of this thing called love!\"\n\nFurther intelligence from Toledo corroborated the report of the owl. The\ncity was a prey to uneasiness and alarm. The princess was conveyed to the\nhighest tower of the palace, every avenue to which was strongly guarded.\nIn the meantime a devouring melancholy had seized upon her, of which no\none could divine the cause--she refused food and turned a deaf ear to\nevery consolation. The most skilful physicians had essayed their art in\nvain; it was thought some magic spell had been practised upon her, and\nthe king made proclamation, declaring that who ever should effect her cure\nshould receive the richest jewel in the royal treasury.\n\nWhen the owl, who was dozing in a corner, heard of this proclamation, he\nrolled his large eyes and looked more mysterious than ever.\n\n\"_Allah Akbar!_\" exclaimed he, \"happy the man that shall effect that cure,\nshould he but know what to choose from the royal treasury.\"\n\n\"What mean you, most reverend owl?\" said Ahmed.\n\n\"Hearken, O prince, to what I shall relate. We owls, you must know, are a\nlearned body, and much given to dark and dusty research. During my late\nprowling at night about the domes and turrets of Toledo, I discovered a\ncollege of antiquarian owls, who hold their meetings in a great vaulted\ntower where the royal treasury is deposited. Here they were discussing\nthe forms and inscriptions and designs of ancient gems and jewels, and of\ngolden and silver vessels, heaped up in the treasury, the fashion of every\ncountry and age; but mostly they were interested about certain relics and\ntalismans that have remained in the treasury since the time of Roderick\nthe Goth. Among these was a box of sandal-wood secured by bands of steel\nof Oriental workmanship, and inscribed with mystic characters known only\nto the learned few. This box and its inscription had occupied the college\nfor several sessions, and had caused much long and grave dispute. At the\ntime of my visit a very ancient owl, who had recently arrived from Egypt,\nwas seated on the lid of the box, lecturing upon the inscription, and he\nproved from it that the coffer contained the silken carpet of the throne\nof Solomon the wise; which doubtless had been brought to Toledo by the\nJews who took refuge there after the downfall of Jerusalem.\"\n\nWhen the owl had concluded his antiquarian harangue, the prince remained\nfor a time absorbed in thought. \"I have heard,\" said he, \"from the sage\nEben Bonabben, of the wonderful properties of that talisman, which\ndisappeared at the fall of Jerusalem, and was supposed to be lost to\nmankind. Doubtless it remains a sealed mystery to the Christians of\nToledo. If I can get possession of that carpet, my fortune is secure.\"\n\nThe next day the prince laid aside his rich attire, and arrayed himself\nin the simple guard of an Arab of the desert. He dyed his complexion to a\ntawny hue, and no one could have recognised in him the splendid warrior\nwho had caused such admiration and dismay at the tournament. With staff\nin hand, and scrip by his side, and a small pastoral reed, he repaired\nto Toledo, and presenting himself at the gate of the royal palace,\nannounced himself as a candidate for the reward offered for the cure of\nthe princess. The guards would have driven him away with blows. \"What can\na vagrant Arab like thyself pretend to do,\" said they, \"in a case where\nthe most learned of the land have failed?\" The king, however, overheard\nthe tumult, and ordered the Arab to be brought into his presence.\n\n\"Most potent king,\" said Ahmed, \"you behold before you a Bedouin Arab,\nthe greater part of whose life has been passed in the solitudes of the\ndesert. These solitudes, it is well known, are the haunts of demons and\nevil spirits, who beset us poor shepherds in our lonely watchings, enter\ninto and possess our flocks and herds, and sometimes render even the\npatient camel furious; against these, our counter-charm is music; and we\nhave legendary airs handed down from generation to generation, that we\nchant and pipe, to cast forth these evil spirits. I am of a gifted line,\nand possess this power in its fullest force. If it be any evil influence\nof the kind that holds a spell over thy daughter, I pledge my head to free\nher from its sway.\"\n\nThe king, who was a man of understanding, and knew the wonderful secrets\npossessed by the Arabs, was inspired with hope by the confident language\nof the prince. He conducted him immediately to the lofty tower, secured\nby several doors, in the summit of which was the chamber of the princess.\nThe windows opened upon a terrace with balustrades, commanding a view\nover Toledo and all the surrounding country. The windows were darkened,\nfor the princess lay within, a prey to a devouring grief that refused all\nalleviation.\n\nThe prince seated himself on the terrace, and performed several wild\nArabian airs on his pastoral pipe, which he had learnt from his attendants\nin the Generalife at Granada. The princess continued insensible, and the\ndoctors who were present shook their heads, and smiled with incredulity\nand contempt: at length the prince laid aside the reed, and, to a simple\nmelody, chanted the amatory verses of the letter which had declared his\npassion.\n\nThe princess recognised the strain--a fluttering joy stole to her heart;\nshe raised her head and listened; tears rushed to her eyes and streamed\ndown her cheeks; her bosom rose and fell with a tumult of emotions. She\nwould have asked for the minstrel to be brought into her presence, but\nmaiden coyness held her silent. The king read her wishes, and at his\ncommand Ahmed was conducted into the chamber. The lovers were discreet:\nthey but exchanged glances, yet those glances spoke volumes. Never was\ntriumph of music more complete. The rose had returned to the soft cheek\nof the princess, the freshness to her lip, and the dewy light to her\nlanguishing eyes.\n\nAll the physicians present stared at each other with astonishment. The\nking regarded the Arab minstrel with admiration mixed with awe. \"Wonderful\nyouth!\" exclaimed he, \"thou shalt henceforth be the first physician of\nmy court, and no other prescription will I take but thy melody. For the\npresent receive thy reward, the most precious jewel in my treasury.\"\n\n\"O king,\" replied Ahmed, \"I care not for silver or gold or precious\nstones. One relic hast thou in thy treasury, handed down from the Moslems\nwho once owned Toledo--a box of sandal-wood containing a silken carpet:\ngive me that box, and I am content.\"\n\nAll present were surprised at the moderation of the Arab, and still more\nwhen the box of sandal-wood was brought and the carpet drawn forth. It was\nof fine green silk, covered with Hebrew and Chaldaic characters. The court\nphysicians looked at each other, shrugged their shoulders, and smiled\nat the simplicity of this new practitioner, who could be content with so\npaltry a fee.\n\n\"This carpet,\" said the prince, \"once covered the throne of Solomon the\nWise; it is worthy of being placed beneath the feet of beauty.\"\n\nSo saying, he spread it on the terrace beneath an ottoman that had been\nbrought forth for the princess; then seating himself at her feet--\n\n\"Who,\" said he, \"shall counteract what is written in the book of fate?\nBehold the prediction of the astrologers verified. Know, O king, that\nyour daughter and I have long loved each other in secret. Behold in me\nthe Pilgrim of Love!\"\n\nThese words were scarcely from his lips when the carpet rose in the air,\nbearing off the prince and princess. The king and the physicians gazed\nafter it with open mouths and straining eyes until it became a little\nspeck on the white bosom of a cloud, and then disappeared in the blue\nvault of heaven.\n\nThe king in a rage summoned his treasurer. \"How is this,\" said he, \"that\nthou hast suffered an infidel to get possession of such a talisman?\"\n\n\"Alas, sir, we knew not its nature, nor could we decipher the inscription\nof the box. If it be indeed the carpet of the throne of the wise Solomon,\nit is possessed of magic power, and can transport its owner from place to\nplace through the air.\"\n\nThe king assembled a mighty army, and set off for Granada in pursuit of\nthe fugitives. His march was long and toilsome. Encamping in the Vega,\nhe sent a herald to demand restitution of his daughter. The king himself\ncame forth with all his court to meet him. In the king he beheld the\nreal minstrel, for Ahmed had succeeded to the throne on the death of his\nfather, and the beautiful Aldegonda was his sultana.\n\nThe Christian king was easily pacified when he found that his daughter was\nsuffered to continue in her faith; not that he was particularly pious, but\nreligion is always a point of pride and etiquette with princes. Instead\nof bloody battles, there was a succession of feasts and rejoicings, after\nwhich the king returned well pleased to Toledo, and the youthful couple\ncontinued to reign as happily as wisely, in the Alhambra.\n\nIt is proper to add, that the owl and the parrot had severally followed\nthe prince by easy stages to Granada; the former travelling by night, and\nstopping at the various hereditary possessions of his family; the latter\nfiguring in gay circles of every town and city on his route.\n\nAhmed gratefully requited the services which they had rendered on his\npilgrimage. He appointed the owl his prime minister, the parrot his master\nof ceremonies. It is needless to say that never was a realm more sagely\nadministered, nor a court conducted with more exact punctilio.\n\n  [Illustration]\n\n\n\n\n  [Illustration]\n\nA RAMBLE AMONG THE HILLS\n\n\nI used frequently to amuse myself towards the close of the day, when\nthe heat had subsided, with taking long rambles about the neighbouring\nhills, and the deep umbrageous valleys, accompanied by my historiographic\nsquire, Mateo, to whose passion for gossiping I on such occasions gave the\nmost unbounded license; and there was scarce a rock, or ruin, or broken\nfountain, or lonely glen, about which he had not some marvellous story;\nor, above all, some golden legend; for never was poor devil so munificent\nin dispensing hidden treasures.\n\nIn the course of one of these strolls Mateo was more than usually\ncommunicative. It was toward sunset that we sallied forth from the great\nGate of Justice, and ascended an alley of trees until we came to a clump\nof figs and pomegranates at the foot of the Tower of the Seven Floors (_de\nlos siete suelos_), the identical tower whence Boabdil is said to have\nissued, when he surrendered his capital. Here, pointing to a low archway\nin the foundation, Mateo informed me of a monstrous sprite or hobgoblin,\nsaid to infest this tower, ever since the time of the Moors, and to guard\nthe treasures of a Moslem king. Sometimes it issues forth in the dead\nof the night, and scours the avenues of the Alhambra, and the streets\nof Granada, in the shape of a headless horse, pursued by six dogs with\nterrible yells and howlings.\n\n\"But have you ever met with it yourself, Mateo, in any of your rambles?\"\ndemanded I.\n\n  [Illustration: _Among the Hills._]\n\n\"No, _Se\u00f1or_, God be thanked! but my grandfather, the tailor, knew several\npersons that had seen it, for it went about much oftener in his time\nthan at present; sometimes in one shape, sometimes in another. Everybody\nin Granada has heard of the _Belludo_, for the old women and the nurses\nfrighten the children with it when they cry. Some say it is the spirit\nof a cruel Moorish king, who killed his six sons and buried them in these\nvaults, and that they hunt him at nights in revenge.\"\n\nI forbear to dwell upon the marvellous details given by the simple-minded\nMateo about this redoubtable phantom, which has, in fact, been time\nout of mind a favourite theme of nursery tales and popular tradition in\nGranada, and of which honourable mention is made by an ancient and learned\nhistorian and topographer of the place.\n\n  [Illustration: _Among the Hills._]\n\nLeaving this eventful pile, we continued our course, skirting the fruitful\norchards of the Generalife, in which two or three nightingales were\npouring forth a rich strain of melody. Behind these orchards we passed\na number of Moorish tanks, with a door cut into the rocky bosom of the\nhill, but closed up. These tanks, Mateo informed me, were favourite\nbathing-places of himself and his comrades in boyhood, until frightened\naway by a story of a hideous Moor, who used to issue forth from the door\nin the rock to entrap unwary bathers.\n\n  [Illustration: _Fruitful Orchards._]\n\nLeaving these haunted tanks behind us, we pursued our ramble up a solitary\nmule-path winding among the hills, and soon found ourselves amidst wild\nand melancholy mountains, destitute of trees, and here and there tinted\nwith scanty verdure. Everything within sight was severe and sterile, and\nit was scarcely possible to realise the idea that, but a short distance\nbehind us was the Generalife, with its blooming orchards and terraced\ngardens, and that we were in the vicinity of delicious Granada, that city\nof groves and fountains. But such is the nature of Spain; wild and stern\nthe moment it escapes from cultivation, the desert and the garden are ever\nside by side.\n\nThe narrow defile up which we were passing is called, according to Mateo,\n_el Barranco de la tinaja_, or the ravine of the jar, because a jar full\nof Moorish gold was found here in old time. The brain of poor Mateo was\ncontinually running upon these golden legends.\n\n\"But what is the meaning of the cross I see yonder upon a heap of stones,\nin that narrow part of the ravine?\"\n\n  [Illustration: _The Desert and the Garden._]\n\n\"Oh, that's nothing--a muleteer was murdered there some years since.\"\n\n\"So then, Mateo, you have robbers and murderers even at the gates of the\nAlhambra?\"\n\n\"Not at present, _Se\u00f1or_; that was formerly, when there used to be many\nloose fellows about the fortress; but they've all been weeded out. Not\nbut that the gypsies who live in caves in the hill-sides, just out of the\nfortress, are many of them fit for anything; but we have had no murder\nabout here for a long time past. The man who murdered the muleteer was\nhanged in the fortress.\"\n\nOur path continued up the barranco, with a bold, rugged height to\nour left, called the _Silla del Moro_, or Chair of the Moor, from the\ntradition already alluded to, that the unfortunate Boabdil fled thither\nduring a popular insurrection, and remained all day seated on the rocky\nsummit, looking mournfully down on his factious city.\n\n  [Illustration: _Garden at Seville._]\n\n  [Illustration: _Silla del Moro._]\n\nWe at length arrived on the highest part of the promontory above Granada,\ncalled the mountain of the sun. The evening was approaching; the setting\nsun just gilded the loftiest heights. Here and there a solitary shepherd\nmight be descried driving his flock down the declivities, to be folded for\nthe night; or a muleteer and his lagging animals, threading some mountain\npath to arrive at the city gates before nightfall.\n\nPresently the deep tones of the Cathedral bell came swelling up the\ndefiles, proclaiming the hour of _oration_ or prayer. The note was\nresponded to from the belfry of every church, and from the sweet bells\nof the convents among the mountains. The shepherd paused on the fold of\nthe hill, the muleteer in the midst of the road; each took off his hat\nand remained motionless for a time, murmuring his evening prayer. There\nis always something pleasingly solemn in this custom, by which, at a\nmelodious signal, every human being throughout the land unites at the\nsame moment in a tribute of thanks to God for the mercies of the day.\nIt spreads a transient sanctity over the land, and the sight of the sun\nsinking in all his glory adds not a little to the solemnity of the scene.\n\nIn the present instance the effect was heightened by the wild and lonely\nnature of the place. We were on the naked and broken summit of the haunted\nmountain of the sun, where ruined tanks and cisterns, and the mouldering\nfoundations of extensive buildings, spoke of former populousness, but\nwhere all was now silent and desolate.\n\nAs we were wandering about among these traces of old times, we came to\na circular pit, penetrating deep into the bosom of the mountain; which\nMateo pointed out as one of the wonders and mysteries of the place. I\nsupposed it to be a well dug by the indefatigable Moors, to obtain their\nfavourite element in its greatest purity. Mateo, however, had a different\nstory, and one much more to his humour. According to a tradition, in which\nhis father and grandfather firmly believed, this was an entrance to the\nsubterranean caverns of the mountain, in which Boabdil and his court lay\nbound in magic spell; and whence they sallied forth at night, at allotted\ntimes, to revisit their ancient abodes.\n\n\"Ah, _Se\u00f1or_, this mountain is full of wonders of the kind. In another\nplace there was a hole somewhat like this, and just within it hung an\niron pot by a chain; nobody knew what was in that pot, for it was always\ncovered up; but everybody supposed it full of Moorish gold. Many tried\nto draw it forth, for it seemed just within reach; but the moment it was\ntouched it would sink far, far down, and not come up again for some time.\nAt last one who thought it must be enchanted touched it with the cross,\nby way of breaking the charm; and faith he did break it, for the pot sank\nout of sight and never was seen any more.\n\n\"All this is a fact, _Se\u00f1or_; for my grandfather was an eyewitness.\"\n\n\"What! Mateo; did he see the pot?\"\n\n\"No, _Se\u00f1or_, but he saw the hole where the pot had hung.\"\n\n\"It's the same thing, Mateo.\"\n\nThe deepening twilight, which in this climate is of short duration,\nadmonished us to leave this haunted ground. As we descended the mountain\ndefile, there was no longer herdsman nor muleteer to be seen, nor\nanything to be heard but our own footsteps and the lonely chirping of\nthe cricket. The shadows of the valley grew deeper and deeper, until all\nwas dark around us. The lofty summit of the Sierra Nevada alone retained\na lingering gleam of daylight; its snowy peaks glaring against the dark\nblue firmament, and seeming close to us, from the extreme purity of the\natmosphere.\n\n\"How near the Sierra looks this evening!\" said Mateo; \"it seems as if you\ncould touch it with your hand; and yet it is many long leagues off.\" While\nhe was speaking, a star appeared over the snowy summit of the mountain,\nthe only one yet visible in the heavens, and so pure, so large, so bright\nand beautiful, as to call forth ejaculations of delight from honest Mateo.\n\n\"_Que estrella hermosa! que clara y limpia es!--No pueda ser estrella mas\nbrillante!_\"\n\n(What a beautiful star! how clear and lucid--a star could not be more\nbrilliant!)\n\nI have often remarked this sensibility of the common people of Spain\nto the charms of natural objects. The lustre of a star, the beauty or\nfragrance of a flower, the crystal purity of a fountain, will inspire\nthem with a kind of poetical delight; and then, what euphonious words\ntheir magnificent language affords, with which to give utterance to their\ntransports!\n\n\"But what lights are those, Mateo, which I see twinkling along the Sierra\nNevada, just below the snowy region, and which might be taken for stars,\nonly that they are ruddy, and against the dark side of the mountain?\"\n\n\"Those, _Se\u00f1or_, are fires, made by the men who gather snow and ice for\nthe supply of Granada. They go up every afternoon with mules and asses,\nand take turns, some to rest and warm themselves by the fires, while\nothers fill the panniers with ice. They then set off down the mountains,\nso as to reach the gates of Granada before sunrise. That Sierra Nevada,\n_Se\u00f1or_, is a lump of ice in the middle of Andalusia, to keep it all cool\nin summer.\"\n\nIt was now completely dark; we were passing through the _barranco_, where\nstood the cross of the murdered muleteer, when I beheld a number of lights\nmoving at a distance, and apparently advancing up the ravine. On nearer\napproach, they proved to be torches borne by a train of uncouth figures\narrayed in black: it would have been a procession dreary enough at any\ntime, but was peculiarly so in this wild and solitary place.\n\nMateo drew near, and told me, in a low voice, that it was a funeral train\nbearing a corpse to the burying-ground among the hills.\n\nAs the procession passed by, the lugubrious light of the torches, falling\non the rugged features and funeral weeds of the attendants, had the\nmost fantastic effect, but was perfectly ghastly, as it revealed the\ncountenance of the corpse, which according to the Spanish custom, was\nborne uncovered on an open bier. I remained for some time gazing after\nthe dreary train as it wound up the dark defile of the mountain. It put\nme in mind of the old story of a procession of demons bearing the body of\na sinner up the crater of Stromboli.\n\n\"Ah! _Se\u00f1or_,\" cried Mateo, \"I could tell you a story of a procession once\nseen among these mountains, but then you'd laugh at me, and say it was\none of the legacies of my grandfather the tailor.\"\n\n\"By no means, Mateo. There is nothing I relish more than a marvellous\ntale.\"\n\n\"Well, _Se\u00f1or_, it is about one of those very men we have been talking\nof, who gather snow on the Sierra Nevada.\n\n\"You must know, that a great many years since, in my grandfather's time,\nthere was an old fellow, _Tio Nicolo_ [Uncle Nicholas] by name, who had\nfilled the panniers of his mule with snow and ice, and was returning\ndown the mountain. Being very drowsy, he mounted upon the mule, and soon\nfalling asleep, went with his head nodding and bobbing about from side to\nside, while his surefooted old mule stepped along the edge of precipices,\nand down steep and broken _barrancos_, just as safe and steady as if it\nhad been on plain ground. At length _Tio Nicolo_ awoke, and gazed about\nhim, and rubbed his eyes--and, in good truth, he had reason. The moon\nshone almost as bright as day, and he saw the city below him, as plain as\nyour hand, and shining with its white buildings, like a silver platter,\nin the moonshine; but, Lord! _Se\u00f1or_, it was nothing like the city he had\nleft a few hours before! Instead of the cathedral, with its great dome\nand turrets, and the churches with their spires, and the convents with\ntheir pinnacles, all surmounted with the blessed cross, he saw nothing\nbut Moorish mosques, and minarets, and cupolas, all topped off with\nglittering crescents, such as you see on the Barbary flags. Well, _Se\u00f1or_,\nas you may suppose, _Tio Nicolo_ was mightily puzzled at all this, but\nwhile he was gazing down upon the city, a great army came marching up\nthe mountains, winding along the ravines, sometimes in the moonshine,\nsometimes in the shade. As it drew nigh, he saw that there were horse\nand foot, all in Moorish armour. _Tio Nicolo_ tried to scramble out of\ntheir way, but his old mule stood stock still, and refused to budge,\ntrembling at the same time, like a leaf,--for dumb beasts, _Se\u00f1or_, are\njust as much frightened at such things as human beings. Well, _Se\u00f1or_,\nthe hobgoblin army came marching by; there were men that seemed to blow\ntrumpets, and others to beat drums and strike cymbals, yet never a sound\ndid they make; they all moved on without the least noise, just as I have\nseen painted armies move across the stage in the theatre of Granada, and\nall looked as pale as death. At last, in the rear of the army, between\ntwo black Moorish horsemen, rode the Grand Inquisitor of Granada, on a\nmule as white as snow. _Tio Nicolo_ wondered to see him in such company,\nfor the Inquisitor was famous for his hatred of Moors, and, indeed, of\nall kinds of Infidels, Jews, and heretics, and used to hunt them out\nwith fire and scourge. However, _Tio Nicolo_ felt himself safe, now that\nthere was a priest of such sanctity at hand. So making the sign of the\ncross, he called out for his benediction, when, _hombre!_ he received a\nblow that sent him and his old mule over the edge of a steep bank, down\nwhich they rolled, head-over-heels, to the bottom! _Tio Nicolo_ did not\ncome to his senses until long after sunrise, when he found himself at the\nbottom of a deep ravine, his mule grazing beside him, and his panniers\nof snow completely melted. He crawled back to Granada sorely bruised and\nbattered, but was glad to find the city looking as usual, with Christian\nchurches and crosses. When he told the story of his night's adventure,\nevery one laughed at him; some said he had dreamed it all, as he dozed\non his mule; others thought it all a fabrication of his own; but what was\nstrange, _Se\u00f1or_, and made people afterwards think more seriously of the\nmatter, was, that the Grand Inquisitor died within the year. I have often\nheard my grandfather, the tailor, say, that there was more meant by that\nhobgoblin army bearing off the resemblance of the priest, than folks dared\nto surmise.\"\n\n\"Then you would insinuate, friend Mateo, that there is a kind of Moorish\nlimbo, or purgatory, in the bowels of these mountains, to which the padre\nInquisitor was borne off.\"\n\n\"God forbid, _Se\u00f1or_! I know nothing of the matter. I only relate what I\nheard from my grandfather.\"\n\nBy the time Mateo had finished the tale, which I have more succinctly\nrelated, and which was interlarded with many comments, and spun out with\nminute details, we reached the gate of the Alhambra.\n\nThe marvellous stories hinted at by Mateo, in the early part of our\nramble about the Tower of the Seven Floors, set me as usual upon my goblin\nresearches. I found that the redoubtable phantom, the _Belludo_, had been\ntime out of mind a favourite theme of nursery tales and popular traditions\nin Granada, and that honourable mention had even been made of it by an\nancient historian and topographer of the place. The scattered members of\none of these popular traditions I have gathered together, collated them\nwith infinite pains, and digested them into the following legend; which\nonly wants a number of learned notes and references at bottom to take its\nrank among those concrete productions gravely passed upon the world for\nHistorical Facts.\n\n  [Illustration]\n\n\n\n\n  [Illustration: _La Plaza de los Algibes._]\n\nLEGEND OF THE MOOR'S LEGACY\n\n\nJust within the fortress of the Alhambra, in front of the royal palace,\nis a broad open esplanade, called the Place or Square of the Cisterns,\n(_La Plaza de los Algibes_), so called from being undermined by reservoirs\nof water, hidden from sight, and which have existed from the time of the\nMoors. At one corner of this esplanade is a Moorish well, cut through the\nliving rock to a great depth, the water of which is cold as ice and clear\nas crystal. The wells made by the Moors are always in repute, for it is\nwell known what pains they took to penetrate to the purest and sweetest\nsprings and fountains. The one of which we now speak is famous throughout\nGranada, insomuch that water-carriers, some bearing great water-jars on\ntheir shoulders, others driving asses before them laden with earthern\nvessels, are ascending and descending the steep woody avenues of the\nAlhambra, from early dawn until a late hour of the night.\n\nFountains and wells, ever since the scriptural days, have been noted\ngossiping-places in hot climates; and at the well in question there is a\nkind of perpetual club kept up during the livelong day, by the invalids,\nold women, and other curious do-nothing folk of the fortress, who sit here\non the stone benches, under an awning spread over the well to shelter the\ntoll-gatherer from the sun, and dawdle over the gossip of the fortress,\nand question every water-carrier that arrives about the news of the\ncity, and make long comments on everything they hear and see. Not an\nhour of the day but loitering housewives and idle maid-servants may be\nseen, lingering, with pitcher on head or in hand, to hear the last of the\nendless tattle of these worthies.\n\n  [Illustration]\n\nAmong the water-carriers who once resorted to this well, there was a\nsturdy, strong-backed, bandy-legged little fellow, named Pedro Gil, but\ncalled Peregil for shortness. Being a water-carrier, he was a _Gallego_,\nor native of Gallicia, of course. Nature seems to have formed races of\nmen, as she has of animals, for different kinds of drudgery. In France\nthe shoeblacks are all Savoyards, the porters of hotels all Swiss, and\nin the days of hoops and hair-powder in England, no man could give the\nregular swing to a sedan-chair but a bog-trotting Irishman. So in Spain,\nthe carriers of water and bearers of burdens are all sturdy little natives\nof Gallicia. No man says, \"Get me a porter,\" but, \"call a _Gallego_.\"\n\nTo return from this digression, Peregil the _Gallego_ had begun business\nwith merely a great earthen jar which he carried upon his shoulder; by\ndegrees he rose in the world, and was enabled to purchase an assistant\nof a correspondent class of animals, being a stout shaggy-haired donkey.\nOn each side of this his long-eared aide-de-camp, in a kind of pannier,\nwere slung his water-jars, covered with fig leaves to protect them from\nthe sun. There was not a more industrious water-carrier in all Granada,\nnor one more merry withal. The streets rang with his cheerful voice as\nhe trudged after his donkey, singing forth the usual summer note that\nresounds through the Spanish towns: \"_Quien quiere agua--agua mas fria\nque la nieve?_\"--\"Who wants water--water colder than snow? Who wants\nwater from the well of the Alhambra, cold as ice and clear as crystal?\"\nWhen he served a customer with a sparkling glass, it was always with a\npleasant word that caused a smile; and if, perchance, it was a comely\ndame or dimpling damsel, it was always with a sly leer and a compliment\nto her beauty that was irresistible. Thus Peregil the _Gallego_ was noted\nthroughout all Granada for being one of the civilest, pleasantest, and\nhappiest of mortals. Yet it is not he who sings loudest and jokes most\nthat has the lightest heart. Under all this air of merriment, honest\nPeregil had his cares and troubles. He had a large family of ragged\nchildren to support, who were hungry and clamorous as a nest of young\nswallows, and beset him with their outcries for food whenever he came\nhome of an evening. He had a helpmate, too, who was anything but a help\nto him. She had been a village beauty before marriage, noted for her\nskill at dancing the bolero and rattling the castanets; and she still\nretained her early propensities, spending the hard earnings of honest\nPeregil in frippery, and laying the very donkey under requisition for\njunketing parties into the country on Sundays and saints' days, and\nthose innumerable holidays, which are rather more numerous in Spain\nthan the days of the week. With all this she was a little of a slattern,\nsomething more of a lie-abed, and, above all, a gossip of the first water;\nneglecting house, household, and everything else, to loiter slipshod in\nthe houses of her gossip neighbours.\n\nHe, however, who tempers the wind to the shorn lamb, accommodates the\nyoke of matrimony to the submissive neck. Peregil bore all the heavy\ndispensations of wife and children with as meek a spirit as his donkey\nbore the water-jars; and, however he might shake his ears in private,\nnever ventured to question the household virtues of his slattern spouse.\n\nHe loved his children, too, even as an owl loves its owlets, seeing in\nthem his own image multiplied and perpetuated; for they were a sturdy,\nlong-backed, bandy-legged little brood. The great pleasure of honest\nPeregil was, whenever he could afford himself a scanty holiday, and had a\nhandful of maravedis to spare, to take the whole litter forth with him,\nsome in his arms, some tugging at his skirts, and some trudging at his\nheels, and to treat them to a gambol among the orchards of the Vega, while\nhis wife was dancing with her holiday friends in the _Angosturas_ of the\nDarro.\n\nIt was a late hour one summer night, and most of the water-carriers had\ndesisted from their toils. The day had been uncommonly sultry; the night\nwas one of those delicious moonlights which tempt the inhabitants of\nsouthern climes to indemnify themselves for the heat and inaction of the\nday, by lingering in the open air, and enjoying its tempered sweetness\nuntil after midnight. Customers for water were therefore still abroad.\nPeregil, like a considerate, painstaking father, thought of his hungry\nchildren. \"One more journey to the well,\" said he to himself, \"to earn a\nSunday's _puchero_ for the little ones.\" So saying, he trudged manfully\nup the steep avenue of the Alhambra, singing as he went, and now and\nthen bestowing a hearty thwack with a cudgel on the flanks of his donkey,\neither by way of cadence to the song, or refreshment to the animal; for\ndry blows serve in lieu of provender in Spain for all beasts of burden.\n\nWhen arrived at the well, he found it deserted by every one except\na solitary stranger in Moorish garb, seated on a stone bench in the\nmoonlight. Peregil paused at first and regarded him with surprise, not\nunmixed with awe, but the Moor feebly beckoned him to approach. \"I am\nfaint and ill,\" said he; \"aid me to return to the city, and I will pay\nthee double what thou couldst gain by thy jars of water.\"\n\nThe honest heart of the little water-carrier was touched with compassion\nat the appeal of the stranger. \"God forbid,\" said he, \"that I should ask\nfee or reward for doing a common act of humanity.\" He accordingly helped\nthe Moor on his donkey, and set off slowly for Granada, the poor Moslem\nbeing so weak that it was necessary to hold him on the animal to keep him\nfrom falling to the earth.\n\nWhen they entered the city, the water-carrier demanded whither he should\nconduct him. \"Alas!\" said the Moor, faintly, \"I have neither home nor\nhabitation; I am a stranger in the land. Suffer me to lay my head this\nnight beneath thy roof, and thou shalt be amply repaid.\"\n\nHonest Peregil thus saw himself unexpectedly saddled with an infidel\nguest, but he was too humane to refuse a night's shelter to a fellow-being\nin so forlorn a plight; so he conducted the Moor to his dwelling. The\nchildren, who had sallied forth open-mouthed as usual on hearing the\ntramp of the donkey, ran back with affright when they beheld the turbaned\nstranger, and hid themselves behind their mother. The latter stepped\nforth intrepidly, like a ruffling hen before her brood when a vagrant dog\napproaches.\n\n\"What infidel companion,\" cried she, \"is this you have brought home at\nthis late hour, to draw upon us the eyes of the inquisition?\"\n\n\"Be quiet, wife,\" replied the _Gallego_; \"here is a poor sick stranger,\nwithout friend or home; wouldst thou turn him forth to perish in the\nstreets?\"\n\nThe wife would still have remonstrated for although she lived in a hovel,\nshe was a furious stickler for the credit of her house; the little\nwater-carrier, however, for once was stiffnecked, and refused to bend\nbeneath the yoke. He assisted the poor Moslem to alight, and spread a mat\nand a sheepskin for him, on the ground, in the coolest part of the house;\nbeing the only kind of bed that his poverty afforded.\n\nIn a little while the Moor was seized with violent convulsions, which\ndefied all the ministering skill of the simple water-carrier. The eye of\nthe poor patient acknowledged his kindness. During an interval of his\nfits he called him to his side, and addressing him in a low voice, \"My\nend,\" said he, \"I fear is at hand. If I die, I bequeath you this box as a\nreward for your charity:\" so saying, he opened his albornoz, or cloak, and\nshowed a small box of sandal-wood, strapped round his body. \"God grant,\nmy friend,\" replied the worthy little _Gallego_, \"that you may live many\nyears to enjoy your treasure, whatever it may be.\" The Moor shook his\nhead; he laid his hand upon the box, and would have said something more\nconcerning it, but his convulsions returned with increasing violence, and\nin a little while he expired.\n\nThe water-carrier's wife was now as one distracted. \"This comes,\" said\nshe, \"of your foolish good-nature, always running into scrapes to oblige\nothers. What will become of us when this corpse is found in our house?\nWe shall be sent to prison as murderers; and if we escape with our lives,\nshall be ruined by notaries and alguazils.\"\n\nPoor Peregil was in equal tribulation, and almost repented himself of\nhaving done a good deed. At length a thought struck him. \"It is not yet\nday,\" said he; \"I can convey the dead body out of the city, and bury it\nin the sands on the banks of the Xenil. No one saw the Moor enter our\ndwelling, and no one will know anything of his death.\"\n\nSo said, so done. The wife aided him; they rolled the body of the\nunfortunate Moslem in the mat on which he had expired, laid it across the\nass, and Peregil set out with it for the banks of the river.\n\nAs ill luck would have it, there lived opposite to the water-carrier\na barber named Pedrillo Pedrugo, one of the most prying, tattling, and\nmischief-making of his gossip tribe. He was a weasel-faced, spider-legged\nvarlet, supple and insinuating; the famous barber of Seville could not\nsurpass him for his universal knowledge of the affairs of others, and he\nhad no more power of retention than a sieve. It was said that he slept\nbut with one eye at a time, and kept one ear uncovered, so that even in\nhis sleep he might see and hear all that was going on. Certain it is, he\nwas a sort of scandalous chronicle for the quidnuncs of Granada, and had\nmore customers than all the rest of his fraternity.\n\nThe meddlesome barber heard Peregil arrive at an unusual hour at night,\nand the exclamations of his wife and children. His head was instantly\npopped out of a little window which served as a look-out, and he saw\nhis neighbour assist a man in Moorish garb into his dwelling. This was\nso strange an occurrence, that Pedrillo Pedrugo slept not a wink that\nnight. Every five minutes he was at his loophole, watching the lights that\ngleamed through the chinks of his neighbour's door, and before daylight\nhe beheld Peregil sally forth with his donkey unusually laden.\n\nThe inquisitive barber was in a fidget; he slipped on his clothes, and,\nstealing forth silently, followed the water-carrier at a distance, until\nhe saw him dig a hole in the sandy bank of the Xenil, and bury something\nthat had the appearance of a dead body.\n\nThe barber hied him home, and fidgeted about his shop, setting everything\nupside down, until sunrise. He then took a basin under his arm, and\nsallied forth to the house of his daily customer the _alcalde_.\n\nThe _alcalde_ was just risen. Pedrillo Pedrugo seated him in a chair,\nthrew a napkin round his neck, put a basin of hot water under his chin,\nand began to mollify his beard with his fingers.\n\n\"Strange doings!\" said Pedrugo, who played barber and newsmonger at the\nsame time,--\"strange doings! Robbery, and murder, and burial all in one\nnight!\"\n\n\"Hey!--how!--what is that you say?\" cried the _alcalde_.\n\n\"I say,\" replied the barber, rubbing a piece of soap over the nose\nand mouth of the dignitary, for a Spanish barber disdains to employ\na brush,--\"I say that Peregil the _Gallego_ has robbed and murdered a\nMoorish Mussulman, and buried him, this blessed night. _Maldita sea la\nnoche_;--Accursed be the night for the same!\"\n\n\"But how do you know all this?\" demanded the _alcalde_.\n\n\"Be patient, _Se\u00f1or_, and you shall hear all about it,\" replied Pedrillo,\ntaking him by the nose and sliding a razor over his cheek. He then\nrecounted all that he had seen, going through both operations at the same\ntime, shaving his beard, washing his chin, and wiping him dry with a dirty\nnapkin, while he was robbing, murdering, and burying the Moslem.\n\nNow it so happened that this _alcalde_ was one of the most overbearing,\nand at the same time most griping and corrupt curmudgeons in all Granada.\nIt could not be denied, however, that he set a high value upon justice,\nfor he sold it at its weight in gold. He presumed the case in point to\nbe one of murder and robbery; doubtless there must be a rich spoil; how\nwas it to be secured into the legitimate hands of the law? for as to\nmerely entrapping the delinquent--that would be feeding the gallows;\nbut entrapping the booty--that would be enriching the judge, and such,\naccording to his creed, was the great end of justice. So thinking, he\nsummoned to his presence his truest _alguazil_--a gaunt, hungry-looking\nvarlet, clad, according to the custom of his order, in the ancient Spanish\ngarb, a broad black beaver turned up at its sides; a quaint ruff; a small\nblack cloak dangling from his shoulders; rusty black underclothes that\nset off his spare wiry frame, while in his hand he bore a slender white\nwand, the dreaded insignia of his office. Such was the legal bloodhound\nof the ancient Spanish breed, that he put upon the traces of the unlucky\nwater-carrier, and such was his speed and certainty, that he was upon\nthe haunches of poor Peregil before he had returned to his dwelling, and\nbrought both him and his donkey before the dispenser of justice.