{"collection":"myth-cosmogony","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_49947/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_49947","id":"gutenberg_49947","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/49947","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":"THE ALHAMBRA\n\n               [Illustration: TOWER OF THE PRINCESSES.]\n\n\n\n\n                            Fulton Edition\n\n                             THE WORKS OF\n                           WASHINGTON IRVING\n\n                             THE ALHAMBRA\n\n                       [Illustration: colophon]\n\n                               NEW YORK\n                            THE CENTURY CO.\n                                 1910]\n\n\n\n\nPREFACE TO THE REVISED EDITION\n\n\nRough draughts of some of the following tales and essays were actually\nwritten during a residence in the Alhambra; others were subsequently\nadded, founded on notes and observations made there. Care was taken to\nmaintain local coloring and verisimilitude; so that the whole might\npresent a faithful and living picture of that microcosm, that singular\nlittle world into which I had been fortuitously thrown; and about which\nthe external world had a very imperfect idea. It was my endeavor\nscrupulously to depict its half Spanish, half Oriental character; its\nmixture of the heroic, the poetic, and the grotesque; to revive the\ntraces of grace and beauty fast fading from its walls; to record the\nregal and chivalrous traditions concerning those who once trod its\ncourts; and the whimsical and superstitious legends of the motley race\nnow burrowing among its ruins.\n\nThe papers thus roughly sketched out lay for three or four years in my\nportfolio, until I found myself in London, in 1832, on the eve of\nreturning to the United States. I then endeavored to arrange them for\nthe press, but the preparations for departure did not allow sufficient\nleisure. Several were thrown aside as incomplete; the rest were put\ntogether somewhat hastily and in rather a crude and chaotic manner.\n\nIn the present edition I have revised and rearranged the whole work,\nenlarged some parts, and added others, including the papers originally\nomitted; and have thus endeavored to render it more complete and more\nworthy of the indulgent reception with which it has been favored.\n\nW. I.\n\nSUNNYSIDE 1851.\n\n\n\n\nCONTENTS\n\n\n                                                                    PAGE\n\nTHE JOURNEY                                                            1\n\nPALACE OF THE ALHAMBRA                                                33\n\nIMPORTANT NEGOTIATIONS.--THE AUTHOR SUCCEEDS TO THE THRONE OF BOABDIL 47\n\nINHABITANTS OF THE ALHAMBRA                                           54\n\nTHE HALL OF AMBASSADORS                                               58\n\nTHE JESUITS\u2019 LIBRARY                                                  64\n\nALHAMAR, THE FOUNDER OF THE ALHAMBRA                                  65\n\nYUSEF ABUL HAGIG, THE FINISHER OF THE ALHAMBRA                        72\n\nTHE MYSTERIOUS CHAMBERS                                               76\n\nPANORAMA FROM THE TOWER OF COMARES                                    85\n\nTHE TRUANT                                                            92\n\nTHE BALCONY                                                           95\n\nTHE ADVENTURE OF THE MASON                                           101\n\nTHE COURT OF LIONS                                                   105\n\nTHE ABENCERRAGES                                                     112\n\nMEMENTOS OF BOABDIL                                                  124\n\nPUBLIC F\u00caTES OF GRANADA                                              129\n\nLOCAL TRADITIONS                                                     137\n\nTHE HOUSE OF THE WEATHERCOCK                                         139\n\nLEGEND OF THE ARABIAN ASTROLOGER                                     142\n\nVISITORS OF THE ALHAMBRA                                             162\n\nRELICS AND GENEALOGIES                                               167\n\nTHE GENERALIFE                                                       170\n\nLEGEND OF PRINCE AHMED AL KAMEL; OR, THE PILGRIM OF LOVE             172\n\nA RAMBLE AMONG THE HILLS                                             205\n\nLEGEND OF THE MOOR\u2019S LEGACY                                          214\n\nTHE TOWER OF LAS INFANTAS                                            236\n\nLEGEND OF THE THREE BEAUTIFUL PRINCESSES                             237\n\nLEGEND OF THE ROSE OF THE ALHAMBRA                                   262\n\nTHE VETERAN                                                          279\n\nTHE GOVERNOR AND THE NOTARY                                          281\n\nGOVERNOR MANCO AND THE SOLDIER                                       288\n\nA F\u00caTE IN THE ALHAMBRA                                               306\n\nLEGEND OF THE TWO DISCREET STATUES                                   311\n\nTHE CRUSADE OF THE GRAND MASTER OF ALCANTRA                          330\n\nSPANISH ROMANCE                                                      338\n\nLEGEND OF DON MUNIO SANCO DE HINOJOSA                                341\n\nPOETS AND POETRY OF MOSLEM ANDALUS                                   347\n\nAN EXPEDITION IN QUEST OF A DIPLOMA                                  355\n\nTHE LEGEND OF THE ENCHANTED SOLDIER                                  358\n\nTHE AUTHOR\u2019S FAREWELL TO GRANADA                                     373\n\n\n\n\nTHE ALHAMBRA\n\n\n\n\nTHE JOURNEY\n\n\nIn the spring of 1829, the author of this work, whom curiosity had\nbrought into Spain, made a rambling expedition from Seville to Granada\nin company with a friend, a member of the Russian Embassy at Madrid.