\n\nThe _alcalde_ bent upon him one of the most terrific frowns. \"Hark\nye, culprit!\" roared he, in a voice that made the knees of the little\n_Gallego_ smite together,--\"hark ye, culprit! there is no need of denying\nthy guilt, everything is known to me. A gallows is the proper reward\nfor the crime thou hast committed, but I am merciful, and readily listen\nto reason. The man that has been murdered in thy house was a Moor, and\ninfidel, the enemy of our faith. It was doubtless in a fit of religious\nzeal that thou hast slain him. I will be indulgent, therefore; render up\nthe property of which thou hast robbed him, and we will hush the matter\nup.\"\n\nThe poor water-carrier called upon all the saints to witness his\ninnocence; alas! not one of them appeared; and if they had, the _alcalde_\nwould have disbelieved the whole calendar. The water-carrier related\nthe whole story of the dying Moor with the straightforward simplicity of\ntruth, but it was all in vain. \"Wilt thou persist in saying,\" demanded\nthe judge, \"that this Moslem had neither gold nor jewels, which were the\nobject of thy cupidity?\"\n\n\"As I hoped to be saved, your worship,\" replied the water-carrier, \"he\nhad nothing but a small box of sandal-wood, which he bequeathed to me in\nreward for my services.\"\n\n\"A box of sandal-wood! a box of sandal-wood!\" exclaimed the _alcalde_,\nhis eyes sparkling at the idea of precious jewels. \"And where is this box?\nwhere have you concealed it?\"\n\n\"An' it please your grace,\" replied the water-carrier, \"it is in one of\nthe panniers of my mule, and heartily at the service of your worship.\"\n\nHe had hardly spoken the words, when the keen _alguazil_ darted off,\nand reappeared in an instant with the mysterious box of sandal-wood. The\n_alcalde_ opened it with an eager and trembling hand; all pressed forward\nto gaze upon the treasure it was expected to contain; when, to their\ndisappointment, nothing appeared within, but a parchment scroll, covered\nwith Arabic characters, and an end of a waxen taper.\n\nWhen there is nothing to be gained by the conviction of a prisoner,\njustice, even in Spain, is apt to be impartial. The _alcalde_, having\nrecovered from his disappointment, and found that there was really no\nbooty in the case, now listened dispassionately to the explanation of the\nwater-carrier, which was corroborated by the testimony of his wife. Being\nconvinced, therefore, of his innocence, he discharged him from arrest;\nnay more, he permitted him to carry off the Moor's legacy, the box of\nsandal-wood and its contents, as the well-merited reward of his humanity;\nbut he retained his donkey in payment of costs and charges.\n\nBehold the unfortunate little _Gallego_ reduced once more to the necessity\nof being his own water-carrier, and trudging up to the well of the\nAlhambra with a great earthen jar upon his shoulder.\n\nAs he toiled up the hill in the heat of a summer noon, his usual\ngood-humour forsook him. \"Dog of an _alcalde_!\" would he cry, \"to rob a\npoor man of the means of his subsistence, of the best friend he had in\nthe world!\" And then at the remembrance of the beloved companion of his\nlabours, all the kindness of his nature would break forth. \"Ah, donkey of\nmy heart!\" would he exclaim, resting his burden on a stone, and wiping the\nsweat from his brow,--\"ah, donkey of my heart! I warrant me thou thinkest\nof thy old master! I warrant me thou missest the water-jars--poor beast.\"\n\nTo add to his afflictions, his wife received him, on his return home, with\nwhimperings and repinings; she had clearly the vantage-ground of him,\nhaving warned him not to commit the egregious act of hospitality which\nhad brought on him all these misfortunes; and, like a knowing woman, she\ntook every occasion to throw her superior sagacity in his teeth. If her\nchildren lacked food, or needed a new garment, she could answer with a\nsneer, \"Go to your father--he is heir to king Chico of the Alhambra: ask\nhim to help you out of the Moor's strong box.\"\n\nWas ever poor mortal so soundly punished for having done a good action?\nThe unlucky Peregil was grieved in flesh and spirit, but still he bore\nmeekly with the railings of his spouse. At length, one evening, when,\nafter a hot day's toil, she taunted him in the usual manner, he lost all\npatience. He did not venture to retort upon her, but his eye rested upon\nthe box of sandal-wood, which lay on a shelf with lid half open, as if\nlaughing in mockery at his vexation. Seizing it up, he dashed it with\nindignation to the floor. \"Unlucky was the day that I ever set eyes on\nthee,\" he cried, \"or sheltered thy master beneath my roof!\"\n\nAs the box struck the floor, the lid flew wide open, and the parchment\nscroll rolled forth.\n\nPeregil sat regarding the scroll for some time in moody silence. At length\nrallying his ideas, \"Who knows,\" thought he, \"but this writing may be of\nsome importance, as the Moor seems to have guarded it with such care?\"\nPicking it up therefore, he put it in his bosom, and the next morning as\nhe was crying water through the streets, he stopped at the shop of a Moor,\na native of Tangiers, who sold trinkets and perfumery in the Zacatin, and\nasked him to explain the contents.\n\n  [Illustration]\n\nThe Moor read the scroll attentively, then stroked his beard and smiled.\n\"This manuscript,\" said he, \"is a form of incantation for the recovery\nof hidden treasure that is under the power of enchantment. It is said to\nhave such virtue that the strongest bolts and bars, nay, the adamantine\nrock itself, will yield before it!\"\n\n\"Bah!\" cried the little _Gallego_, \"what is all that to me? I am no\nenchanter, and know nothing of buried treasure.\" So saying, he shouldered\nhis water-jar, left the scroll in the hands of the Moor, and trudged\nforward on his daily rounds.\n\nThat evening, however, as he rested himself about twilight at the well of\nthe Alhambra, he found a number of gossips assembled at the place, and\ntheir conversation, as is not unusual in that shadowy hour, turned upon\nold tales and traditions of a supernatural nature. Being all poor as rats,\nthey dwelt with peculiar fondness upon the popular theme of enchanted\nriches left by the Moors in various parts of the Alhambra. Above all, they\nconcurred in the belief that there were great treasures buried deep in\nthe earth under the tower of the seven floors.\n\nThese stories made an unusual impression on the mind of the honest\nPeregil, and they sank deeper and deeper into his thoughts as he returned\nalone down the darkling avenues. \"If, after all, there should be treasure\nhid beneath that tower; and if the scroll I left with the Moor should\nenable me to get at it!\" In the sudden ecstasy of the thought he had\nwell-nigh let fall his water-jar.\n\nThat night he tumbled and tossed, and could scarcely get a wink of sleep\nfor the thoughts that were bewildering his brain. Bright and early he\nrepaired to the shop of the Moor, and told him all that was passing in\nhis mind. \"You can read Arabic,\" said he; \"suppose we go together to the\ntower, and try the effect of the charm; if it fails, we are no worse off\nthan before; but if it succeeds, we will share equally all the treasure\nwe may discover.\"\n\n\"Hold,\" replied the Moslem; \"this writing is not sufficient of itself; it\nmust be read at midnight, by the light of a taper singularly compounded\nand prepared, the ingredients of which are not within my reach. Without\nsuch a taper the scroll is of no avail.\"\n\n\"Say no more!\" cried the little _Gallego_; \"I have such a taper at hand,\nand will bring it here in a moment.\" So saying, he hastened home, and soon\nreturned with the end of yellow wax taper that he had found in the box of\nsandal-wood.\n\nThe Moor felt it and smelt to it. \"Here are rare and costly perfumes,\"\nsaid he, \"combined with this yellow wax. This is the kind of taper\nspecified in the scroll. While this burns, the strongest walls and most\nsecret caverns will remain open. Woe to him, however, who lingers within\nuntil it be extinguished. He will remain enchanted with the treasure.\"\n\nIt was now agreed between them to try the charm that very night. At a\nlate hour, therefore, when nothing was stirring but bats and owls, they\nascended the woody hill of the Alhambra, and approached that awful tower,\nshrouded by trees and rendered formidable by so many traditionary tales.\nBy the light of a lantern they groped their way through bushes, and over\nfallen stones, to the door of a vault beneath the tower. With fear and\ntrembling they descended a flight of steps cut into the rock. It led\nto an empty chamber, damp and drear, from which another flight of steps\nled to a deeper vault. In this way they descended four several flights,\nleading into as many vaults, one below the other, but the floor of the\nfourth was solid; and though, according to tradition, there remained three\nvaults still below, it was said to be impossible to penetrate further,\nthe residue being shut up by strong enchantment. The air of this vault was\ndamp and chilly, and had an earthy smell, and the light scarce cast forth\nany rays. They paused here for a time, in breathless suspense, until they\nfaintly heard the clock of the watch-tower strike midnight; upon this they\nlit the waxen taper, which diffused an odour of myrrh and frankincense\nand storax.\n\nThe Moor began to read in a hurried voice. He had scarce finished when\nthere was a noise as of subterraneous thunder. The earth shook, and the\nfloor, yawning open, disclosed a flight of steps. Trembling with awe, they\ndescended, and by the light of the lantern found themselves in another\nvault covered with Arabic inscriptions. In the centre stood a great chest,\nsecured with seven bands of steel, at each end of which sat an enchanted\nMoor in armour, but motionless as a statue, being controlled by the power\nof the incantation. Before the chest were several jars filled with gold\nand silver and precious stones. In the largest of these they thrust their\narms up to the elbow, and at every dip hauled forth handfuls of broad\nyellow pieces of Moorish gold, or bracelets and ornaments of the same\nprecious metal, while occasionally a necklace of Oriental pearl would\nstick to their fingers. Still they trembled and breathed short while\ncramming their pockets with the spoils; and cast many a fearful glance at\nthe two enchanted Moors, who sat grim and motionless, glaring upon them\nwith unwinking eyes. At length, struck with a sudden panic at some fancied\nnoise, they both rushed up the staircase, tumbled over one another into\nthe upper apartment, overturned and extinguished the waxen taper, and the\npavement again closed with a thundering sound.\n\nFilled with dismay, they did not pause until they had groped their way\nout of the tower, and beheld the stars shining through the trees. Then\nseating themselves upon the grass, they divided the spoil, determining to\ncontent themselves for the present with this mere skimming of the jars,\nbut to return on some future night and drain them to the bottom. To make\nsure of each other's good faith, also, they divided the talismans between\nthem, one retaining the scroll and the other the taper; this done, they\nset off with light hearts and well-lined pockets for Granada.\n\nAs they wended their way down the hill, the shrewd Moor whispered a word\nof counsel in the ear of the simple little water-carrier.\n\n\"Friend Peregil,\" said he, \"all this affair must be kept a profound secret\nuntil we have secured the treasure, and conveyed it out of harm's way. If\na whisper of it gets to the ear of the _alcalde_, we are undone!\"\n\n\"Certainly,\" replied the _Gallego_, \"nothing can be more true.\"\n\n\"Friend Peregil,\" said the Moor, \"you are a discreet man, and I make no\ndoubt can keep a secret; but you have a wife.\"\n\n\"She shall not know a word of it,\" replied the little water-carrier,\nsturdily.\n\n\"Enough,\" said the Moor, \"I depend upon thy discretion and thy promise.\"\n\nNever was promise more positive and sincere; but, alas! what man can\nkeep a secret from his wife? Certainly not such a one as Peregil the\nwater-carrier, who was one of the most loving and tractable of husbands.\nOn his return home, he found his wife moping in a corner. \"Mighty well,\"\ncried she as he entered, \"you've come at last, after rambling about until\nthis hour of the night. I wonder you have not brought home another Moor\nas a house-mate.\" Then bursting into tears, she began to wring her hands\nand smite her breast. \"Unhappy woman that I am!\" exclaimed she, \"what will\nbecome of me? My house stripped and plundered by lawyers and _alguazils_;\nmy husband a do-no-good, that no longer brings home bread to his family,\nbut goes rambling about day and night, with infidel Moors! O my children!\nmy children! what will become of us? We shall all have to beg in the\nstreets!\"\n\nHonest Peregil was so moved by the distress of his spouse, that he could\nnot help whimpering also. His heart was as full as his pocket, and not to\nbe restrained. Thrusting his hand into the latter he hauled forth three\nor four broad gold pieces, and slipped them into her bosom. The poor\nwoman stared with astonishment, and could not understand the meaning of\nthis golden shower. Before she could recover her surprise, the little\n_Gallego_ drew forth a chain of gold and dangled it before her, capering\nwith exultation, his mouth distended from ear to ear.\n\n\"Holy Virgin protect us!\" exclaimed the wife. \"What hast thou been doing,\nPeregil? surely thou hast not been committing murder and robbery!\"\n\nThe idea scarce entered the brain of the poor woman, than it became a\ncertainty with her. She saw a prison and a gallows in the distance, and\na little bandy-legged _Gallego_ hanging pendent from it; and, overcome by\nthe horrors conjured up by imagination, fell into violent hysterics.\n\nWhat could the poor man do? He had no other means of pacifying his wife,\nand dispelling the phantoms of her fancy, than by relating the whole story\nof his good fortune. This, however, he did not do until he had exacted\nfrom her the most solemn promise to keep it a profound secret from every\nliving being.\n\nTo describe her joy would be impossible. She flung her arms round the neck\nof her husband, and almost strangled him with her caresses. \"Now, wife,\"\nexclaimed the little man with honest exultation, \"what say you now to the\nMoor's legacy? Henceforth never abuse me for helping a fellow-creature in\ndistress.\"\n\nThe honest _Gallego_ retired to his sheepskin mat, and slept as soundly\nas if on a bed of down. Not so his wife; she emptied the whole contents\nof his pockets upon the mat, and sat counting gold pieces of Arabic coin,\ntrying on necklaces and earrings, and fancying the figure she should one\nday make when permitted to enjoy her riches.\n\nOn the following morning the honest _Gallego_ took a broad golden coin,\nand repaired with it to a jeweller's shop in the Zacatin to offer it for\nsale, pretending to have found it among the ruins of the Alhambra. The\njeweller saw that it had an Arabic inscription, and was of the purest\ngold; he offered, however, but a third of its value, with which the\nwater-carrier was perfectly content. Peregil now bought new clothes for\nhis little flock, and all kinds of toys, together with ample provisions\nfor a hearty meal, and returning to his dwelling, set all his children\ndancing around him, while he capered in the midst, the happiest of\nfathers.\n\nThe wife of the water-carrier kept her promise of secrecy with surprising\nstrictness. For a whole day and a half she went about with a look of\nmystery and a heart swelling almost to bursting, yet she held her peace,\nthough surrounded by her gossips. It is true, she could not help giving\nherself a few airs, apologized for her ragged dress, and talked of\nordering a new basquina all trimmed with gold lace and bugles, and a new\nlace mantilla. She threw out hints of her husband's intention of leaving\noff his trade of water-carrying, as it did not altogether agree with his\nhealth. In fact she thought they should all retire to the country for the\nsummer, that the children might have the benefit of the mountain air, for\nthere was no living in the city in this sultry season.\n\nThe neighbours stared at each other, and thought the poor woman had lost\nher wits; and her airs and graces and elegant pretensions were the theme\nof universal scoffing and merriment among her friends, the moment her back\nwas turned.\n\nIf she restrained herself abroad, however, she indemnified herself at\nhome, and putting a string of rich Oriental pearls round her neck, Moorish\nbracelets on her arms, and an aigrette of diamonds on her head, sailed\nbackwards and forwards in her slattern rags about the room, now and then\nstopping to admire herself in a broken mirror. Nay, in the impulse of her\nsimple vanity, she could not resist, on one occasion, showing herself at\nthe window to enjoy the effect of her finery on the passers-by.\n\nAs the fates would have it, Pedrillo Pedrugo, the meddlesome barber,\nwas at this moment sitting idly in his shop on the opposite side of the\nstreet, when his ever-watchful eye caught the sparkle of a diamond. In an\ninstant he was at the loophole reconnoitring the slattern spouse of the\nwater-carrier, decorated with the splendour of an eastern bride. No sooner\nhad he taken an accurate inventory of her ornaments, than he posted off\nwith all speed to the _alcalde_. In a little while the hungry _alguazil_\nwas again on the scent, and before the day was over the unfortunate\nPeregil was once more dragged into the presence of the judge.\n\n\"How is this, villain!\" cried the _alcalde_, in a furious voice. \"You\ntold me that the infidel who died in your house left nothing behind but\nan empty coffer, and now I hear of your wife flaunting in her rags decked\nout with pearls and diamonds. Wretch that thou art! prepare to render up\nthe spoils of thy miserable victim, and to swing on the gallows that is\nalready tired of waiting for thee.\"\n\nThe terrified water-carrier fell on his knees, and made a full relation of\nthe marvellous manner in which he had gained his wealth. The _alcalde_,\nthe _alguazil_, and the inquisitive barber listened with greedy ears to\nthis Arabian tale of enchanted treasure. The _alguazil_ was despatched to\nbring the Moor who had assisted in the incantation. The Moslem entered\nhalf frightened out of his wits at finding himself in the hands of\nthe harpies of the law. When he beheld the water-carrier standing with\nsheepish looks and downcast countenance, he comprehended the whole matter.\n\"Miserable animal,\" said he, as he passed near him, \"did I not warn thee\nagainst babbling to thy wife?\"\n\nThe story of the Moor coincided exactly with that of his colleague; but\nthe _alcalde_ affected to be slow of belief, and threw out menaces of\nimprisonment and rigorous investigation.\n\n\"Softly, good _Se\u00f1or Alcalde_,\" said the Mussulman, who by this time\nhad recovered his usual shrewdness and self-possession. \"Let us not mar\nfortune's favours in the scramble for them. Nobody knows anything of\nthis matter but ourselves; let us keep the secret. There is wealth enough\nin the cave to enrich us all. Promise a fair division, and all shall be\nproduced; refuse, and the cave shall remain forever closed.\"\n\nThe _alcalde_ consulted apart with the _alguazil_. The latter was an\nold fox in his profession. \"Promise anything,\" said he, \"until you get\npossession of the treasure. You may then seize upon the whole, and if he\nand his accomplice dare to murmur, threaten them with the fagot and the\nstake as infidels and sorcerers.\"\n\nThe alcalde relished the advice. Smoothing his brow and turning to the\nMoor, \"This is a strange story,\" said he, \"and may be true, but I must\nhave ocular proof of it. This very night you must repeat the incantation\nin my presence. If there be really such treasure, we will share it\namicably between us, and say nothing further of the matter; if ye have\ndeceived me, expect no money at my hands. In the meantime you must remain\nin custody.\"\n\nThe Moor and the water-carrier cheerfully agreed to these conditions,\nsatisfied that the event would prove the truth of their words.\n\nTowards midnight the _alcalde_ sallied forth secretly, attended by the\n_alguazil_ and the meddlesome barber, all strongly armed. They conducted\nthe Moor and the water-carrier as prisoners, and were provided with the\nstout donkey of the latter to bear off the expected treasure. They arrived\nat the tower without being observed, and tying the donkey to a fig-tree,\ndescended into the fourth vault of the tower.\n\nThe scroll was produced, the yellow waxen taper lighted, and the Moor read\nthe form of incantation. The earth trembled as before, and the pavement\nopened with a thundering sound, disclosing the narrow flight of steps. The\n_alcalde_, the _alguazil_, and the barber were struck aghast, and could\nnot summon courage to descend. The Moor and the water-carrier entered\nthe lower vault, and found the two Moors seated as before, silent and\nmotionless. They removed two of the great jars filled with golden coin\nand precious stones. The water-carrier bore them up one by one upon his\nshoulders, but though a strong-backed little man, and accustomed to carry\nburdens, he staggered beneath their weight, and found, when slung on each\nside of his donkey, they were as much as the animal could bear.\n\n\"Let us be content for the present,\" said the Moor; \"here is as much\ntreasure as we can carry off without being perceived, and enough to make\nus all wealthy to our heart's desire.\"\n\n\"Is there more treasure remaining behind?\" demanded the _alcalde_.\n\n\"The greatest prize of all,\" said the Moor, \"a huge coffer bound with\nbands of steel, and filled with pearls and precious stones.\"\n\n\"Let us have up the coffer by all means,\" cried the grasping _alcalde_.\n\n\"I will descend for no more,\" said the Moor, doggedly; \"enough is enough\nfor a reasonable man--more is superfluous.\"\n\n\"And I,\" said the water-carrier, \"will bring up no further burden to break\nthe back of my poor donkey.\"\n\nFinding commands, threats, and entreaties equally vain, the _alcalde_\nturned to his two adherents. \"Aid me,\" said he, \"to bring up the coffer,\nand its contents shall be divided between us.\" So saying, he descended\nthe steps, followed with trembling reluctance by the _alguazil_ and the\nbarber.\n\nNo sooner did the Moor behold them fairly earthed than he extinguished\nthe yellow taper; the pavement closed with its usual crash, and the three\nworthies remained buried in its womb.\n\nHe then hastened up the different flight of steps, nor stopped until in\nthe open air. The little water-carrier followed him as fast as his short\nlegs would permit.\n\n\"What hast thou done?\" cried Peregil, as soon as he could recover breath.\n\"The _alcalde_ and the other two are shut up in the vault.\"\n\n\"It is the will of Allah!\" said the Moor, devoutly.\n\n\"And will you not release them?\" demanded the Gallego.\n\n\"Allah forbid!\" replied the Moor, smoothing his beard. \"It is written\nin the book of fate that they shall remain enchanted until some future\nadventurer arrive to break the charm. The will of God be done!\" so saying,\nhe hurled the end of the waxen taper far among the gloomy thickets of the\nglen.\n\nThere was now no remedy; so the Moor and the water-carrier proceeded with\nthe richly-laden donkey toward the city, nor could honest Peregil refrain\nfrom hugging and kissing his long-eared fellow-labourer, thus restored to\nhim from the clutches of the law; and, in fact, it is doubtful which gave\nthe simple-hearted little man most joy at the moment, the gaining of the\ntreasure, or the recovery of the donkey.\n\nThe two partners in good luck divided their spoil amicably and fairly,\nexcept that the Moor, who had a little taste for trinketry, made out to\nget into his heap the most of the pearls and precious stones and other\nbaubles, but then he always gave the water-carrier in lieu magnificent\njewels of massy gold, of five times the size, with which the latter was\nheartily content. They took care not to linger within reach of accidents,\nbut made off to enjoy their wealth undisturbed in other countries. The\nMoor returned to Africa, to his native city of Tangiers, and the Gallego,\nwith his wife, his children, and his donkey, made the best of his way to\nPortugal. Here, under the admonition and tuition of his wife, he became a\npersonage of some consequence, for she made the worthy little man array\nhis long body and short legs in doublet and hose, with a feather in his\nhat and a sword by his side, and laying aside his familiar appellation of\nPeregil, assume the more sonorous title of _Don Pedro Gil_: his progeny\ngrew up a thriving and merry-hearted, though short and bandy-legged\ngeneration, while _Se\u00f1ora Gil_, befringed, belaced, and betasselled from\nher head to her heels, with glittering rings on every finger, became a\nmodel of slattern fashion and finery.\n\nAs to the _alcalde_ and his adjuncts, they remained shut up under the\ngreat tower of the seven floors, and there they remain spellbound at the\npresent day. Whenever there shall be a lack in Spain of pimping barbers,\nsharking _alguazils_, and corrupt _alcaldes_, they may be sought after;\nbut if they have to wait until such time for their deliverance, there is\ndanger of their enchantment enduring until doomsday.\n\n\n\n\n  [Illustration]\n\nTHE TOWER OF LAS INFANTAS\n\n  [Illustration]\n\n\nIn an evening's stroll up a narrow glen, overshadowed by fig-trees,\npomegranates, and myrtles, which divides the lands of the fortress from\nthose of the Generalife, I was struck with the romantic appearance\nof a Moorish tower in the outer wall of the Alhambra, rising high\nabove the tree-tops, and catching the ruddy rays of the setting sun. A\nsolitary window at a great height commanded a view of the glen; and as\nI was regarding it, a young female looked out, with her head adorned\nwith flowers. She was evidently superior to the usual class of people\ninhabiting the old towers of the fortress; and this sudden and picturesque\nglimpse of her reminded me of the descriptions of captive beauties in\nfairy tales. These fanciful associations were increased on being informed\nby my attendant Mateo, that this was the Tower of the Princesses (_La\nTorre de las Infantas_); so called, from having been, according to\ntradition, the residence of the daughters of the Moorish kings. I have\nsince visited the tower. It is not generally shown to strangers, though\nwell worthy of attention, for the interior is equal, for beauty of\narchitecture and delicacy of ornament, to any part of the palace. The\nelegance of the central hall, with its marble fountain, its lofty arches,\nand richly fretted dome; the arabesques and stucco-work of the small but\nwell-proportioned chambers, though injured by time and neglect, all accord\nwith the story of its being anciently the abode of royal beauty.\n\n  [Illustration]\n\nThe little old fairy queen who lives under the staircase at the Alhambra,\nand frequents the evening tertulias of Dame Antonia, tells some fanciful\ntraditions about three Moorish princesses who were once shut up in this\ntower by their father, a tyrant king of Granada, and were only permitted\nto ride out at night about the hills, when no one was permitted to come in\ntheir way under pain of death. They still, according to her account, may\nbe seen occasionally when the moon is in the full, riding in lonely places\nalong the mountain-side, on palfreys richly caparisoned and sparkling with\njewels, but they vanish on being spoken to.\n\n  [Illustration]\n\nBut before I relate anything further respecting these princesses, the\nreader may be anxious to know something about the fair inhabitant of the\ntower, with her head dressed with flowers, who looked out from the lofty\nwindow. She proved to be the newly-married spouse of the worthy adjutant\nof invalids; who, though well stricken in years, had had the courage to\ntake to his bosom a young and buxom Andalusian damsel. May the good old\ncavalier be happy in his choice, and find the Tower of the Princesses a\nmore secure residence for female beauty than it seems to have proved in\nthe time of the Moslems, if we may believe the following legend.\n\n  [Illustration: _Torre de las Infantas._]\n\n\n\n\n  [Illustration]\n\nLEGEND OF THE THREE BEAUTIFUL PRINCESSES\n\n\nIn old times there reigned a Moorish king in Granada, whose name was\nMohamed, to which his subjects added the appellation of _El Hayzari_,\nor \"The Left-handed.\" Some say he was so called on account of his being\nreally more expert with his sinister than his dexter hand; others, because\nhe was prone to take everything by the wrong end, or, in other words,\nto mar wherever he meddled. Certain it is, either through misfortune or\nmismanagement, he was continually in trouble: thrice was he driven from\nhis throne, and on one occasion barely escaped to Africa with his life, in\nthe disguise of a fisherman. Still he was as brave as he was blundering;\nand though left-handed, wielded his cimeter to such purpose, that he each\ntime re-established himself upon his throne by dint of hard fighting.\nInstead, however, of learning wisdom from adversity, he hardened his neck,\nand stiffened his left arm in wilfulness. The evils of a public nature\nwhich he thus brought upon himself and his kingdom may be learned by those\nwho will delve into the Arabian annals of Granada; the present legend\ndeals but with his domestic policy.\n\nAs this Mohamed was one day riding forth with a train of his courtiers,\nby the foot of the mountain of Elvira, he met a band of horsemen returning\nfrom a foray into the land of the Christians. They were conducting a long\nstring of mules laden with spoil, and many captives of both sexes, among\nwhom the monarch was struck with the appearance of a beautiful damsel,\nrichly attired, who sat weeping on a low palfrey, and heeded not the\nconsoling words of a duenna who rode beside her.\n\nThe monarch was struck with her beauty, and, on inquiring of the captain\nof the troop, found that she was the daughter of the _alcayde_ of a\nfrontier fortress, that had been surprised and sacked in the course of the\nforay. Mohamed claimed her as his royal share of the booty, and had her\nconveyed to his harem in the Alhambra. There everything was devised to\nsoothe her melancholy; and the monarch, more and more enamoured, sought\nto make her his queen. The Spanish maid at first repulsed his addresses:\nhe was an infidel; he was the open foe of her country; what was worse, he\nwas stricken in years!\n\n  [Illustration]\n\nThe monarch, finding his assiduities of no avail, determined to enlist in\nhis favour the _duenna_, who had been captured with the lady. She was an\nAndalusian by birth, whose Christian name is forgotten, being mentioned in\nMoorish legends by no other appellation than that of the discreet Kadiga;\nand discreet in truth she was, as her whole history makes evident. No\nsooner had the Moorish king held a little private conversation with her,\nthat she saw at once the cogency of his reasoning, and undertook his cause\nwith her young mistress.\n\n\"Go to, now!\" cried she; \"what is there in all this to weep and wail\nabout? Is it not better to be mistress of this beautiful palace, with all\nits gardens and fountains, than to be shut up within your father's old\nfrontier tower? As to this Mohamed being an infidel, what is that to the\npurpose? You marry him, not his religion; and if he is waxing a little\nold, the sooner will you be a widow, and mistress of yourself; at any\nrate, you are in his power, and must either be a queen or a slave. When in\nthe hands of a robber, it is better to sell one's merchandise for a fair\nprice, than to have it taken by main force.\"\n\nThe arguments of the discreet Kadiga prevailed. The Spanish lady dried\nher tears, and became the spouse of Mohamed the Left-handed; she even\nconformed, in appearance, to the faith of her royal husband; and her\ndiscreet _duenna_ immediately became a zealous convert to the Moslem\ndoctrines; it was then the latter received the Arabian name of Kadiga,\nand was permitted to remain in the confidential employ of her mistress.\n\nIn due process of time the Moorish king was made the proud and happy\nfather of three lovely daughters, all born at a birth: he could have\nwished they had been sons, but consoled himself with the idea that three\ndaughters at a birth were pretty well for a man somewhat stricken in\nyears, and left-handed!\n\nAs usual with all Moslem monarchs, he summoned his astrologers on this\nhappy event. They cast the nativities of the three princesses, and shook\ntheir heads. \"Daughters, O king!\" said they, \"are always precarious\nproperty; but these will most need your watchfulness when they arrive at\na marriageable age; at that time gather them under your wings, and trust\nthem to no other guardianship.\"\n\nMohamed the Left-handed was acknowledged to be a wise king by his\ncourtiers, and was certainly so considered by himself. The prediction of\nthe astrologers caused him but little disquiet, trusting to his ingenuity\nto guard his daughters and outwit the Fates.\n\nThe threefold birth was the last matrimonial trophy of the monarch; his\nqueen bore him no more children, and died within a few years, bequeathing\nher infant daughters to his love, and to the fidelity of the discreet\nKadiga.\n\nMany years had yet to elapse before the Princesses would arrive at that\nperiod of danger--the marriageable age. \"It is good, however, to be\ncautious in time,\" said the shrewd monarch; so he determined to have them\nreared in the royal castle of Salobre\u00f1a. This was a sumptuous palace,\nincrusted, as it were, in a powerful Moorish fortress on the summit of a\nhill overlooking the Mediterranean sea. It was a royal retreat, in which\nthe Moslem monarchs shut up such of their relatives as might endanger\ntheir safety; allowing them all kinds of luxuries and amusements, in the\nmidst of which they passed their lives in voluptuous indolence. Here the\nprincesses remained, immured from the world, but surrounded by enjoyment,\nand attended by female slaves who anticipated their wishes. They had\ndelightful gardens for their recreation, filled with the rarest fruits\nand flowers, with aromatic groves and perfumed baths. On three sides\nthe castle looked down upon a rich valley, enamelled with all kinds of\nculture, and bounded by the lofty Alpuxarra mountains; on the other side\nit overlooked the broad sunny sea.\n\n  [Illustration]\n\nIn this delicious abode, in a propitious climate, and under a cloudless\nsky, the three princesses grew up into wondrous beauty; but, though all\nreared alike, they gave early tokens of diversity of character. Their\nnames were Zayda, Zorayda, and Zorahayda; and such was their order of\nseniority, for there had been precisely three minutes between their\nbirths.\n\nZayda, the eldest, was of an intrepid spirit, and took the lead of her\nsisters in everything, as she had done in entering into the world. She\nwas curious and inquisitive, and fond of getting at the bottom of things.\n\nZorayda had a great feeling for beauty, which was the reason, no doubt,\nof her delighting to regard her own image in a mirror or a fountain, and\nof her fondness for flowers, and jewels, and other tasteful ornaments.\n\nAs to Zorahayda, the youngest, she was soft and timid, and extremely\nsensitive, with a vast deal of disposable tenderness, as was evident from\nher number of pet-flowers, and pet-birds, and pet-animals, all of which\nshe cherished with the fondest care. Her amusements, too, were of a gentle\nnature, and mixed up with musing and reverie. She would sit for hours in\na balcony, gazing on the sparkling stars of a summer's night, or on the\nsea when lit up by the moon; and at such times, the song of a fisherman,\nfaintly heard from the beach, or the notes of a Moorish flute from some\ngliding bark, sufficed to elevate her feelings into ecstasy. The least\nuproar of the elements, however, filled her with dismay; and a clap of\nthunder was enough to throw her into a swoon.\n\nYears rolled on smoothly and serenely; the discreet Kadiga, to whom the\nprincesses were confided, was faithful to her trust, and attended them\nwith unremitting care.\n\nThe castle of Salobre\u00f1a, as has been said, was built upon a hill on\nthe sea coast. One of the exterior walls straggled down the profile of\nthe hill, until it reached a jutting rock overhanging the sea, with a\nnarrow sandy beach at its foot, laved by the rippling billows. A small\nwatch-tower on this rock had been fitted up as a pavilion, with latticed\nwindows to admit the sea-breeze. Here the princesses used to pass the\nsultry hours of mid-day.\n\nThe curious Zayda was one day seated at a window of the pavilion, as\nher sisters, reclining on ottomans, were taking the siesta or noontide\nslumber. Her attention was attracted to a galley which came coasting\nalong, with measured strokes of the oar. As it drew near, she observed\nthat it was filled with armed men. The galley anchored at the foot of the\ntower: a number of Moorish soldiers landed on the narrow beach, conducting\nseveral Christian prisoners. The curious Zayda awakened her sisters, and\nall three peeped cautiously through the close jalousies of the lattice\nwhich screened them from sight. Among the prisoners were three Spanish\ncavaliers, richly dressed. They were in the flower of youth, and of noble\npresence; and the lofty manner in which they carried themselves, though\nloaded with chains and surrounded with enemies, bespoke the grandeur of\ntheir souls. The princesses gazed with intense and breathless interest.\nCooped up as they had been in this castle among female attendants, seeing\nnothing of the male sex but black slaves, or the rude fishermen of the\nsea-coast, it is not to be wondered at that the appearance of three\ngallant cavaliers, in the pride of youth and manly beauty, should produce\nsome commotion in their bosoms.\n\n\"Did ever nobler being tread the earth than that cavalier in crimson?\"\ncried Zayda, the eldest of the sisters. \"See how proudly he bears himself,\nas though all around him were his slaves!\"\n\n\"But notice that one in green!\" exclaimed Zorayda. \"What grace! what\nelegance! what spirit!\"\n\nThe gentle Zorahayda said nothing, but she secretly gave preference to\nthe cavalier in blue.\n\nThe princesses remained gazing until the prisoners were out of sight; then\nheaving long-drawn sighs, they turned round, looked at each other for a\nmoment, and sat down, musing and pensive, on their ottomans.\n\nThe discreet Kadiga found them in this situation; they related what they\nhad seen, and even the withered heart of the _duenna_ was warmed. \"Poor\nyouths!\" exclaimed she, \"I'll warrant their captivity makes many a fair\nand high-born lady's heart ache in their native land! Ah! my children, you\nhave little idea of the life these cavaliers lead in their own country.\nSuch prankling at tournaments! such devotion to the ladies! such courting\nand serenading!\"\n\nThe curiosity of Zayda was fully aroused; she was insatiable in her\ninquiries, and drew from the _duenna_ the most animated pictures of the\nscenes of her youthful days and native land. The beautiful Zorayda bridled\nup, and slyly regarded herself in a mirror, when the theme turned upon\nthe charms of the Spanish ladies; while Zorahayda suppressed a struggling\nsigh at the mention of moonlight serenades.\n\nEvery day the curious Zayda renewed her inquiries, and every day the\nsage _duenna_ repeated her stories, which were listened to with profound\ninterest, though with frequent sighs, by her gentle auditors. The discreet\nold woman awoke at length to the mischief she might be doing. She had\nbeen accustomed to think of the princesses only as children; but they had\nimperceptibly ripened beneath her eye, and now bloomed before her three\nlovely damsels of the marriageable age. It is time, thought the _duenna_,\nto give notice to the king.\n\nMohamed the Left-handed was seated one morning on a divan in a cool hall\nof the Alhambra, when a slave arrived from the fortress of Salobre\u00f1a, with\na message from the sage Kadiga, congratulating him on the anniversary of\nhis daughters' birthday. The slave at the same time presented a delicate\nlittle basket decorated with flowers, within which, on a couch of vine and\nfig-leaves, lay a peach, an apricot, and a nectarine, with their bloom and\ndown and dewy sweetness upon them, and all in the early stage of tempting\nripeness. The monarch was versed in the Oriental language of fruits and\nflowers, and rapidly divined the meaning of this emblematical offering.\n\n\"So,\" said he, \"the critical period pointed out by the astrologers is\narrived: my daughters are at a marriageable age. What is to be done? They\nare shut up from the eyes of men; they are under the eyes of the discreet\nKadiga,--all very good,--but still they are not under my own eye, as was\nprescribed by the astrologers: I must gather them under my wing, and trust\nto no other guardianship.\"\n\nSo saying, he ordered that a tower of the Alhambra should be prepared for\ntheir reception, and departed at the head of his guards for the fortress\nof Salobre\u00f1a, to conduct them home in person.\n\nAbout three years had elapsed since Mohamed had beheld his daughters,\nand he could scarcely credit his eyes at the wonderful change which that\nsmall space of time had made in their appearance. During the interval,\nthey had passed that wondrous boundary line in female life which separates\nthe crude, unformed, and thoughtless girl from the blooming, blushing,\nmeditative woman. It is like passing from the flat, bleak, uninteresting\nplains of La Mancha to the voluptuous valleys and swelling hills of\nAndalusia.\n\nZayda was tall and finely formed, with a lofty demeanour and a penetrating\neye. She entered with a stately and decided step, and made a profound\nreverence to Mohamed, treating him more as her sovereign than her father.\nZorayda was of the middle height, with an alluring look and swimming gait,\nand a sparkling beauty, heightened by the assistance of the toilette.\nShe approached her father with a smile, kissed his hand, and saluted him\nwith several stanzas from a popular Arabian poet, with which the monarch\nwas delighted. Zorahayda was shy and timid, smaller than her sisters, and\nwith a beauty of that tender beseeching kind which looks for fondness and\nprotection. She was little fitted to command, like her elder sister, or\nto dazzle like the second, but was rather formed to creep to the bosom\nof manly affection, to nestle within it, and be content. She drew near to\nher father, with a timid and almost faltering step, and would have taken\nhis hand to kiss, but on looking up into his face, and seeing it beaming\nwith a paternal smile, the tenderness of her nature broke forth, and she\nthrew herself upon his neck.\n\nMohamed the Left-handed surveyed his blooming daughters with mingled pride\nand perplexity, for while he exulted in their charms, he bethought himself\nof the prediction of the astrologers. \"Three daughters! three daughters!\"\nmuttered he repeatedly to himself, \"and all of a marriageable age! Here's\ntempting Hesperian fruit, that requires a dragon watch!\"\n\nHe prepared for his return to Granada, by sending heralds before him,\ncommanding every one to keep out of the road by which he was to pass,\nand that all doors and windows should be closed at the approach of the\nprincesses. This done, he set forth, escorted by a troop of black horsemen\nof hideous aspect, and clad in shining armour.\n\nThe princesses rode beside the king, closely veiled, on beautiful white\npalfreys, with velvet caparisons, embroidered with gold, and sweeping the\nground; the bits and stirrups were of gold, and the silken bridles adorned\nwith pearls and precious stones. The palfreys were covered with little\nsilver bells, which made the most musical tinkling as they ambled gently\nalong. Woe to the unlucky wight, however, who lingered in the way when\nhe heard the tinkling of these bells!--the guards were ordered to cut him\ndown without mercy.\n\nThe cavalcade was drawing near to Granada, when it overtook, on the banks\nof the river Xenil, a small body of Moorish soldiers with a convoy of\nprisoners. It was too late for the soldiers to get out of the way, so they\nthrew themselves on their faces on the earth, ordering their captives to\ndo the like. Among the prisoners were the three identical cavaliers whom\nthe princesses had seen from the pavilion. They either did not understand,\nor were too haughty to obey the order, and remained standing and gazing\nupon the cavalcade as it approached.\n\nThe ire of the monarch was kindled at this flagrant defiance of his\norders. Drawing his cimeter, and pressing forward, he was about to deal\na left-handed blow that might have been fatal to at least one of the\ngazers, when the princesses crowded round him, and implored mercy for\nthe prisoners; even the timid Zorahayda forgot her shyness, and became\neloquent in their behalf. Mohamed paused, with uplifted cimeter, when the\ncaptain of the guard threw himself at his feet. \"Let not your highness,\"\nsaid he, \"do a deed that may cause great scandal throughout the kingdom.\nThese are three brave and noble Spanish knights, who have been taken in\nbattle, fighting like lions; they are of high birth, and may bring great\nransoms.\"\n\n\"Enough!\" said the king. \"I will spare their lives, but punish their\naudacity--let them be taken to the Vermilion Towers, and put to hard\nlabour.\"\n\n  [Illustration: _Vermilion Towers_.]\n\nMohamed was making one of his usual left-handed blunders. In the tumult\nand agitation of this blustering scene, the veils of the three princesses\nhad been thrown back, and the radiance of their beauty revealed; and in\nprolonging the parley, the king had given that beauty time to have its\nfull effect. In those days people fell in love much more suddenly than\nat present, as all ancient stories make manifest: it is not a matter of\nwonder, therefore, that the hearts of the three cavaliers were completely\ncaptured; especially as gratitude was added to their admiration; it is a\nlittle singular, however, though no less certain, that each of them was\nenraptured with a several beauty. As to the princesses, they were more\nthan ever struck with the noble demeanour of the captives, and cherished\nin their breasts all that they had heard of their valour and noble\nlineage.\n\n  [Illustration]\n\nThe cavalcade resumed its march; the three princesses rode pensively\nalong on their tinkling palfreys, now and then stealing a glance behind in\nsearch of the Christian captives, and the latter were conducted to their\nallotted prison in the Vermilion Towers.\n\nThe residence provided for the princesses was one of the most dainty that\nfancy could devise. It was in a tower somewhat apart from the main palace\nof the Alhambra, though connected with it by the wall which encircled\nthe whole summit of the hill. On one side it looked into the interior\nof the fortress, and had, at its foot, a small garden filled with the\nrarest flowers. On the other side it overlooked a deep embowered ravine\nseparating the grounds of the Alhambra from those of the Generalife. The\ninterior of the tower was divided into small fairy apartments, beautifully\nornamented in the light Arabian style, surrounding a lofty hall, the\nvaulted roof of which rose almost to the summit of the tower. The walls\nand the ceilings of the hall were adorned with arabesque and fretwork,\nsparkling with gold and with brilliant pencilling. In the centre of the\nmarble pavement was an alabaster fountain, set round with aromatic shrubs\nand flowers, and throwing up a jet of water that cooled the whole edifice\nand had a lulling sound. Round the hall were suspended cages of gold and\nsilver wire, containing singing-birds of the finest plumage or sweetest\nnote.\n\n  [Illustration]\n\nThe princesses had been represented as always cheerful when in the Castle\nof the Salobre\u00f1a; the king had expected to see them enraptured with\nthe Alhambra. To his surprise, however, they began to pine, and grow\nmelancholy, and dissatisfied with everything around them. The flowers\nyielded them no fragrance, the song of the nightingale disturbed their\nnight's rest, and they were out of all patience with the alabaster\nfountain, with its eternal drop-drop and splash-splash, from morning till\nnight and from night till morning.\n\nThe king, who was of a somewhat testy, tyrannical disposition, took\nthis at first in high dudgeon; but he reflected that his daughters had\narrived at an age when the female mind expands and its desires augment.\n\"They are no longer children,\" said he to himself, \"they are women grown,\nand require suitable objects to interest them.\" He put in requisition,\ntherefore, all the dressmakers, and the jewellers, and the artificers\nin gold and silver throughout the Zacatin of Granada, and the princesses\nwere overwhelmed with robes of silk, and tissue, and brocade, and cashmere\nshawls, and necklaces of pearls and diamonds, and rings, and bracelets,\nand anklets, and all manner of precious things.\n\n  [Illustration]\n\nAll, however, was of no avail; the princesses continued pale and languid\nin the midst of their finery, and looked like three blighted rose-buds,\ndrooping from one stalk. The king was at his wits' end. He had in general\na laudable confidence in his own judgment, and never took advice.\n\"The whims and caprices of three marriageable damsels, however, are\nsufficient,\" said he, \"to puzzle the shrewdest head.\" So for once in his\nlife he called in the aid of counsel.\n\nThe person to whom he applied was the experienced duenna.\n\n\"Kadiga,\" said the king, \"I know you to be one of the most discreet women\nin the whole world, as well as one of the most trustworthy; for these\nreasons I have always continued you about the persons of my daughters.\nFathers cannot be too wary in whom they repose such confidence; I now wish\nyou to find out the secret malady that is preying upon the princesses,\nand to devise some means of restoring them to health and cheerfulness.\"\n\nKadiga promised implicit obedience. In fact she knew more of the malady\nof the princesses than they themselves. Shutting herself up with them,\nhowever, she endeavoured to insinuate herself into their confidence.\n\n\"My dear children, what is the reason you are so dismal and downcast in\nso beautiful a place, where you have everything that heart can wish?\"\n\nThe princesses looked vacantly round the apartment and sighed.\n\n\"What more then would you have? Shall I get you the wonderful parrot that\ntalks all languages, and is the delight of Granada?\"\n\n\"Odious!\" exclaimed the princess Zayda. \"A horrid screaming bird, that\nchatters words without ideas: one must be without brains to tolerate such\na pest.\"\n\n\"Shall I send for a monkey from the rock of Gibraltar, to divert you with\nhis antics?\"\n\n\"A monkey! faugh!\" cried Zorayda; \"the detestable mimic of man. I hate\nthe nauseous animal.\"\n\n\"What say you to the famous black singer Casem, from the royal harem, in\nMorocco? They say he has a voice as fine as a woman's.\"\n\n\"I am terrified at the sight of these black slaves,\" said the delicate\nZorahayda; \"besides I have lost all relish for music.\"\n\n\"Ah! my child, you would not say so,\" replied the old woman slyly, \"had\nyou heard the music I heard last evening, from the three Spanish cavaliers\nwhom we met on our journey. But bless me, children; what is the matter\nthat you blush so and are in such a flutter?\"\n\n\"Nothing, nothing, good mother; pray proceed.\"\n\n\"Well; as I was passing by the Vermilion Towers last evening, I saw the\nthree cavaliers resting after their day's labour. One was playing on the\nguitar, so gracefully, and the others sang by turns; and they did it in\nsuch style, that the very guards seemed like statues, or men enchanted.\nAllah forgive me! I could not help being moved at hearing the songs of my\nnative country. And then to see three such noble and handsome youths in\nchains and slavery!\"\n\n  [Illustration: _Gibraltar._]\n\nHere the kind-hearted old woman could not restrain her tears.\n\n\"Perhaps, mother, you could manage to procure us a sight of these\ncavaliers,\" said Zayda.\n\n\"I think,\" said Zorayda, \"a little music would be quite reviving.\"\n\nThe timid Zorahayda said nothing, but threw her arms round the neck of\nKadiga.\n\n\"Mercy on me!\" exclaimed the discreet old woman, \"what are you talking\nof, my children? Your father would be the death of us all if he heard of\nsuch a thing. To be sure, these cavaliers are evidently well-bred, and\nhigh-minded youths; but what of that? they are the enemies of our faith,\nand you must not even think of them but with abhorrence.\"\n\nThere is an admirable intrepidity in the female will, particularly when\nabout the marriageable age, which is not to be deterred by dangers and\nprohibitions. The princesses hung round their old _duenna_, and coaxed,\nand entreated and declared that a refusal would break their hearts.\n\nWhat could she do? She was certainly the most discreet old woman in the\nwhole world, and one of the most faithful servants to the king; but\nwas she to see three beautiful princesses break their hearts for the\nmere tinkling of a guitar? Besides, though she had been so long among\nthe Moors, and changed her faith in imitation of her mistress, like a\ntrusty follower, yet she was a Spaniard born, and had the lingerings of\nChristianity in her heart. So she set about to contrive how the wish of\nthe princesses might be gratified.\n\nThe Christian captives, confined in the Vermilion Towers, were under the\ncharge of a big-whiskered, broad-shouldered _renegado_, called Hussein\nBaba, who was reputed to have a most itching palm. She went to him\nprivately, and slipping a broad piece of gold into his hand, \"Hussein\nBaba,\" said she, \"my mistresses, the three princesses who are shut up in\nthe tower, and in sad want of amusement; have heard of the musical talents\nof the three Spanish cavaliers, and are desirous of hearing a specimen of\ntheir skill. I am sure you are too kind-hearted to refuse them so innocent\na gratification.\"\n\n  [Illustration: _Night on the Sea-front of Algeciras._]\n\n\"What! and to have my head set grinning over the gate of my own tower;\nfor that would be the reward, if the king should discover it.\"\n\n\"No danger of anything of the kind; the affair may be managed so that\nthe whim of the princesses may be gratified, and their father be never\nthe wiser. You know the deep ravine outside of the walls which passes\nimmediately below the tower. Put the three Christians to work there, and\nat the intervals of their labour, let them play and sing, as if for their\nown recreation. In this way the princesses will be able to hear them from\nthe windows of the tower, and you may be sure of their paying well for\nyour compliance.\"\n\nAs the good old woman concluded her harangue, she kindly pressed the rough\nhand of the _renegado_, and left within it another piece of gold.\n\nHer eloquence was irresistible. The very next day the three cavaliers\nwere put to work in the ravine. During the noontide heat, when their\nfellow-labourers were sleeping in the shade, and the guard nodding\ndrowsily at his post, they seated themselves among the herbage at the foot\nof the tower, and sang a Spanish roundelay to the accompaniment of the\nguitar.\n\nThe glen was deep, the tower was high, but their voices rose distinctly\nin the stillness of the summer noon. The princesses listened from their\nbalcony, they had been taught the Spanish language by their duenna, and\nwere moved by the tenderness of the song. The discreet Kadiga, on the\ncontrary, was terribly shocked. \"Allah preserve us!\" cried she, \"they\nare singing a love-ditty, addressed to yourselves. Did ever mortal hear\nof such audacity? I will run to the slave-master, and have them soundly\nbastinadoed.\"\n\n\"What! bastinado such gallant cavaliers, and for singing so charmingly!\"\nThe three beautiful princesses were filled with horror at the idea. With\nall her virtuous indignation, the good old woman was of a placable nature,\nand easily appeased. Besides, the music seemed to have a beneficial effect\nupon her young mistresses. A rosy bloom had already come to their cheeks,\nand their eyes began to sparkle. She made no further objection, therefore\nto the amorous ditty of the cavaliers.\n\nWhen it was finished, the princesses remained silent for a time; at length\nZorayda took up a lute, and with a sweet, though faint and trembling\nvoice, warbled a little Arabian air, the burden of which was, \"The rose\nis concealed among her leaves, but she listens with delight to the song\nof the nightingale.\"\n\n  [Illustration]\n\nFrom this time forward the cavaliers worked almost daily in the ravine.\nThe considerate Hussein Baba became more and more indulgent, and daily\nmore prone to sleep at his post. For some time a vague intercourse was\nkept up by popular songs and romances, which in some measure responded\nto each other, and breathed the feelings of the parties. By degrees the\nprincesses showed themselves at the balcony, when they could do so without\nbeing perceived by the guards. They conversed with the cavaliers also, by\nmeans of flowers, with the symbolical language of which they were mutually\nacquainted; the difficulties of their intercourse added to its charms,\nand strengthened the passion they had so singularly conceived; for love\ndelights to struggle with difficulties, and thrives the most hardily on\nthe scantiest soil.\n\nThe change effected in the looks and spirits of the princesses by this\nsecret intercourse, surprised and gratified the left-handed king; but no\none was more elated than the discreet Kadiga, who considered it all owing\nto her able management.\n\nAt length there was an interruption in this telegraphic correspondence:\nfor several days the cavaliers ceased to make their appearance in the\nglen. The princesses looked out from the tower in vain. In vain they\nstretched their swan-like necks from the balcony; in vain they sang like\ncaptive nightingales in their cage: nothing was to be seen of their\nChristian lovers; not a note responded from the groves. The discreet\nKadiga sallied forth in quest of intelligence, and soon returned with a\nface full of trouble. \"Ah, my children!\" cried she, \"I saw what all this\nwould come to, but you would have your way; you may now hang up your lutes\non the willows. The Spanish cavaliers are ransomed by their families; they\nare down in Granada, and preparing to return to their native country.\"\n\nThe three beautiful princesses were in despair at the tidings. Zayda was\nindignant at the slight put upon them, in thus being deserted without a\nparting word. Zorayda wrung her hands and cried, and looked in the glass,\nand wiped away her tears, and cried afresh. The gentle Zorahayda leaned\nover the balcony and wept in silence, and her tears fell drop by drop\namong the flowers of the bank, where the faithless cavaliers had so often\nbeen seated.\n\nThe discreet Kadiga did all in her power to soothe their sorrow. \"Take\ncomfort, my children,\" she said, \"this is nothing when you are used to\nit. This is the way of the world. Ah! when you are as old as I am, you\nwill know how to value these men. I'll warrant these cavaliers have their\nloves among the Spanish beauties of Cordova and Seville, and will soon\nbe serenading under their balconies, and thinking no more of the Moorish\nbeauties in the Alhambra. Take comfort, therefore, my children, and drive\nthem from your hearts.\"\n\nThe comforting words of the discreet Kadiga only redoubled the distress\nof the three princesses, and for two days they continued inconsolable. On\nthe morning of the third the good old woman entered their apartment, all\nruffling with indignation.\n\n\"Who would have believed such insolence in mortal man!\" exclaimed she, as\nsoon as she could find words to express herself; \"but I am rightly served\nfor having connived at this deception of your worthy father. Never talk\nmore to me of your Spanish cavaliers.\"\n\n\"Why, what has happened, good Kadiga?\" exclaimed the princesses in\nbreathless anxiety.\n\n\"What has happened?--treason has happened! or, what is almost as bad,\ntreason has been proposed; and to me, the most faithful of subjects, the\ntrustiest of _duennas_! Yes, my children, the Spanish cavaliers have dared\nto tamper with me, that I should persuade you to fly with them to Cordova,\nand become their wives!\"\n\nHere the excellent old woman covered her face with her hands, and gave\nway to a violent burst of grief and indignation. The three beautiful\nprincesses turned pale and red, pale and red, and trembled, and looked\ndown, and cast shy looks at each other, but said nothing. Meantime the\nold woman sat rocking backward and forward in violent agitation, and now\nand then breaking out into exclamations,--\"That ever I should live to be\nso insulted!--I, the most faithful of servants!\"\n\nAt length the eldest princess, who had most spirit and always took the\nlead, approached her, and laying her hand upon her shoulder, \"Well,\nmother,\" said she, \"supposing we were willing to fly with these Christian\ncavaliers--is such a thing possible?\"\n\nThe good old woman paused suddenly in her grief, and looking up,\n\"Possible,\" echoed she; \"to be sure it is possible. Have not the cavaliers\nalready bribed Hussein Baba, the renegado captain of the guard, and\narranged the whole plan? But, then, to think of deceiving your father!\nyour father, who has placed such confidence in me!\" Here the worthy woman\ngave way to a fresh burst of grief, and began again to rock backward and\nforward, and to wring her hands.\n\n\"But our father has never placed any confidence in us,\" said the eldest\nprincess, \"but has trusted to bolts and bars, and treated us as captives.\"\n\n\"Why, that is true enough,\" replied the old woman, again pausing in her\ngrief; \"he has indeed treated you most unreasonably, keeping you shut up\nhere, to waste your bloom in a moping old tower, like roses left to wither\nin a flower-jar. But, then, to fly from your native land!\"\n\n\"And is not the land we fly to the native land of our mother, where we\nshall live in freedom? And shall we not each have a youthful husband in\nexchange for a severe old father?\"\n\n\"Why, that again is all very true; and your father, I must confess, is\nrather tyrannical; but what then,\" relapsing into her grief, \"would you\nleave me behind to bear the brunt of his vengeance?\"\n\n\"By no means, my good Kadiga; cannot you fly with us?\"\n\n\"Very true, my child; and, to tell the truth, when I talked the matter\nover with Hussein Baba, he promised to take care of me, if I would\naccompany you in your flight; but then, bethink you, my children, are you\nwilling to renounce the faith of your father?\"\n\n\"The Christian faith was the original faith of our mother,\" said the\neldest princess; \"I am ready to embrace it, and so, I am sure, are my\nsisters.\"\n\n\"Right again,\" exclaimed the old woman, brightening up; \"it was the\noriginal faith of your mother, and bitterly did she lament, on her\ndeath-bed, that she had renounced it. I promised her then to take care of\nyour souls, and I rejoice to see that they are now in a fair way to be\nsaved. Yes, my children, I too was born a Christian, and have remained\na Christian in my heart, and am resolved to return to the faith. I have\ntalked on the subject with Hussein Baba, who is a Spaniard by birth, and\ncomes from a place not far from my native town. He is equally anxious\nto see his own country, and to be reconciled to the Church; and the\ncavaliers have promised that, if we are disposed to become man and wife,\non returning to our native land, they will provide for us handsomely.\"\n\nIn a word, it appeared that this extremely discreet and provident old\nwoman had consulted with the cavaliers and the renegado, and had concerted\nthe whole plan of escape. The eldest princess immediately assented to it;\nand her example, as usual, determined the conduct of her sisters. It is\ntrue the youngest hesitated, for she was gentle and timid of soul, and\nthere was a struggle in her bosom between filial feeling and youthful\npassion: the latter, however, as usual, gained the victory, and with\nsilent tears and stifled sighs she prepared herself for flight.\n\nThe rugged hill on which the Alhambra is built was, in old times,\nperforated with subterranean passages, cut through the rock, and leading\nfrom the fortress to various parts of the city, and to distant sally-ports\non the banks of the Darro and the Xenil. They had been constructed at\ndifferent times by the Moorish kings, as means of escape from sudden\ninsurrections, or of secretly issuing forth on private enterprises. Many\nof them are now entirely lost, while others remain, partly choked with\nrubbish, and partly walled up,--monuments of the jealous precautions and\nwarlike stratagems of the Moorish government. By one of these passages\nHussein Baba had undertaken to conduct the princesses to a sally-port\nbeyond the walls of the city, where the cavaliers were to be ready with\nfleet steeds, to bear the whole party over the borders.\n\n  [Illustration]\n\nThe appointed night arrived; the tower of the princesses had been locked\nup as usual, and the Alhambra was buried in deep sleep. Towards midnight\nthe discreet Kadiga listened from the balcony of a window that looked\ninto the garden. Hussein Baba, the _renegado_, was already below, and gave\nthe appointed signal. The _duenna_ fastened the end of a ladder of ropes\nto the balcony, lowered it into the garden and descended. The two eldest\nprincesses followed her with beating hearts; but when it came to the turn\nof the youngest princess, Zorahayda, she hesitated and trembled. Several\ntimes she ventured a delicate little foot upon the ladder, and as often\ndrew it back, while her poor little heart fluttered more and more the\nlonger she delayed. She cast a wistful look back into the silken chamber;\nshe had lived in it, to be sure, like a bird in a cage; but within it\nshe was secure; who could tell what dangers might beset her, should she\nflutter forth into the wide world! Now she bethought her of her gallant\nChristian lover, and her little foot was instantly upon the ladder; and\nanon she thought of her father, and shrank back. But fruitless is the\nattempt to describe the conflict in the bosom of one so young and tender\nand loving, but so timid and so ignorant of the world.\n\nIn vain her sisters implored, the _duenna_ scolded, and the renegado\nblasphemed beneath the balcony: the gentle little Moorish maid stood\ndoubting and wavering on the verge of elopement; tempted by the sweetness\nof the sin, but terrified at its perils.\n\nEvery moment increased the danger of discovery. A distant tramp was heard.\n\"The patrols are walking their rounds,\" cried the _renegado_; \"if we\nlinger, we perish. Princess, descend instantly, or we leave you.\"\n\nZorahayda was for a moment in fearful agitation; then loosening the ladder\nof ropes, with desperate resolution she flung it from the balcony.\n\n\"It is decided!\" cried she; \"flight is now out of my power! Allah guide\nand bless ye, my dear sisters!\"\n\nThe two eldest princesses were shocked at the thoughts of leaving her\nbehind, and would fain have lingered, but the patrol was advancing; the\nrenegado was furious, and they were hurried away to the subterraneous\npassage. They groped their way through a fearful labyrinth, cut through\nthe heart of the mountain, and succeeded in reaching, undiscovered, an\niron gate that opened outside of the walls. The Spanish cavaliers were\nwaiting to receive them, disguised as Moorish soldiers of the guard,\ncommanded by the _renegado_.\n\nThe lover of Zorahayda was frantic when he learned that she had refused\nto leave the tower; but there was no time to waste in lamentations.\nThe two princesses were placed behind their lovers, the discreet Kadiga\nmounted behind the _renegado_, and they all set off at a round pace in the\ndirection of the Pass of Lope, which leads through the mountains towards\nCordova.\n\nThey had not proceeded far when they heard the noise of drums and trumpets\nfrom the battlements of the Alhambra.\n\n\"Our flight is discovered!\" said the _renegado_.\n\n\"We have fleet steeds, the night is dark, and we may distance all\npursuit,\" replied the cavaliers.\n\n  [Illustration]\n\nThey put spurs to their horses, and scoured across the Vega. They attained\nthe foot of the mountains of Elvira, which stretches like a promontory\ninto the plain. The _renegado_ paused and listened. \"As yet,\" said he,\n\"there is no one on our traces, we shall make good our escape to the\nmountains.\" While he spoke, a light blaze sprang up on the top of the\nwatch-tower of the Alhambra.\n\n\"Confusion!\" cried the _renegado_, \"that bale fire will put all the guards\nof the passes on the alert. Away! away! Spur like mad,--there is no time\nto be lost.\"\n\nAway they dashed--the clattering of their horses' hoofs echoed from rock\nto rock, as they swept along the road that skirts the rocky mountain of\nElvira. As they galloped on, the bale fire of the Alhambra was answered\nin every direction; light after light blazed on the _Atalayas_, or\nwatch-towers of the mountains.\n\n\"Forward! forward!\" cried the _renegado_, with many an oath, \"to the\nbridge,--to the bridge, before the alarm has reached there!\"\n\nThey doubled the promontory of the mountains, and arrived in sight of\nthe famous Bridge of Pinos, that crosses a rushing stream often dyed with\nChristian and Moslem blood. To their confusion, the tower on the bridge\nblazed with lights and glittered with armed men. The _renegado_ pulled\nup his steed, rose in his stirrups and looked about him for a moment;\nthen beckoning to the cavaliers, he struck off from the road, skirted the\nriver for some distance, and dashed into its waters. The cavaliers called\nupon the princesses to cling to them, and did the same. They were borne\nfor some distance down the rapid current, the surges roared round them,\nbut the beautiful princesses clung to their Christian knights, and never\nuttered a complaint. The cavaliers attained the opposite bank in safety\nand were conducted by the _renegado_, by rude and unfrequented paths and\nwild _barrancos_, through the heart of the mountains, so as to avoid all\nthe regular passes. In a word, they succeeded in reaching the ancient\ncity of Cordova; where their restoration to their country and friends was\ncelebrated with great rejoicings, for they were of the noblest families.\nThe beautiful princesses were forthwith received into the bosom of the\nChurch, and, after being in all due form made regular Christians, were\nrendered happy wives.\n\nIn our hurry to make good the escape of the princesses across the river,\nand up the mountains, we forgot to mention the fate of the discreet\nKadiga. She had clung like a cat to Hussein Baba in the scamper across\nthe Vega, screaming at every bound, and drawing many an oath from the\nwhiskered _renegado_; but when he prepared to plunge his steed into the\nriver, her terror knew no bounds. \"Grasp me not so tightly,\" cried Hussein\nBaba; \"hold on by my belt and fear nothing.\" She held firmly with both\nhands by the leathern belt that girded the broad-backed _renegado_; but\nwhen he halted with the cavaliers to take breath on the mountain summit,\nthe _duenna_ was no longer to be seen.\n\n\"What has become of Kadiga?\" cried the princesses in alarm.\n\n\"Allah alone knows!\" replied the _renegado_; \"my belt came loose when\nin the midst of the river, and Kadiga was swept with it down the stream.\nThe will of Allah be done! but it was an embroidered belt, and of great\nprice.\"\n\nThere was no time to waste in idle regrets; yet bitterly did the\nprincesses bewail the loss of their discreet counsellor. That excellent\nold woman, however, did not lose more than half of her nine lives in\nthe water: a fisherman, who was drawing his nets some distance down\nthe stream, brought her to land, and was not a little astonished at his\nmiraculous draught. What further became of the discreet Kadiga, the legend\ndoes not mention; certain it is that she evinced her discretion in never\nventuring within the reach of Mohamed the Left-handed.\n\nAlmost as little is known of the conduct of that sagacious monarch when\nhe discovered the escape of his daughters, and the deceit practised\nupon him by the most faithful of servants. It was the only instance in\nwhich he had called in the aid of counsel, and he was never afterwards\nknown to be guilty of a similar weakness. He took good care, however,\nto guard his remaining daughter, who had no disposition to elope; it\nis thought, indeed, that she secretly repented having remained behind:\nnow and then she was seen leaning on the battlements of the tower, and\nlooking mournfully towards the mountains in the direction of Cordova, and\nsometimes the notes of her lute were heard accompanying plaintive ditties,\nin which she was said to lament the loss of her sisters and her lover, and\nto bewail her solitary life. She died young, and, according to popular\nrumour, was buried in a vault beneath the tower, and her untimely fate\nhas given rise to more than one traditionary fable.\n\nThe following legend, which seems in some measure to spring out of the\nforegoing story, is too closely connected with high historic names to be\nentirely doubted. The Count's daughter, and some of her young companions,\nto whom it was read in one of the evening _tertulias_, thought certain\nparts of it had much appearance of reality; and Dolores, who was much more\nversed than they in the improbable truths of the Alhambra, believed every\nword of it.\n\n  [Illustration]\n\n\n\n\n  [Illustration]\n\nLEGEND OF THE ROSE OF THE ALHAMBRA\n\n\nFor some time after the surrender of Granada by the Moors, that delightful\ncity was a frequent and favourite residence of the Spanish sovereigns,\nuntil they were frightened away by successive shocks of earthquakes, which\ntoppled down various houses, and made the old Moslem towers rock to their\nfoundation.\n\n  [Illustration]\n\n  [Illustration]\n\nMany, many years then rolled away, during which Granada was rarely\nhonoured by a royal guest. The palaces of the nobility remained silent\nand shut up; and the Alhambra, like a slighted beauty, sat in mournful\ndesolation among her neglected gardens. The tower of the _Infantas_, once\nthe residence of the three beautiful Moorish princesses, partook of the\ngeneral desolation; the spider spun her web athwart the gilded vault,\nand bats and owls nestled in those chambers that had been graced by the\npresence of Zayda, Zorayda, and Zorahayda. The neglect of this tower may\nhave been partly owing to some superstitious notions of the neighbours. It\nwas rumoured that the spirit of the youthful Zorahayda, who had perished\nin that tower, was often seen by moonlight seated beside the fountain in\nthe hall, or moaning about the battlements, and that the notes of her\nsilver lute would be heard at midnight by wayfarers passing along the\nglen.\n\n  [Illustration]\n\nAt length the city of Granada was once more welcomed by the royal\npresence. All the world knows that Philip V. was the first Bourbon that\nswayed the Spanish sceptre. All the world knows that he married, in\nsecond nuptials, Elizabetta or Isabella (for they are the same), the\nbeautiful princess of Parma; and all the world knows that by this chain\nof contingencies a French prince and an Italian princess were seated\ntogether on the Spanish throne. For a visit of this illustrious pair,\nthe Alhambra was repaired and fitted up with all possible expedition.\nThe arrival of the court changed the whole aspect of the lately deserted\npalace. The clangor of drum and trumpet, the tramp of steed about the\navenues and outer court, the glitter of arms and display of banners about\nbarbican and battlement, recalled the ancient and warlike glories of the\nfortress. A softer spirit, however, reigned within the royal palace. There\nwas the rustling of robes and the cautious tread and murmuring voice of\nreverential courtiers about the ante-chambers; a loitering of pages and\nmaids of honour about the gardens, and the sound of music stealing from\nopen casements.\n\nAmong those who attended in the train of the monarchs was a favourite page\nof the queen, named _Ruyz de Alarcon_. To say that he was a favourite\npage of the queen was at once to speak his eulogium, for every one in\nthe suite of the stately Elizabetta was chosen for grace, and beauty,\nand accomplishments. He was just turned of eighteen, light and lithe of\nform, and graceful as a young Antinous. To the queen he was all deference\nand respect, yet he was at heart a roguish stripling, petted and spoiled\nby the ladies about the court, and experienced in the ways of women far\nbeyond his years.\n\nThis loitering page was one morning rambling about the groves of the\nGeneralife, which overlook the grounds of the Alhambra. He had taken with\nhim for his amusement a favourite ger-falcon of the queen. In the course\nof his rambles, seeing a bird rising from a thicket, he unhooded the\nhawk and let him fly. The falcon towered high in the air, made a swoop at\nhis quarry, but missing it, soared away, regardless of the calls of the\npage. The latter followed the truant bird with his eye, in its capricious\nflight, until he saw it alight upon the battlements of a remote and lonely\ntower, in the outer wall of the Alhambra, built on the edge of a ravine\nthat separated the royal fortress from the grounds of the Generalife. It\nwas in fact the \"Tower of the Princesses.\"\n\n  [Illustration]\n\nThe page descended into the ravine and approached the tower, but it had\nno entrance from the glen, and its lofty height rendered any attempt to\nscale it fruitless. Seeking one of the gates of the fortress, therefore,\nhe made a wide circuit to that side of the tower facing within the walls.\n\nA small garden, enclosed by a trellis-work of reeds overhung with myrtle,\nlay before the tower. Opening a wicket, the page passed between beds of\nflowers and thickets of roses to the door. It was closed and bolted.\nA crevice in the door gave him a peep into the interior. There was a\nsmall Moorish hall with fretted walls, light marble columns, and an\nalabaster fountain surrounded with flowers. In the centre hung a gilt cage\ncontaining a singing-bird; beneath it, on a chair, lay a tortoise-shell\ncat among reels of silk and other articles of female labour, and a guitar\ndecorated with ribbons leaned against the fountain.\n\n_Ruyz de Alarcon_ was struck with these traces of female taste and\nelegance in a lonely, and, as he had supposed, deserted tower. They\nreminded him of the tales of enchanted halls current in the Alhambra; and\nthe tortoise-shell cat might be some spell-bound princess.\n\nHe knocked gently at the door. A beautiful face peeped out from a little\nwindow above, but was instantly withdrawn. He waited, expecting that the\ndoor would be opened, but he waited in vain; no footstep was to be heard\nwithin--all was silent. Had his senses deceived him, or was this beautiful\napparition the fairy of the tower? He knocked again, and more loudly.\nAfter a little while the beaming face once more peeped forth; it was that\nof a blooming damsel of fifteen.\n\nThe page immediately doffed his plumed bonnet, and entreated in the most\ncourteous accents to be permitted to ascend the tower in pursuit of his\nfalcon.\n\n\"I dare not open the door, _Se\u00f1or_,\" replied the little damsel, blushing,\n\"my aunt has forbidden it.\"\n\n\"I do beseech you, fair maid--it is the favourite falcon of the queen: I\ndare not return to the palace without it.\"\n\n\"Are you then one of the cavaliers of the court?\"\n\n\"I am, fair maid; but I shall lose the queen's favour and my place, if I\nlose this hawk.\"\n\n\"_Santa Maria!_ It is against you cavaliers of the court my aunt has\ncharged me especially to bar the door.\"\n\n\"Against wicked cavaliers doubtless, but I am none of these, but a simple,\nharmless page, who will be ruined and undone if you deny me this small\nrequest.\"\n\nThe heart of the little damsel was touched by the distress of the page.\nIt was a thousand pities he should be ruined for the want of so trifling\na boon. Surely too he could not be one of those dangerous beings whom\nher aunt had described as a species of cannibal, ever on the prowl to\nmake prey of thoughtless damsels; he was gentle and modest, and stood so\nentreatingly with cap in hand, and looked so charming.\n\nThe sly page saw that the garrison began to waver, and redoubled his\nentreaties in such moving terms that it was not in the nature of mortal\nmaiden to deny him; so the blushing little warden of the tower descended,\nand opened the door with a trembling hand, and if the page had been\ncharmed by a mere glimpse of her countenance from the window, he was\nravished by the full-length portrait now revealed to him.