\nAccident had thrown us together from distant regions of the globe and a\nsimilarity of taste led us to wander together among the romantic\nmountains of Andalusia. Should these pages meet his eye, wherever thrown\nby the duties of his station, whether mingling in the pageantry of\ncourts, or meditating on the truer glories of nature, may they recall\nthe scenes of our adventurous companionship, and with them the\nrecollection of one, in whom neither time nor distance will obliterate\nthe remembrance of his gentleness and worth.[1]\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 Spain\nto their imaginations as a soft southern region, decked out with the\nluxuriant charms of voluptuous Italy. On the contrary, though there are\nexceptions in some of the maritime provinces, yet, for the greater part,\nit is a stern, melancholy country, with rugged mountains, and long\nsweeping 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\nthe eagle are seen wheeling about the mountain-cliffs, and soaring over\nthe plains, and groups of shy bustards stalk about the heaths; but the\nmyriads of smaller birds, which animate the whole face of other\ncountries, are met with in but few provinces in Spain, and in those\nchiefly among the orchards and gardens which surround the habitations of\nman.\n\nIn the interior provinces the traveller occasionally traverses great\ntracts cultivated with grain as far as the eye can reach, waving at\ntimes with verdure, at other times naked and sunburnt, but he looks\nround in vain for the hand that has tilled the soil. At length he\nperceives some village on a steep hill, or rugged crag, with mouldering\nbattlements and ruined watchtower: a stronghold, in old times, against\ncivil war, or Moorish inroad; for the custom among the peasantry of\ncongregating together for mutual protection is still kept up in most\nparts of Spain, in 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\nits people; and I think that I better understand the proud, hardy,\nfrugal, and abstemious Spaniard, his manly defiance of hardships, and\ncontempt of effeminate indulgences, since I have seen the country he\ninhabits.\n\nThere is something, too, in the sternly simple features of the Spanish\nlandscape, that impresses on the soul a feeling of sublimity. The\nimmense plains of the Castiles and of La Mancha, extending as far as the\neye can reach, derive an interest from their very nakedness and\nimmensity, and possess, in some degree, the solemn grandeur of the\nocean. In ranging over these boundless wastes, the eye catches sight\nhere and there of a straggling herd of cattle attended by a lonely\nherdsman, motionless as a statue, with his long slender pike tapering up\nlike a lance into the air; or beholds a long train of mules slowly\nmoving along the waste like a train of camels in the desert; or a single\nhorseman, armed with blunderbuss and stiletto, and prowling over the\nplain. Thus the country, the habits, the very looks of the people, have\nsomething of the Arabian character. The general insecurity of the\ncountry is evinced in the universal use of weapons. The herdsman in the\nfield, the shepherd in the plain, has his musket and his knife. The\nwealthy villager rarely ventures to the market-town without his trabuco,\nand, perhaps, a servant on foot with a blunderbuss on his shoulder; and\nthe most petty journey is undertaken with the preparation of a warlike\nenterprise.\n\nThe dangers of the road produce also a mode of travelling resembling, on\na diminutive scale, the caravans of the East. The arrieros, or carriers,\ncongregate in convoys, and set off in large and well-armed trains on\nappointed days; while additional travellers swell their number, and\ncontribute to their strength. In this primitive way is the commerce of\nthe country carried on. The muleteer is the general medium of traffic,\nand the legitimate traverser of the land, crossing the peninsula from\nthe Pyrenees and the Asturias to the Alpuxarras, the Serrania de Ronda,\nand even to the gates of Gibraltar. He lives frugally and hardily: his\nalforjas 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\nwhen kindled by sudden emotion; his demeanor is frank, manly, and\ncourteous, and he never passes you without a grave salutation: \u201cDios\nguarde \u00e0 usted!\u201d \u201cVa usted con Dios, Caballero!\u201d \u201cGod guard you!\u201d \u201cGod\nbe with you, Cavalier!\u201d\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,\nand ready to be snatched out for desperate defence; but their united\nnumbers render them secure against petty bands of marauders, and the\nsolitary bandolero, armed to the teeth, and mounted on his Andalusian\nsteed, hovers about them, like a pirate about a merchant convoy, without\ndaring to assault.