\n\nHer Andalusian bodice and trim _basqui\u00f1a_ set off the round but delicate\nsymmetry of her form, which was as yet scarce verging into womanhood. Her\nglossy hair was parted on her forehead with scrupulous exactness, and\ndecorated with a fresh-plucked rose, according to the universal custom\nof the country. It is true her complexion was tinged by the ardour of a\nsouthern sun, but it served to give richness to the mantling bloom of her\ncheek, and to heighten the lustre of her melting eyes.\n\n_Ruyz de Alarcon_ beheld all this with a single glance, for it became him\nnot to tarry; he merely murmured his acknowledgments, and then bounded\nlightly up the spiral staircase in quest of his falcon.\n\nHe soon returned with the truant bird upon his fist. The damsel, in the\nmeantime, had seated herself by the fountain in the hall, and was winding\nsilk; but in her agitation she let fall the reel upon the pavement. The\npage sprang and picked it up, then dropping gracefully on one knee,\npresented it to her; but, seizing the hand extended to receive it,\nimprinted on it a kiss more fervent and devout than he had ever imprinted\non the fair hand of his sovereign.\n\n\"_Ave Maria Se\u00f1or!_\" exclaimed the damsel, blushing still deeper\nwith confusion and surprise, for never before had she received such a\nsalutation.\n\nThe modest page made a thousand apologies, assuring her it was the way at\ncourt of expressing the most profound homage and respect.\n\nHer anger, if anger she felt, was easily pacified, but her agitation and\nembarrassment continued, and she sat blushing deeper and deeper, with her\neyes cast down upon her work, entangling the silk which she attempted to\nwind.\n\nThe cunning page saw the confusion in the opposite camp, and would fain\nhave profited by it, but the fine speeches he would have uttered died\nupon his lips; his attempts at gallantry were awkward and ineffectual;\nand to his surprise, the adroit page, who had figured with such grace and\neffrontery among the most knowing and experienced ladies of the court,\nfound himself awed and abashed in the presence of a simple damsel of\nfifteen.\n\nIn fact, the artless maiden, in her own modesty and innocence, had\nguardians more effectual than the bolts and bars prescribed by her\nvigilant aunt. Still, where is the female bosom proof against the\nfirst whisperings of love? The little damsel, with all her artlessness,\ninstinctively comprehended all that the faltering tongue of the page\nfailed to express, and her heart was fluttered at beholding, for the first\ntime, a lover at her feet--and such a lover!\n\nThe diffidence of the page, though genuine, was short-lived, and he was\nrecovering his usual ease and confidence, when a shrill voice was heard\nat a distance.\n\n\"My aunt is returning from mass!\" cried the damsel in affright: \"I pray\nyou, _Se\u00f1or_, depart.\"\n\n\"Not until you grant me that rose from your hair as a remembrance.\"\n\nShe hastily untwisted the rose from her raven locks. \"Take it,\" cried she,\nagitated and blushing, \"but pray begone.\"\n\nThe page took the rose, and at the same time covered with kisses the fair\nhand that gave it. Then, placing the flower in his bonnet, and taking the\nfalcon upon his fist he bounded off through the garden, bearing away with\nhim the heart of the gentle Jacinta.\n\nWhen the vigilant aunt arrived at the tower, she remarked the agitation of\nher niece, and an air of confusion in the hall; but a word of explanation\nsufficed. \"A ger-falcon had pursued his prey into the hall.\"\n\n\"Mercy on us! to think of a falcon flying into the tower. Did ever one\nhear of so saucy a hawk? Why, the very bird in the cage is not safe!\"\n\nThe vigilant Fredegonda was one of the most wary of ancient spinsters. She\nhad a becoming terror and distrust of what she denominated \"the opposite\nsex,\" which had gradually increased through a long life of celibacy. Not\nthat the good lady had ever suffered from their wiles, nature having set\nup a safeguard in her face that forbade all trespass upon her premises;\nbut ladies who have least cause to fear for themselves are most ready to\nkeep a watch over their more tempting neighbours.\n\nThe niece was the orphan of an officer who had fallen in the wars. She\nhad been educated in a convent, and had recently been transferred from\nher sacred asylum to the immediate guardianship of her aunt, under\nwhose overshadowing care she vegetated in obscurity, like an opening\nrose blooming beneath a brier. Nor indeed is this comparison entirely\naccidental; for, to tell the truth, her fresh and dawning beauty had\ncaught the public eye, even in her seclusion, and, with that poetical turn\ncommon to the people of Andalusia, the peasantry of the neighbourhood had\ngiven her the appellation of \"the Rose of the Alhambra.\"\n\nThe wary aunt continued to keep a faithful watch over her tempting little\nniece as long as the court continued at Granada, and flattered herself\nthat her vigilance had been successful. It is true the good lady was\nnow and then discomposed by the tinkling of guitars and chanting of\nlove-ditties from the moonlit groves beneath the tower; but she would\nexhort her niece to shut her ears against such idle minstrelsy, assuring\nher that it was one of the arts of the opposite sex, by which simple maids\nwere often lured to their undoing. Alas! what chance with a simple maid\nhas a dry lecture against a moonlight serenade?\n\nAt length king Philip cut short his sojourn at Granada, and suddenly\ndeparted with all his train. The vigilant Fredegonda watched the royal\npageant as it issued forth from the Gate of Justice, and descended the\ngreat avenue leading to the city. When the last banner disappeared from\nher sight, she returned exulting to her tower, for all her cares were\nover. To her surprise, a light Arabian steed pawed the ground at the\nwicket-gate of the garden;--to her horror she saw through the thickets\nof roses a youth in gaily embroidered dress, at the feet of her niece. At\nthe sounds of her footsteps he gave a tender adieu, bounded lightly over\nthe barrier of reeds and myrtles, sprang upon his horse, and was out of\nsight in an instant.\n\nThe tender Jacinta, in the agony of her grief, lost all thought of her\naunt's displeasure. Throwing herself into her arms, she broke forth into\nsobs and tears.\n\n\"_Ay de mi!_\" cried she; \"he's gone!--he's gone!--he's gone! and I shall\nnever see him more!\"\n\n\"Gone!--who is gone?--what youth is that I saw at your feet?\"\n\n\"A queen's page, aunt, who came to bid me farewell.\"\n\n\"A queen's page, child!\" echoed the vigilant Fredegonda, faintly, \"and\nwhen did you become acquainted with the queen's page?\"\n\n\"The morning that the ger-falcon came into the tower. It was the queen's\nger-falcon, and he came in pursuit of it.\"\n\n\"Ah silly, silly girl! know that there are no ger-falcons half so\ndangerous as these young prankling pages, and it is precisely such simple\nbirds as thee that they pounce upon.\"\n\nThe aunt was at first indignant at learning that in despite of her boasted\nvigilance, a tender intercourse had been carried on by the youthful\nlovers, almost beneath her eye; but when she found that her simple-hearted\nniece, though thus exposed, without the protection of bolt or bar, to all\nthe machinations of the opposite sex, had come forth unsinged from the\nfiery ordeal, she consoled herself with the persuasion that it was owing\nto the chaste and cautious maxims in which she had, as it were, steeped\nher to the very lips.\n\nWhile the aunt laid this soothing unction to her pride, the niece\ntreasured up the oft-repeated vows of fidelity of the page. But what is\nthe love of restless, roving man? A vagrant stream that dallies for a time\nwith each flower upon its bank, then passes on, and leaves them all in\ntears.\n\nDays, weeks, months elapsed, and nothing more was heard of the page. The\npomegranate ripened, the vine yielded up its fruit, the autumnal rains\ndescended in torrents from the mountains; the Sierra Nevada became covered\nwith a snowy mantle, and wintry blasts howled through the halls of the\nAlhambra--still he came not. The winter passed away. Again the genial\nspring burst forth with song and blossom and balmy zephyr; the snows\nmelted from the mountains, until none remained but on the lofty summit of\nNevada, glistening through the sultry summer air. Still nothing was heard\nof the forgetful page.\n\nIn the meantime the poor little Jacinta grew pale and thoughtful. Her\nformer occupations and amusements were abandoned, her silk lay entangled,\nher guitar unstrung, her flowers were neglected, the notes of her bird\nunheeded, and her eyes, once so bright, were dimmed with secret weeping.\nIf any solitude could be devised to foster the passion of a lovelorn\ndamsel it would be such a place as the Alhambra, where everything seems\ndisposed to produce tender and romantic reveries. It is a very paradise\nfor lovers: how hard then to be alone in such a paradise--and not merely\nalone, but forsaken!\n\n\"Alas, silly child!\" would the staid and immaculate Fredegonda say, when\nshe found her niece in one of her desponding moods--\"did I not warn thee\nagainst the wiles and deceptions of these men? What couldst thou expect,\ntoo, from one of a haughty and aspiring family--thou an orphan, the\ndescendant of a fallen and impoverished line? Be assured, if the youth\nwere true, his father, who is one of the proudest nobles about the court,\nwould prohibit his union with one so humble and portionless as thou. Pluck\nup thy resolution, therefore, and drive these idle notions from thy mind.\"\n\nThe words of the immaculate Fredegonda only served to increase the\nmelancholy of her niece, but she sought to indulge it in private.\nAt a late hour one midsummer night, after her aunt had retired to\nrest, she remained alone in the hall of the tower, seated beside the\nalabaster fountain. It was here that the faithless page had first\nknelt and kissed her hand; it was here that he had often vowed eternal\nfidelity. The poor little damsel's heart was overladen with sad and\ntender recollections, her tears began to flow, and slowly fell drop by\ndrop into the fountain. By degrees the crystal water became agitated,\nand--bubble--bubble--bubble--boiled up and was tossed about, until a\nfemale figure, richly clad in Moorish robes, slowly rose to view.\n\nJacinta was so frightened that she fled from the hall, and did not venture\nto return. The next morning she related what she had seen to her aunt, but\nthe good lady treated it as a fantasy of her troubled mind, or supposed\nshe had fallen asleep and dreamt beside the fountain. \"Thou hast been\nthinking of the story of the three Moorish princesses that once inhabited\nthis tower,\" continued she, \"and it has entered into thy dreams.\"\n\n\"What story, aunt? I know nothing of it.\"\n\n\"Thou hast certainly heard of the three princesses, Zayda, Zorayda, and\nZorahayda, who were confined in this tower by the king their father, and\nagreed to fly with three Christian cavaliers. The two first accomplished\ntheir escape, but the third failed in her resolution, and, it is said,\ndied in this tower.\"\n\n\"I now recollect to have heard of it,\" said Jacinta, \"and to have wept\nover the fate of the gentle Zorahayda.\"\n\n\"Thou mayest well weep over her fate,\" continued the aunt, \"for the lover\nof Zorahayda was thy ancestor. He long bemoaned his Moorish love: but time\ncured him of his grief, and he married a Spanish lady, from whom thou art\ndescended.\"\n\nJacinta ruminated upon these words. \"That what I have seen is no fantasy\nof the brain,\" said she to herself, \"I am confident. If indeed it be\nthe spirit of the gentle Zorahayda, which I have heard lingers about\nthis tower, of what should I be afraid? I'll watch by the fountain\nto-night--perhaps the visit will be repeated.\"\n\nTowards midnight, when everything was quiet, she again took her seat\nin the hall. As the bell in the distant watch-tower of the Alhambra\nstruck the midnight hour, the fountain was again agitated; and\nbubble--bubble--bubble--it tossed about the waters until the Moorish\nfemale again rose to view. She was young and beautiful; her dress was rich\nwith jewels, and in her hand she held a silver lute. Jacinta trembled\nand was faint, but was reassured by the soft and plaintive voice of the\napparition, and the sweet expression of her pale, melancholy countenance.\n\n\"Daughter of mortality,\" said she, \"what aileth thee? Why do thy tears\ntrouble my fountain, and thy sighs and plaints disturb the quiet watches\nof the night?\"\n\n\"I weep because of the faithlessness of man, and I bemoan my solitary and\nforsaken state.\"\n\n\"Take comfort; thy sorrows may yet have an end. Thou beholdest a Moorish\nprincess, who, like thee, was unhappy in her love. A Christian knight,\nthy ancestor, won my heart, and would have borne me to his native land\nand to the bosom of his church. I was a convert in my heart, but I lacked\ncourage equal to my faith, and lingered till too late. For this the evil\ngenii are permitted to have power over me, and I remain enchanted in this\ntower until some pure Christian will deign to break the magic spell. Wilt\nthou undertake the task?\"\n\n\"I will,\" replied the damsel, trembling.\n\n\"Come hither then, and fear not; dip thy hand in the fountain, sprinkle\nthe water over me, and baptize me after the manner of thy faith; so shall\nthe enchantment be dispelled, and my troubled spirit have repose.\"\n\nThe damsel advanced with faltering steps, dipped her hand in the fountain,\ncollected water in the palm, and sprinkled it over the pale face of the\nphantom.\n\nThe latter smiled with ineffable benignity. She dropped her silver lute\nat the feet of Jacinta, crossed her white arms upon her bosom, and melted\nfrom sight, so that it seemed merely as if a shower of dewdrops had fallen\ninto the fountain.\n\nJacinta retired from the hall filled with awe and wonder. She scarcely\nclosed her eyes that night; but when she awoke at daybreak out of a\ntroubled slumber, the whole appeared to her like a distempered dream.\nOn descending into the hall, however, the truth of the vision was\nestablished, for beside the fountain she beheld the silver lute glittering\nin the morning sunshine.\n\nShe hastened to her aunt, to relate all that had befallen her, and called\nher to behold the lute as a testimonial of the reality of her story. If\nthe good lady had any lingering doubts, they were removed when Jacinta\ntouched the instrument, for she drew forth such ravishing tones as to\nthaw even the frigid bosom of the immaculate Fredegonda, that region of\neternal winter, into a genial flow. Nothing but supernatural melody could\nhave produced such an effect.\n\nThe extraordinary power of the lute became every day more and more\napparent. The wayfarer passing by the tower was detained, and, as it\nwere, spell-bound in breathless ecstasy. The very birds gathered in the\nneighbouring trees, and hushing their own strains, listened in charmed\nsilence.\n\nRumour soon spread the news abroad. The inhabitants of Granada thronged to\nthe Alhambra to catch a few notes of the transcendent music that floated\nabout the tower of Las Infantas.\n\nThe lovely little minstrel was at length drawn forth from her retreat.\nThe rich and powerful of the land contended who should entertain and do\nhonour to her; or rather, who should secure the charms of her lute to\ndraw fashionable throngs to their saloons. Wherever she went her vigilant\naunt kept a dragon watch at her elbow, awing the throngs of impassioned\nadmirers who hung in raptures on her strains. The report of her wonderful\npowers spread from city to city. Malaga, Seville, Cordova, all became\nsuccessively mad on the theme; nothing was talked of throughout Andalusia\nbut the beautiful minstrel of the Alhambra. How could it be otherwise\namong a people so musical and gallant as the Andalusians, when the lute\nwas magical in its powers, and the minstrel inspired by love!\n\nWhile all Andalusia was thus music mad, a different mood prevailed\nat the court of Spain. Philip V., as is well known, was a miserable\nhypochondriac, and subject to all kinds of fancies. Sometimes he would\nkeep to his bed for weeks together, groaning under imaginary complaints.\nAt other times he would insist upon abdicating his throne, to the great\nannoyance of his royal spouse, who had a strong relish for the splendours\nof a court and the glories of a crown, and guided the sceptre of her\nimbecile lord with an expert and steady hand.\n\nNothing was found to be so efficacious in dispelling the royal megrims\nas the power of music; the queen took care, therefore, to have the best\nperformers, both vocal and instrumental, at hand, and retained the famous\nItalian singer Farinelli about the court as a kind of royal physician.\n\nAt the moment we treat of, however, a freak had come over the mind of this\nsapient and illustrious Bourbon that surpassed all former vagaries. After\na long spell of imaginary illness, which set all the strains of Farinelli\nand the consultations of a whole orchestra of court fiddlers at defiance,\nthe monarch fairly, in idea, gave up the ghost, and considered himself\nabsolutely dead.\n\nThis would have been harmless enough, and even convenient both to his\nqueen and courtiers, had he been content to remain in the quietude\nbefitting a dead man; but to their annoyance he insisted upon having\nthe funeral ceremonies performed over him, and, to their inexpressible\nperplexity, began to grow impatient, and to revile bitterly at them for\nnegligence and disrespect, in leaving him unburied. What was to be done?\nTo disobey the king's positive commands was monstrous in the eyes of the\nobsequious courtiers of a punctilious court--but to obey him, and bury\nhim alive would be downright regicide!\n\nIn the midst of this fearful dilemma a rumour reached the court of the\nfemale minstrel who was turning the brains of all Andalusia. The queen\ndespatched missions in all haste to summon her to St. Ildefonso, where\nthe court at that time resided.\n\nWithin a few days, as the queen with her maids of honour was walking\nin those stately gardens, intended, with their avenues and terraces and\nfountains, to eclipse the glories of Versailles, the far-famed minstrel\nwas conducted into her presence. The imperial Elizabetta gazed with\nsurprise at the youthful and unpretending appearance of the little being\nthat had set the world madding. She was in her picturesque Andalusian\ndress, her silver lute in hand, and stood with modest and downcast eyes,\nbut with a simplicity and freshness of beauty that still bespoke her \"the\nRose of the Alhambra.\"\n\nAs usual she was accompanied by the ever-vigilant Fredegonda, who gave\nthe whole history of her parentage and descent to the inquiring queen. If\nthe stately Elizabetta had been interested by the appearance of Jacinta,\nshe was still more pleased when she learnt that she was of a meritorious\nthough impoverished line, and that her father had bravely fallen in the\nservice of the crown. \"If thy powers equal thy renown,\" said she, \"and\nthou canst cast forth this evil spirit that possesses thy sovereign, thy\nfortunes shall henceforth be my care, and honours and wealth attend thee.\"\n\nImpatient to make trial of her skill, she led the way at once to the\napartment of the moody monarch.\n\nJacinta followed with downcast eyes through files of guards and crowds of\ncourtiers. They arrived at length at a great chamber hung with black. The\nwindows were closed to exclude the light of day: a number of yellow wax\ntapers in silver sconces diffused a lugubrious light, and dimly revealed\nthe figures of mutes in mourning dresses, and courtiers who glided about\nwith noiseless step and woe-begone visage. In the midst of a funeral bed\nor bier, his hands folded on his breast, and the tip of his nose just\nvisible, lay extended this would-be-buried monarch.\n\nThe queen entered the chamber in silence, and pointing to a footstool in\nan obscure corner, beckoned to Jacinta to sit down and commence.\n\nAt first she touched her lute with a faltering hand, but gathering\nconfidence and animation as she proceeded, drew forth such soft a\u00ebrial\nharmony, that all present could scarce believe it mortal. As to the\nmonarch, who had already considered himself in the world of spirits,\nhe set it down for some angelic melody or the music of the sphere. By\ndegrees the theme was varied, and the voice of the minstrel accompanied\nthe instrument. She poured forth one of the legendary ballads treating of\nthe ancient glories of the Alhambra and the achievements of the Moors.\nHer whole soul entered into the theme, for with the recollections of\nthe Alhambra was associated the story of her love. The funeral-chamber\nresounded with the animating strain. It entered into the gloomy heart of\nthe monarch. He raised his head and gazed around: he sat up on his couch,\nhis eye began to kindle--at length, leaping upon the floor, he called for\nsword and buckler.\n\nThe triumph of music, or rather of the enchanted lute, was complete; the\ndemon of melancholy was cast forth; and, as it were, a dead man brought\nto life. The windows of the apartment were thrown open; the glorious\neffulgence of Spanish sunshine burst into the late lugubrious chamber;\nall eyes sought the lovely enchantress, but the lute had fallen from her\nhand, she had sunk upon the earth, and the next moment was clasped to the\nbosom of Ruyz de Alarcon.\n\nThe nuptials of the happy couple were celebrated soon afterwards with\ngreat splendour, and \"the Rose of the Alhambra\" became the ornament and\ndelight of the court. \"But hold--not so fast\"--I hear the reader exclaim;\n\"this is jumping to the end of a story at a furious rate! First let\nus know how Ruyz de Alarcon managed to account to Jacinta for his long\nneglect?\" Nothing more easy; the venerable, time-honoured excuse, the\nopposition to his wishes by a proud, pragmatical old father: besides,\nyoung people who really like one another soon come to an amicable\nunderstanding, and bury all past grievances when once they meet.\n\nBut how was the proud, pragmatical old father reconciled to the match?\n\nOh! as to that, his scruples were easily overcome by a word or two from\nthe queen; especially as dignities and rewards were showered upon the\nblooming favourite of royalty. Besides, the lute of Jacinta, you know,\npossessed a magic power, and could control the most stubborn head and\nhardest breast.\n\nAnd what came of the enchanted lute?\n\nOh, that is the most curious matter of all, and plainly proves the truth\nof the whole story. That lute remained for some time in the family, but\nwas purloined and carried off, as was supposed, by the great singer\nFarinelli, in pure jealousy. At his death it passed into other hands\nin Italy, who were ignorant of its mystic powers, and melting down the\nsilver, transferred the strings to an old Cremona fiddle. The strings\nstill retain something of their magic virtues. A word in the reader's\near, but let it go no further: that fiddle is now bewitching the whole\nworld,--it is the fiddle of Paganini!\n\n  [Illustration]\n\n\n\n\n  [Illustration]\n\nTHE VETERAN\n\n\nAmong the curious acquaintances I made in my rambles about the fortress,\nwas a brave and battered old colonel of Invalids, who was nestled like\na hawk in one of the Moorish towers. His history, which he was fond of\ntelling, was a tissue of those adventures, mishaps, and vicissitudes that\nrender the life of almost every Spaniard of note as varied and whimsical\nas the pages of Gil Blas.\n\nHe was in America at twelve years of age, and reckoned among the\nmost signal and fortunate events of his life, his having seen General\nWashington. Since then he had taken a part in all the wars of his country;\nhe could speak experimentally of most of the prisons and dungeons of the\nPeninsula; had been lamed of one leg, crippled in his hands, and so cut up\nand carbonadoed that he was a kind of walking monument of the troubles of\nSpain, on which there was a scar for every battle and broil, as every year\nof captivity was notched upon the tree of Robinson Crusoe. The greatest\nmisfortune of the brave old cavalier, however, appeared to have been\nhis having commanded at Malaga during a time of peril and confusion, and\nbeen made a general by the inhabitants, to protect them from the invasion\nof the French. This had entailed upon him a number of just claims upon\ngovernment, that I feared would employ him until his dying day in writing\nand printing petitions and memorials, to the great disquiet of his mind,\nexhaustion of his purse, and penance of his friends; not one of whom\ncould visit him without having to listen to a mortal document of half an\nhour in length, and to carry away half a dozen pamphlets in his pocket.\nThis, however, is the case throughout Spain; everywhere you meet with\nsome worthy wight brooding in a corner, and nursing up some pet grievance\nand cherished wrong. Besides, a Spaniard who has a lawsuit, or a claim\nupon government, may be considered as furnished with employment for the\nremainder of his life.\n\n  [Illustration]\n\nI visited the veteran in his quarters in the upper part of the _Torre\ndel Vino_, or Wine Tower. His room was small but snug, and commanded a\nbeautiful view of the Vega. It was arranged with a soldier's precision.\nThree muskets and a brace of pistols, all bright and shining, were\nsuspended against the wall, with a sabre and a cane hanging side by side,\nand above them two cocked hats, one for parade, and one for ordinary use.\nA small shelf, containing some half dozen books, formed his library, one\nof which, a little old mouldy volume of philosophical maxims, was his\nfavourite reading. This he thumbed and pondered over day by day; applying\nevery maxim to his own particular case, provided it had a little tinge of\nwholesome bitterness, and treated of the injustice of the world.\n\n  [Illustration]\n\nYet he was social and kind-hearted, and, provided he could be diverted\nfrom his wrongs and his philosophy, was an entertaining companion. I\nlike these old weather-beaten sons of fortune, and enjoy their rough\ncampaigning anecdotes. In the course of my visits to the one in question,\nI learnt some curious facts about an old military commander of the\nfortress, who seems to have resembled him in some respects, and to have\nhad similar fortunes in the wars. These particulars have been augmented\nby inquiries among some of the old inhabitants of the place, particularly\nthe father of Mateo Ximenes, of whose traditional stories the worthy I am\nabout to introduce to the reader was a favourite hero.\n\n  [Illustration]\n\n\n\n\n  [Illustration: _A Beetling Bastion._]\n\nTHE GOVERNOR AND THE NOTARY\n\n\nIn former times there ruled, as governor of the Alhambra, a doughty old\ncavalier, who, from having lost one arm in the wars, was commonly known\nby the name of _el Gobernador Manco_, or \"the one-armed governor.\" He in\nfact prided himself upon being an old soldier, wore his moustaches curled\nup to his eyes, a pair of campaigning boots, and a toledo as long as a\nspit, with his pocket-handkerchief in the basket-hilt.\n\nHe was, moreover, exceedingly proud and punctilious, and tenacious of\nall his privileges and dignities. Under his sway the immunities of the\nAlhambra, as a royal residence and domain, were rigidly exacted. No one\nwas permitted to enter the fortress with fire-arms, or even with a sword\nor staff, unless he were of a certain rank; and every horseman was obliged\nto dismount at the gate, and lead his horse by the bridle. Now as the\nhill of the Alhambra rises from the very midst of the city of Granada,\nbeing, as it were, an excrescence of the capital, it must at all times\nbe somewhat irksome to the captain-general, who commands the province, to\nthus have an _imperium in imperio_, a petty independent post in the very\ncentre of his domains. It was rendered the more galling, in the present\ninstance, from the irritable jealousy of the old governor, that took fire\non the least question of authority and jurisdiction; and from the loose\nvagrant character of the people who had gradually nestled themselves\nwithin the fortress, as in a sanctuary, and thence carried on a system of\nroguery and depredation at the expense of the honest inhabitants of the\ncity.\n\n  [Illustration]\n\nThus there was a perpetual feud and heart-burning between the\ncaptain-general and the governor, the more virulent on the part of\nthe latter, inasmuch as the smallest of two neighbouring potentates is\nalways the most captious about his dignity. The stately palace of the\ncaptain-general stood in the Plaza Nueva, immediately at the foot of the\nhill of the Alhambra; and here was always a bustle and parade of guards,\nand domestics, and city functionaries. A beetling bastion of the fortress\noverlooked the palace and public square in front of it; and on this\nbastion the old governor would occasionally strut backwards and forwards,\nwith his toledo girded by his side, keeping a wary eye down upon his\nrival, like a hawk reconnoitring his quarry from his nest in a dry tree.\n\nWhenever he descended into the city, it was in grand parade; on horseback,\nsurrounded by his guards; or in his state coach, an ancient and unwieldy\nSpanish edifice of carved timber and gilt leather, drawn by eight mules,\nwith running footmen, outriders, and lackeys; on which occasions he\nflattered himself he impressed every beholder with awe and admiration as\nvicegerent of the king; though the wits of Granada, particularly those who\nloitered about the palace of the captain-general, were apt to sneer at his\npetty parade, and, in allusion to the vagrant character of his subjects,\nto greet him with the appellation of \"the king of the beggars.\" One of\nthe most fruitful sources of dispute between these two doughty rivals\nwas the right claimed by the governor to have all things passed free of\nduty through the city that were intended for the use of himself or his\ngarrison. By degrees this privilege had given rise to extensive smuggling.\nA nest of _contrabandistas_ took up their abode in the hovels of the\nfortress and the numerous caves in its vicinity, and drove a thriving\nbusiness under the connivance of the soldiers of the garrison.\n\nThe vigilance of the captain-general was aroused. He consulted his\nlegal adviser and factotum, a shrewd meddlesome _escribano_, or notary,\nwho rejoiced in an opportunity of perplexing the old potentate of the\nAlhambra, and involving him in a maze of legal subtleties. He advised\nthe captain-general to insist upon the right of examining every convoy\npassing through the gates of his city, and penned a long letter for\nhim in vindication of the right. Governor Manco was a straightforward\ncut-and-thrust old soldier, who hated an _escribano_ worse than the devil,\nand this one in particular worse than all other _escribanos_.\n\n\"What!\" said he, curling up his moustaches fiercely, \"does the\ncaptain-general set his man of the pen to practise confusions upon me?\nI'll let him see an old soldier is not to be baffled by schoolcraft.\"\n\n  [Illustration: _The Gate of Xenil._]\n\nHe seized his pen and scrawled a short letter in a crabbed hand, in\nwhich, without deigning to enter into argument, he insisted on the right\nof transit free of search, and denounced vengeance on any custom-house\nofficer who should lay his unhallowed hand on any convoy protected by the\nflag of the Alhambra. While this question was agitated between the two\npragmatical potentates, it so happened that a mule laden with supplies\nfor the fortress arrived one day at the gate of Xenil, by which it was to\ntraverse a suburb of the city on its way to the Alhambra. The convoy was\nheaded by a testy old corporal, who had long served under the governor,\nand was a man after his own heart; as rusty and staunch as an old toledo\nblade.\n\nAs they approached the gate of the city, the corporal placed the banner\nof the Alhambra on the pack-saddle of the mule, and drawing himself up\nto a perfect perpendicular, advanced with his head dressed to the front,\nbut with the wary side-glance of a cur passing through hostile ground and\nready for a snap and a snarl.\n\n\"Who goes there?\" said the sentinel at the gate.\n\n\"Soldier of the Alhambra!\" said the corporal, without turning his head.\n\n\"What have you in charge?\"\n\n\"Provisions for the garrison.\"\n\n\"Proceed.\"\n\nThe corporal marched straight forward, followed by the convoy, but had not\nadvanced many paces before a posse of custom-house officers rushed out of\na small toll-house.\n\n\"Hallo there!\" cried the leader. \"Muleteer, halt, and open those packages.\"\n\nThe corporal wheeled round and drew himself up in battle array. \"Respect\nthe flag of the Alhambra,\" said he; \"these things are for the governor.\"\n\n\"A _figo_ for the governor and a _figo_ for his flag. Muleteer, halt, I\nsay.\"\n\n\"Stop the convoy at your peril!\" cried the corporal, cocking his musket.\n\"Muleteer, proceed.\"\n\nThe muleteer gave his beast a hearty thwack; the custom-house officer\nsprang forward and seized the halter; whereupon the corporal levelled his\npiece and shot him dead.\n\nThe street was immediately in an uproar.\n\nThe old corporal was seized, and after undergoing sundry kicks, and cuffs,\nand cudgellings, which are generally given impromptu by the mob in Spain\nas a foretaste of the after penalties of the law, he was loaded with irons\nand conducted to the city prison, while his comrades were permitted to\nproceed with the convoy, after it had been well rummaged, to the Alhambra.\n\nThe old governor was in a towering passion when he heard of this insult\nto his flag and capture of his corporal. For a time he stormed about the\nMoorish halls, and vapoured about the bastions, and looked down fire and\nsword upon the palace of the captain-general. Having vented the first\nebullition of his wrath, he despatched a message demanding the surrender\nof the corporal, as to him alone belonged the right of sitting in judgment\non the offences of those under his command. The captain-general, aided by\nthe pen of the delighted _escribano_, replied at great length, arguing,\nthat, as the offence had been committed within the walls of his city,\nand against one of his civil officers, it was clearly within his proper\njurisdiction. The governor rejoined by a repetition of his demand; the\ncaptain-general gave a sur-rejoinder of still greater length and legal\nacumen; the governor became hotter and more peremptory in his demands, and\nthe captain-general cooler and more copious in his replies; until the old\nlion-hearted soldier absolutely roared with fury at being thus entangled\nin the meshes of legal controversy.\n\nWhile the subtle _escribano_ was thus amusing himself at the expense of\nthe governor, he was conducting the trial of the corporal, who, mewed up\nin a narrow dungeon of the prison, had merely a small grated window at\nwhich to show his iron-bound visage and receive the consolations of his\nfriends.\n\nA mountain of written testimony was diligently heaped up, according\nto Spanish form, by the indefatigable _escribano_; the corporal was\ncompletely overwhelmed by it. He was convicted of murder, and sentenced\nto be hanged.\n\nIt was in vain the governor sent down remonstrance and menace from\nthe Alhambra. The fatal day was at hand, and the corporal was put _in\ncapilla_, that is to say, in the chapel of the prison, as is always done\nwith culprits the day before execution, that they may meditate on their\napproaching end and repent them of their sins.\n\nSeeing things drawing to extremity, the old governor determined to attend\nto the affair in person. For this purpose he ordered out his carriage\nof state, and, surrounded by his guards, rumbled down the avenue of\nthe Alhambra into the city. Driving to the house of the _escribano_, he\nsummoned him to the portal.\n\nThe eye of the old governor gleamed like a coal at beholding the smirking\nman of the law advancing with an air of exultation.\n\n\"What is this I hear,\" cried he, \"that you are about to put to death one\nof my soldiers?\"\n\n\"All according to law--all in strict form of justice,\" said the\nself-sufficient _escribano_, chuckling and rubbing his hands; \"I can show\nyour Excellency the written testimony in the case.\"\n\n\"Fetch it hither,\" said the governor. The _escribano_ bustled into his\noffice, delighted with having another opportunity of displaying his\ningenuity at the expense of the hard-headed veteran. He returned with\na satchel full of papers, and began to read a long deposition with\nprofessional volubility. By this time a crowd had collected, listening\nwith outstretched necks and gaping mouths.\n\n\"Prithee, man, get into the carriage, out of this pestilent throng, that\nI may the better hear thee,\" said the governor.\n\nThe _escribano_ entered the carriage, when, in a twinkling, the door was\nclosed, the coachman smacked his whip,--mules, carriage, guards, and all\ndashed off at a thundering rate, leaving the crowd in gaping wonderment;\nnor did the governor pause until he had lodged his prey in one of the\nstrongest dungeons of the Alhambra.\n\nHe then sent down a flag of truce in military style, proposing a cartel,\nor exchange of prisoners,--the corporal for the notary. The pride of\nthe captain-general was piqued; he returned a contemptuous refusal, and\nforthwith caused a gallows, tall and strong, to be erected in the centre\nof the Plaza Nueva for the execution of the corporal.\n\n  [Illustration]\n\n\"Oho! is that the game?\" said Governor Manco. He gave orders, and\nimmediately a gibbet was reared on the verge of the great beetling\nbastion that overlooked the Plaza. \"Now,\" said he, in a message to the\ncaptain-general, \"hang my soldier when you please; but at the same time\nthat he is swung off in the square, look up to see your _escribano_\ndangling against the sky.\"\n\nThe captain-general was inflexible; troops were paraded in the square;\nthe drums beat, the bell tolled. An immense multitude of amateurs gathered\ntogether to behold the execution. On the other hand, the governor paraded\nhis garrison on the bastion, and tolled the funeral dirge of the notary\nfrom the _Torre de la Campana_, or Tower of the Bell.\n\nThe notary's wife pressed through the crowd, with a whole progeny of\nlittle embryo _escribanos_ at her heels, and throwing herself at the feet\nof the captain-general, implored him not to sacrifice the life of her\nhusband, and the welfare of herself and her numerous little ones, to a\npoint of pride; \"for you know the old governor too well,\" said she, \"to\ndoubt that he will put his threat in execution, if you hang the soldier.\"\n\nThe captain-general was overpowered by her tears and lamentations, and the\nclamours of her callow brood. The corporal was sent up to the Alhambra,\nunder a guard, in his gallows garb, like a hooded friar, but with head\nerect and a face of iron. The _escribano_ was demanded in exchange,\naccording to the cartel. The once bustling and self-sufficient man of\nthe law was drawn forth from his dungeon more dead than alive. All his\nflippancy and conceit had evaporated; his hair, it is said, had nearly\nturned gray with affright, and he had a downcast, dogged look, as if he\nstill felt the halter round his neck.\n\nThe old governor stuck his one arm akimbo, and for a moment surveyed him\nwith an iron smile. \"Henceforth, my friend,\" said he, \"moderate your zeal\nin hurrying others to the gallows; be not too certain of your safety, even\nthough you should have the law on your side; and above all, take care how\nyou play off your schoolcraft another time upon an old soldier.\"\n\n  [Illustration]\n\n\n\n\n  [Illustration]\n\nGOVERNOR MANCO AND THE SOLDIER\n\n\nWhile Governor Manco, or \"the one-armed,\" kept up a show of military state\nin the Alhambra, he became nettled at the reproaches continually cast upon\nhis fortress, of being a nestling-place of rogues and _contrabandistas_.\nOn a sudden, the old potentate determined on reform, and setting\nvigorously to work, ejected whole nests of vagabonds out of the fortress\nand the gipsy caves with which the surrounding hills are honeycombed. He\nsent out soldiers, also, to patrol the avenues and footpaths, with orders\nto take up all suspicious persons.\n\nOne bright summer morning a patrol, consisting of the testy old corporal\nwho had distinguished himself in the affair of the notary, a trumpeter,\nand two privates, was seated under the garden-wall of the Generalife,\nbeside the road which leads down from the Mountain of the Sun, when they\nheard the tramp of a horse, and a male voice singing in rough, though not\nunmusical tones, an old Castilian campaigning-song.