\n\nThe Spanish muleteer has an inexhaustible stock of songs and ballads,\nwith which to beguile his incessant wayfaring. The airs are rude and\nsimple, consisting of but few inflections. These he chants forth with a\nloud voice, and long, drawling cadence, seated sideways on his mule, who\nseems to listen with infinite gravity, and to keep time, with his paces,\nto the tune. The couplets thus chanted are often old traditional\nromances about the Moors, or some legend of a saint, or some love-ditty;\nor, what is still more frequent, some ballad about a bold\ncontrabandista, or hardy bandolero, for the smuggler and the robber are\npoetical heroes among the common people of Spain. Often, the song of the\nmuleteer is composed at the instant, and relates to some local scene, or\nsome incident of the journey. This talent of singing and improvising is\nfrequent in Spain, and is said to have been inherited from the Moors.\nThere is something wildly pleasing in listening to these ditties among\nthe rude and lonely scenes they illustrate; accompanied, as they are, by\nthe occasional jingle of the mule-bell.\n\nIt has a most picturesque effect also to meet a train of muleteers in\nsome mountain-pass. First you hear the bells of the leading mules\nbreaking with their simple melody the stillness of the airy height; or,\nperhaps, the voice of the muleteer admonishing some tardy or wandering\nanimal, or chanting, at the full stretch of his lungs, some traditionary\nballad. At length you see the mules slowly winding along the cragged\ndefile, sometimes descending precipitous cliffs, so as to present\nthemselves in full relief against the sky, sometimes toiling up the deep\narid chasms below you. As they approach, you descry their gay\ndecorations of worsted stuffs, tassels, and saddle-cloths, while, as\nthey pass by, the ever ready trabuco, slung behind the packs and\nsaddles, gives a hint of the insecurity of the road.\n\nThe ancient kingdom of Granada, into which we were about to penetrate,\nis one 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\nvalleys, where the desert and the garden strive for mastery, and the\nvery rock is, as it were, compelled to yield the fig, the orange, and\nthe citron, and to blossom with the myrtle and the rose.\n\nIn the wild passes of these mountains the sight of walled towns and\nvillages, built like eagles\u2019 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\ndescents, resembling the broken steps of a staircase. Sometimes the road\nwinds along dizzy precipices, without parapet to guard him from the\ngulfs below, and then will plunge down steep and dark and dangerous\ndeclivities. Sometimes it struggles through rugged barrancos, or\nravines, worn by winter torrents, the obscure path of the\ncontrabandista; while, ever and anon, the ominous cross, the monument of\nrobbery and murder, erected on a mound of stones at some lonely part of\nthe road, admonishes the traveller that he is among the haunts of\nbanditti, perhaps at that very moment under the eye of some lurking\nbandolero. Sometimes, in winding through the narrow valleys, he is\nstartled by a hoarse bellowing, and beholds above him on some green fold\nof the mountain a herd of fierce Andalusian bulls, destined for the\ncombat of the arena. I have felt, if I may so express it, an agreeable\nhorror in thus contemplating, near at hand, these terrific animals,\nclothed with tremendous strength, and ranging their native pastures in\nuntamed wildness, strangers almost to the face of man: they know no one\nbut the solitary herdsman who attends upon them, and even he at times\ndares not venture to approach them. The low bellowing of these bulls,\nand their menacing aspect as they look down from their rocky height,\ngive 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 a\nromance 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\nmost valuable part of our luggage a day or two in advance by the\narrieros, we retained merely clothing and necessaries for the journey\nand money for the expenses of the road; with a little surplus of hard\ndollars by way of _robber purse_, to satisfy the gentlemen of the road\nshould we be assailed. Unlucky is the too wary traveller who, having\ngrudged this precaution, falls into their clutches empty-handed; they\nare apt to give him a sound ribroasting for cheating them out of their\ndues. \u201cCaballeros like them cannot afford to scour the roads and risk\nthe gallows for nothing.\u201d\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\nvalet, and at all times our guard. For the latter office he was provided\nwith a formidable trabuco or carbine, with which he promised to defend\nus against rateros or solitary footpads; but as to powerful bands, like\nthat of the \u201cSons of Ecija,\u201d he confessed they were quite beyond his\nprowess. He made much vainglorious boast about his weapon at the outset\nof the journey; though, to the discredit of his generalship, it was\nsuffered to 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 a\nprivate hint, that, though we made a close bargain with his master, it\nwas all in his favor, as, if he proved a good man and true, both he and\nthe horses should live at our cost, and the money provided for their\nmaintenance remain in his pocket. This unexpected largess, with the\noccasional present of a cigar, won his heart completely. He was, in\ntruth, a faithful, cheery, kind-hearted creature, as full of saws and\nproverbs as that miracle of squires, the renowned Sancho himself, whose\nname, by the by, we bestowed upon him, and, like a true Spaniard,\nthough treated by us with companionable familiarity, he never for a\nmoment, in his utmost hilarity, overstepped the bounds of respectful\ndecorum.