\n\nPresently they beheld a sturdy, sunburnt fellow, clad in the ragged garb\nof a foot-soldier, leading a powerful Arabian horse caparisoned in the\nancient Morisco fashion.\n\nAstonished at the sight of a strange soldier descending, steed in hand,\nfrom that solitary mountain, the corporal stepped forth and challenged\nhim.\n\n\"Who goes there?\"\n\n\"A friend.\"\n\n\"Who and what are you?\"\n\n\"A poor soldier just from the wars, with a cracked crown and empty purse\nfor a reward.\"\n\nBy this time they were enabled to view him more narrowly. He had a black\npatch across his forehead, which, with a grizzled beard, added to a\ncertain dare-devil cast of countenance, while a slight squint threw into\nthe whole an occasional gleam of roguish good-humour.\n\nHaving answered the questions of the patrol, the soldier seemed to\nconsider himself entitled to make others in return. \"May I ask,\" said he,\n\"what city is that which I see at the foot of the hill?\"\n\n\"What city!\" cried the trumpeter; \"come, that's too bad. Here's a fellow\nlurking about the Mountain of the Sun, and demands the name of the great\ncity of Granada!\"\n\n\"Granada! _Madre di Dios!_ can it be possible?\"\n\n\"Perhaps not!\" rejoined the trumpeter; \"and perhaps you have no idea that\nyonder are the towers of the Alhambra.\"\n\n\"Son of a trumpet,\" replied the stranger, \"do not trifle with me; if\nthis be indeed the Alhambra, I have some strange matters to reveal to the\ngovernor.\"\n\n\"You will have an opportunity,\" said the corporal, \"for we mean to take\nyou before him.\" By this time the trumpeter had seized the bridle of\nthe steed, the two privates had each secured an arm of the soldier, the\ncorporal put himself in front, gave the word, \"Forward--march!\" and away\nthey marched for the Alhambra.\n\nThe sight of a ragged foot-soldier and a fine Arabian horse, brought\nin captive by the patrol, attracted the attention of all the idlers of\nthe fortress, and of those gossip groups that generally assemble about\nwells and fountains at early dawn. The wheel of the cistern paused in its\nrotations, and the slip-shod servant-maid stood gaping, with pitcher in\nhand, as the corporal passed by with his prize. A motley train gradually\ngathered in the rear of the escort.\n\nKnowing nods and winks and conjectures passed from one to another.\n\"It is a deserter,\" said one; \"A _contrabandista_,\" said another; \"A\n_bandolero_,\" said a third;--until it was affirmed that a captain of a\ndesperate band of robbers had been captured by the prowess of the corporal\nand his patrol. \"Well, well,\" said the old crones, one to another,\n\"captain or not, let him get out of the grasp of old Governor Manco if he\ncan, though he is but one-handed.\"\n\nGovernor Manco was seated in one of the inner halls of the Alhambra,\ntaking his morning's cup of chocolate in company with his confessor,--a\nfat Franciscan friar from the neighbouring convent. A demure, dark-eyed\ndamsel of Malaga, the daughter of his housekeeper, was attending upon\nhim. The world hinted that the damsel, who, with all her demureness was\na sly buxom baggage, had found out a soft spot in the iron heart of the\nold governor, and held complete control over him. But let that pass--the\ndomestic affairs of these mighty potentates of the earth should not be\ntoo narrowly scrutinised.\n\nWhen word was brought that a suspicious stranger had been taken lurking\nabout the fortress, and was actually in the outer court, in durance of\nthe corporal, waiting the pleasure of his Excellency, the pride and\nstateliness of office swelled the bosom of the governor. Giving back\nhis chocolate-cup into the hands of the demure damsel, he called for his\nbasket-hilted sword, girded it to his side, twirled up his moustaches,\ntook his seat in a large high-backed chair, assumed a bitter and\nforbidding aspect, and ordered the prisoner into his presence. The soldier\nwas brought in, still closely pinioned by his captors, and guarded by\nthe corporal. He maintained, however, a resolute self-confident air, and\nreturned the sharp, scrutinising look of the governor with an easy squint,\nwhich by no means pleased the punctilious old potentate.\n\n\"Well, culprit,\" said the governor, after he had regarded him for a moment\nin silence, \"what have you to say for yourself--who are you?\"\n\n\"A soldier, just from the wars, who has brought away nothing but scars\nand bruises.\"\n\n\"A soldier--humph--a foot-soldier by your garb. I understand you have a\nfine Arabian horse. I presume you brought him too from the wars, besides\nyour scars and bruises.\"\n\n\"May it please your Excellency, I have something strange to tell about\nthat horse. Indeed I have one of the most wonderful things to relate.\nSomething too that concerns the security of this fortress, indeed of all\nGranada. But it is a matter to be imparted only to your private ear, or\nin presence of such only as are in your confidence.\"\n\nThe governor considered for a moment, and then directed the corporal and\nhis men to withdraw, but to post themselves outside of the door, and be\nready at a call. \"This holy friar,\" said he, \"is my confessor, you may say\nanything in his presence;--and this damsel,\" nodding towards the handmaid,\nwho had loitered with an air of great curiosity, \"this damsel is of great\nsecrecy and discretion, and to be trusted with anything.\"\n\nThe soldier gave a glance between a squint and a leer at the demure\nhandmaid. \"I am perfectly willing,\" said he, \"that the damsel should\nremain.\"\n\nWhen all the rest had withdrawn, the soldier commenced his story. He was\na fluent smooth-tongued varlet, and had a command of language above his\napparent rank.\n\n\"May it please your Excellency,\" said he, \"I am, as I before observed, a\nsoldier, and have seen some hard service, but my term of enlistment being\nexpired, I was discharged, not long since, from the army at Valladolid,\nand set out on foot for my native village in Andalusia. Yesterday evening\nthe sun went down as I was traversing a great dry plain of Old Castile.\"\n\n\"Hold!\" cried the governor, \"what is this you say? Old Castile is some\ntwo or three hundred miles from this.\"\n\n\"Even so,\" replied the soldier, coolly. \"I told your Excellency I\nhad strange things to relate; but not more strange than true, as your\nExcellency will find, if you will deign me a patient hearing.\"\n\n\"Proceed, culprit,\" said the governor, twirling up his moustaches.\n\n\"As the sun went down,\" continued the soldier, \"I cast my eyes about in\nsearch of quarters for the night, but as far as my sight could reach there\nwere no signs of habitation. I saw that I should have to make my bed on\nthe naked plain, with my knapsack for a pillow; but your Excellency is\nan old soldier, and knows that to one who has been in the wars, such a\nnight's lodging is no great hardship.\"\n\nThe governor nodded assent, as he drew his pocket-handkerchief out of the\nbasket-hilt to drive away a fly that buzzed about his nose.\n\n\"Well, to make a long story short,\" continued the soldier, \"I trudged\nforward for several miles until I came to a bridge over a deep ravine,\nthrough which ran a little thread of water, almost dried up by the summer\nheat. At one end of the bridge was a Moorish tower, the upper end all in\nruins, but a vault in the foundation quite entire. Here, thinks I, is a\ngood place to make a halt; so I went down to the stream, and took a hearty\ndrink, for the water was pure and sweet, and I was parched with thirst;\nthen, opening my wallet, I took out an onion and a few crusts, which were\nall my provisions, and seating myself on a stone on the margin of the\nstream, began to make my supper,--intending afterwards to quarter myself\nfor the night in the vault of the tower; and capital quarters they would\nhave been for a campaigner just from the wars, as your Excellency, who is\nan old soldier, may suppose.\"\n\n\"I have put up gladly with worse in my time,\" said the governor, returning\nhis pocket-handkerchief into the hilt of his sword.\n\n\"While I was quietly crunching my crust,\" pursued the soldier, \"I heard\nsomething stir within the vault; I listened--it was the tramp of a horse.\nBy-and-by a man came forth from a door in the foundation of the tower,\nclose by the water's edge, leading a powerful horse by the bridle. I could\nnot well make out what he was, by the starlight. It had a suspicious look\nto be lurking among the ruins of a tower, in that wild solitary place. He\nmight be a mere wayfarer, like myself; he might be a _contrabandista_; he\nmight be a _bandolero_! what of that? thank heaven and my poverty, I had\nnothing to lose; so I sat still and crunched my crust.\n\n\"He led his horse to the water, close by where I was sitting, so that I\nhad a fair opportunity of reconnoitring him. To my surprise he was dressed\nin a Moorish garb, with a cuirass of steel, and a polished skull-cap that\nI distinguished by the reflection of the stars upon it. His horse, too,\nwas harnessed in the Morisco fashion, with great shovel stirrups. He led\nhim, as I said, to the side of the stream, into which the animal plunged\nhis head almost to the eyes, and drank until I thought he would have\nburst.\n\n\"'Comrade,' said I, 'your steed drinks well; it's a good sign when a horse\nplunges his muzzle bravely into the water.'\n\n\"'He may well drink,' said the stranger, speaking with a Moorish accent;\n'it is a good year since he had his last draught.'\n\n\"'By _Santiago_,' said I, 'that beats even the camels I have seen in\nAfrica. But come, you seem to be something of a soldier, will you sit\ndown and take part of a soldier's fare?' In fact, I felt the want of a\ncompanion in this lonely place, and was willing to put up with an infidel.\nBesides, as your Excellency well knows, a soldier is never very particular\nabout the faith of his company, and soldiers of all countries are comrades\non peaceable ground.\"\n\nThe governor again nodded assent.\n\n\"Well, as I was saying, I invited him to share my supper, such as it\nwas, for I could not do less in common hospitality. 'I have no time to\npause for meat or drink,' said he, 'I have a long journey to make before\nmorning.'\n\n\"'In what direction?' said I.\n\n\"'Andalusia,' said he.\n\n\"'Exactly my route,' said I; 'so, as you won't stop and eat with me,\nperhaps you will let me mount and ride with you. I see your horse is of\na powerful frame; I'll warrant he'll carry double.'\n\n\"'Agreed,' said the trooper; and it would not have been civil and\nsoldierlike to refuse, especially as I had offered to share my supper with\nhim. So up he mounted, and up I mounted behind him.\n\n\"'Hold fast,' said he, 'my steed goes like the wind.'\n\n\"'Never fear me,' said I, and so off we set.\n\n\"From a walk the horse soon passed to a trot, from a trot to a gallop,\nand from a gallop to a harum-scarum scamper. It seemed as if rocks, trees\nhouses, everything flew hurry-scurry behind us.\n\n\"'What town is this?' said I.\n\n\"'Segovia,' said he; and before the word was out of his mouth, the towers\nof Segovia were out of sight. We swept up the Guadarama mountains, and\ndown by the Escurial; and we skirted the walls of Madrid, and we scoured\naway across the plains of La Mancha. In this way we went up hill and\ndown dale, by towers and cities, all buried in deep sleep, and across\nmountains, and plains, and rivers, just glimmering in the starlight.\n\n\"To make a long story short, and not to fatigue your Excellency, the\ntrooper suddenly pulled up on the side of a mountain. 'Here we are,'\nsaid he, 'at the end of our journey.' I looked about, but could see no\nsigns of habitation; nothing but the mouth of a cavern. While I looked I\nsaw multitudes of people in Moorish dresses, some on horseback, some on\nfoot, arriving as if borne by the wind from all points of the compass,\nand hurrying into the mouth of the cavern like bees into a hive. Before I\ncould ask a question, the trooper struck his long Moorish spurs into the\nhorse's flanks, and dashed in with the throng. We passed along a steep\nwinding way, that descended into the very bowels of the mountain. As we\npushed on, a light began to glimmer up, by little and little, like the\nfirst glimmerings of day, but what caused it I could not discern. It grew\nstronger and stronger, and enabled me to see everything around. I now\nnoticed, as we passed along, great caverns, opening to the right and left,\nlike halls in an arsenal. In some there were shields, and helmets, and\ncuirasses, and lances, and cimeters, hanging against the walls; in others\nthere were great heaps of warlike munitions and camp-equipage lying upon\nthe ground.\n\n\"It would have done your Excellency's heart good, being an old soldier, to\nhave seen such grand provision for war. Then, in other caverns, there were\nlong rows of horsemen armed to the teeth, with lances raised and banners\nunfurled, all ready for the field; but they all sat motionless in their\nsaddles, like so many statues. In other halls were warriors sleeping on\nthe ground beside their horses, and foot-soldiers in groups ready to fall\ninto the ranks. All were in old-fashioned Moorish dresses and armour.\n\n\"Well, your Excellency, to cut a long story short, we at length entered an\nimmense cavern, or I may say palace, of grotto-work, the walls of which\nseemed to be veined with gold and silver, and to sparkle with diamonds\nand sapphires and all kinds of precious stones. At the upper end sat\na Moorish king on a golden throne, with his nobles on each side, and a\nguard of African blacks with drawn cimeters. All the crowd that continued\nto flock in, and amounted to thousands and thousands, passed one by one\nbefore his throne, each paying homage as he passed. Some of the multitude\nwere dressed in magnificent robes, without stain or blemish, and sparkling\nwith jewels, others in burnished and enamelled armour; while others were\nin mouldered and mildewed garments, and in armour all battered and dented\nand covered with rust.\n\n\"I had hitherto held my tongue, for your Excellency well knows it is not\nfor a soldier to ask many questions when on duty, but I could keep silent\nno longer.\n\n\"'Prithee, comrade,' said I, 'what is the meaning of all this?'\n\n\"'This,' said the trooper, 'is a great and fearful mystery. Know, O\nChristian, that you see before you the court and army of Boabdil the last\nking of Granada.'\n\n\"'What is this you tell me?' cried I. 'Boabdil and his court were exiled\nfrom the land hundreds of years agone, and all died in Africa.'\n\n\"'So it is recorded in your lying chronicles,' replied the Moor; 'but know\nthat Boabdil and the warriors who made the last struggle for Granada were\nall shut up in the mountain by powerful enchantment. As for the king and\narmy that marched forth from Granada at the time of the surrender, they\nwere a mere phantom train of spirits and demons, permitted to assume those\nshapes to deceive the Christian sovereigns. And furthermore let me tell\nyou, friend, that all Spain is a country under the power of enchantment.\nThere is not a mountain cave, not a lonely watch-tower in the plains,\nnor ruined castle on the hills, but has some spellbound warrior, sleeping\nfrom age to age within its vaults, until the sins are expiated for which\nAllah permitted the dominion to pass for a time out of the hands of the\nfaithful. Once every year, on the eve of St. John, they are released from\nenchantment, from sunset to sunrise, and permitted to repair here to pay\nhomage to their sovereign! and the crowds which you beheld swarming into\nthe cavern are Moslem warriors from their haunts in all parts of Spain.\nFor my own part, you saw the ruined tower of the bridge in Old Castile,\nwhere I have now wintered and summered for many hundred years, and where\nI must be back again by daybreak. As to the battalions of horse and foot\nwhich you beheld drawn up in array in the neighbouring caverns, they\nare the spellbound warriors of Granada. It is written in the book of\nfate, that when the enchantment is broken, Boabdil will descend from the\nmountain at the head of this army, resume his throne in the Alhambra and\nhis sway of Granada, and gathering together the enchanted warriors from\nall parts of Spain, will re-conquer the Peninsula and restore it to Moslem\nrule.'\n\n\"'And when shall this happen?' said I.\n\n\"'Allah alone knows: we had hoped the day of deliverance was at hand; but\nthere reigns at present a vigilant governor in the Alhambra, a stanch old\nsoldier, well known as Governor Manco. While such a warrior holds command\nof the very outpost, and stands ready to check the first irruption from\nthe mountain, I fear Boabdil and his soldiery must be content to rest upon\ntheir arms.'\"\n\nHere the governor raised himself somewhat perpendicularly, adjusted his\nsword, and twirled up his moustaches.\n\n\"To make a long story short, and not to fatigue your Excellency, the\ntrooper, having given me this account, dismounted from his steed.\n\n\"'Tarry here,' said he, 'and guard my steed while I go and bow the knee to\nBoabdil.' So saying, he strode away among the throng that pressed forward\nto the throne.\n\n\"'What's to be done?' thought I, when thus left to myself, 'shall I wait\nhere until this infidel returns to whisk me off on his goblin steed, the\nLord knows where; or shall I make the most of my time and beat a retreat\nfrom this hobgoblin community?' A soldier's mind is soon made up, as your\nExcellency well knows. As to the horse, he belonged to an avowed enemy\nof the faith and the realm, and was a fair prize according to the rules\nof war. So hoisting myself from the crupper into the saddle, I turned\nthe reins, struck the Moorish stirrups into the sides of the steed, and\nput him to make the best of his way out of the passage by which he had\nentered. As we scoured by the halls where the Moslem horsemen sat in\nmotionless battalions, I thought I heard the clang of armour and a hollow\nmurmur of voices. I gave the steed another taste of the stirrups and\ndoubled my speed. There was now a sound behind me like a rushing blast;\nI heard the clatter of a thousand hoofs; a countless throng overtook me.\nI was borne along in the press, and hurled forth from the mouth of the\ncavern, while thousands of shadowy forms were swept off in every direction\nby the four winds of heaven.\n\n\"In the whirl and confusion of the scene I was thrown senseless to the\nearth. When I came to myself, I was lying on the brow of a hill, with\nthe Arabian steed standing beside me; for in falling, my arm had slipped\nwithin the bridle, which, I presume, prevented his whisking off to Old\nCastile.\n\n\"Your Excellency may easily judge of my surprise, on looking round, to\nbehold hedges of aloes and Indian figs and other proofs of a southern\nclimate, and to see a great city below me, with towers, and palaces, and\na grand cathedral.\n\n\"I descended the hill cautiously, leading my steed, for I was afraid\nto mount him again, lest he should play me some slippery trick. As I\ndescended I met with your patrol, who let me into the secret that it was\nGranada that lay before me, and that I was actually under the walls of the\nAlhambra, the fortress of the redoubted Governor Manco, the terror of all\nenchanted Moslems. When I heard this, I determined at once to seek your\nExcellency, to inform you of all that I had seen, and to warn you of the\nperils that surround and undermine you, that you may take measures in time\nto guard your fortress, and the kingdom itself, from this intestine army\nthat lurks in the very bowels of the land.\"\n\n\"And prithee, friend, you who are a veteran campaigner, and have seen so\nmuch service,\" said the governor, \"how would you advise me to proceed, in\norder to prevent this evil?\"\n\n\"It is not for a humble private of the ranks,\" said the soldier, modestly,\n\"to pretend to instruct a commander of your Excellency's sagacity, but it\nappears to me that your Excellency might cause all the caves and entrances\ninto the mountains to be walled up with solid mason-work, so that\nBoabdil and his army might be completely corked up in their subterranean\nhabitation. If the good father, too,\" added the soldier, reverently\nbowing to the friar, and devoutly crossing himself, \"would consecrate the\n_barricados_ with his blessing, and put up a few crosses and relics and\nimages of saints, I think they might withstand all the power of infidel\nenchantments.\"\n\n\"They doubtless would be of great avail,\" said the friar.\n\nThe governor now placed his arm akimbo, with his hand resting on the hilt\nof his toledo, fixed his eye upon the soldier, and gently wagging his head\nfrom one side to the other,--\n\n\"So, friend,\" said he, \"then you really suppose I am to be gulled with\nthis cock-and-bull story about enchanted mountains and enchanted Moors?\nHark ye, culprit!--not another word. An old soldier you may be, but\nyou'll find you have an older soldier to deal with, and one not easily\noutgeneralled. Ho! guards there! put this fellow in irons.\"\n\nThe demure handmaid would have put in a word in favour of the prisoner,\nbut the governor silenced her with a look.\n\nAs they were pinioning the soldier, one of the guards felt something of\nbulk in his pocket, and drawing it forth, found a long leathern purse that\nappeared to be well filled. Holding it by one corner, he turned out the\ncontents upon the table before the governor, and never did freebooter's\nbag make more gorgeous delivery. Out tumbled rings, and jewels, and\nrosaries of pearls, and sparkling diamond crosses, and a profusion of\nancient golden coin, some of which fell jingling to the floor, and rolled\naway to the uttermost parts of the chamber.\n\nFor a time the functions of justice were suspended; there was a universal\nscramble after the glittering fugitives. The governor alone, who was\nimbued with true Spanish pride, maintained his stately decorum, though his\neye betrayed a little anxiety until the last coin and jewel was restored\nto the sack.\n\nThe friar was not so calm; his whole face glowed like a furnace, and his\neyes twinkled and flashed at sight of the rosaries and crosses.\n\n\"Sacrilegious wretch that thou art!\" exclaimed he; \"what church or\nsanctuary hast thou been plundering of these sacred relics?\"\n\n\"Neither one nor the other, holy father. If they be sacrilegious spoils,\nthey must have been taken, in times long past, by the infidel trooper\nI have mentioned. I was just going to tell his Excellency when he\ninterrupted me, that, on taking possession of the trooper's horse, I\nunhooked a leathern sack which hung at the saddle-bow, and which I presume\ncontained the plunder of his campaignings in days of old, when the Moors\noverran the country.\"\n\n\"Mighty well; at present you will make up your mind to take up your\nquarters in a chamber of the Vermilion Tower, which, though not under a\nmagic spell, will hold you as safe as any cave of your enchanted Moors.\"\n\n\"Your Excellency will do as you think proper,\" said the prisoner, coolly.\n\"I shall be thankful to your Excellency for any accommodation in the\nfortress. A soldier who has been in the wars, as your Excellency well\nknows, is not particular about his lodgings. Provided I have a snug\ndungeon and regular rations, I shall manage to make myself comfortable.\nI would only entreat that while your Excellency is so careful about me,\nyou would have an eye to your fortress, and think on the hint I dropped\nabout stopping up the entrances to the mountain.\"\n\nHere ended the scene. The prisoner was conducted to a strong dungeon in\nthe Vermilion Tower, the Arabian steed was led to his Excellency's stable,\nand the trooper's sack was deposited in his Excellency's strong box. To\nthe latter, it is true--the friar made some demur, questioning whether\nthe sacred relics, which were evidently sacrilegious spoils, should not\nbe placed in custody of the church; but as the governor was peremptory on\nthe subject, and was absolute lord in the Alhambra, the friar discreetly\ndropped the discussion, but determined to convey intelligence of the fact\nto the church dignitaries in Granada.\n\nTo explain these prompt and rigid measures on the part of old Governor\nManco, it is proper to observe, that about this time the Alpuxarra\nmountains in the neighbourhood of Granada were terribly infested by a gang\nof robbers, under the command of a daring chief named Manuel Borasco,\nwho were accustomed to prowl about the country, and even to enter the\ncity in various disguises, to gain intelligence of the departure of\nconvoys of merchandise, or travellers with well-lined purses, whom they\ntook care to waylay in distant and solitary passes of the road. These\nrepeated and daring outrages had awakened the attention of government,\nand the commanders of the various posts had received instructions to be\non the alert, and to take up all suspicious stragglers. Governor Manco\nwas particularly zealous in consequence of the various stigmas that had\nbeen cast upon his fortress, and he now doubted not he had entrapped some\nformidable desperado of this gang.\n\nIn the meantime the story took wind, and became the talk not merely of\nthe fortress, but of the whole city of Granada. It was said that the\nnoted robber Manuel Borasco, the terror of the Alpuxarras, had fallen\ninto the clutches of old Governor Manco, and been cooped up by him in a\ndungeon of the Vermilion Tower; and every one who had been robbed by him\nflocked to recognize the marauder. The Vermilion Tower, as is well known,\nstands apart from the Alhambra on a sister hill, separated from the main\nfortress by the ravine down which passes the main avenue. There were no\nouter walls, but a sentinel patrolled before the tower. The window of\nthe chamber in which the soldier was confined was strongly grated, and\nlooked upon a small esplanade. Here the good folks of Granada repaired to\ngaze at him, as they would at a laughing hyena, grinning through the cage\nof a menagerie. Nobody, however, recognized him for Manuel Borasco, for\nthat terrible robber was noted for a ferocious physiognomy, and had by no\nmeans the good-humoured squint of the prisoner. Visitors came not merely\nfrom the city, but from all parts of the country; but nobody knew him,\nand there began to be doubts in the minds of the common people whether\nthere might not be some truth in his story. That Boabdil and his army were\nshut up in the mountain, was an old tradition which many of the ancient\ninhabitants had heard from their fathers. Numbers went up to the Mountain\nof the Sun, or rather of St. Elena, in search of the cave mentioned by\nthe soldier; and saw and peeped into the deep dark pit, descending, no one\nknows how far, into the mountain, and which remains there to this day--the\nfabled entrance to the subterranean abode of Boabdil.\n\nBy degrees the soldier became popular with the common people. A freebooter\nof the mountains is by no means the opprobrious character in Spain that a\nrobber is in any other country, on the contrary he is a kind of chivalrous\npersonage in the eyes of the lower classes. There is always a disposition,\nalso, to cavil at the conduct of those in command; and many began to\nmurmur at the high-handed measures of old Governor Manco, and to look upon\nthe prisoner in the light of a martyr.\n\nThe soldier, moreover, was a merry, waggish fellow, that had a joke for\nevery one who came near his window, and a soft speech for every female.\nHe had procured an old guitar also, and would sit by his window and sing\nballads and love-ditties to the delight of the women of the neighbourhood,\nwho would assemble on the esplanade in the evening and dance boleros to\nhis music. Having trimmed off his rough beard, his sunburnt face found\nfavour in the eyes of the fair, and the demure handmaid of the governor\ndeclared that his squint was perfectly irresistible. This kind-hearted\ndamsel had from the first evinced a deep sympathy in his fortunes, and\nhaving in vain tried to mollify the governor, had set to work privately\nto mitigate the rigour of his dispensations. Every day she brought the\nprisoner some crumbs of comfort which had fallen from the governor's\ntable, or been abstracted from his larder, together with, now and then,\na consoling bottle of choice _Val de Pe\u00f1as_, or rich Malaga.\n\nWhile this petty treason was going on in the very centre of the old\ngovernor's citadel, a storm of open war was brewing up among his\nexternal foes. The circumstance of a bag of gold and jewels having been\nfound upon the person of the supposed robber, had been reported, with\nmany exaggerations, in Granada. A question of territorial jurisdiction\nwas immediately started by the governor's inveterate rival, the\ncaptain-general. He insisted that the prisoner had been captured without\nthe precincts of the Alhambra, and within the rules of his authority.\nHe demanded his body therefore, and the _spolia opima_ taken with him.\nDue information having been carried likewise by the friar to the grand\ninquisitor of the crosses and rosaries, and other relics contained in\nthe bag, he claimed the culprit as having been guilty of sacrilege, and\ninsisted that his plunder was due to the church, and his body to the\nnext _auto-da-fe_. The feuds ran high; the governor was furious, and\nswore, rather than surrender his captive, he would hang him up within the\nAlhambra, as a spy caught within the purlieus of the fortress.\n\nThe captain-general threatened to send a body of soldiers to transfer\nthe prisoner from the Vermilion Tower to the city. The grand inquisitor\nwas equally bent upon despatching a number of the familiars of the\nHoly Office. Word was brought late at night to the governor of these\nmachinations. \"Let them come,\" said he, \"they'll find me beforehand with\nthem; he must rise bright and early who would take in an old soldier.\" He\naccordingly issued orders to have the prisoner removed, at daybreak, to\nthe donjon-keep within the walls of the Alhambra. \"And d'ye hear, child,\"\nsaid he to his demure handmaid, \"tap at my door, and wake me before\ncock-crowing, that I may see to the matter myself.\"\n\nThe day dawned, the cock crowed, but nobody tapped at the door of the\ngovernor. The sun rose high above the mountain-tops, and glittered in at\nhis casement, ere the governor was awakened from his morning dreams by his\nveteran corporal, who stood before him with terror stamped upon his iron\nvisage.\n\n\"He's off! he's gone!\" cried the corporal, gasping for breath.\n\n\"Who's off--who's gone?\"\n\n\"The soldier--the robber--the devil, for aught I know; his dungeon is\nempty, but the door locked: no one knows how he has escaped out of it.\"\n\n\"Who saw him last?\"\n\n\"Your handmaid; she brought him his supper.\"\n\n\"Let her be called instantly.\"\n\nHere was new matter of confusion. The chamber of the demure damsel was\nlikewise empty, her bed had not been slept in: she had doubtless gone\noff with the culprit, as she had appeared, for some days past, to have\nfrequent conversations with him.\n\nThis was wounding the old governor in a tender part, but he had scarce\ntime to wince at it, when new misfortune broke upon his view. On going\ninto his cabinet he found his strong box open, the leather purse of the\ntrooper abstracted and with it a couple of corpulent bags of doubloons.\n\nBut how, and which way had the fugitives escaped? An old peasant who lived\nin a cottage by the road-side leading up into the Sierra, declared that\nhe had heard the tramp of a powerful steed just before daybreak, passing\nup into the mountains. He had looked out at his casement, and could just\ndistinguish a horseman, with a female seated before him.\n\n\"Search the stables!\" cried Governor Manco. The stables were searched;\nall the horses were in their stalls, excepting the Arabian steed. In his\nplace was a stout cudgel, tied to the manger, and on it a label bearing\nthese words, \"A Gift to Governor Manco, from an Old Soldier.\"\n\n  [Illustration: _The Mosque._]\n\n\n\n\n  [Illustration]\n\nA F\u00caTE IN THE ALHAMBRA\n\n\nThe Saint's day of my neighbour and rival potentate, the count, took place\nduring his sojourn in the Alhambra, on which occasion he gave a domestic\n_f\u00eate_; assembling round him the members of his family and household,\nwhile the stewards and old servants from his distant possessions came\nto pay him reverence and partake of the good cheer which was sure to\nbe provided. It presented a type, though doubtless a faint one, of the\nestablishment of a Spanish noble in the olden time.\n\nThe Spaniards were always grandiose in their notions of style. Huge\npalaces; lumbering equipages, laden with footmen and lackeys; pompous\nretinues, and useless dependents of all kinds; the dignity of a noble\nseemed commensurate with the legions who loitered about his halls, fed\nat his expense, and seemed ready to devour him alive. This, doubtless,\noriginated in the necessity of keeping up hosts of armed retainers during\nthe wars with the Moors; wars of inroads and surprises; when a noble was\nliable to be suddenly assailed in his castle by a foray of the enemy, or\nsummoned to the field by his sovereign.\n\nThe custom remained after the wars were at an end; and what originated\nin necessity was kept up through ostentation. The wealth which flowed\ninto the country from conquests and discoveries fostered the passion for\nprincely establishments. According to magnificent old Spanish usage, in\nwhich pride and generosity bore equal parts, a superannuated servant was\nnever turned off, but became a charge for the rest of his days; nay, his\nchildren, and his children's children, and often their relatives to the\nright and left, became gradually entailed upon the family. Hence the\nhuge palaces of the Spanish nobility, which have such an air of empty\nostentation from the greatness of their size compared with the mediocrity\nand scantiness of their furniture, were absolutely required, in the golden\ndays of Spain, by the patriarchal habits of their possessors. They were\nlittle better than vast barracks for their hereditary generations of\nhangers-on that battened at the expense of a Spanish noble.\n\nThese patriarchal habits of the Spanish nobility have declined with their\nrevenues; though the spirit which prompted them remains, and wars sadly\nwith their altered fortunes. The poorest among them have always some\nhereditary hangers-on, who live at their expense, and make them poorer.\nSome who, like my neighbour the count, retain a modicum of their once\nprincely possessions, keep up a shadow of the ancient system, and their\nestates are overrun and the produce consumed by generations of idle\nretainers.\n\nThe count held estates in various parts of the kingdom, some including\nwhole villages; yet the revenues collected from them were comparatively\nsmall; some of them, he assured me barely fed the hordes of dependents\nnestled upon them, who seemed to consider themselves entitled to live\nrent-free and be maintained into the bargain, because their forefathers\nhad been so since time immemorial.\n\nThe saint's day of the old count gave me a glimpse into a Spanish\ninterior. For two or three days previous preparations were made for\nthe _f\u00eate_. Viands of all kinds were brought up from town, greeting\nthe olfactory nerves of the old invalid guards, as they were borne past\nthem through the Gate of Justice. Servants hurried officiously about the\ncourts; the ancient kitchen of the palace was again alive with the tread\nof cooks and scullions, and blazed with unwonted fires.\n\nWhen the day arrived I beheld the old count in patriarchal state, his\nfamily and household around him, with functionaries who mismanaged his\nestates at a distance and consumed the proceeds; while numerous old\nworn-out servants and pensioners were loitering about the courts and\nkeeping within smell of the kitchen.\n\nIt was a joyous day in the Alhambra. The guests dispersed themselves about\nthe palace before the hour of dinner, enjoying the luxuries of its courts\nand fountains, and embosomed gardens, and music and laughter resounded\nthrough its late silent halls.\n\nThe feast, for a set dinner in Spain is literally a feast, was served in\nthe beautiful _Morisco_ Hall of \"_Las dos Hermanas_.\" The table was loaded\nwith all the luxuries of the season: there was an almost interminable\nsuccession of dishes; showing how truly the feast at the rich Camachos'\nwedding in \"Don Quixote\" was a picture of a Spanish banquet. A joyous\nconviviality prevailed round the board; for though Spaniards are generally\nabstemious, they are complete revellers on occasions like the present,\nand none more so than the Andalusians. For my part, there was something\npeculiarly exciting in thus sitting at a feast in the royal halls of the\nAlhambra, given by one who might claim remote affinity with its Moorish\nkings, and who was a lineal representative of Gonsalvo of Cordova, one of\nthe most distinguished of the Christian conquerors.\n\nThe banquet ended, the company adjourned to the Hall of Ambassadors. Here\nevery one endeavoured to contribute to the general amusement, singing,\nimprovising, telling wonderful tales, or dancing popular dances to that\nall-pervading talisman of Spanish pleasure, the guitar.\n\nThe count's gifted little daughter was as usual the life and delight\nof the assemblage, and I was more than ever struck with her aptness and\nwonderful versatility. She took a part in two or three scenes of elegant\ncomedy with some of her companions, and performed them with exquisite\npoint and finished grace; she gave imitations of the popular Italian\nsingers, some serious, some comic, with a rare quality of voice, and, I\nwas assured, with singular fidelity; she imitated the dialects, dances,\nballads, and movements and manners of the gypsies and the peasants of the\nVega with equal felicity; but everything was done with an all-pervading\ngrace and a ladylike tact perfectly fascinating.\n\nThe great charm of everything she did was its freedom from pretension\nor ambitious display, its happy spontaneity. Everything sprang from the\nimpulse of the moment; or was in prompt compliance with a request. She\nseemed unconscious of the rarity and extent of her own talent, and was\nlike a child at home revelling in the buoyancy of its own gay and innocent\nspirits. Indeed I was told she had never exerted her talents in general\nsociety, but only, as at present, in the domestic circle.\n\nHer faculty of observation and her perception of character must have been\nremarkably quick, for she could have had only casual and transient glances\nat the scenes, manners, and customs depicted with such truth and spirit.\n\"Indeed it is a caluntnio wonder to us,\" said the countess, \"where the\nchild [_la Ni\u00f1a_] has picked up these things, her life being passed almost\nentirely at home, in the bosom of the family.\"\n\nEvening approached; twilight began to throw its shadows about the halls,\nand the bats to steal forth from their lurking-place and flit about. A\nnotion seized the little damsel and some of her youthful companions, to\nset out, under the guidance of Dolores, and explore the less frequented\nparts of the palace in quest of mysteries and enchantments. Thus\nconducted, they peeped fearfully into the gloomy old mosque, but quickly\ndrew back on being told that a Moorish king had been murdered there; they\nventured into the mysterious regions of the bath, frightening themselves\nwith the sounds and murmurs of hidden aqueducts, and flying with mock\npanic at the alarm of phantom Moors. They then undertook the adventure of\nthe Iron Gate, a place of baleful note in the Alhambra. It is a postern\ngate, opening into a dark ravine; a narrow covered way leads down to it,\nwhich used to be the terror of Dolores and her playmates in childhood, as\nit was said a hand without a body would sometimes be stretched out from\nthe wall and seize hold of the passers-by.\n\nThe little party of enchantment-hunters ventured to the entrance of\nthe covered way, but nothing would tempt them to enter, in this hour of\ngathering gloom; they dreaded the grasp of the phantom arm.\n\nAt length they came running back into the Hall of Ambassadors in a mock\nparoxysm of terror: they had positively seen two spectral figures all in\nwhite. They had not stopped to examine them; but could not be mistaken,\nfor they glared distinctly through the surrounding gloom. Dolores soon\narrived and explained the mystery. The spectres proved to be two statues\nof nymphs in white marble, placed at the entrance of a vaulted passage.