\n\nSuch were our minor preparations for the journey, but above all we laid\nin an ample stock of good-humor, and a genuine disposition to be\npleased; determining to travel in true contrabandista style; taking\nthings as we found them, rough or smooth, and mingling with all classes\nand conditions in a kind of vagabond companionship. It is the true way\nto travel in Spain. With such disposition and determination, what a\ncountry is it for a traveller, where the most miserable inn is as full\nof adventure as an enchanted castle, and every meal is in itself an\nachievement! Let others repine at the lack of turnpike roads and\nsumptuous hotels, and all the elaborate comforts of a country cultivated\nand civilized into tameness and commonplace; but give me the rude\nmountain scramble; the roving, hap-hazard, wayfaring; the half wild, yet\nfrank and hospitable manners, which impart such a true game-flavor to\ndear old romantic Spain!\n\nThus equipped and attended, we cantered out of \u201cFair Seville city\u201d at\nhalf-past six in the morning of a bright May day, in company with a lady\nand gentleman of our acquaintance, who rode a few miles with us, in the\nSpanish 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\nSeville with that delicious bread for which it is renowned; here are\nfabricated those roscas well known by the well-merited appellation of\n_pan de Dios_ (bread of God); with which, by the way, we ordered our\nman, Sancho, to stock his alforjas for the journey. Well has this\nbeneficent little city been denominated the \u201cOven of Seville\u201d; well has\nit been called Alcala de los Panaderos (Alcala of the bakers), for a\ngreat part of its inhabitants are of that handicraft, and the highway\nhence to Seville is constantly traversed by lines of mules and donkeys\nladen with great panniers of loaves and roscas.\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\nHere we halted for a time, at the ruins of the old Moorish castle, a\nfavorite resort for picnic parties from Seville, where we had passed\nmany a pleasant hour. The walls are of great extent, pierced with\nloopholes; enclosing a huge square tower or keep, with the remains of\nmasmoras, or subterranean granaries. The Guadaira winds its stream round\nthe hill, at the foot of these ruins, whimpering among reeds, rushes,\nand pond-lilies, and overhung with rhododendron, eglantine, yellow\nmyrtle, and a profusion of wild flowers and aromatic shrubs; while along\nits banks are groves of oranges, citrons, and pomegranates, among which\nwe heard the early note of the nightingale.\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\u2019s net hung against the wall to dry, and hard\nby in the river was his boat; a group of peasant women in bright-colored\ndresses, crossing the arched bridge, were reflected in the placid\nstream. Altogether it was an admirable scene for a landscape-painter.\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\ntowers with loopholes and battlements, capable of defence in those\nwarlike days when the country on both sides of the border was subject to\nsudden inroad and hasty ravage, and when men had to labor with their\nweapons at hand, and 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, and\ncommanding 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\noff in long cavalgadas across the borders.\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\nhours after noon; until that time it was guesswork. We guessed it was\nfull time to eat; so, alighting, we ordered a repast. While that was in\npreparation, we visited the palace once the residence of the Marquis of\nGandul. All was gone to decay; there were but two or three rooms\nhabitable, and very poorly furnished. Yet here were the remains of\ngrandeur: a terrace, where fair dames and gentle cavaliers may once have\nwalked; a fish-pond and ruined garden, with grape-vines and date-bearing\npalm-trees. Here we were joined by a fat curate, who gathered a bouquet\nof roses, and presented it, very gallantly, to the lady who accompanied\nus.\n\nBelow the palace was the mill, with orange-trees and aloes in front, and\na pretty stream of pure water. We took a seat in the shade; and the\nmillers, all leaving their work, sat down and smoked with us; for the\nAndalusians are always ready for a gossip. They were waiting for the\nregular visit of the barber, who came once a week to put all their chins\nin order. He arrived shortly afterwards: a lad of seventeen, mounted on\na donkey, eager to display his new alforjas or saddle-bags, just bought\nat a fair; price one dollar, to be paid on St. John\u2019s day (in June), by\nwhich time he 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\nfinished our dinner. So, taking leave of our Seville friends, and\nleaving the millers still under the hands of the barber, we set off on\nour ride across the campi\u00f1a. It was one of those vast plains, common in\nSpain, where for miles and miles there is neither house nor tree.