\nUpon this a grave, but, as I thought, somewhat sly old gentleman present,\nwho, I believe, was the count's advocate or legal adviser, assured them\nthat these statues were connected with one of the greatest mysteries\nof the Alhambra; that there was a curious history concerning them, and,\nmoreover, that they stood a living monument in marble of female secrecy\nand discretion. All present entreated him to tell the history of the\nstatues. He took a little time to recollect the details, and then gave\nthem in substance the following legend.\n\n  [Illustration]\n\n\n\n\n  [Illustration]\n\nLEGEND OF THE TWO DISCREET STATUES\n\n\nThere lived once in a waste apartment of the Alhambra a merry little\nfellow, named Lope Sanchez, who worked in the gardens, and was as brisk\nand as blithe as a grasshopper, singing all day long. He was the life and\nsoul of the fortress; when his work was over, he would sit on one of the\nstone benches of the esplanade, strum his guitar, and sing long ditties\nabout the Cid, and Bernardo del Carpio, and Fernando del Pulgar, and other\nSpanish heroes, for the amusement of the old soldiers of the fortress; or\nwould strike up a merrier tune, and set the girls dancing _boleros_ and\n_fandangos_.\n\nLike most little men, Lope Sanchez had a strapping buxom dame for a wife,\nwho could almost have put him in her pocket; but he lacked the usual poor\nman's lot--instead of ten children he had but one. This was a little\nblack-eyed girl about twelve years of age, named Sanchica, who was as\nmerry as himself, and the delight of his heart. She played about him as he\nworked in the gardens, danced to his guitar as he sat in the shade, and\nran as wild as a young fawn about the groves and alleys and ruined halls\nof the Alhambra.\n\nIt was now the eve of the blessed St. John, and the holiday-loving\ngossips of the Alhambra, men, women, and children, went up at night to\nthe Mountain of the Sun, which rises above the Generalife, to keep their\nmidsummer vigil on its level summit. It was a bright moonlight night, and\nall the mountains were gray and silvery, and the city, with its domes and\nspires, lay in shadows below, and the Vega was like a fairy land, with\nhaunted streams gleaming among its dusky groves. On the highest part of\nthe mountain they lit up a bonfire, according to an old custom of the\ncountry handed down from the Moors. The inhabitants of the surrounding\ncountry were keeping a similar vigil, and bonfires, here and there in\nthe Vega, and along the folds of the mountains, blazed up palely in the\nmoonlight.\n\nThe evening was gayly passed in dancing to the guitar of Lope Sanchez,\nwho was never so joyous as when on a holiday revel of the kind. While\nthe dance was going on, the little Sanchica with some of her playmates\nsported among the ruins of an old Moorish fort that crowns the mountain,\nwhen, in gathering pebbles in the fosse, she found a small hand curiously\ncarved of jet, the fingers closed, and the thumb firmly clasped upon\nthem. Overjoyed with her good fortune, she ran to her mother with her\nprize. It immediately became a subject of sage speculation, and was eyed\nby some with superstitious distrust. \"Throw it away,\" said one; \"it's\nMoorish,--depend upon it, there's mischief and witchcraft in it.\" \"By no\nmeans,\" said another; \"you may sell it for something to the jewellers of\nthe Zacatin.\" In the midst of this discussion an old tawny soldier drew\nnear, who had served in Africa, and was as swarthy as a Moor. He examined\nthe hand with a knowing look. \"I have seen things of this kind,\" said he,\n\"among the Moors of Barbary. It is a great virtue to guard against the\nevil eye, and all kinds of spells and enchantments. I give you joy, friend\nLope, this bodes good luck to your child.\"\n\nUpon hearing this, the wife of Lope Sanchez tied the little hand of jet\nto a ribbon, and hung it round the neck of her daughter.\n\nThe sight of this talisman called up all the favourite superstitions\nabout the Moors. The dance was neglected, and they sat in groups on the\nground, telling old legendary tales handed down from their ancestors.\nSome of their stories turned upon the wonders of the very mountain upon\nwhich they were seated, which is a famous hobgoblin region. One ancient\ncrone gave a long account of the subterranean palace in the bowels of\nthat mountain where Boabdil and all his Moslem court are said to remain\nenchanted. \"Among yonder ruins,\" said she, pointing to some crumbling\nwalls and mounds of earth on a distant part of the mountain, \"there is a\ndeep-black pit that goes down, down into the very heart of the mountain.\nFor all the money in Granada I would not look down into it. Once upon\na time a poor man of the Alhambra, who tended goats upon this mountain,\nscrambled down into that pit after a kid that had fallen in. He came out\nagain all wild and staring, and told such things of what he had seen, that\nevery one thought his brain was turned. He raved for a day or two about\nthe hobgoblin Moors that had pursued him in the cavern, and could hardly\nbe persuaded to drive his goats up again to the mountain. He did so at\nlast, but, poor man, he never came down again. The neighbours found his\ngoats browsing about the Moorish ruins, and his hat and mantle lying near\nthe mouth of the pit, but he was never more heard of.\"\n\nThe little Sanchica listened with breathless attention to this story. She\nwas of a curious nature, and felt immediately a great hankering to peep\ninto this dangerous pit. Stealing away from her companions, she sought\nthe distant ruins, and, after groping for some time among them, came to\na small hollow, or basin, near the brow of the mountain, where it swept\nsteeply down into the valley of the Darro. In the centre of this basin\nyawned the mouth of the pit. Sanchica ventured to the verge, and peeped\nin. All was as black as pitch, and gave an idea of immeasurable depth. Her\nblood ran cold; she drew back, then peeped in again, then would have run\naway, then took another peep,--the very horror of the thing was delightful\nto her. At length she rolled a large stone, and pushed it over the brink.\nFor some time it fell in silence; then struck some rocky projection with\na violent crash; then rebounded from side to side, rumbling and tumbling,\nwith a noise like thunder; then made a final splash into water, far, far\nbelow,--and all was again silent.\n\nThe silence, however, did not long continue. It seemed as if something\nhad been awakened within this dreary abyss. A murmuring sound gradually\nrose out of the pit like the hum and buzz of a beehive. It grew louder\nand louder, there was the confusion of voices as of a distant multitude,\ntogether with the faint din of arms, clash of cymbals and clangor of\ntrumpets, as if some army were marshalling for battle in the very bowels\nof the mountain.\n\nThe child drew off with silent awe, and hastened back to the place\nwhere she had left her parents and their companions. All were gone. The\nbonfire was expiring, and its last wreath of smoke curling up in the\nmoonshine. The distant fires that had blazed along the mountains and in\nthe Vega were all extinguished, and everything seemed to have sunk to\nrepose. Sanchica called her parents and some of her companions by name,\nbut received no reply. She ran down the side of the mountain, and by the\ngardens of the Generalife, until she arrived in the alley of trees leading\nto the Alhambra, when she seated herself on a bench of a woody recess,\nto recover breath. The bell from the watch-tower of the Alhambra tolled\nmidnight. There was a deep tranquillity as if all nature slept; excepting\nthe low tinkling sound of an unseen stream that ran under the covert of\nthe bushes. The breathing sweetness of the atmosphere was lulling her to\nsleep, when her eye was caught by something glittering at a distance, and\nto her surprise she beheld a long cavalcade of Moorish warriors pouring\ndown the mountain-side and along the leafy avenues. Some were armed\nwith lances and shields; others, with cimeters and battle-axes, and with\npolished cuirasses that flashed in the moonbeams. Their horses pranced\nproudly and champed upon their bits, but their tramp caused no more sound\nthan if they had been shod with felt, and the riders were all as pale as\ndeath. Among them rode a beautiful lady, with a crowned head and long\ngolden locks entwined with pearls. The housings of her palfrey were of\ncrimson velvet embroidered with gold, and swept the earth; but she rode\nall disconsolate, with her eyes ever fixed upon the ground.\n\nThen succeeded a train of courtiers magnificently arrayed in robes and\nturbans of divers colours, and amidst them, on a cream-coloured charger,\nrode king Boabdil el Chico, in a royal mantle covered with jewels, and a\ncrown sparkling with diamonds. The little Sanchica knew him by his yellow\nbeard, and his resemblance to his portrait, which she had often seen in\nthe picture-gallery of the Generalife. She gazed in wonder and admiration\nat this royal pageant, as it passed glistening among the trees; but\nthough she knew these monarchs and courtiers and warriors, so pale and\nsilent, were out of the common course of nature, and things of magic and\nenchantment, yet she looked on with a bold heart, such courage did she\nderive from the mystic talisman of the hand, which was suspended about\nher neck.\n\nThe cavalcade having passed by, she rose and followed. It continued on\nto the great Gate of Justice, which stood wide open; the old invalid\nsentinels on duty lay on the stone benches of the barbican, buried in\nprofound and apparently charmed sleep, and the phantom pageant swept\nnoiselessly by them with flaunting banner and triumphant state. Sanchica\nwould have followed; but to her surprise she beheld an opening in the\nearth, within the barbican, leading down beneath the foundations of the\ntower. She entered for a little distance, and was encouraged to proceed\nby finding steps rudely hewn in the rock, and a vaulted passage here\nand there lit up by a silver lamp, which, while it gave light, diffused\nlikewise a grateful fragrance. Venturing on, she came at last to a great\nhall, wrought out of the heart of the mountain, magnificently furnished\nin the Moorish style, and lighted up by silver and crystal lamps. Here,\non an ottoman, sat an old man in Moorish dress, with a long white beard,\nnodding and dozing, with a staff in his hand, which seemed ever to be\nslipping from his grasp; while at a little distance sat a beautiful lady,\nin ancient Spanish dress, with a coronet all sparkling with diamonds,\nand her hair entwined with pearls, who was softly playing on a silver\nlyre. The little Sanchica now recollected a story she had heard among the\nold people of the Alhambra, concerning a Gothic princess confined in the\ncentre of the mountain by an old Arabian magician, whom she kept bound up\nin magic sleep by the power of music.\n\nThe lady paused with surprise at seeing a mortal in that enchanted hall.\n\"Is it the eve of the blessed St. John?\" said she.\n\n\"It is,\" replied Sanchica.\n\n\"Then for one night the magic charm is suspended. Come hither, child, and\nfear not. I am a Christian like thyself, though bound here by enchantment.\nTouch my fetters with the talisman that hangs about thy neck, and for this\nnight I shall be free.\"\n\nSo saying, she opened her robes and displayed a broad golden band round\nher waist, and a golden chain that fastened her to the ground. The child\nhesitated not to apply the little hand of jet to the golden band, and\nimmediately the chain fell to the earth. At the sound the old man woke\nand began to rub his eyes; but the lady ran her fingers over the chords\nof the lyre, and again he fell into a slumber and began to nod, and his\nstaff to falter in his hand. \"Now,\" said the lady, \"touch his staff with\nthe talismanic hand of jet.\" The child did so, and it fell from his grasp,\nand he sank in a deep sleep on the ottoman. The lady gently laid the\nsilver lyre on the ottoman, leaning it against the head of the sleeping\nmagician; then touching the chords until they vibrated in his ear,--\"O\npotent spirit of harmony,\" said she, \"continue thus to hold his senses in\nthraldom till the return of day. Now follow me, my child,\" continued she,\n\"and thou shalt behold the Alhambra as it was in the days of its glory,\nfor thou hast a magic talisman that reveals all enchantments.\" Sanchica\nfollowed the lady in silence. They passed up through the entrance of the\ncavern into the barbican of the Gate of Justice, and thence to the _Plaza\nde los Algibes_, or esplanade within the fortress.\n\nThis was all filled with Moorish soldiery, horse and foot, marshalled\nin squadrons, with banners displayed. There were royal guards also\nat the portal, and rows of African blacks with drawn cimeters. No one\nspoke a word, and Sanchica passed on fearlessly after her conductor. Her\nastonishment increased on entering the royal palace, in which she had been\nreared. The broad moonshine lit up all the halls and courts and gardens\nalmost as brightly as if it were day, but revealed a far different scene\nfrom that to which she was accustomed. The walls of the apartments were\nno longer stained and rent by time. Instead of cobwebs, they were now hung\nwith rich silks of Damascus, and the gildings and arabesque paintings were\nrestored to their original brilliancy and freshness. The halls, no longer\nnaked and unfurnished, were set out with divans and ottomans of the rarest\nstuffs, embroidered with pearls and studded with precious gems, and all\nthe fountains in the courts and gardens were playing.\n\nThe kitchens were again in full operation: cooks were busy preparing\nshadowy dishes, and roasting and boiling the phantoms of pullets and\npartridges; servants were hurrying to and fro with silver dishes heaped up\nwith dainties, and arranging a delicious banquet. The Court of Lions was\nthronged with guards, and courtiers, and alfaquis, as in the old times of\nthe Moors; and at the upper end, in the saloon of judgment, sat Boabdil\non his throne, surrounded by his court, and swaying a shadowy sceptre\nfor the night. Notwithstanding all this throng and seeming bustle, not\na voice nor a footstep was to be heard; nothing interrupted the midnight\nsilence but the splashing of the fountains. The little Sanchica followed\nher conductress in mute amazement about the palace, until they came to a\nportal opening to the vaulted passages beneath the great tower of Comares.\nOn each side of the portal sat the figure of a nymph, wrought out of\nalabaster. The heads were turned aside, and their regards fixed upon the\nsame spot within the vault. The enchanted lady paused, and beckoned the\nchild to her. \"Here,\" said she, \"is a great secret, which I will reveal\nto thee in reward for thy faith and courage. These discreet statues\nwatch over a treasure hidden in old times by a Moorish king. Tell thy\nfather to search the spot on which their eyes are fixed, and he will find\nwhat will make him richer than any man in Granada. Thy innocent hands\nalone, however, gifted as thou art also with the talisman, can remove\nthe treasure. Bid thy father use it discreetly, and devote a part of it\nto the performance of daily masses for my deliverance from this unholy\nenchantment.\"\n\nWhen the lady had spoken these words, she led the child onward to the\nlittle garden of Lindaraxa, which is hard by the vault of the statues. The\nmoon trembled upon the waters of the solitary fountain in the centre of\nthe garden, and shed a tender light upon the orange and citron trees. The\nbeautiful lady plucked a branch of myrtle and wreathed it round the head\nof the child. \"Let this be a memento,\" said she, \"of what I have revealed\nto thee, and a testimonial of its truth. My hour is come; I must return\nto the enchanted hall; follow me not, lest evil befall thee;--farewell.\nRemember what I have said, and have masses performed for my deliverance.\"\nSo saying, the lady entered a dark passage leading beneath the tower of\nComares, and was no longer seen.\n\nThe faint crowing of a cock was now heard from the cottages below the\nAlhambra, in the valley of the Darro, and a pale streak of light began\nto appear above the eastern mountains. A slight wind arose, there was a\nsound like the rustling of dry leaves through the courts and corridors,\nand door after door shut to with a jarring sound.\n\nSanchica returned to the scenes she had so lately beheld thronged with\nthe shadowy multitude, but Boabdil and his phantom court were gone. The\nmoon shone into empty halls and galleries stripped of their transient\nsplendour, stained and dilapidated by time, and hung with cobwebs. The\nbat flitted about in the uncertain light, and the frog croaked from the\nfish-pond.\n\nSanchica now made the best of her way to a remote staircase that led up to\nthe humble apartment occupied by her family. The door as usual was open,\nfor Lope Sanchez was too poor to need bolt or bar; she crept quietly to\nher pallet, and, putting the myrtle wreath beneath her pillow, soon fell\nasleep.\n\nIn the morning she related all that had befallen her to her father. Lope\nSanchez, however, treated the whole as a mere dream, and laughed at the\nchild for her credulity. He went forth to his customary labours in the\ngarden, but had not been there long when his little daughter came running\nto him almost breathless. \"Father! father!\" cried she, \"behold the myrtle\nwreath which the Moorish lady bound round my head!\"\n\nLope Sanchez gazed with astonishment, for the stalk of the myrtle was\nof pure gold, and every leaf was a sparkling emerald! Being not much\naccustomed to precious stones, he was ignorant of the real value of the\nwealth, but he saw enough to convince him that it was something more\nsubstantial than the stuff of which dreams are generally made, and that\nat any rate the child had dreamt to some purpose. His first care was\nto enjoin the most absolute secrecy upon his daughter; in this respect,\nhowever, he was secure, for she had discretion far beyond her years or\nsex. He then repaired to the vault, where stood the statues of the two\nalabaster nymphs. He remarked that their heads were turned from the\nportal, and that the regards of each were fixed upon the same point in\nthe interior of the building. Lope Sanchez could not but admire this most\ndiscreet contrivance for guarding a secret. He drew a line from the eyes\nof the statues to the point of regard, made a private mark on the wall,\nand then retired.\n\nAll day, however, the mind of Lope Sanchez was distracted with a thousand\ncares. He could not help hovering within distant view of the two statues,\nand became nervous from the dread that the golden secret might be\ndiscovered. Every footstep that approached the place made him tremble.\nHe would have given anything could he but have turned the heads of the\nstatues, forgetting that they had looked precisely in the same direction\nfor some hundreds of years, without any person being the wiser.\n\n\"A plague upon them,\" he would say to himself, \"they'll betray all; did\never mortal hear of such a mode of guarding a secret?\" Then on hearing\nany one advance, he would steal off, as though his very lurking near the\nplace would awaken suspicion. Then he would return cautiously, and peep\nfrom a distance to see if everything was secure, but the sight of the\nstatues would again call forth his indignation. \"Ay, there they stand,\"\nwould he say, \"always looking, and looking, and looking, just where they\nshould not. Confound them! they are just like all their sex; if they have\nnot tongues to tattle with, they'll be sure to do it with their eyes.\"\n\nAt length, to his relief, the long anxious day drew to a close. The sound\nof footsteps was no longer heard in the echoing halls of the Alhambra;\nthe last stranger passed the threshold, the great portal was barred and\nbolted, and the bat and the frog and the hooting owl gradually resumed\ntheir nightly vocations in the deserted palace.\n\nLope Sanchez waited, however, until the night was far advanced before\nhe ventured with his little daughter to the hall of the two nymphs. He\nfound them looking as knowingly and mysteriously as ever at the secret\nplace of deposit. \"By your leaves, gentle ladies,\" thought Lope Sanchez,\nas he passed between them, \"I will relieve you from this charge that must\nhave set so heavy in your minds for the last two or three centuries.\" He\naccordingly went to work at the part of the wall which he had marked,\nand in a little while laid open a concealed recess, in which stood two\ngreat jars of porcelain. He attempted to draw them forth, but they were\nimmovable, until touched by the innocent hand of his little daughter. With\nher aid he dislodged them from their niche, and found, to his great joy,\nthat they were filled with pieces of Moorish gold, mingled with jewels\nand precious stones. Before daylight he managed to convey them to his\nchamber, and left the two guardian statues with their eyes still fixed on\nthe vacant wall.\n\nLope Sanchez had thus on a sudden become a rich man; but riches, as usual,\nbrought a world of cares to which he had hitherto been a stranger. How\nwas he to convey away his wealth with safety? How was he even to enter\nupon the enjoyment of it without awakening suspicion? Now, too, for the\nfirst time in his life the dread of robbers entered into his mind. He\nlooked with terror at the insecurity of his habitation, and went to work\nto barricade the doors and windows; yet after all his precautions he could\nnot sleep soundly. His usual gaiety was at an end, he had no longer a joke\nor a song for his neighbours, and, in short, became the most miserable\nanimal in the Alhambra. His old comrades remarked this alteration, pitied\nhim heartily, and began to desert him; thinking he must be falling into\nwant, and into danger of looking to them for assistance. Little did they\nsuspect that his only calamity was riches.\n\nThe wife of Lope Sanchez shared his anxiety, but then she had ghostly\ncomfort. We ought before this to have mentioned that Lope, being rather\na light inconsiderate little man, his wife was accustomed, in all grave\nmatters, to seek the counsel and ministry of her confessor Fray Simon,\na sturdy, broad-shouldered blue-bearded, bullet-headed friar of the\nneighbouring convent of San Francisco, who was in fact the spiritual\ncomforter of half the good wives of the neighbourhood. He was moreover\nin great esteem among divers sisterhoods of nuns; who requited him for\nhis ghostly services by frequent presents of those little dainties and\nknick-knacks manufactured in convents, such as delicate confections,\nsweet biscuits, and bottles of spiced cordials, found to be marvellous\nrestoratives after fasts and vigils.\n\nFray Simon thrived in the exercise of his functions. His oily skin\nglistened in the sunshine as he toiled up the hill of the Alhambra on\na sultry day. Yet notwithstanding his sleek condition, the knotted rope\nround his waist showed the austerity of his self-discipline; the multitude\ndoffed their caps to him as a mirror of piety, and even the dogs scented\nthe odour of sanctity that exhaled from his garments, and howled from\ntheir kennels as he passed.\n\nSuch was Fray Simon, the spiritual counsellor of the comely wife of Lope\nSanchez; and as the father confessor is the domestic confidant of women\nin humble life in Spain, he was soon acquainted, in great secrecy, with\nthe story of the hidden treasure.\n\nThe friar opened his eyes and mouth, and crossed himself a dozen times at\nthe news. After a moment's pause, \"Daughter of my soul!\" said he, \"know\nthat thy husband has committed a double sin--a sin against both state and\nchurch! The treasure he hath thus seized upon for himself, being found\nin the royal domains, belongs of course to the crown; but being infidel\nwealth, rescued as it were from the very fangs of Satan, should be devoted\nto the church. Still, however, the matter may be accommodated. Bring\nhither thy myrtle wreath.\"\n\nWhen the good father beheld it, his eyes twinkled more than ever with\nadmiration of the size and beauty of the emeralds. \"This,\" said he, \"being\nthe first-fruits of this discovery, should be dedicated to pious purposes.\nI will hang it up as a votive offering before the image of San Francisco\nin our chapel, and will earnestly pray to him, this very night, that your\nhusband be permitted to remain in quiet possession of your wealth.\"\n\nThe good dame was delighted to make her peace with heaven at so cheap a\nrate, and the friar, putting the wreath under his mantle, departed with\nsaintly steps towards his convent.\n\nWhen Lope Sanchez came home, his wife told him what had passed. He was\nexcessively provoked, for he lacked his wife's devotion, and had for some\ntime groaned in secret at the domestic visitations of the friar. \"Woman,\"\nsaid he, \"what hast thou done? thou hast put everything at hazard by thy\ntattling.\"\n\n\"What!\" cried the good woman, \"would you forbid my disburdening my\nconscience to my confessor?\"\n\n\"No, wife! confess as many of your own sins as you please; but as to this\nmoney-digging, it is a sin of my own, and my conscience is very easy under\nthe weight of it.\"\n\nThere was no use, however, in complaining; the secret was told, and, like\nwater spilled on the sand, was not again to be gathered. Their only chance\nwas, that the friar would be discreet.\n\nThe next day, while Lope Sanchez was abroad, there was an humble knocking\nat the door, and Fray Simon entered with meek and demure countenance.\n\n\"Daughter,\" said he, \"I have earnestly prayed to San Francisco, and he\nhas heard my prayer. In the dead of the night the saint appeared to me in\na dream, but with a frowning aspect. 'Why,' said he, 'dost thou pray to\nme to dispense with this treasure of the Gentiles, when thou seest the\npoverty of my chapel? Go to the house of Lope Sanchez, crave in my name\na portion of the Moorish gold, to furnish two candlesticks for the main\naltar, and let him possess the residue in peace.'\"\n\nWhen the good woman heard of this vision, she crossed herself with awe,\nand going to the secret place where Lope had hid the treasure, she filled\na great leathern purse with pieces of Moorish gold, and gave it to the\nfriar. The pious monk bestowed upon her, in return, benedictions enough,\nif paid by Heaven, to enrich her race to the latest posterity; then\nslipping the purse into the sleeve of his habit, he folded his hands upon\nhis breast, and departed with an air of humble thankfulness.\n\nWhen Lope Sanchez heard of this second donation to the church, he had\nwell-nigh lost his senses. \"Unfortunate man,\" cried he, \"what will become\nof me? I shall be robbed by piecemeal; I shall be ruined and brought to\nbeggary!\"\n\nIt was with the utmost difficulty that his wife could pacify him,\nby reminding him of the countless wealth that yet remained, and how\nconsiderate it was for San Francisco to rest contented with so small a\nportion.\n\nUnluckily, Fray Simon had a number of poor relations to be provided\nfor, not to mention some half-dozen sturdy bullet-headed orphan children\nand destitute foundlings that he had taken under his care. He repeated\nhis visits, therefore, from day to day, with solicitations on behalf of\nSaint Dominick, Saint Andrew, Saint James, until poor Lope was driven to\ndespair, and found that unless he got out of the reach of this holy friar,\nhe should have to make peace-offerings to every saint in the calendar.\nHe determined, therefore, to pack up his remaining wealth, beat a secret\nretreat in the night, and make off to another part of the kingdom.\n\nFull of his project, he bought a stout mule for the purpose, and tethered\nit in a gloomy vault underneath the tower of the seven floors; the very\nplace whence the _Belludo_, or goblin horse, is said to issue forth\nat midnight, and scour the streets of Granada, pursued by a pack of\nhell-hounds. Lope Sanchez had little faith in the story, but availed\nhimself of the dread occasioned by it, knowing that no one would be likely\nto pry into the subterranean stable of the phantom steed. He sent off his\nfamily in the course of the day, with orders to wait for him at a distant\nvillage of the Vega. As the night advanced, he conveyed his treasure to\nthe vault under the tower, and having loaded his mule, he led it forth,\nand cautiously descended the dusky avenue.\n\nHonest Lope had taken his measures with the utmost secrecy, imparting\nthem to no one but the faithful wife of his bosom. By some miraculous\nrevelation, however, they became known to Fray Simon. The zealous friar\nbeheld these infidel treasures on the point of slipping forever out of\nhis grasp, and determined to have one more dash at them for the benefit\nof the church and San Francisco. Accordingly, when the bells had rung\nfor animas, and all the Alhambra was quiet, he stole out of his convent,\nand descending through the Gate of Justice, concealed himself among\nthe thickets of roses and laurels that border the great avenue. Here he\nremained, counting the quarters of hours as they were sounded on the bell\nof the watch-tower, and listening to the dreary hootings of owls, and the\ndistant barking of dogs from the gypsy caverns.\n\nAt length he heard the tramp of hoofs, and, through the gloom of the\novershading trees, imperfectly beheld a steed descending the avenue. The\nsturdy friar chuckled at the idea of the knowing turn he was about to\nserve honest Lope.\n\nTucking up the skirts of his habit, and wriggling like a cat watching\na mouse, he waited until his prey was directly before him, when darting\nforth from his leafy covert, and putting one hand on the shoulder and the\nother on the crupper, he made a vault that would not have disgraced the\nmost experienced master of equitation, and alighted well-forked astride\nthe steed. \"Ah ha!\" said the sturdy friar, \"we shall now see who best\nunderstands the game.\" He had scarce uttered the words when the mule\nbegan to kick, and rear, and plunge, and then set off full speed down\nthe hill. The friar attempted to check him, but in vain. He bounded from\nrock to rock, and bush to bush; the friar's habit was torn to ribbons and\nfluttered in the wind, his shaven poll received many a hard knock from\nthe branches of the trees, and many a scratch from the brambles. To add\nto his terror and distress, he found a pack of seven hounds in full cry\nat his heels, and perceived, too late, that he was actually mounted upon\nthe terrible Belludo!\n\nAway then they went, according to the ancient phrase, \"pull devil, pull\nfriar,\" down the great avenue, across the Plaza Nueva, along the Zacatin,\naround the Vivarrambla--never did huntsman and hound make a more furious\nrun, or more infernal uproar. In vain did the friar invoke every saint\nin the calendar, and the holy Virgin into the bargain; every time he\nmentioned a name of the kind it was like a fresh application of the spur,\nand made the Belludo bound as high as a house. Through the remainder\nof the night was the unlucky Fray Simon carried hither and thither, and\nwhither he would not, until every bone in his body ached, and he suffered\na loss of leather too grievous to be mentioned. At length the crowing of\na cock gave the signal of returning day. At the sound the goblin steed\nwheeled about, and galloped back for his tower. Again he scoured the\nVivarrambla, the Zacatin, the Plaza Nueva, and the avenue of fountains,\nthe seven dogs yelling, and barking, and leaping up, and snapping at the\nheels of the terrified friar. The first streak of day had just appeared\nas they reached the tower; here the goblin steed kicked up his heels,\nsent the friar a summerset through the air, plunged into the dark vault\nfollowed by the infernal pack, and a profound silence succeeded to the\nlate deafening clamour.\n\nWas ever so diabolical a trick played off upon a holy friar? A peasant\ngoing to his labours at early dawn found the unfortunate Fray Simon lying\nunder a fig-tree at the foot of the tower, but so bruised and bedevilled\nthat he could neither speak nor move. He was conveyed with all care and\ntenderness to his cell, and the story went that he had been waylaid and\nmaltreated by robbers. A day or two elapsed before he recovered the use of\nhis limbs; he consoled himself, in the meantime, with the thoughts that\nthough the mule with the treasure had escaped him, he had previously had\nsome rare pickings at the infidel spoils. His first care on being able to\nuse his limbs, was to search beneath his pallet, where he had secreted the\nmyrtle wreath and the leathern pouches of gold extracted from the piety of\ndame Sanchez. What was his dismay at finding the wreath, in effect, but a\nwithered branch of myrtle, and the leathern pouches filled with sand and\ngravel!\n\nFray Simon, with all his chagrin, had the discretion to hold his tongue,\nfor to betray the secret might draw on him the ridicule of the public and\nthe punishment of his superior. It was not until many years afterwards,\non his death-bed, that he revealed to his confessor his nocturnal ride on\nthe Belludo.\n\nNothing was heard of Lope Sanchez for a long time after his disappearance\nfrom the Alhambra. His memory was always cherished as that of a merry\ncompanion, though it was feared, from the care and melancholy observed\nin his conduct shortly before his mysterious departure, that poverty and\ndistress had driven him to some extremity. Some years afterwards one of\nhis old companions, an invalid soldier, being at Malaga, was knocked\ndown and nearly run over by a coach and six. The carriage stopped; an\nold gentleman, magnificently dressed, with a bag-wig and sword, stepped\nout to assist the poor invalid. What was the astonishment of the latter\nto behold in this grand cavalier his old friend Lope Sanchez, who was\nactually celebrating the marriage of his daughter Sanchica with one of\nthe first grandees in the land.\n\nThe carriage contained the bridal party. There was Dame Sanchez, now\ngrown as round as a barrel, and dressed out with feathers and jewels, and\nnecklaces of pearls, and necklaces of diamonds, and rings on every finger,\naltogether a finery of apparel that had not been seen since the days of\nQueen Sheba. The little Sanchica had now grown to be a woman, and for\ngrace and beauty might have been mistaken for a duchess, if not a princess\noutright. The bridegroom sat beside her--rather a withered spindle-shanked\nlittle man, but this only proved him to be of the true-blue blood; a\nlegitimate Spanish grandee being rarely above three cubits in stature.\nThe match had been of the mother's making.\n\nRiches had not spoiled the heart of honest Lope. He kept his old comrade\nwith him for several days; feasted him like a king, took him to plays\nand bull-fights, and at length sent him away rejoicing, with a big bag\nof money for himself, and another to be distributed among his ancient\nmessmates of the Alhambra.\n\nLope always gave out that a rich brother had died in America and left\nhim heir to a copper mine; but the shrewd gossips of the Alhambra insist\nthat his wealth was all derived from his having discovered the secret\nguarded by the two marble nymphs of the Alhambra. It is remarked that\nthese very discreet statues continue, even unto the present day, with\ntheir eyes fixed most significantly on the same part of the wall; which\nleads many to suppose there is still some hidden treasure remaining there\nwell worthy the attention of the enterprising traveller. Though others,\nand particularly all female visitors, regard them with great complacency\nas lasting monuments of the fact that women can keep a secret.\n\n  [Illustration: _Gate of Elvira._]\n\n\n\n\n  [Illustration]\n\nTHE CRUSADE OF THE GRAND MASTER OF ALC\u00c1NTARA\n\n\nIn the course of a morning's research among the old chronicles in the\nLibrary of the University, I came upon a little episode in the history\nof Granada, so strongly characteristic of the bigot zeal which sometimes\ninflamed the Christian enterprises against this splendid but devoted city,\nthat I was tempted to draw it forth from the parchment-bound volume in\nwhich it lay entombed, and submit it to the reader.\n\nIn the year of redemption, 1394, there was a valiant and devout grand\nmaster of Alc\u00e1ntara, named Martin Ya\u00f1ez de Barbudo, who was inflamed\nwith a vehement desire to serve God, and fight the Moors. Unfortunately\nfor this brave and pious cavalier, a profound peace existed between the\nChristian and Moslem powers. Henry III. had just ascended the throne of\nCastile, and Yusef ben Mohammed had succeeded to the throne of Granada,\nand both were disposed to continue the peace which had prevailed between\ntheir fathers. The grand master looked with repining at Moorish banners\nand weapons, which decorated his castle-hall, trophies of the exploits\nof his predecessors; and repined at his fate to exist in a period of such\ninglorious tranquillity.\n\n  [Illustration]\n\nAt length his impatience broke through all bounds, and seeing that he\ncould find no public war in which to engage, he resolved to carve out a\nlittle war for himself. Such at least is the account given by some ancient\nchronicles, though others give the following as the motive for this sudden\nresolution to go campaigning.\n\n  [Illustration]\n\nAs the grand master was one day seated at table with several of his\ncavaliers, a man suddenly entered the hall,--tall, meagre, and bony, with\nhaggard countenance and fiery eye. All recognized him for a hermit, who\nhad been a soldier in his youth, but now led a life of penitence in a\ncave. He advanced to the table and struck upon it with a fist that seemed\nof iron. \"Cavaliers,\" said he, \"why sit ye here idly, with your weapons\nresting against the wall, while the enemies of the faith lord it over the\nfairest portion of the land?\"\n\n\"Holy father, what wouldst thou have us do,\" asked the grand master,\n\"seeing the wars are over and our swords bound up by treaties of peace?\"\n\n\"Listen to my words,\" replied the hermit. \"As I was seated late at night\nat the entrance of my cave, contemplating the heavens, I fell into a\nreverie, and a wonderful vision was presented to me. I beheld the moon, a\nmere crescent, yet luminous as the brightest silver, and it hung in the\nheavens over the kingdom of Granada. While I was looking at it, behold\nthere shot forth from the firmament a blazing star, which, as it went,\ndrew after it all the stars of heaven; and they assailed the moon and\ndrove it from the skies; and the whole firmament was filled with the glory\nof the blazing star. While mine eyes were yet dazzled by this wondrous\nsight, some one stood by me with snowy wings and a shining countenance.\n'Oh man of prayer,' said he, 'get thee to the grand master of Alc\u00e1ntara\nand tell him of the vision thou hast beheld. He is the blazing star,\ndestined to drive the crescent, the Moslem emblem, from the land. Let him\nboldly draw the sword and continue the good work begun by Pelazo of old,\nand victory will assuredly attend his banner.'\"\n\nThe grand master listened to the hermit as to a messenger from heaven,\nand followed his counsel in all things. By his advice he despatched\ntwo of his stoutest warriors, armed _cap-\u00e0-pie_, on an embassy to the\nMoorish king. They entered the gates of Granada without molestation,\nas the nations were at peace; and made their way to the Alhambra, where\nthey were promptly admitted to the king, who received them in the Hall of\nAmbassadors. They delivered their message roundly and hardly. \"We come,\nO King, from Don Martin Ya\u00f1ez de Barbudo, grand master of Alc\u00e1ntara; who\naffirms the faith of Jesus Christ to be true and holy, and that of Mahomet\nfalse and detestable, and he challenges thee to maintain the contrary,\nhand to hand, in single combat. Shouldst thou refuse, he offers to combat\nwith one hundred cavaliers against two hundred; or, in like proportion,\nto the number of one thousand, always allowing thy faith a double number\nof champions. Remember, O King, that thou canst not refuse this challenge;\nsince thy prophet, knowing the impossibility of maintaining his doctrines\nby argument, has commanded his followers to enforce them with the sword.\"\n\n  [Illustration]\n\nThe beard of king Yusef trembled with indignation. \"The master of\nAlc\u00e1ntara,\" said he, \"is a madman to send such a message, and ye are saucy\nknaves to bring it.\"\n\nSo saying, he ordered the ambassadors to be thrown into a dungeon, by way\nof giving them a lesson in diplomacy; and they were roughly treated on\ntheir way thither by the populace, who were exasperated at this insult to\ntheir sovereign and their faith.\n\nThe grand master of Alc\u00e1ntara could scarcely credit the tidings of the\nmaltreatment of his messengers; but the hermit rejoiced when they were\nrepeated to him. \"God,\" said he, \"has blinded this infidel king for\nhis downfall. Since he has sent no reply to thy defiance, consider it\naccepted. Marshal thy forces, therefore; march forward to Granada; pause\nnot until thou seest the gate of Elvira. A miracle will be wrought in thy\nfavour. There will be a great battle; the enemy will be overthrown; but\nnot one of thy soldiers will be slain.