\nUnlucky the traveller who has to traverse it, exposed as we were to\nheavy and repeated showers of rain. There is no escape nor shelter. Our\nonly protection was our Spanish cloaks, which nearly covered man and\nhorse, but grew heavier every mile. By the time we had lived through one\nshower we would see another slowly but inevitably approaching;\nfortunately in the interval there would be an outbreak of bright, warm,\nAndalusian sunshine, which would make our cloaks send up wreaths of\nsteam, but which partially dried them before the next drenching.\n\nShortly after sunset we arrived at Arahal, a little town among the\nhills. We found it in a bustle with a party of miquelets, who were\npatrolling the country to ferret out robbers. The appearance of\nforeigners like ourselves was an unusual circumstance in an interior\ncountry town; and little Spanish towns of the kind are easily put in a\nstate of gossip and wonderment by such an occurrence. Mine host, with\ntwo or three old wiseacre comrades in brown cloaks, studied our\npassports in a corner of the posada, while an Alguazil took notes by the\ndim light of a lamp. The passports were in foreign languages and\nperplexed them, but our squire, Sancho, assisted them in their studies,\nand magnified our importance with the grandiloquence of a Spaniard. In\nthe mean time the magnificent distribution of a few cigars had won the\nhearts of all around us; in a little while the whole community seemed\nput in agitation to make us welcome. The corregidor himself waited upon\nus, and a great rush-bottomed arm-chair was ostentatiously bolstered\ninto our room by our landlady, for the accommodation of that important\npersonage. The commander of the patrol took supper with us: a lively,\ntalking, laughing Andaluz, who had made a campaign in South America, and\nrecounted his exploits in love and war with much pomp of phrase,\nvehemence of gesticulation, and mysterious rolling of the eye. He told\nus that he had a list of all the robbers in the country, and meant to\nferret out every mother\u2019s son of them; he offered us at the same time\nsome of his soldiers as an escort. \u201cOne is enough to protect you,\nSe\u00f1ors; the robbers know me, and know my men; the sight of one is enough\nto spread terror through a whole sierra.\u201d We thanked him for his offer,\nbut assured him, in his own strain, that with the protection of our\nredoubtable squire, Sancho, we were not afraid of all the ladrones of\nAndalusia.\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\nneighborhood, and, on going forth, the courtyard or patio of the inn\npresented a scene of true Spanish festivity. We took our seats with mine\nhost and hostess and the commander of the patrol, under an archway\nopening into the court; the guitar passed from hand to hand, but a\njovial shoemaker was the Orpheus of the place. He was a\npleasant-looking fellow, with huge black whiskers; his sleeves were\nrolled up to his elbows. He touched the guitar with masterly skill, and\nsang a little amorous ditty with an expressive leer at the women, with\nwhom he was evidently a favorite. He afterwards danced a fandango with a\nbuxom Andalusian damsel, to the great delight of the spectators. But\nnone of the females present could compare with mine host\u2019s pretty\ndaughter, Pepita, who had slipped away and made her toilette for the\noccasion, and had covered her head with roses; and who distinguished\nherself in a bolero with a handsome young dragoon. We ordered our host\nto let wine and refreshment circulate freely among the company, yet,\nthough there was a motley assembly of soldiers, muleteers, and\nvillagers, no one exceeded the bounds of sober enjoyment. The scene was\na study for a painter: the picturesque group of dancers, the troopers in\ntheir 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\ncorner diligently writing by the dim light of a huge copper lamp, that\nmight have figured 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\u2019clock, 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\nwere still 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\nsinging around us. Knowing the scanty larders of Spanish inns, and the\nhouseless tracts we might have to traverse, we had taken care to have\nthe alforjas of our squire well stocked with cold provisions, and his\nbota, or leathern bottle, which might hold a gallon, filled to the neck\nwith choice Valdepe\u00f1as wine.[2] As we depended more upon these for our\nwell-being than even his trabuco, we exhorted him to be more attentive\nin keeping them well charged; and I must do him the justice to say that\nhis namesake, the trencher-loving Sancho Panza, was never a more\nprovident purveyor. Though the alforjas and the bota were frequently and\nvigorously assailed throughout the journey, they had a wonderful power\nof repletion, our vigilant squire sacking everything that remained from\nour repasts at the inns, to supply these junketings by the road-side,\nwhich were his delight.\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 him\nas merry and chirruping as a grasshopper filled with dew. On my\ncomparing his contents of the alforjas to Sancho\u2019s skimming of the\nflesh-pots at the wedding of Cammacho, I found he was well versed in\nthe history of Don Quixote, but, like many of the common people of\nSpain, firmly believed it to be a true history.\n\n\u201cAll that happened a long time ago, Se\u00f1or,\u201d said he, with an inquiring\nlook.\n\n\u201cA very long time,\u201d I replied.\n\n\u201cI dare say more than a thousand years,\u201d--still looking dubiously.\n\n\u201cI dare say not less.\u201d\n\nThe squire was satisfied. Nothing pleased the simple-hearted varlet more\nthan my comparing him to the renowned Sancho for devotion to the\ntrencher; and he called himself by no other name throughout the journey.\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\nwind sprang up from the southeast. Towards five o\u2019clock we arrived at\nOsuna, a town of fifteen thousand inhabitants, situated on the side of a\nhill, with a church and a ruined castle. The posada was outside of the\nwalls; it had a cheerless look. The evening being cold, the inhabitants\nwere crowded round a brasero in a chimney-corner; and the hostess was a\ndry old woman, who looked like a mummy. Every one eyed us askance as we\nentered, as Spaniards are apt to regard strangers; a cheery, respectful\nsalutation on our part, caballeroing them and touching our sombreros,\nset Spanish pride at ease; and when we took our seat among them, lit our\ncigars, and passed the cigar-box round among them, our victory was\ncomplete. I have never known a Spaniard, whatever his rank or condition,\nwho would suffer himself to be outdone in courtesy; and to the common\nSpaniard the present of a cigar (puro) is irresistible. Care, however,\nmust be taken never to offer him a present with an air of superiority\nand condescension; he is too much of a caballero to receive favors at\nthe cost of his dignity.\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 road-side, the sign of a\nmurder, showed that we were now coming among the \u201crobber haunts.\u201d This\nwild and intricate country, with its silent plains and valleys\nintersected by mountains, has ever been famous for banditti. It was here\nthat Omar Ibn Hassan, a robber-chief among the Moslems, held ruthless\nsway in the ninth century, disputing dominion even with the caliphs of\nCordova. This too was a part of the regions so often ravaged during the\nreign of Ferdinand and Isabella by Ali Atar, the old Moorish alcayde of\nLoxa, father-in-law of Boabdil, so that it was called Ali Atar\u2019s garden,\nand here \u201cJose Maria,\u201d famous in Spanish brigand story, had his favorite\nlurking-places.\n\nIn the course of the day we passed through Fuente la Piedra, near a\nlittle salt lake of the same name, a beautiful sheet of water,\nreflecting like a mirror the distant mountains. We now came in sight of\nAntiquera, that old city of warlike reputation, lying in the lap of the\ngreat sierra which runs through Andalusia. A noble Vega spread out\nbefore it, a picture of mild fertility set in a frame of rocky\nmountains. Crossing a gentle river we approached the city between hedges\nand gardens, in which nightingales were pouring forth their evening\nsong. About nightfall we arrived at the gates. Everything in this\nvenerable city has a decidedly Spanish stamp. It lies too much out of\nthe frequented track of foreign travel to have its old usages trampled\nout. Here I observed old men still wearing the montero, or ancient\nhunting-cap, once common throughout Spain; while the young men wore the\nlittle round-crowned hat, with brim turned up all round, like a cup\nturned down in its saucer; while the brim was set off with little black\ntufts like cockades. The women, too, were all in mantillas and\nbasquinas. The fashions of Paris had not reached Antiquera.\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 I\nobserved, somewhat out of the track of travel, I had anticipated bad\nquarters 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\u2019s\nkitchen, and let me know, as I retired for the night, that it had been a\nproud time for the alforjas.\n\nEarly in the morning (May 4th) I strolled to the ruins of the old\nMoorish castle, which itself had been reared on the ruins of a Roman\nfortress. Here, taking my seat on the remains of a crumbling tower, I\nenjoyed a grand and varied landscape, beautiful in itself, and full of\nstoried and romantic associations; for I was now in the very heart of\nthe country famous for the chivalrous contests between Moor and\nChristian. Below me, in its lap of hills, lay the old warrior city so\noften mentioned in chronicle and ballad. Out of yon gate and down yon\nhill paraded the band of Spanish cavaliers, of highest rank and bravest\nbearing, to make that foray during the war and conquest of Granada,\nwhich ended in the lamentable massacre among the mountains of Malaga,\nand laid all Andalusia in mourning. Beyond spread out the Vega, covered\nwith gardens and orchards and fields of grain and enamelled meadows,\ninferior only to the famous Vega of Granada. To the right the Rock of\nthe Lovers stretched like a cragged promontory into the plain, whence\nthe daughter of the Moorish alcayde and her lover, when closely\npursued, threw themselves in despair.