\"\n\nThe grand master called upon every warrior zealous in the Christian cause\nto aid him in this crusade. In a little while three hundred horsemen and\na thousand foot-soldiers rallied under his standard. The horsemen were\nveterans, seasoned to battle and well armed; but the infantry were raw\nand undisciplined. The victory, however, was to be miraculous; the grand\nmaster was a man of surpassing faith, and knew that the weaker the means\nthe greater the miracle. He sallied forth confidently, therefore, with\nhis little army, and the hermit strode ahead, bearing a cross on the end\nof a long pole, and beneath it the pennon of the order of Alc\u00e1ntara.\n\nAs they approached the city of Cordova they were overtaken by messengers,\nspurring in all haste, bearing missives from the Castilian monarch,\nforbidding the enterprise. The grand master was a man of a single mind\nand a single will; in other words, a man of one idea. \"Were I on any other\nerrand,\" said he, \"I should obey these letters as coming from my lord the\nking; but I am sent by a higher power than the king. In compliance with\nits commands I have advanced the cross thus far against the infidels;\nand it would be treason to the standard of Christ to turn back without\nachieving my errand.\"\n\n  [Illustration]\n\nSo the trumpets were sounded; the cross was again reared aloft, and the\nband of zealots resumed their march. As they passed through the streets of\nCordova the people were amazed at beholding a hermit bearing a cross at\nthe head of a warlike multitude; but when they learnt that a miraculous\nvictory was to be effected and Granada destroyed, labourers and artisans\nthrew by the implements of their handicrafts and joined in the crusade;\nwhile a mercenary rabble followed on with a view of plunder.\n\nA number of cavaliers of rank who lacked faith in the promised miracle,\nand dreaded the consequences of this unprovoked irruption into the\ncountry of the Moor, assembled at the bridge of the Guadalquivir and\nendeavoured to dissuade the grand master from crossing. He was deaf to\nprayers, expostulations, or menaces; his followers were enraged at this\nopposition to the cause of the faith; they put an end to the parley by\ntheir clamours; the cross was again reared and borne triumphantly across\nthe bridge.\n\n  [Illustration]\n\nThe multitude increased as it proceeded; by the time the grand master had\nreached Alcala la Real, which stands on a mountain overlooking the Vega\nof Granada, upwards of five thousand men on foot had joined his standard.\n\nAt Alcala came forth Alonzo Fernandez de Cordova, Lord of Aguilar, his\nbrother Diego Fernandez, Marshal of Castile, and other cavaliers of valour\nand experience. Placing themselves in the way of the grand master, \"What\nmadness is this, Don Martin?\" said they; \"the Moorish king has two hundred\nthousand foot soldiers and five thousand horse within his walls; what can\nyou and your handful of cavaliers and your noisy rabble do against such\nforce? Bethink you of the disasters which have befallen other Christian\ncommanders who have crossed these rocky borders with ten times your force.\nThink, too, of the mischief that will be brought upon this kingdom by\nan outrage of the kind committed by a man of your rank and importance, a\ngrand master of Alc\u00e1ntara. Pause, we entreat you, while the truce is yet\nunbroken. Await within the borders the reply of the king of Granada to\nyour challenge. If he agree to meet you singly, or with champions two or\nthree, it will be your individual contest, and fight it out in God's name;\nif he refuse, you may return home with great honour and the disgrace will\nfall upon the Moors.\"\n\nSeveral cavaliers, who had hitherto followed the grand master with devoted\nzeal, were moved by these expostulations, and suggested to him the policy\nof listening to this advice.\n\n\"Cavaliers,\" said he, addressing himself to Alonzo Fernandez de Cordova\nand his companions, \"I thank you for the counsel you have so kindly\nbestowed upon me, and if I were merely in pursuit of individual glory\nI might be swayed by it. But I am engaged to achieve a great triumph of\nthe faith, which God is to effect by miracle through my means. As to you,\ncavaliers,\" turning to those of his followers who had wavered, \"if your\nhearts fail you, or you repent of having put your hands to this good work,\nreturn, in God's name, and my blessing go with you. For myself, though\nI have none to stand by me but this holy hermit, yet will I assuredly\nproceed; until I have planted this sacred standard on the walls of\nGranada, or perished in the attempt.\"\n\n\"Don Martin Ya\u00f1ez de Barbudo,\" replied the cavaliers, \"we are not men to\nturn our backs upon our commander, however rash his enterprise. We spoke\nbut in caution. Lead on, therefore, and if it be to the death, be assured\nto the death we will follow thee.\"\n\nBy this time the common soldiers became impatient. \"Forward! forward!\"\nshouted they. \"Forward in the cause of faith.\" So the grand master gave\nsignal, the hermit again reared the cross aloft, and they poured down a\ndefile of the mountain, with solemn chants of triumph.\n\nThat night they encamped at the river of Azores, and the next morning,\nwhich was Sunday, crossed the borders. Their first pause was at an\n_atalaya_ or solitary tower; built upon a rock; a frontier post to keep a\nwatch upon the border, and give notice of invasion. It was thence called\n_el Torre del Exea_ (the tower of the spy). The grand master halted before\nit and summoned its petty garrison to surrender. He was answered by a\nshower of stones and arrows, which wounded him in the hand and killed\nthree of his men.\n\n\"How is this, father?\" said he to the hermit; \"you assured me that not\none of my followers would be slain!\"\n\n\"True, my son, but I meant in the great battle of the infidel king; what\nneed is there of miracle to aid in the capture of a petty tower?\"\n\nThe grand master was satisfied. He ordered wood to be piled against\nthe door of the tower to burn it down. In the meantime provisions were\nunloaded from the sumpter-mules, and the crusaders, withdrawing beyond\nbow-shot, sat down on the grass to a repast to strengthen them for the\narduous day's work before them. While thus engaged, they were startled by\nthe sudden appearance of a great Moorish host. The _atalayas_ had given\nthe alarm by fire and smoke from the mountain-tops of \"an enemy across the\nborder,\" and the king of Granada had sallied forth with a great force to\nthe encounter.\n\nThe crusaders, nearly taken by surprise, flew to arms and prepared for\nbattle. The grand master ordered his three hundred horsemen to dismount\nand fight on foot in support of the infantry. The Moors however, charged\nso suddenly that they separated the cavaliers from the foot-soldiers\nand prevented their uniting. The grand master gave the old war-cry,\n\"_Santiago!_ _Santiago!_ and close Spain!\" He and his knights breasted the\nfury of the battle, but were surrounded by a countless host and assailed\nwith arrows, stones, darts, and arquebuses. Still they fought fearlessly,\nand made prodigious slaughter. The hermit mingled in the hottest of the\nfight. In one hand he bore the cross, in the other he brandished a sword,\nwith which he dealt about him like a maniac, slaying several of the enemy,\nuntil he sank to the ground covered with wounds. The grand master saw him\nfall, and saw too late the fallacy of his prophecies. Despair, however,\nonly made him fight the more fiercely, until he also fell overpowered by\nnumbers. His devoted cavaliers emulated his holy zeal. Not one turned\nhis back nor asked for mercy; all fought until they fell. As to the\nfoot-soldiers, many were killed, many were taken prisoners; the residue\nescaped to Alcala la Real. When the Moors came to strip the slain, the\nwounds of the cavaliers were all found to be in front.\n\nSuch was the catastrophe of this fanatic enterprise. The Moors vaunted it\nas a decisive proof of the superior sanctity of their faith, and extolled\ntheir king to the skies when he returned in triumph to Granada.\n\nAs it was satisfactorily shown that this crusade was the enterprise of\nan individual, and contrary to the express orders of the king of Castile,\nthe peace of the two kingdoms was not interrupted. Nay, the Moors evinced\na feeling of respect for the valour of the unfortunate grand master, and\nreadily gave up his body to Don Alonzo Fernandez de Cordova, who came from\nAlcala to seek it. The Christians of the frontier united in paying the\nlast sad honours to his memory. His body was placed upon a bier, covered\nwith the pennon of the order of Alc\u00e1ntara; and the broken cross, the\nemblem of his confident hopes and fatal disappointment, was borne before\nit. In this way his remains were carried back in funeral procession,\nthrough the mountain tract which he had traversed so resolutely. Wherever\nit passed, through a town or village, the populace followed, with tears\nand lamentations, bewailing him as a valiant knight and a martyr to the\nfaith. His body was interred in the chapel of the convent of Santa Maria\nde Almocovara, and on his sepulchre may still be seen engraven in quaint\nand antique Spanish the following testimonial to his bravery:--\n\n                HERE LIES ONE WHOSE HEART NEVER KNEW FEAR.\n\n   (_Aqui yaz aquel, que par neua cosa nunca eve pavor en seu corazon._)\n\n  [Illustration]\n\n\n\n\n  [Illustration]\n\nAN EXPEDITION IN QUEST OF A DIPLOMA\n\n\nOne of the most important occurrences in the domestic life of the\nAlhambra, was the departure of Manuel, the nephew of Do\u00f1a Antonia, for\nMalaga, to stand examination as a physician. I have already informed the\nreader that, on his success in obtaining a degree depended in a great\nmeasure the union and future fortunes of himself and his cousin Dolores;\nat least so I was privately informed by Mateo Ximenes, and various\ncircumstances occurred to corroborate his information. Their courtship,\nhowever, was carried on very quietly and discreetly, and I scarce think\nI should have discovered it, if I had not been put on the alert by the\nall-observant Mateo.\n\nIn the present instance, Dolores was less on the reserve, and had busied\nherself for several days in fitting out honest Manuel for his expedition.\nAll his clothes had been arranged and packed in the neatest order, and\nabove all she had worked a smart Andalusian travelling-jacket for him with\nher own hands. On the morning appointed for his departure, a stout mule\non which he was to perform the journey was paraded at the portal of the\nAlhambra, and _Tio Polo_ (Uncle Polo), an old invalid soldier, attended\nto caparison him. This veteran was one of the curiosities of the place.\nHe had a leathern lantern visage tanned in the tropics, a long Roman nose,\nand a black beetle eye. I had frequently observed him reading, apparently\nwith intense interest, an old parchment-bound volume; sometimes he would\nbe surrounded by a group of his brother invalids; some seated on the\nparapets, some lying on the grass, listening with fixed attention, while\nhe read slowly and deliberately out of his favourite work, sometimes\npausing to explain or expound for the benefit of his less enlightened\nauditors.\n\nI took occasion one day to inform myself of this ancient book, which\nappeared to be his _vade mecum_, and found it to be an odd volume of the\nworks of Padre Benito Geronymo Feyjoo; and that one which treats about\nthe Magic of Spain, the mysterious caves of Salamanca and Toledo, the\nPurgatory of _San Patricio_ (St. Patrick), and other mystic subjects of\nthe kind. From that time I kept my eye upon the veteran.\n\nOn the present occasion I amused myself with watching him fit out the\nsteed of Manuel with all the forecast of an old campaigner. First he\ntook a considerable time in adjusting to the back of the mule a cumbrous\nsaddle of antique fashion, high in front and behind, with Moorish stirrups\nlike shovels; the whole looking like a relic of the old armoury of the\nAlhambra; then a fleecy sheepskin was accommodated to the deep seat of\nthe saddle; then a _maleta_, neatly packed by the hand of Dolores, was\nbuckled behind; then a _manta_ was thrown over it to serve as either\ncloak or couch; then the all-important _alforjas_ carefully stocked with\nprovant, were hung in front, together with the _bota_, or leathern bottle\nfor either wine or water, and lastly the _trabuco_, which the old soldier\nslung behind, giving it his benediction. It was like the fitting out in\nold times of a Moorish cavalier for a foray or a joust in the Vivarrambla.\nA number of the lazzaroni of the fortress had gathered round, with some\nof the invalids, all looking on, all offering their aid, and all giving\nadvice, to the great annoyance of _Tio Polo_.\n\nWhen all was ready Manuel took leave of the household; _Tio Polo_ held his\nstirrup while he mounted, adjusted the girths and saddle, and cheered him\noff in military style; then turning to Dolores, who stood admiring her\ncavalier as he trotted off, \"Ah, Dolorocita,\" exclaimed he, with a nod\nand a wink, \"_es muy guapo Manuelito in su Xaqueta_\" (Ah Dolores, Manuel\nis mighty fine in his jacket). The little damsel blushed and laughed, and\nran into the house.\n\nDays elapsed without tidings from Manuel, though he had promised to write.\nThe heart of Dolores began to misgive her. Had anything happened to him\non the road? Had he failed in his examination? A circumstance occurred\nin her little household to add to her uneasiness and fill her mind with\nforeboding. It was almost equal to the _escapado_ of her pigeon. Her\ntortoise-shell cat eloped at night and clambered to the tiled roof of\nthe Alhambra. In the dead of the night there was a fearful caterwauling;\nsome grimalkin was uncivil to her; then there was a scramble; then a\nclapper-clawing; then both parties rolled off the roof and tumbled from\na great height among the trees on the hill-side. Nothing more was seen or\nheard of the fugitive, and poor Dolores considered it but the prelude to\ngreater calamities.\n\nAt the end of ten days, however, Manuel returned in triumph, duly\nauthorised to kill or cure; and all Dolores' cares were over. There was\na general gathering in the evening of the humble friends and hangers-on\nof Dame Antonia to congratulate her and pay their respects to _el Se\u00f1or\nMedico_, who, peradventure, at some future day might have all their lives\nin his hands. One of the most important of these guests was old _Tio\nPolo_; and I gladly seized the occasion to prosecute my acquaintance with\nhim. \"Oh Se\u00f1or,\" cried Dolores, \"you who are so eager to learn all the old\nhistories of the Alhambra, _Tio Polo_ knows more about them than any one\nelse about the place. More than Mateo Ximenes and his whole family put\ntogether. _Vaya--Vaya--Tio Polo_, tell the Se\u00f1or all those stories you\ntold us one evening, about enchanted Moors, and the haunted bridge over\nthe Darro, and the old stone pomegranates, that have been there since the\ndays of King Chico.\"\n\nIt was some time before the old invalid could be brought into a narrative\nvein. He shook his head--they were all idle tales; not worthy of being\ntold to a _cavallero_ like myself. It was only by telling some stories of\nthe kind myself I at last got him to open his budget. It was a whimsical\nfarrago, partly made up of what he had heard at the Alhambra, partly of\nwhat he had read in _Padre Feyjoo_. I will endeavour to give the reader\nthe substance of it, but I will not promise to give it in the very words\nof _Tio Polo_.\n\n  [Illustration]\n\n\n\n\n  [Illustration]\n\nTHE LEGEND OF THE ENCHANTED SOLDIER\n\n\nEverybody has heard of the Cave of St. Cyprian at Salamanca, where in\nold times judicial astronomy, necromancy, chiromancy, and other dark and\ndamnable arts were secretly taught by an ancient sacristan; or, as some\nwill have it, by the devil himself, in that disguise. The cave has long\nbeen shut up and the very site of it forgotten; though, according to\ntradition, the entrance was somewhere about where the stone cross stands\nin the small square of the seminary of Carvajal; and this tradition\nappears in some degree corroborated by the circumstances of the following\nstory.\n\nThere was at one time a student of Salamanca, Don Vicente by name, of that\nmerry but mendicant class, who set out on the road to learning without a\npenny in pouch for the journey, and who, during college vacations, beg\nfrom town to town and village to village to raise funds to enable them\nto pursue their studies through the ensuing term. He was now about to set\nforth on his wanderings; and being somewhat musical, slung on his back a\nguitar with which to amuse the villagers, and pay for a meal or a night's\nlodging.\n\nAs he passed by the stone cross in the seminary square, he pulled off\nhis hat and made a short invocation to St. Cyprian, for good luck; when\ncasting his eyes upon the earth, he perceived something glitter at the\nfoot of the cross. On picking it up, it proved to be a seal-ring of mixed\nmetal, in which gold and silver appeared to be blended. The seal bore as\na device two triangles crossing each other, so as to form a star. This\ndevice is said to be a cabalistic sign, invented by king Solomon the Wise,\nand of mighty power in all cases of enchantment; but the honest student,\nbeing neither sage nor conjurer, knew nothing of the matter. He took the\nring as a present from St. Cyprian in reward of his prayer; slipped it\non his finger, made a bow to the cross, and strumming his guitar, set off\nmerrily on his wandering.\n\nThe life of a mendicant student in Spain is not the most miserable in\nthe world; especially if he has any talent at making himself agreeable.\nHe rambles at large from village to village, and city to city, wherever\ncuriosity or caprice may conduct him. The country curates, who, for the\nmost part, have been mendicant students in their time, give him shelter\nfor the night, and a comfortable meal, and often enrich him with several\nquartos, or halfpence in the morning. As he presents himself from door\nto door in the streets of the cities, he meets with no harsh rebuff, no\nchilling contempt, for there is no disgrace attending his mendicity, many\nof the most learned men in Spain having commenced their career in this\nmanner; but if, like the student in question, he is a good-looking varlet\nand a merry companion; and, above all, if he can play the guitar, he is\nsure of a hearty welcome among the peasants, and smiles and favours from\ntheir wives and daughters.\n\nIn this way, then, did our ragged and musical son of learning make his\nway over half the kingdom; with fixed determination to visit the famous\ncity of Granada before his return. Sometimes he was gathered for the night\ninto the fold of some village pastor; sometimes he was sheltered under\nthe humble, but hospitable roof of the peasant. Seated at the cottage\ndoor with his guitar, he delighted the simple folk with his ditties;\nor striking up a _fandango_ or _bolero_, set the brown country lads and\nlasses dancing in the mellow twilight. In the morning he departed with\nkind words from host and hostess, and kind looks and, peradventure, a\nsqueeze of the hand from the daughter.\n\nAt length he arrived at the great object of his musical vagabondising, the\nfar-famed city of Granada, and hailed with wonder and delight its Moorish\ntowers, its lovely _vega_, and its snowy mountains glistening through\na summer atmosphere. It is needless to say with what eager curiosity he\nentered its gates and wandered through its streets, and gazed upon its\noriental monuments. Every female face peering through a window or beaming\nfrom a balcony was to him a Zorayda or a Zelinda, nor could he meet\na stately dame on the Alameda but he was ready to fancy her a Moorish\nprincess, and to spread his student's robe beneath her feet.\n\nHis musical talent, his happy humour, his youth and his good looks, won\nhim a universal welcome in spite of his ragged robes, and for several days\nhe led a gay life in the old Moorish capital and its environs. One of his\noccasional haunts was the fountain of Avellanos, in the valley of Darro.\nIt is one of the popular resorts of Granada, and has been so since the\ndays of the Moors; and here the student had an opportunity of pursuing\nhis studies of female beauty; a branch of study to which he was a little\nprone.\n\nHere he would take his seat with his guitar, improvise love-ditties to\nadmiring groups of _majos_ and _majas_, or prompt with his music the\never-ready dance. He was thus engaged one evening when he beheld a _padre_\nof the church advancing, at whose approach every one touched the hat. He\nwas evidently a man of consequence; he certainly was a mirror of good if\nnot of holy living; robust and rosy-faced, and breathing at every pore\nwith the warmth of the weather and the exercise of the walk. As he passed\nalong he would every now and then draw a _maravedi_ out of his pocket\nand bestow it on a beggar with an air of signal beneficence. \"Ah, the\nblessed father!\" would be the cry; \"long life to him, and may he soon be\na bishop!\"\n\nTo aid his steps in ascending the hill he leaned gently now and then on\nthe arm of a handmaid, evidently the pet-lamb of this kindest of pastors.\nAh, such a damsel! Andalus from head to foot; from the rose in her hair,\nto the fairy shoe and lacework stocking; Andalus in every movement;\nin every undulation of the body:--ripe, melting Andalus!--But then so\nmodest!--so shy!--ever, with downcast eyes, listening to the words of the\n_padre_; or, if by chance she let flash a side glance, it was suddenly\nchecked and her eyes once more cast to the ground.\n\nThe good _padre_ looked benignantly on the company about the fountain,\nand took his seat with some emphasis on a stone bench, while the\nhandmaid hastened to bring him a glass of sparkling water. He sipped it\ndeliberately and with a relish, tempering it with one of those spongy\npieces of frosted eggs and sugar so dear to Spanish epicures, and on\nreturning the glass to the hand of the damsel pinched her cheek with\ninfinite loving-kindness.\n\n\"Ah, the good pastor!\" whispered the student to himself; \"what a happiness\nwould it be to be gathered into his fold with such a pet-lamb for a\ncompanion!\"\n\nBut no such good fare was likely to befall him. In vain he essayed those\npowers of pleasing which he had found so irresistible with country curates\nand country lasses. Never had he touched his guitar with such skill;\nnever had he poured forth more soul-moving ditties, but he had no longer\na country curate or country lass to deal with. The worthy priest evidently\ndid not relish music, and the modest damsel never raised her eyes from the\nground. They remained but a short time at the fountain; the good _padre_\nhastened their return to Granada. The damsel gave the student one shy\nglance in retiring; but it plucked the heart out of his bosom!\n\nHe inquired about them after they had gone. _Padre Tom\u00e1s_ was one of the\nsaints of Granada, a model of regularity; punctual in his hour of rising;\nhis hour of taking a _paseo_ for an appetite; his hours of eating; his\nhour of taking his _siesta_; his hour of playing his game of _tresillo_,\nof an evening, with some of the dames of the Cathedral circle; his hour\nof supping, and his hour of retiring to rest, to gather fresh strength\nfor another day's round of similar duties. He had an easy sleek mule for\nhis riding; a matronly housekeeper skilled in preparing tit-bits for his\ntable; and the pet-lamb, to smooth his pillow at night and bring him his\nchocolate in the morning.\n\nAdieu now to the gay, thoughtless life of the student; the side-glance\nof a bright eye had been the undoing of him. Day and night he could not\nget the image of this most modest damsel out of his mind. He sought the\nmansion of the _padre_. Alas! it was above the class of houses accessible\nto a strolling student like himself. The worthy _padre_ had no sympathy\nwith him; he had never been _Estudiante sopista_, obliged to sing for his\nsupper. He blockaded the house by day, catching a glance of the damsel now\nand then as she appeared at a casement; but these glances only fed his\nflame without encouraging his hope. He serenaded her balcony at night,\nand at one time was flattered by the appearance of something white at a\nwindow. Alas, it was only the night-cap of the _padre_.\n\nNever was lover more devoted; never damsel more shy: the poor student was\nreduced to despair. At length arrived the eve of St. John, when the lower\nclasses of Granada swarm into the country, dance away the afternoon, and\npass midsummer's night on the banks of the Darro and the Xenil. Happy are\nthey who on this eventful night can wash their faces in those waters just\nas the cathedral bell tells midnight, for at that precise moment they\nhave a beautifying power. The student, having nothing to do, suffered\nhimself to be carried away by the holiday-seeking throng until he found\nhimself in the narrow valley of the Darro, below the lofty hill and ruddy\ntowers of the Alhambra. The dry bed of the river; the rocks which border\nit; the terraced gardens which overhang it, were alive with variegated\ngroups, dancing under the vines and fig-trees to the sound of the guitar\nand castanets.\n\n  [Illustration]\n\nThe student remained for some time in doleful dumps, leaning against one\nof the huge misshapen stone pomegranates which adorn the ends of the\nlittle bridge over the Darro. He cast a wistful glance upon the merry\nscene, where every cavalier had his dame; or, to speak more appropriately,\nevery Jack his Jill; sighed at his own solitary state, a victim to the\nblack eye of the most unapproachable of damsels, and repined at his ragged\ngarb, which seemed to shut the gate of hope against him.\n\nBy degrees his attention was attracted to a neighbour equally solitary\nwith himself. This was a tall soldier, of a stern aspect and grizzled\nbeard, who seemed posted as a sentry at the opposite pomegranate. His\nface was bronzed by time; he was arrayed in ancient Spanish armour, with\nbuckler and lance, and stood immovable as a statue. What surprised the\nstudent was, that though thus strangely equipped, he was totally unnoticed\nby the passing throng, albeit that many almost brushed against him.\n\n  [Illustration]\n\n\"This is a city of old time peculiarities,\" thought the student, \"and\ndoubtless this is one of them with which the inhabitants are too familiar\nto be surprised.\" His own curiosity, however, was awakened and being of\na social disposition, he accosted the soldier.\n\n  [Illustration]\n\n\"A rare old suit of armour that which you wear, comrade. May I ask what\ncorps you belong to?\"\n\nThe soldier gasped out a reply from a pair of jaws which seemed to have\nrusted on their hinges.\n\n\"The royal guard of Ferdinand and Isabella.\"\n\n\"Santa Maria! Why, it is three centuries since that corps was in service.\"\n\n\"And for three centuries have I been mounting guard. Now I trust my tour\nof duty draws to a close. Dost thou desire fortune?\"\n\nThe student held up his tattered cloak in reply.\n\n\"I understand thee. If thou hast faith and courage, follow me, and thy\nfortune is made.\"\n\n\"Softly, comrade, to follow thee would require small courage in one who\nhas nothing to lose but life and an old guitar, neither of much value;\nbut my faith is of a different matter, and not to be put in temptation.\nIf it be any criminal act by which I am to mend my fortune, think not my\nragged cloak will make me undertake it.\"\n\nThe soldier turned on him a look of high displeasure. \"My sword,\" said he,\n\"has never been drawn but in the cause of the faith and the throne. I am\na _Cristiano viejo_; trust in me and fear no evil.\"\n\nThe student followed him wondering. He observed that no one heeded their\nconversation, and that the soldier made his way through the various groups\nof idlers unnoticed, as if invisible.\n\nCrossing the bridge, the soldier led the way by a narrow and steep path\npast a Moorish mill and aqueduct, and up the ravine which separates the\ndomains of the Generalife from those of the Alhambra. The last ray of\nthe sun shone upon the red battlements of the latter, which beetled far\nabove; and the convent-bells were proclaiming the festival of the ensuing\nday. The ravine was overshadowed by fig-trees, vines, and myrtles, and the\nouter towers and walls of the fortress. It was dark and lonely, and the\ntwilight-loving bats began to flit about. At length the soldier halted\nat a remote and ruined tower, apparently intended to guard a Moorish\naqueduct. He struck the foundation with the butt-end of his spear. A\nrumbling sound was heard, and the solid stones yawned apart, leaving an\nopening as wide as a door.\n\n  [Illustration]\n\n\"Enter in the name of the Holy Trinity,\" said the soldier, \"and fear\nnothing.\" The student's heart quaked, but he made the sign of the cross,\nmuttered his Ave Maria, and followed his mysterious guide into a deep\nvault cut out of the solid rock under the tower, and covered with Arabic\ninscriptions. The soldier pointed to a stone seat hewn along one side\nof the vault. \"Behold,\" said he, \"my couch for three hundred years.\" The\nbewildered student tried to force a joke. \"By the blessed St. Anthony,\"\nsaid he, \"but you must have slept soundly, considering the hardness of\nyour couch.\"\n\n\"On the contrary, sleep has been a stranger to these eyes; incessant\nwatchfulness has been my doom. Listen to my lot. I was one of the\nroyal guards of Ferdinand and Isabella; but was taken prisoner by the\nMoors in one of their sorties, and confined a captive in this tower.\nWhen preparations were made to surrender the fortress to the Christian\nsovereigns, I was prevailed upon by an _Alfaqui_, a Moorish priest, to aid\nhim in secreting some of the treasures of Boabdil in this vault. I was\njustly punished for my fault. The _Alfaqui_ was an African necromancer,\nand by his infernal arts cast a spell upon me--to guard his treasures.\nSomething must have happened to him, for he never returned, and here have\nI remained ever since, buried alive. Years and years have rolled away;\nearthquakes have shaken this hill; I have heard stone by stone of the\ntower above tumbling to the ground, in the natural operation of time;\nbut the spell-bound walls of this vault set both time and earthquakes at\ndefiance.\n\n\"Once every hundred years, on the festival of St. John, the enchantment\nceases to have thorough sway; I am permitted to go forth and post myself\nupon the bridge of the Darro, where you met me, waiting until some one\nshall arrive who may have power to break this magic spell. I have hitherto\nmounted guard there in vain. I walk as in a cloud, concealed from mortal\nsight. You are the first to accost me for now three hundred years. I\nbehold the reason. I see on your finger the seal-ring of Solomon the Wise,\nwhich is proof against all enchantment. With you it remains to deliver\nme from this awful dungeon, or to leave me to keep guard here for another\nhundred years.\"\n\nThe student listened to this tale in mute wonderment. He had heard many\ntales of treasures shut up under strong enchantment in the vaults of the\nAlhambra, but had treated them as fables. He now felt the value of the\nseal-ring, which had, in a manner, been given to him by St. Cyprian.\nStill, though armed by so potent a talisman, it was an awful thing to\nfind himself _t\u00eate-\u00e0-t\u00eate_ in such a place with an enchanted soldier, who,\naccording to the laws of nature, ought to have been quietly in his grave\nfor nearly three centuries.\n\nA personage of this kind, however, was quite out of the ordinary run,\nand not to be trifled with, and he assured him he might rely upon\nhis friendship and good will to do everything in his power for his\ndeliverance.\n\n\"I trust to a motive more powerful than friendship,\" said the soldier.\n\nHe pointed to a ponderous iron coffer, secured by locks, inscribed with\nArabic characters. \"That coffer,\" said he, \"contains countless treasure\nin gold and jewels and precious stones. Break the magic spell by which I\nam enthralled, and one half of this treasure shall be thine.\"\n\n\"But how am I to do it?\"\n\n\"The aid of a Christian priest and a Christian maid is necessary. The\npriest to exorcise the powers of darkness; the damsel to touch this chest\nwith the seal of Solomon. This must be done at night. But have a care.\nThis is solemn work, and not to be effected by the carnal-minded. The\npriest must be a _Cristiano viejo_, a model of sanctity; and must mortify\nthe flesh before he comes here, by a rigorous fast of four-and-twenty\nhours: and as to the maiden, she must be above reproach, and proof against\ntemptation. Linger not in finding such aid. In three days my furlough is\nat an end; if not delivered before midnight of the third, I shall have to\nmount guard for another century.\"\n\n\"Fear not,\" said the student, \"I have in my eye the very priest and damsel\nyou describe; but how am I to regain admission to this tower?\"\n\n\"The seal of Solomon will open the way for thee.\"\n\nThe student issued forth from the tower much more gaily than he had\nentered. The wall closed behind him, and remained solid as before.\n\nThe next morning he repaired boldly to the mansion of the priest, no\nlonger a poor strolling student, thrumming his way with a guitar; but an\nambassador from the shadowy world, with enchanted treasures to bestow. No\nparticulars are told of his negotiation, excepting that the zeal of the\nworthy priest was easily kindled at the idea of rescuing an old soldier of\nthe faith and a strong-box of King Chico from the very clutches of Satan;\nand then what alms might be dispensed, what churches built, and how many\npoor relatives enriched with the Moorish treasure!\n\nAs to the immaculate handmaid, she was ready to lend her hand, which was\nall that was required, to the pious work; and if a shy glance now and then\nmight be believed, the ambassador began to find favour in her modest eyes.\n\nThe greatest difficulty, however, was the fast to which the good Padre had\nto subject himself. Twice he attempted it, and twice the flesh was too\nstrong for the spirit. It was only on the third day that he was enabled\nto withstand the temptations of the cupboard; but it was still a question\nwhether he would hold out until the spell was broken.\n\nAt a late hour of the night the party groped their way up the ravine\nby the light of a lantern, and bearing a basket with provisions for\nexorcising the demon of hunger so soon as the other demons should be laid\nin the Red Sea.\n\nThe seal of Solomon opened their way into the tower. They found the\nsoldier seated on the enchanted strong-box, awaiting their arrival. The\nexorcism was performed in due style. The damsel advanced and touched the\nlocks of the coffer with the seal of Solomon. The lid flew open; and such\ntreasures of gold and jewels and precious stones as flashed upon the eye!\n\n\"Here's cut and come again!\" cried the student exultingly, as he proceeded\nto cram his pockets.\n\n\"Fairly and softly,\" exclaimed the soldier. \"Let us get the coffer out\nentire, and then divide.\"\n\nThey accordingly went to work with might and main; but it was a difficult\ntask; the chest was enormously heavy, and had been imbedded there for\ncenturies. While they were thus employed the good _dominie_ drew on one\nside and made a vigorous onslaught on the basket, by way of exorcising\nthe demon of hunger which was raging in his entrails. In a little while\na fat capon was devoured, and washed down by a deep potation of _Val de\npe\u00f1as_; and, by way of grace after meat, he gave a kind-hearted kiss to\nthe pet-lamb who waited on him. It was quietly done in a corner, but the\ntell-tale walls babbled it forth as if in triumph. Never was chaste salute\nmore awful in its effects. At the sound the soldier gave a great cry of\ndespair; the coffer, which was half raised, fell back in its place and was\nlocked once more. Priest, student, and damsel, found themselves outside\nof the tower, the wall of which closed with a thundering jar. Alas! the\ngood _Padre_ has broken his fast too soon!\n\nWhen recovered from his surprise, the student would have re-entered the\ntower, but learnt to his dismay that the damsel, in her fright, had let\nfall the seal of Solomon; it remained within the vault.\n\nIn a word, the cathedral bell tolled midnight; the spell was renewed; the\nsoldier was doomed to mount guard for another hundred years, and there\nhe and the treasure remain to this day--and all because the kind-hearted\n_Padre_ kissed his handmaid. \"Ah father! father!\" said the student,\nshaking his head ruefully, as they returned down the ravine, \"I fear there\nwas less of the saint than the sinner in that kiss!\"\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThus ends the legend as far as it has been authenticated. There is a\ntradition, however, that the student had brought off treasure enough in\nhis pocket to set him up in the world; that he prospered in his affairs,\nthat the worthy _Padre_ gave him the pet-lamb in marriage, by way of\namends for the blunder in the vault; that the immaculate damsel proved a\npattern for wives as she had been for handmaids, and bore her husband a\nnumerous progeny; that the first was a wonder; it was born seven months\nafter her marriage, and though a seven-month's boy, was the sturdiest of\nthe flock. The rest were all born in the ordinary course of time.\n\nThe story of the enchanted soldier remains one of the popular traditions\nof Granada, though told in a variety of ways; the common people affirm\nthat he still mounts guard on midsummer eve, beside the gigantic stone\npomegranate on the Bridge of the Darro; but remains invisible excepting\nto such lucky mortals as may possess the seal of Solomon.\n\n  [Illustration]\n\n\n\n\n  [Illustration]\n\nTHE AUTHOR'S FAREWELL TO GRANADA\n\n\nMy serene and happy reign in the Alhambra was suddenly brought to a close\nby letters which reached me, while indulging in oriental luxury in the\ncool hall of the baths, summoning me away from my Moslem elysium, to\nmingle once more in the bustle and business of the dusty world. How was\nI to encounter its toils and turmoils, after such a life of repose and\nreverie! How was I to endure its commonplace, after the poetry of the\nAlhambra!\n\nBut little preparation was necessary for my departure. A two-wheeled\nvehicle, called a _tartana_, very much resembling a covered cart, was\nto be the travelling equipage of a young Englishman and myself through\nMurcia, to Alicant and Valencia, on our way to France; and a long-limbed\nvarlet, who had been a _contrabandista_, and, for aught I knew, a robber,\nwas to be our guide and guard. The preparations were soon made, but the\ndeparture was the difficulty. Day after day was it postponed; day after\nday was spent in lingering about my favourite haunts, and day after day\nthey appeared more delightful in my eyes.\n\nThe social and domestic little world also, in which I had been moving, had\nbecome singularly endeared to me; and the concern evinced by them at my\nintended departure, convinced me that my kind feelings were reciprocated.\nIndeed, when at length the day arrived, I did not dare venture upon a\nleave-taking at the good dame Antonia's; I saw the soft heart of little\nDolores, at least, was brim full and ready for an overflow. So I bade a\nsilent adieu to the palace and its inmates, and descended into the city as\nif intending to return. There, however, the _tartana_ and the guide were\nready; so, after taking a noon-day's repast with my fellow-traveller at\nthe _Posada_, I set out with him on our journey.\n\nHumble was the cort\u00e8ge and melancholy the departure of _El Rey Chico_\nthe Second! Manuel, the nephew of _Tia Antonia_, Mateo, my officious but\nnow disconsolate squire, and two or three old invalids of the Alhambra\nwith whom I had grown into gossiping companionship, had come down to see\nme off; for it is one of the good old customs of Spain to sally forth\nseveral miles to meet a coming friend, and to accompany him as far on his\ndeparture. Thus then we set out, our long-legged guard striding ahead,\nwith his _escopeta_ on his shoulder; Manuel and Mateo on each side of the\n_tartana_, and the old invalids behind.\n\nAt some little distance to the north of Granada, the road gradually\nascends the hills; here I alighted and walked up slowly with Manuel, who\ntook this occasion to confide to me the secret of his heart and of all\nthose tender concerns between himself and Dolores, with which I had been\nalready informed by the all-knowing and all-revealing Mateo Ximenes.