\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\nwith the populace, who traffic in the abundant produce of the vega; for\nthis is the mart of an agricultural region. In the market-place were\nabundance of freshly plucked roses for sale; for not a dame or damsel of\nAndalusia thinks her gala dress complete without a rose shining like a\ngem among her 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\nsome marvellous story about Seville, which mine host seemed piqued to\nmatch with one equally marvellous about Antiquera. There was once a\nfountain, he said, in one of the public squares, called _Il fuente del\ntoro_, (the fountain of the bull,) because the water gushed from the\nmouth of a bull\u2019s head, carved of stone. Underneath the head was\ninscribed,--\n\n    En frente del toro\n    Se hallen tesoro.\n\n(In front of the bull there is treasure.) Many digged in front of the\nfountain, but lost their labor and found no money. At last one knowing\nfellow construed the motto a different way. It is in the forehead\n(frente) of the bull that the treasure is to be found, said he to\nhimself, and I am the man to find it. Accordingly he came, late at\nnight, with a mallet, and knocked the head to pieces; and what do you\nthink he found?\n\n\u201cPlenty of gold and diamonds!\u201d cried Sancho eagerly.\n\n\u201cHe found nothing,\u201d rejoined mine host, dryly, \u201cand he ruined the\nfountain.\u201d\n\nHere a great laugh was set up by the landlord\u2019s hangers-on; who\nconsidered Sancho completely taken in by what I presume was one of mine\nhost\u2019s standing jokes.\n\nLeaving Antiquera at eight o\u2019clock, we had a delightful ride along the\nlittle river, and by gardens and orchards fragrant with the odors 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 still a greater toil to descend from this mountain\ncity on the other side.\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\ngrass, under an elm by the side of a bubbling rivulet; our horses were\ntethered where they might crop the herbage, and Sancho was told to\nproduce his alforjas. He had been unusually silent this morning ever\nsince the laugh raised at his expense, but now his countenance\nbrightened, and he produced his alforjas with an air of triumph. They\ncontained the contributions of four days\u2019 journeying, but had been\nsignally enriched by the foraging of the previous evening in the\nplenteous inn at Antiquera; and this seemed to furnish him with a\nset-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\ncodfish wrapped in paper; then the residue of a ham; then the half of a\npullet, together with several rolls of bread, and a rabble rout of\noranges, figs, raisins, and walnuts. His bota also had been recruited\nwith some excellent wine of Malaga. At every fresh apparition from his\nlarder, he would enjoy our ludicrous surprise, throwing himself back on\nthe grass, shouting with laughter, and exclaiming, \u201cFrente del\ntoro!--frente del toro! Ah, Se\u00f1ors, they thought Sancho a simpleton at\nAntiquera; but Sancho knew where to find the _tesoro_.\u201d\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 demeanor manly, and he addressed us\nwith the grave courtesy that is to be remarked in the lowest Spaniard.\nWe were in a favorable mood for such a visitor; and in a freak of\ncapricious charity gave him some silver, a loaf of fine wheaten bread,\nand a goblet of our choice wine of Malaga. He received them thankfully,\nbut without any grovelling tribute of gratitude. Tasting the wine, he\nheld it up to the light, with a slight beam of surprise in his eye; then\nquaffing it off at a draught, \u201cIt is many years,\u201d said he, \u201csince I have\ntasted such wine. It is a cordial to an old man\u2019s heart.\u201d Then, looking\nat the beautiful wheaten loaf, \u201c_bendito sea tal pan!_\u201d \u201cblessed be such\nbread!\u201d So saying, he put it in his wallet. We urged him to eat it on\nthe spot. \u201cNo, Se\u00f1ors,\u201d replied he, \u201cthe wine I had either to drink or\nleave; but the bread I may take home to share with my family.\u201d\n\nOur man Sancho sought our eye, and reading permission there, gave the\nold man some of the ample fragments of our repast, on condition,\nhowever, that he should sit down and make a meal.\n\nHe accordingly took his seat at some little distance from us, and began\nto eat slowly, and with a sobriety and decorum that would have become a\nhidalgo. 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. For\nfifty years, he told us, he had been a shepherd, but now he was out of\nemploy and destitute. \u201cWhen I was a young man,\u201d said he, \u201cnothing could\nharm 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\nme.\u201d\n\nStill he was not a regular mendicant: it was not until recently that\nwant had driven him to this degradation; and he gave a touching picture\nof the struggle between hunger and pride, when abject destitution first\ncame upon him. He was returning from Malaga without money; he had not\ntasted food for some time, and was crossing one of the great plains of\nSpain, where there were but few habitations. When almost dead with\nhunger, he applied at the door of a venta or country inn. \u201c_Perd\u00f3n usted\npor Dios hermano!_\u201d (Excuse us, brother, for God\u2019s sake!) was the\nreply--the usual mode in Spain of refusing a beggar. \u201cI turned away,\u201d\nsaid he, \u201cwith shame greater than my hunger, for my heart was yet too\nproud. I came to a river with high banks, and deep, rapid current, and\nfelt tempted to throw myself in: \u2018What should such an old, worthless,\nwretched man as I live for?