\nHis doctor's diploma had prepared the way for their union, and nothing\nmore was wanting but the dispensation of the Pope, on account of their\nconsanguinity. Then, if he could get the post of Medico of the fortress,\nhis happiness would be complete! I congratulated him on the judgment and\ngood taste he had shown in his choice of a helpmate; invoked all possible\nfelicity on their union, and trusted that the abundant affections of the\nkind-hearted little Dolores would in time have more stable objects to\noccupy them than recreant cats and truant pigeons.\n\n  [Illustration]\n\nIt was indeed a sorrowful parting when I took leave of these good people\nand saw them slowly descend the hills; now and then turning round to wave\nme a last adieu. Manuel, it is true, had cheerful prospects to console\nhim, but poor Mateo seemed perfectly cast down. It was to him a grievous\nfall from the station of prime minister and historiographer, to his old\nbrown cloak and his starveling mystery of ribbon-weaving; and the poor\ndevil, notwithstanding his occasional officiousness, had, somehow or\nother, acquired a stronger hold on my sympathies than I was aware of. It\nwould have really been a consolation in parting, could I have anticipated\nthe good fortune in store for him, and to which I had contributed; for\nthe importance I had appeared to give to his tales and gossip and local\nknowledge, and the frequent companionship in which I had indulged him in\nthe course of my strolls, had elevated his idea of his own qualifications\nand opened a new career to him; and the son of the Alhambra has since\nbecome its regular and well-paid cicerone; insomuch that I am told he has\nnever been obliged to resume the ragged old brown cloak in which I first\nfound him.\n\nTowards sunset I came to where the road wound into the mountains, and\nhere I paused to take a last look at Granada. The hill on which I stood\ncommanded a glorious view of the city, the Vega, and the surrounding\nmountains. It was at an opposite point of the compass from _La cuesta de\nlas lagrimas_ (the hill of tears) noted for the \"last sigh of the Moor.\"\nI now could realize something of the feelings of poor Boabdil when he\nbade adieu to the paradise he was leaving behind, and beheld before him\na rugged and sterile road conducting him to exile.\n\nThe setting sun as usual shed a melancholy effulgence on the ruddy towers\nof the Alhambra. I could faintly discern the balconied window of the\ntower of Comares, where I had indulged in so many delightful reveries.\nThe bosky groves and gardens about the city were richly gilded with the\nsunshine, the purple haze of a summer evening was gathering over the Vega;\neverything was lovely, but tenderly and sadly so, to my parting gaze.\n\n\"I will hasten from this prospect,\" thought I, \"before the sun is set. I\nwill carry away a recollection of it clothed in all its beauty.\"\n\nWith these thoughts I pursued my way among the mountains. A little further\nand Granada, the Vega, and the Alhambra, were shut from my view; and thus\nended one of the pleasantest dreams of a life, which the reader perhaps\nmay think has been but too much made up of dreams.\n\n\nTHE END.\n\n\n_Richard Clay and Sons, Ltd., Brunswick St., Stamford St., S. E._\n\n\n\n\n     MACMILLAN'S\n     THREE-AND-SIXPENNY\n     LIBRARY OF BOOKS\n     BY POPULAR AUTHORS\n\n     Crown 8vo.\n\n\n_THIS SERIES comprises over four hundred volumes in various departments\nof Literature. Prominent among them is an attractive edition of_ The\nWorks of Thackeray, _issued under the editorship of Mr. Lewis Melville.\nIt contains all the Original Illustrations, and includes a great number\nof scattered pieces and illustrations which have not hitherto appeared\nin any collected edition of the works._ The Works of Charles Dickens,\n_reprinted from the first editions, with all the Original Illustrations,\nand with Introductions, Biographical and Bibliographical, by Charles\nDickens the Younger, and an attractive edition of_ The Novels of Charles\nLever, _illustrated by Phiz and G. Cruikshank, have also a place in\nthe Library. The attention of book buyers may be especially directed\nto_ The Border Edition of the Waverley Novels, _edited by Mr. Andrew\nLang, which, with its large type and convenient form, and its copious\nillustrations by well-known artists, possesses features which place it in\nthe forefront of editions now obtainable of the famous novels_. The Works\nof Mr. Thomas Hardy, _including the poems, have also been added to the\nThree-and-Sixpenny Library_.\n\n_Among other works by notable contemporary authors will be found those of_\nMr. F. Marion Crawford, Rolf Boldrewood, Mr. H. G. Wells, Mrs. Gertrude\nAtherton, Mr. Egerton Castle, Mr. A. E. W. Mason, Maarten Maartens, _and_\nMiss Rosa Nouchette Carey; _while among the productions of an earlier\nperiod may be mentioned the works of_ Charles Kingsley, Frederick Denison\nMaurice, Thomas Hughes, _and_ Dean Farrar; _and the novels and tales of_\nCharlotte M. Yonge, Mrs. Craik, _and_ Mrs. Oliphant.\n\n\n     THE\n     WORKS OF THACKERAY\n\n_Reprints of the First Editions, with all the Original Illustrations, and\nwith Facsimiles of Wrappers, etc._\n\nMessrs. MACMILLAN & CO., Limited, beg leave to invite the attention\nof book buyers to the Edition of THE WORKS OF THACKERAY in their\nThree-and-Sixpenny Library, which is the Completest Edition of the\nAuthor's Works that has been placed on the market.\n\nThe Publishers have been fortunate in securing the services of Mr. LEWIS\nMELVILLE, the well-known Thackeray Expert. With his assistance they\nhave been able to include in this Edition a great number of scattered\npieces from Thackeray's pen, and illustrations from his pencil which have\nnot hitherto been contained in any collected edition of the works. Mr.\nMelville has read all the sheets as they passed through the press, and\ncollated them carefully with the original editions. He has also provided\nBibliographical Introductions and occasional Footnotes.\n\n     List of the Series.\n\nVOL.\n\n1. Vanity Fair. With 190 Illustrations.\n\n2. The History of Pendennis. With 180 Illustrations.\n\n3. The Newcomes. With 167 Illustrations.\n\n4. The History of Henry Esmond.\n\n5. The Virginians. With 148 Illustrations.\n\n6. Barry Lyndon and Catherine. With 4 Illustrations.\n\n7. The Paris and Irish Sketch Books. With 63 Illustrations.\n\n8. Christmas Books--MRS. PERKINS'S BALL: OUR STREET: DR. BIRCH AND HIS\nYOUNG FRIENDS: THE KICKLEBURYS ON THE RHINE: THE ROSE AND THE RING. With\n127 Illustrations.\n\n9. Burlesques: From Cornhill to Grand Cairo: and Juvenilia. With 84\nIllustrations.\n\n10. The Book of Snobs, and other Contributions to _Punch_. With 159\nIllustrations.\n\n11. The Yellowplush Correspondence: Jeames's Diary: The Great Hoggarty\nDiamond: Etc. With 47 Illustrations.\n\n12. Critical Papers in Literature.\n\n13. Critical Papers in Art; Stubbs's Calendar: Barber Cox. With 99\nIllustrations.\n\n14. Lovel the Widower, and other Stories. With 40 Illustrations.\n\n15. The Fitz-Boodle Papers (including Men's Wives), and various Articles.\n8 Illustrations.\n\n16. The English Humourists of the 18th Century: The Four Georges: Etc. 45\nIllustrations.\n\n17. Travels in London: Letters to a Young Man about Town: and other\nContributions to _Punch_ (1845-1850). With 73 Illustrations.\n\n18. Ballads and Verses, and Miscellaneous Contributions to _Punch_. With\n78 Illustrations.\n\n19. A Shabby Genteel Story, and The Adventures of Philip. With\nIllustrations.\n\n20. Roundabout Papers and Denis Duval. With Illustrations.\n\n     MACMILLAN'S\n     EDITION OF THACKERAY\n\n     SOME OPINIONS OF THE PRESS\n\n_EXPOSITORY TIMES._--\"An edition to do credit even to this publishing\nhouse, and not likely to be surpassed until they surpass it with a cheaper\nand better themselves.\"\n\n_WHITEHALL REVIEW._--\"Never before has such a cheap and excellent edition\nof Thackeray been seen.\"\n\n_ACADEMY._--\"A better one-volume edition at three shillings and sixpence\ncould not be desired.\"\n\n_GRAPHIC._--\"In its plain but pretty blue binding is both serviceable and\nattractive.\"\n\n_DAILY GRAPHIC._--\"An excellent, cheap reprint.\"\n\n_PALL MALL GAZETTE._--\"The size of the books is handy, paper and printing\nare good, and the binding, which is of blue cloth, is simple but tasteful.\nAltogether the publishers are to be congratulated upon a reprint which\nought to be popular.\"\n\n_GLOBE._--\"The paper is thin but good, the type used is clear to read,\nand the binding is neat and effective.\"\n\n_LADY'S PICTORIAL._--\"The paper is good, the type clear and large, and\nthe binding tasteful. Messrs. Macmillan are to be thanked for so admirable\nand inexpensive an edition of our great satirist.\"\n\n_WORLD._--\"Nothing could be better than the new edition.\"\n\n_BLACK AND WHITE._--\"The more one sees of the edition the more enamoured\nof it he becomes. It is so good and neat, immaculate as to print, and\nadmirably bound.\"\n\n_SCOTSMAN._--\"This admirable edition.\"\n\n_LITERARY WORLD._--\"The paper and printing and general get up are\neverything that one could desire.\"\n\n_ST. JAMES'S GAZETTE._--\"A clear and pretty edition.\"\n\n\n     THE\n     WORKS OF DICKENS\n\nReprints of the First Editions, with all the original Illustrations, and\nwith Introductions, Biographical and Bibliographical, by CHARLES DICKENS\nthe Younger.\n\n1. THE PICKWICK PAPERS. With 50 Illustrations.\n\n2. OLIVER TWIST. With 27 Illustrations.\n\n3. NICHOLAS NICKLEBY. With 44 Illustrations.\n\n4. MARTIN CHUZZLEWIT. With 41 Illustrations.\n\n5. THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP. With 97 Illustrations.\n\n6. BARNABY RUDGE. With 76 Illustrations.\n\n7. DOMBEY AND SON. With 40 Illustrations.\n\n8. CHRISTMAS BOOKS. With 65 Illustrations.\n\n9. SKETCHES BY BOZ. With 44 Illustrations.\n\n10. DAVID COPPERFIELD. With 40 Illustrations.\n\n11. AMERICAN NOTES AND PICTURES FROM ITALY. With 4 Illustrations.\n\n12. THE LETTERS OF CHARLES DICKENS.\n\n13. BLEAK HOUSE. With 43 Illustrations.\n\n14. LITTLE DORRIT. With 40 Illustrations.\n\n15. A TALE OF TWO CITIES. With 15 Illustrations.\n\n16. GREAT EXPECTATIONS; and HARD TIMES.\n\n17. OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. With 40 Illustrations.\n\n\n     MACMILLAN'S\n     EDITION OF DICKENS\n\n     SOME OPINIONS OF THE PRESS\n\n_ATHEN\u00c6UM._--\"Handy in form, well printed, illustrated with reduced\nre-productions of the original plates, introduced with bibliographical\nnotes by the novelist's son, and above all issued at a most moderate\nprice, this edition will appeal successfully to a large number of\nreaders.\"\n\n_SPEAKER._--\"We do not think there exists a better edition.\"\n\n_MORNING POST._--\"The edition will be highly appreciated.\"\n\n_SCOTSMAN._--\" This reprint offers peculiar attractions. Of a handy size,\nin one volume, of clear, good-sized print, and with its capital comic\nillustrations, it is a volume to be desired.\"\n\n_NEWCASTLE CHRONICLE._--\"The most satisfactory edition of the book that\nhas been issued.\"\n\n_GLASGOW HERALD._--\"None of the recent editions of Dickens can be\ncompared with that which Messrs. Macmillan inaugurate with the Issue of\n_Pickwick_.... Printed in a large, clear type, very readable.\"\n\n_GLOBE._--\"They have used an admirably clear type and good paper, and\nthe binding is unexceptionable.... May be selected as the most desirable\ncheap edition of the immortal 'Papers' that has ever been offered to the\npublic.\"\n\n_MANCHESTER EXAMINER._--\"These volumes have a unique Interest, for with\neach there is the story of its origin.\"\n\n_QUEEN._--\"A specially pleasant and convenient form in which to re-read\nDickens.\"\n\n_STAR._--\"This new 'Dickens Series,' with its reproductions of the\noriginal illustrations, is a joy to the possessor.\"\n\n_Complete in Twenty-four Volumes. Crown 8vo, tastefully bound in green\ncloth, gilt. Price 3s. 6d. each._\n\n_In special cloth binding, flat backs, gilt tops. Supplied in Sets only\nof 24 volumes. Price \u00a34 4s._\n\n_Also an edition with all the 250 original etchings. In 24 volumes. Crown\n8vo, gilt tops. Price 6s. each._\n\n\n     THE LARGE TYPE\n     BORDER EDITION OF THE\n     WAVERLEY NOVELS\n\n     EDITED WITH\n     _INTRODUCTORY ESSAYS AND NOTES_\n     BY\n     ANDREW LANG\n     SUPPLEMENTING THOSE OF THE AUTHOR.\n\n     _With Two Hundred and Fifty New and Original Illustrations by\n     Eminent Artists._\n\nBy the kind permission of the Hon. Mrs. MAXWELL-SCOTT, of Abbotsford,\nthe great-granddaughter of Sir WALTER, the MSS. and other material at\nAbbotsford were examined by Mr. ANDREW LANG during the preparation of his\nIntroductory Essays and Notes to the Series, so that the BORDER EDITION\nmay be said to contain all the results of the latest researches as to the\ncomposition of the Waverley Novels.\n\nThe Border Waverley\n\n1. WAVERLEY. With 12 Illustrations by Sir H. RAEBURN, R.A., R. W. MACBETH,\nA.R.A., JOHN PETTIE, R.A., H. MACBETH-RAEBURN, D. HERDMAN, W. J. LEITCH,\nROBERT HERDMAN, R.S.A., and J. ECKFORD LAUDER.\n\n2. GUY MANNERING. With 10 Illustrations by J. MACWHIRTER, A.R.A., R. W.\nMACBETH, A.R.A., C. O. MURRAY, CLARK STANTON, R.S.A., GOURLAY STEELL,\nR.S.A., F. S. WALKER, R. HERDMAN, R.S.A., and J. B. MACDONALD, A.R.S.A.\n\n3. THE ANTIQUARY. With 10 Illustrations by J. MACWHIRTER, A.R.A.,\nSAM BOUGH, R.S.A., R. HERDMAN, R.S.A., W. M'TAGGART, A.R.S.A., J. B.\nMACDONALD, A.R.S.A., and A. H. TOURRIER.\n\n4. ROB ROY. With 10 Illustrations by R. W. MACBETH, A.R.A., and SAM BOUGH,\nR.S.A.\n\n5. OLD MORTALITY. With 10 Illustrations by J. MACWHIRTER, A.R.A., R.\nHERDMAN, R.S.A., SAM BOUGH, R.S.A., M. L. GOW, D. Y. CAMERON, LOCKHART\nBOGLE, and ALFRED HARTLEY.\n\n6. THE HEART OF MIDLOTHIAN. With 10 Illustrations by Sir J. E. MILLAIS,\nBart., HUGH CAMERON, R.S.A., SAM BOUGH, R.S.A., R. HERDMAN, R.S.A., and\nWAL. PAGET.\n\n7. A LEGEND OF MONTROSE and THE BLACK DWARF. With 7 Illustrations by Sir\nGEORGE REID, P.R.S.A., GEORGE HAY, R.S.A., HORATIO MACCULLOCH, R.S.A., W.\nE. LOCKHART, R.S.A., H. MACBETH-RAEBURN, and T. SCOTT.\n\n8. THE BRIDE OF LAMMERMOOR. With 8 Illustrations by Sir J. E. MILLAIS,\nBart., JOHN SMART, R.S.A., SAM BOUGH, R.S.A., GEORGE HAY, R.S.A., and H.\nMACBETH-RAEBURN.\n\n9. IVANHOE. With 12 Illustrations by AD. LALAUZE.\n\n10. THE MONASTERY. With 10 Illustrations by GORDON BROWNE.\n\n11. THE ABBOT. With 10 Illustrations by GORDON BROWNE.\n\n12. KENILWORTH. With 12 Illustrations by AD. LALAUZE.\n\n13. THE PIRATE. With 10 Illustrations by W. E. LOCKHART, R.S.A., SAM\nBOUGH, R.S.A., HERBERT DICKSEE, W. STRANG, LOCKHART BOGLE, C. J. HOLMES,\nand F. S. WALKER.\n\n14. THE FORTUNES OF NIGEL. With 10 Illustrations by JOHN PETTIE, R.A.,\nand R. W. MACBETH, A.R.A.\n\n15. PEVERIL OF THE PEAK. With 15 Illustrations by W. Q. ORCHARDSON, R.A.,\nJOHN PETTIE, R.A., F. DADD, R.I., ARTHUR HOPKINS, A.R.W.S., and S. L.\nWOOD.\n\n16. QUENTIN DURWARD. With 12 Illustrations by AD. LALAUZE.\n\n17. ST. RONAN'S WELL. With 10 Illustrations by Sir G. REID, P.R.S.A., R.\nW. MACBETH, A.R.A., W. HOLE, R.S.A., and A. FORESTIER.\n\n18. REDGAUNTLET. With 12 Illustrations by Sir JAMES D. LINTON, P.R.I.,\nJAMES ORROCK, R.I., SAM BOUGH, R.S.A., W. HOLE, R.S.A., G. HAY, R.S.A.,\nT. SCOTT, A.R.S.A., W. BOUCHER, and FRANK SHORT.\n\n19. THE BETROTHED and THE TALISMAN. With 10 Illustrations by HERBERT\nDICKSEE, WAL. PAGET, and J. LE BLANT.\n\n20. WOODSTOCK. With 10 Illustrations by W. HOLE, R.S.A.\n\n21. THE FAIR MAID OF PERTH. With 10 Illustrations by Sir G. REID,\nP.R.S.A., JOHN PETTIE, R.A., R. W. MACBETH, A.R.A., and ROBERT HERDMAN,\nR.S.A.\n\n22. ANNE OF GEIERSTEIN. With 10 Illustrations by R. DE LOS RIOS.\n\n23. COUNT ROBERT OF PARIS and THE SURGEON'S DAUGHTER. With 10\nIllustrations by W. HATHERELL, R.I., and W. B. WOLLEN, R.I.\n\n24. CASTLE DANGEROUS, CHRONICLES OF THE CANONGATE, ETC. With 10\nIllustrations by H. MACBETH-RAEBURN and G. D. ARMOUR.\n\n     The Border Waverley\n\n     SOME OPINIONS OF THE PRESS\n\n_TIMES._--\"It would be difficult to find in these days a more competent\nand sympathetic editor of Scott than his countryman, the brilliant\nand versatile man of letters who has undertaken the task, and if any\nproof were wanted either of his qualifications or of his skill and\ndiscretion in displaying them, Mr. Lang has furnished it abundantly\nin his charming Introduction to 'Waverley.' The editor's own notes are\njudiciously sparing, but conspicuously to the point, and they are very\ndiscreetly separated from those of the author, Mr. Lang's laudable\npurpose being to illustrate and explain Scott, not to make the notes a\npretext for displaying his own critical faculty and literary erudition.\nThe illustrations by various competent hands are beautiful in themselves\nand beautifully executed, and, altogether, the 'Border Edition' of the\nWaverley Novels bids fair to become the classical edition of the great\nScottish classic.\"\n\n_SPECTATOR._--\"We trust that this fine edition of our greatest and most\npoetical of novelists will attain, if it has not already done so, the high\npopularity it deserves. To all Scott's lovers it is a pleasure to know\nthat, despite the daily and weekly inrush of ephemeral fiction, the sale\nof his works is said by the booksellers to rank next below Tennyson's in\npoetry, and above that of everybody else in prose.\"\n\n_ATHEN\u00c6UM._--\"The handsome 'Border Edition' has been brought to a\nsuccessful conclusion. The publisher deserves to be complimented on the\nmanner in which the edition has been printed and illustrated, and Mr.\nLang on the way in which he has performed his portion of the work. His\nintroductions have been tasteful and readable; he has not overdone his\npart; and, while he has supplied much useful information, he has by no\nmeans overburdened the volumes with notes.\"\n\n_NOTES AND QUERIES._--\"This spirited and ambitious enterprise has been\nconducted to a safe termination, and the most ideal edition of the\nWaverley Novels in existence is now completed.\"\n\n_SATURDAY REVIEW._--\"Of all the many collections of the Waverley Novels,\nthe 'Border Edition' is incomparably the most handsome and the most\ndesirable.... Type, paper, illustrations, are altogether admirable.\"\n\n_MAGAZINE OF ART._--\"Size, type, paper, and printing, to say nothing of\nthe excessively liberal and charming introduction of the illustrations,\nmake this perhaps the most desirable edition of Scott ever issued on this\nside of the Border.\"\n\n_DAILY CHRONICLE._--\"There is absolutely no fault to be found with it, as\nto paper, type, or arrangement.\"\n\n\n     THE WORKS OF\n     THOMAS HARDY\n     Collected Edition\n\n1. TESS OF THE D'URBERVILLES.\n\n2. FAR FROM THE MADDING CROWD.\n\n3. THE MAYOR OF CASTERBRIDGE.\n\n4. A PAIR OF BLUE EYES.\n\n5. TWO ON A TOWER.\n\n6. THE RETURN OF THE NATIVE.\n\n7. THE WOODLANDERS.\n\n8. JUDE THE OBSCURE.\n\n9. THE TRUMPET-MAJOR.\n\n10. THE HAND OF ETHELBERTA.\n\n11. A LAODICEAN.\n\n12. DESPERATE REMEDIES.\n\n13. WESSEX TALES.\n\n14. LIFE'S LITTLE IRONIES.\n\n15. A GROUP OF NOBLE DAMES.\n\n16. UNDER THE GREENWOOD TREE.\n\n17. THE WELL-BELOVED.\n\n18. WESSEX POEMS, and other Verses.\n\n19. POEMS OF THE PAST AND THE PRESENT.\n\n\n     THE WORKS OF\n     CHARLES KINGSLEY\n\nWESTWARD HO!\n\nHYPATIA; or, New Foes with an old Face.\n\nTWO YEARS AGO.\n\nALTON LOCKE, Tailor and Poet. An Autobiography.\n\nHEREWARD THE WAKE, \"Last of the English.\"\n\nYEAST: A Problem.\n\nPOEMS: including The Saint's Tragedy, Andromeda, Songs, Ballads, etc.\n\nTHE WATER-BABIES: A Fairy Tale for a Land-Baby. With Illustrations by\nLINLEY SAMBOURNE.\n\nTHE HEROES; or, Greek Fairy Tales for my Children. With Illustrations by\nthe Author.\n\nGLAUCUS; or, The Wonders of the Shore. With Illustrations.\n\nMADAM HOW AND LADY WHY; or, First Lessons in Earth Lore for Children. With\nIllustrations.\n\nAT LAST. A Christmas in the West Indies. With Illustrations.\n\nTHE HERMITS.\n\nHISTORICAL LECTURES AND ESSAYS.\n\nPLAYS AND PURITANS, and other Historical Essays.\n\nTHE ROMAN AND THE TEUTON.\n\nPROSE IDYLLS, New and Old.\n\nSANITARY AND SOCIAL LECTURES AND ESSAYS.\n\nLITERARY AND GENERAL LECTURES AND ESSAYS.\n\nALL SAINTS' DAY: and other Sermons.\n\nDISCIPLINE: and other Sermons.\n\nTHE GOOD NEWS OF GOD. Sermons.\n\nGOSPEL OF THE PENTATEUCH.\n\nSERMONS FOR THE TIMES.\n\nVILLAGE SERMONS, AND TOWN AND COUNTRY SERMONS.\n\nWESTMINSTER SERMONS.\n\n\n     THE NOVELS\n     OF\n     F. MARION CRAWFORD\n\n1. MR. ISAACS: A Tale of Modern India.\n\n2. DOCTOR CLAUDIUS: A True Story.\n\n3. A ROMAN SINGER.\n\n4. ZOROASTER.\n\n5. MARZIO'S CRUCIFIX.\n\n6. A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH.\n\n7. PAUL PATOFF.\n\n8. WITH THE IMMORTALS.\n\n9. GREIFENSTEIN.\n\n10. TAQUISARA: A Novel.\n\n11. A ROSE OF YESTERDAY.\n\n12. SANT' ILARIO.\n\n13. A CIGARETTE-MAKER'S ROMANCE.\n\n14. KHALED: A Tale of Arabia.\n\n15. THE THREE FATES.\n\n16. THE WITCH OF PRAGUE.\n\n17. MARION DARCHE: A Story without Comment.\n\n18. KATHARINE LAUDERDALE.\n\n19. THE CHILDREN OF THE KING.\n\n20. PIETRO GHISLERI.\n\n21. DON ORSINO.\n\n22. CASA BRACCIO.\n\n23. ADAM JOHNSTONE'S SON.\n\n24. THE RALSTONS.\n\n25. CORLEONE: A Tale of Sicily.\n\n26. VIA CRUCIS: A Romance of the Second Crusade.\n\n27. IN THE PALACE OF THE KING: A Love Story of Old Madrid.\n\n28. CECILIA: A Story of Modern Rome.\n\n29. MARIETTA: A Maid of Venice.\n\n30. THE HEART OF ROME.\n\n31. SOPRANO: A Portrait.\n\n32. THE PRIMADONNA.\n\n33. THE DIVA'S RUBY.\n\n34. \"WHOSOEVER SHALL OFFEND----\"\n\n35. A LADY OF ROME.\n\n36. ARETHUSA.\n\n37. THE WHITE SISTER.\n\n38. STRADELLA: An Old Italian Love Tale.\n\n\n     THE NOVELS\n     OF\n     ROLF BOLDREWOOD\n\n1. ROBBERY UNDER ARMS: A Story of Life and Adventure in the Bush and in\nthe Gold-fields of Australia.\n\n2. A MODERN BUCCANEER.\n\n3. THE MINER'S RIGHT: A Tale of the Australian Gold-fields.\n\n4. THE SQUATTER'S DREAM.\n\n5. A SYDNEY-SIDE SAXON.\n\n6. A COLONIAL REFORMER.\n\n7. NEVERMORE.\n\n8. PLAIN LIVING: A Bush Idyll.\n\n9. MY RUN HOME.\n\n10. THE CROOKED STICK; or, Pollie's Probation.\n\n11. OLD MELBOURNE MEMORIES.\n\n12. WAR TO THE KNIFE; or, Tangata Maori.\n\n13. BABES IN THE BUSH.\n\n14. IN BAD COMPANY, and other Stories.\n\n\n     By H. G. WELLS\n\nTHE PLATTNER STORY: and others.\n\nTALES OF SPACE AND TIME.\n\nTHE STOLEN BACILLUS: and other Incidents.\n\nTHE INVISIBLE MAN. A Grotesque Romance.\n\nLOVE AND MR. LEWISHAM. A Story of a very Young Couple.\n\nWHEN THE SLEEPER WAKES.\n\nTHE FIRST MEN IN THE MOON.\n\nTWELVE STORIES AND A DREAM.\n\nTHE FOOD OF THE GODS AND HOW IT CAME TO EARTH.\n\nKIPPS: The Story of a Simple Soul.\n\nIN THE DAYS OF THE COMET.\n\nTONO-BUNGAY.\n\n\n     By A. E. W. MASON\n\nTHE COURTSHIP OF MORRICE BUCKLER.\n\nTHE PHILANDERERS.\n\nMIRANDA OF THE BALCONY.\n\n\n     By EGERTON CASTLE\n\n\"LA BELLA\": and others.\n\nMARSHFIELD THE OBSERVER.\n\n\n     By AGNES and EGERTON CASTLE\n\nTHE BATH COMEDY.\n\nTHE PRIDE OF JENNICO. Being a Memoir of Captain Basil Jennico.\n\nTHE SECRET ORCHARD.\n\n\n     THE NOVELS OF\n     ROSA N. CAREY\n\n_WESTMINSTER GAZETTE._--\"A clever delineator of character, possessed of\na reserve of strength in a quiet, easy, flowing style, Miss Carey never\nfails to please a large class of readers.\"\n\n_STANDARD._--\"Miss Carey has the gift of writing naturally and simply,\nher pathos is true and unforced, and her conversations are sprightly and\nsharp.\"\n\n_LADY._--Miss Carey's novels are always welcome; they are out of the\ncommon run, immaculately pure, and very high in tone.\n\nNearly 800,000 of these works have been printed.\n\n1. NELLIE'S MEMORIES. 58th Thousand.\n\n2. WEE WIFIE. 42nd Thousand.\n\n3. BARBARA HEATHCOTE'S TRIAL. 35th Thousand.\n\n4. ROBERT ORD'S ATONEMENT. 30th Thousand.\n\n5. WOOED AND MARRIED. 40th Thousand.\n\n6. HERIOT'S CHOICE. 29th Thousand.\n\n7. QUEENIE'S WHIM. 34th Thousand.\n\n8. NOT LIKE OTHER GIRLS. 41st Thousand.\n\n9. MARY ST. JOHN. 27th Thousand.\n\n10. FOR LILIAS. 26th Thousand.\n\n11. UNCLE MAX. 36th Thousand.\n\n12. RUE WITH A DIFFERENCE. 24th Thousand.\n\n13. THE HIGHWAY OF FATE. 25th Thousand.\n\n14. ONLY THE GOVERNESS. 40th Thousand.\n\n15. LOVER OR FRIEND? 29th Thousand.\n\n16. BASIL LYNDHURST. 26th Thousand.\n\n17. SIR GODFREY'S GRAND-DAUGHTERS. 27th Thousand.\n\n18. THE OLD, OLD STORY. 30th Thousand.\n\n19. THE MISTRESS OF BRAE FARM. 32nd Thousand.\n\n20. MRS. ROMNEY and \"BUT MEN MUST WORK.\" 14th Thousand.\n\n21. OTHER PEOPLE'S LIVES. 5th Thousand.\n\n22. HERB OF GRACE. 27th Thousand.\n\n23. A PASSAGE PERILOUS, 25th Thousand.\n\n24. AT THE MOORINGS. 21st Thousand.\n\n25. THE HOUSEHOLD OF PETER. 21st Thousand.\n\n26. NO FRIEND LIKE A SISTER. 21st Thousand.\n\n27. THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS. 20th Thousand.\n\n28. THE SUNNY SIDE OF THE HILL. 18th Thousand.\n\n29. THE KEY OF THE UNKNOWN. 15th Thousand.\n\n\n     THE NOVELS AND TALES OF\n     CHARLOTTE M. YONGE\n\nTHE HEIR OF REDCLYFFE. With Illustrations by KATE GREENAWAY.\n\nHEARTSEASE; or, the Brother's Wife. New Edition. With Illustrations by\nKATE GREENAWAY.\n\nHOPES AND FEARS; or, Scenes from the Life of a Spinster. With\nIllustrations by HERBERT GANDY.\n\nDYNEVOR TERRACE; or, the Clue of Life. With Illustrations by ADRIAN STOKES.\n\nTHE DAISY CHAIN; or, Aspirations. A Family Chronicle. With Illustrations\nby J. P. ATKINSON.\n\nTHE TRIAL: More Links of the Daisy Chain. With Illustrations by J. P.\nATKINSON.\n\nTHE PILLARS OF THE HOUSE; or, Under Wode, under Rode. Two Vols. With\nIllustrations by HERBERT GANDY.\n\nTHE YOUNG STEPMOTHER; or, a Chronicle of Mistakes. With Illustrations by\nMARIAN HUXLEY.\n\nTHE CLEVER WOMAN OF THE FAMILY. With Illustrations by ADRIAN STOKES.\n\nTHE THREE BRIDES. With Illustrations by ADRIAN STOKES.\n\nMY YOUNG ALCIDES: A Faded Photograph. With Illustrations by ADRIAN STOKES.\n\nTHE CAGED LION. With Illustrations by W. J. HENNESSY.\n\nTHE DOVE IN THE EAGLE'S NEST. With Illustrations by W. J. HENNESSY.\n\nTHE CHAPLET OF PEARLS; or, the White and Black Ribaumont. With\nIllustrations by W. J. HENNESSY.\n\nLADY HESTER; or, Ursula's Narrative; and THE DANVERS PAPERS. With\nIllustrations by JANE E. COOK.\n\nMAGNUM BONUM; or, Mother Carey's Brood. With Illustrations by W. J.\nHENNESSY.\n\nLOVE AND LIFE: an Old Story in Eighteenth Century Costume. With\nIllustrations by W. J. HENNESSY.\n\nUNKNOWN TO HISTORY. A Story of the Captivity of Mary of Scotland. With\nIllustrations by W. J. HENNESSY.\n\nTHE ARMOURER'S 'PRENTICES. With Illustrations by W. J. HENNESSY.\n\nSCENES AND CHARACTERS; or, Eighteen Months at Beechcroft. With\nIllustrations by W. J. HENNESSY.\n\nCHANTRY HOUSE. With Illustrations by W. J. HENNESSY.\n\nA MODERN TELEMACHUS. With Illustrations by W. J. HENNESSY.\n\nBYWORDS. A collection of Tales new and old.\n\nBEECHCROFT AT ROCKSTONE.\n\nMORE BYWORDS.\n\nA REPUTED CHANGELING; or, Three Seventh Years Two Centuries Ago.\n\nTHE LITTLE DUKE, RICHARD THE FEARLESS. With Illustrations.\n\nTHE LANCES OF LYNWOOD. With Illustrations by J. B.\n\nTHE PRINCE AND THE PAGE: A Story of the Last Crusade. With Illustrations\nby ADRIAN STOKES.\n\nTWO PENNILESS PRINCESSES. With Illustrations by W. J. HENNESSY.\n\nTHAT STICK.\n\nAN OLD WOMAN'S OUTLOOK IN A HAMPSHIRE VILLAGE.\n\nGRISLY GRISELL; or, The Laidly Lady of Whitburn. A Tale of the Wars of\nthe Roses.\n\nHENRIETTA'S WISH. Second Edition.\n\nTHE LONG VACATION.\n\nTHE RELEASE; or, Caroline's French Kindred.\n\nTHE PILGRIMAGE OF THE BEN BERIAH.\n\nTHE TWO GUARDIANS; or, Home in this World. Second Edition.\n\nCOUNTESS KATE AND THE STOKESLEY SECRET.\n\nMODERN BROODS; or, Developments Unlooked for.\n\nSTROLLING PLAYERS: A Harmony of Contrasts. By C. M. YONGE and C. R.\nCOLERIDGE.\n\nSTRAY PEARLS. Memoirs of Margaret de Ribaumont, Viscountess of Bellaise.\nWith Illustrations by W. J. HENNESSY.\n\n\n     Works by Mrs. Craik\n\nOlive: A Novel. With Illustrations by G. BOWERS.\n\nAgatha's Husband: A Novel. With Illustrations by WALTER CRANE.\n\nThe Head of the Family: A Novel. With Illustrations by WALTER CRANE.\n\nTwo Marriages.\n\nThe Laurel Bush.\n\nKing Arthur: Not a Love Story.\n\nAbout Money, and other Things.\n\nConcerning Men, and other Papers.\n\n\n     Works by Mrs. Oliphant\n\nNeighbours on the Green.\n\nKirsteen: the Story of a Scotch Family Seventy Years Ago.\n\nA Beleaguered City: A Story of the Seen and the Unseen.\n\nHester: a Story of Contemporary Life.\n\nHe that Will Not when He May.\n\nThe Railway Man and his Children.\n\nThe Marriage of Elinor.\n\nSir Tom.\n\nThe Heir-Presumptive and the Heir-Apparent.\n\nA Country Gentleman and his Family.\n\nA Son of the Soil.\n\nThe Second Son.\n\nThe Wizard's Son: A Novel.\n\nLady William.\n\nYoung Musgrave.\n\n\n     The Works of Dean Farrar\n\nSEEKERS AFTER GOD. The Lives of Seneca, Epictetus, and Marcus Aurelius.\n\nETERNAL HOPE. Sermons preached in Westminster Abbey.\n\nTHE FALL OF MAN: and other Sermons.\n\nTHE WITNESS OF HISTORY TO CHRIST.\n\nTHE SILENCE AND VOICES OF GOD, with other Sermons.\n\n\"IN THE DAYS OF THY YOUTH.\" Sermons on Practical Subjects.\n\nSAINTLY WORKERS. Five Lenten Lectures.\n\nEPHPHATHA; or, the Amelioration of the World.\n\nMERCY AND JUDGMENT: a few last words on Christian Eschatology.\n\nSERMONS & ADDRESSES DELIVERED IN AMERICA.\n\n\n     THE WORKS OF\n     Frederick Denison Maurice\n\nSERMONS PREACHED IN LINCOLN'S INN CHAPEL, In five vols.\n\nSERMONS PREACHED IN COUNTRY CHURCHES.\n\nCHRISTMAS DAY: and other Sermons.\n\nTHEOLOGICAL ESSAYS.\n\nTHE PROPHETS and KINGS of the OLD TESTAMENT.\n\nTHE PATRIARCHS AND LAWGIVERS OF THE OLD TESTAMENT.\n\nTHE GOSPEL OF THE KINGDOM OF HEAVEN.\n\nTHE GOSPEL OF ST. JOHN.\n\nTHE EPISTLES OF ST. JOHN.\n\nTHE FRIENDSHIP OF BOOKS: and other Lectures.\n\nTHE PRAYER BOOK AND THE LORD'S PRAYER.\n\nTHE DOCTRINE OF SACRIFICE. Deduced from the Scriptures.\n\nTHE ACTS OF THE APOSTLES.\n\nTHE KINGDOM OF CHRIST; or, Hints to a Quaker respecting the Principles,\nConstitution, and Ordinances of the Catholic Church. 2 vols.\n\n\n     By J. H. SHORTHOUSE\n\nJOHN INGLESANT: A Romance.\n\nSIR PERCIVAL: a Story of the Past and of the Present.\n\nTHE LITTLE SCHOOLMASTER MARK.\n\nTHE COUNTESS EVE.\n\nA TEACHER OF THE VIOLIN.\n\nBLANCHE, LADY FALAISE.\n\n\n     By GERTRUDE ATHERTON\n\nTHE CONQUEROR.\n\nA DAUGHTER OF THE VINE.\n\nTHE CALIFORNIANS.\n\n\n     By HUGH CONWAY\n\nA FAMILY AFFAIR.\n\n\n     By W. CLARK RUSSELL\n\nMAROONED.\n\n\n     By ANNIE KEARY\n\nA YORK AND A LANCASTER ROSE.\n\nCASTLE DALY: the Story of an Irish Home thirty years ago.\n\nJANET'S HOME.\n\nOLDBURY.\n\nA DOUBTING HEART.\n\nTHE NATIONS AROUND ISRAEL.\n\n\n     By GEORGE BORROW\n\nLAVENGRO.\n\n\n     By THOMAS HUGHES\n\nTOM BROWN'S SCHOOLDAYS.\n\nTOM BROWN AT OXFORD.\n\nTHE SCOURING OF THE WHITE HORSE.\n\nALFRED THE GREAT.\n\n\n     By ARCHIBALD FORBES\n\nBARRACKS, BIVOUACS, AND BATTLES.\n\n\n     By MONTAGU WILLIAMS\n\nLEAVES OF A LIFE.\n\nROUND LONDON.\n\n\n     By E. WERNER\n\nFICKLE FORTUNE.\n\n\n     By W. E. NORRIS\n\nTHIRLBY HALL.\n\nA BACHELOR'S BLUNDER.\n\n\n     The Works of SHAKESPEARE\n\nVICTORIA EDITION. In Three Volumes.\n\nVol. I. COMEDIES.\n\nVol. II. HISTORIES.\n\nVol. III. TRAGEDIES.\n\n\n     UNIFORM EDITION OF THE\n     NOVELS OF CHARLES LEVER\n\n     With all the Original Illustrations.\n\n1. HARRY LORREQUER. Illustrated by PHIZ.\n\n2. CHARLES O'MALLEY. Illustrated by PHIZ.\n\n3. JACK HINTON THE GUARDSMAN. Illustrated by PHIZ.\n\n4. TOM BURKE OF OURS. Illustrated by PHIZ.\n\n5. ARTHUR O'LEARY. Illustrated by G. CRUIKSHANK.\n\n6. LORD KILGOBBIN. Illustrated by LUKE FILDES.\n\n\n     By W. WARDE FOWLER\n\nA YEAR WITH THE BIRDS. Illustrated.\n\nTALES OF THE BIRDS. Illustrated.\n\nMORE TALES OF THE BIRDS. Illustrated.\n\nSUMMER STUDIES OF BIRDS AND BOOKS.\n\n\n     By FRANK BUCKLAND\n\nCURIOSITIES OF NATURAL HISTORY. Illustrated. In four volumes:\n\nFIRST SERIES--Rats, Serpents, Fishes, Frogs, Monkeys, etc.\n\nSECOND SERIES--Fossils, Bears, Wolves, Cats, Eagles, Hedgehogs, Eels,\nHerrings, Whales.\n\nTHIRD SERIES--Wild Ducks, Fishing, Lions, Tigers, Foxes, Porpoises.\n\nFOURTH SERIES--Giants, Mummies, Mermaids, Wonderful People, Salmon, etc.\n\n\n     Works by Various Authors\n\nHogan, M.P.\n\nFlitters, Tatters, and the Counsellor\n\nThe New Antigone\n\nMemories of Father Healy\n\nCANON ATKINSON.--The Last of the Giant Killers\n\n----Playhours and Half-Holidays; or, further Experiences of Two Schoolboys\n\nSIR S. BAKER.--True Tales for my Grandsons\n\nR. H. BARHAM.--The Ingoldsby Legends\n\nREV. R. H. D. BARHAM.--Life of Theodore Hook\n\nBLENNERHASSET AND SLEEMAN.--Adventures in Mashonaland\n\nLANOE FALCONER.--Cecilia de No\u00ebl\n\nW. FORBES-MITCHELL.--Reminiscences of the Great Mutiny\n\nREV. J. GILMORE.--Storm Warriors\n\nMARY LINSKILL.--Tales of the North Riding\n\nS. R. LYSAGHT.--The Marplot\n\n----One of the Grenvilles\n\nM. M'LENNAN.--Muckle Jock, and other Stories\n\nG. MASSON.--A Compendious Dictionary of the French Language\n\nMAJOR GAMBIER PARRY.--The Story of Dick\n\nE. C. PRICE.--In the Lion's Mouth\n\nLORD REDESDALE.--Tales of Old Japan\n\nW. C. RHOADES.--John Trevennick\n\nMARCHESA THEODOLI.--Under Pressure\n\nANTHONY TROLLOPE.--The Three Clerks\n\nCHARLES WHITEHEAD.--Richard Savage\n\n\n     ENGLISH\n     MEN OF LETTERS\n\n     EDITED BY JOHN MORLEY.\n\n_Arranged in 12 Volumes, each containing the Lives of three Authors._\n\nI. +Chaucer.+ By Dr. A. W. WARD. +Spenser.+ By Dean CHURCH. +Dryden.+ By\nProf. SAINTSBURY.\n\nII. +Milton.+ By MARK PATTISON. +Goldsmith.+ By W. BLACK. +Cowper.+ By\nGOLDWIN SMITH.\n\nIII. +Byron.+ By Professor NICHOL. +Shelley.+ By J. A. SYMONDS. +Keats.+\nBy SIDNEY COLVIN.\n\nIV. +Charles Lamb.+ By Canon AINGER. +Addison.+ By W. J. COURTHOPE.\n+Swift.+ By Sir LESLIE STEPHEN, K.C.B.\n\nV. +Scott.+ By R. H. HUTTON. +Burns.+ By Principal SHAIRP. +Coleridge.+\nBy H. D. TRAILL.\n\nVI. +Hume.+ By Prof. HUXLEY, F.R.S. +Locke.+ By THOS. FOWLER. +Burke.+ By\nJOHN MORLEY.\n\nVII. +Defoe.+ By W. MINTO. +Sterne.+ By H. D. TRAILL. +Hawthorne.+ By\nHENRY JAMES.\n\nVIII. +Fielding.+ By AUSTIN DOBSON. +Thackeray.+ By ANTHONY TROLLOPE.\n+Dickens.+ By Dr. A. W. WARD.\n\nIX. +Gibbon.+ By J. C. MORISON. +Carlyle.+ By Professor NICHOL.\n+Macaulay.+ By J. C. MORISON.\n\nX. +Sydney.+ By J. A. SYMONDS. +De Quincey.+ By Prof. MASSON. +Sheridan.+\nBy Mrs. OLIPHANT.\n\nXI. +Pope.+ By Sir LESLIE STEPHEN, K.C.B. +Johnson.+ By Sir LESLIE\nSTEPHEN, K.C.B. +Gray.+ By EDMUND GOSSE.\n\nXII. +Bacon.+ By Dean CHURCH. +Bunyan.+ By J. A. FROUDE. +Bentley.+ By\nSir RICHARD JEBB.\n\n\n     THE GLOBE LIBRARY\n\n     Crown 8vo. 3_s._ 6_d._ each.\n\n     _The volumes marked with an asterisk (*) are also issued in limp leather,\n     with full gilt back and gilt edges. 5s. net each._\n\n+*Boswell's Life of Johnson.+ With an Introduction by MOWBRAY MORRIS.\n\n+*Burns's Complete Works.+ Edited from the best Printed and MS.\nAuthorities, with Memoir and Glossarial Index. By A. SMITH.\n\n+*The Works of Geoffrey Chaucer.+ Edited by ALFRED W. POLLARD, H. F.\nHEATH, M. H. LIDDELL, and W. S. MCCORMICK.\n\n+*Cowper's Poetical Works.+ Edited, with Biographical Introduction and\nNotes by W. BENHAM, B.D.\n\n+Robinson Crusoe.+ Edited after the original Edition, with a Biographical\nIntroduction by HENRY KINGSLEY, F.R.G.S.\n\n+*Dryden's Poetical Works.+ Edited, with a Memoir, Revised Texts, and\nNotes, by W. D. CHRISTIE, M.A.\n\n+*The Diary of John Evelyn.+ With an Introduction and Notes by AUSTIN\nDOBSON, Hon. LL.D. Edin.\n\n+Froissart's Chronicles.+ Translated by Lord BERNERS. Edited by G. C.\nMACAULAY, M. A.\n\n+*Goldsmith's Miscellaneous Works.+ With Biographical Introduction by\nProfessor MASSON.\n\n+Horace.+ Rendered into English Prose, with Introduction, Running\nAnalysis, Notes, and Index. By J. LONSDALE, M.A., and S. LEE, M.A.\n\n+*The Poetical Works of John Keats.+ Edited, with Introduction and Notes,\nby WILLIAM T. ARNOLD.\n\n+Morte Darthur.+ The Book of King Arthur, and of his Noble Knights of the\nRound Table. The Original Edition of Caxton, revised for modern use. With\nIntroduction, Notes, and Glossary. By Sir E. STRACHEY.\n\n+*Milton's Poetical Works.+ Edited, with Introduction, by Professor MASSON.\n\n+The Diary of Samuel Pepys.+ With an Introduction and Notes by G. GREGORY\nSMITH.\n\n+*Pope's Poetical Works.+ Edited, with Notes and Introductory Memoir, by\nDr. A. W. WARD.\n\n+*Sir Walter Scott's Poetical Works.+ Edited, with Biographical and\nCritical Memoir, by Prof. F. T. PALGRAVE. With Introduction and Notes.\n\n+*Shakespeare's Complete Works.+ Edited by W. G. CLARK, M.A., and W. ALDIS\nWRIGHT, M.A. With Glossary.\n\n+*Spenser's Complete Works.+ Edited from the Original Editions and\nManuscripts, with Glossary, by R. MORRIS, and a Memoir by J. W. HALES,\nM.A.\n\n+*Tennyson's Poetical Works.+ [Also in extra cloth, gilt edges. 4_s._\n6_d._]\n\n+Virgil.+ Rendered into English Prose, with Introductions, Notes Analysis,\nand Index. By J. LONSDALE, M.A., and S. LEE, M.A.\n\n\n     ILLUSTRATED\n     STANDARD NOVELS\n\n     Crown 8vo. Cloth Elegant, gilt edges (Peacock Edition).\n     3_s._ 6_d._ each.\n\n     Also issued in ornamental cloth binding. 2_s._ 6_d._ each.\n\n\n     By JANE AUSTEN\n     _With Introductions by_ AUSTIN DOBSON, _and Illustrations by_\n     HUGH THOMSON _and_ C. E. BROCK.\n\nPRIDE AND PREJUDICE.\n\nSENSE AND SENSIBILITY.\n\nEMMA.\n\nMANSFIELD PARK.\n\nNORTHANGER ABBEY, AND PERSUASION.\n\n\n     By J. FENIMORE COOPER\n\n     _With Illustrations by_ C. E. BROCK _and_ H. M. BROCK.\n\nTHE LAST OF THE MOHICANS. With a General Introduction by Mowbray Morris.\n\nTHE DEERSLAYER.\n\nTHE PATHFINDER.\n\nTHE PIONEERS.\n\nTHE PRAIRIE.\n\n\n     By MARIA EDGEWORTH\n\n     _With Introductions by_ ANNE THACKERAY RITCHIE, _and Illustrations\n     by_ CHRIS HAMMOND _and_ CARL SCHLOESSER.\n\nORMOND.\n\nCASTLE RACKRENT, AND THE ABSENTEE.\n\nPOPULAR TALES.\n\nHELEN.\n\nBELINDA.\n\nPARENT'S ASSISTANT.\n\n\n     By CAPTAIN MARRYAT\n\n     _With Introductions by_ DAVID HANNAY, _and Illustrations by_\n     H. M. BROCK, J. AYTON SYMINGTON, FRED PEGRAM, F. H.\n     TOWNSEND, H. R. MILLAR, _and_ E. J. SULLIVAN.\n\nJAPHET IN SEARCH OF A FATHER.\n\nJACOB FAITHFUL.\n\nPETER SIMPLE.\n\nMIDSHIPMAN EASY.\n\nTHE KING'S OWN.\n\nTHE PHANTOM SHIP.\n\nSNARLEY-YOW.\n\nPOOR JACK.\n\nTHE PIRATE, AND THE THREE CUTTERS.\n\nMASTERMAN READY.\n\nFRANK MILDMAY.\n\nNEWTON FORSTER.\n\n\n     By THOMAS LOVE PEACOCK\n\n     _With Introductions by_ GEORGE SAINTSBURY, _and Illustrations\n     by_ H. R. MILLAR _and_ F. H. TOWNSEND.\n\nHEADLONG HALL, AND NIGHTMARE ABBEY.\n\nMAID MARIAN, AND CROTCHET CASTLE.\n\nGRYLL GRANGE.\n\nMELINCOURT.\n\nMISFORTUNES OF ELPHIN AND RHODODAPHNE.\n\n\n     _BY VARIOUS AUTHORS_\n\nWESTWARD HO! By CHARLES KINGSLEY. Illustrated by C. E. Brock.\n\nHANDY ANDY. By SAMUEL LOVER. Illustrated by H. M. Brock. With Introduction\nby Charles Whibley.\n\nANNALS OF THE PARISH. BY JOHN GALT. Illustrated By C. E. Brock. With\nIntroduction by Alfred Ainger.\n\nSYBIL, OR THE TWO NATIONS, ETC. By BENJAMIN DISRAELI. Illustrated by F.\nPegram. With Introduction by H. D. Traill.\n\nADVENTURES OF HAJJI BABA OF ISPAHAN. By JAMES MORIER. Illustrated by H.\nR. Millar. With Introduction by Lord Curzon.\n\n\n     THE NEW CRANFORD SERIES\n\n     _Crown 8vo, Cloth Elegant, Gilt Edges, 3s. 6d. per volume._\n\n+Cranford.+ By Mrs. GASKELL. With Preface by Anne Thackeray Ritchie and\n100 Illustrations by Hugh Thomson.\n\n+The Vicar of Wakefield.+ With 182 Illustrations by Hugh Thomson, and\nPreface by Austin Dobson.\n\n+Our Village.+ By MARY RUSSELL MITFORD. Introduction by Anne Thackeray\nRitchie, and 100 Illustrations by Hugh Thomson.\n\n+Gulliver's Travels.+ With Introduction by Sir Henry Craik, K.C.B., and\n100 Illustrations by C. E. Brock.\n\n+The Humorous Poems of Thomas Hood.+ With Preface by Alfred Ainger, and\n130 Illustrations by C. E. Brock.\n\n+Sheridan's The School for Scandal and The Rivals.+ Illustrated by E. J.\nSullivan. With Introduction by A. Birrell.\n\n+Household Stories.+ By the Brothers GRIMM. Translated by Lucy Crane. With\nPictures by Walter Crane.\n\n+Reynard the Fox.+ Edited by J. JACOBS. With Illustrations by W. Frank\nCalderon.\n\n+Coaching Days and Coaching Ways.+ By W. OUTRAM TRISTRAM. With\nIllustrations by H. Railton and Hugh Thomson.\n\n+Coridon's Song+; and other Verses. With Introduction by Austin Dobson\nand Illustrations by Hugh Thomson.\n\n+The Fables of \u00c6sop.+ Selected by JOSEPH JACOBS. Illustrated by R.\nHeighway.\n\n+Old Christmas.+ By WASHINGTON IRVING. With Illustrations by R. Caldecott.\n\n+Bracebridge Hall.+ With Illustrations by R. Caldecott.\n\n+Rip Van Winkle and the Legend of Sleepy Hollow.+ With 50 Illustrations\nand a Preface by George H. Boughton, A.R.A.\n\n+The Alhambra.+ With Illustrations by J. Pennell and Introduction by E.\nR. Pennell.\n\n\n     MACMILLAN & CO., LTD., LONDON.\n\n     J. PALMER, PRINTER, CAMBRIDGE. 20. 8. 14","title":"The Alhambra","tradition":"myth-cosmogony","translated_text":null,"word_count":108933}