\u2019 But when I was on the brink of the current,\nI thought on the blessed Virgin, and turned away. I travelled on until I\nsaw a country-seat at a little distance from the road, and entered the\nouter gate of the court-yard. The door was shut, but there were two\nyoung se\u00f1oras at a window. I approached and begged;--\u2018_Perd\u00f3n usted por\nDios hermano!_\u2019--and the window closed. I crept out of the court-yard,\nbut hunger overcame me, and my heart gave way: I thought my hour at\nhand, so I laid myself down at the gate, commended myself to the Holy\nVirgin, and covered my head to die. In a little while afterwards the\nmaster of the house came home: seeing me lying at his gate, he uncovered\nmy head, had pity on my gray hairs, took me into his house, and gave me\nfood. So, Se\u00f1ors, you see that one should always put confidence in the\nprotection of the Virgin.\u201d\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\nits castle. \u201cThat castle,\u201d he said, \u201cwas inhabited by a Moorish king at\nthe time of the wars of Granada. Queen Isabella invaded it with a great\narmy; but the king looked down from his castle among the clouds, and\nlaughed her to scorn! Upon this the Virgin appeared to the queen, and\nguided her and her army up a mysterious path in the mountains, which had\nnever before been known. When the Moor saw her coming, he was\nastonished, and springing with his horse from a precipice, was dashed to\npieces! The marks of his horse\u2019s hoofs,\u201d said the old man, \u201care to be\nseen in the margin of the rock to this day. And see, Se\u00f1ors, yonder is\nthe road by which the queen and her army mounted: you see it like a\nribbon up the mountain\u2019s side; but the miracle is, that, though it can\nbe seen at a distance, when you come near it disappears!\u201d\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\nbroad and indistinct on an approach.\n\nAs the old man\u2019s heart warmed with wine and wassail, he went on to tell\nus a story of the buried treasure left under the castle by the Moorish\nking. His own house was next to the foundations of the castle. The\ncurate and notary dreamed three times of the treasure, and went to work\nat the place pointed out in their dreams. His own son-in-law heard the\nsound of their pickaxes and spades at night. What they found, nobody\nknows; they became suddenly rich, but kept their own secret. Thus the\nold man had once been next door to fortune, but was doomed never to get\nunder the same roof.\n\nI have remarked that the stories of treasure buried by the Moors, so\npopular throughout Spain, are most current among the poorest people.\nKind nature consoles with shadows for the lack of substantials. The\nthirsty man dreams of fountains and running streams; the hungry man of\nbanquets; and the poor man of heaps of hidden gold: nothing certainly is\nmore opulent than the imagination of a beggar.\n\nOur afternoon\u2019s ride took us through a steep and rugged defile of the\nmountains, called Puerte del Rey, the Pass of the King; being one of the\ngreat passes into the territories of Granada, and the one by which King\nFerdinand conducted his army. Towards sunset the road, winding round a\nhill, brought us in sight of the famous little frontier city of Loxa,\nwhich repulsed Ferdinand from its walls. Its Arabic name implies\nguardian, and such it was to the Vega of Granada, being one of its\nadvanced guards. It was the stronghold of that fiery veteran, old Ali\nAtar, father-in-law of Boabdil; and here it was that the latter\ncollected his troops, and sallied forth on that disastrous foray which\nended in the death of the old alcayde and his own captivity. From its\ncommanding position at the gate, as it were, of this mountain-pass, Loxa\nhas not unaptly been termed the key of Granada. It is wildly\npicturesque; built along the face of an arid mountain. The ruins of a\nMoorish alcazar or citadel crown a rocky mound which rises out of the\ncentre of the town. The river Xenil washes its base, winding among\nrocks, and groves, and gardens, and meadows, and crossed by a Moorish\nbridge. Above the city all is savage and sterile, below is the richest\nvegetation and the freshest verdure. A similar contrast is presented by\nthe river: above the bridge it is placid and grassy, reflecting groves\nand gardens; below it is rapid, noisy, and tumultuous. The Sierra\nNevada, the royal mountains of Granada, crowned with perpetual snow,\nform the distant boundary to this varied landscape, one of the most\ncharacteristic of romantic Spain.\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\nbeauty of the environs. As we crossed the bridge to a fine alameda, or\npublic walk, the bells tolled the hour of orison. At the sound the\nwayfarers, whether on business or pleasure, paused, took off their hats,\ncrossed themselves, and repeated their evening prayer: a pious custom\nstill rigidly observed in retired parts of Spain. Altogether it was a\nsolemn and beautiful evening scene, and we wandered on as the evening\ngradually closed, and the new moon began to glitter between the high\nelms of the alameda. We were roused from this quiet state of enjoyment\nby the voice of our trusty squire hailing us from a distance. He came up\nto us, out of breath. \u201cAh, Se\u00f1ores,\u201d cried he, \u201cel pobre Sancho no es\nnada sin Don Quixote.\u201d (Ah, Se\u00f1ors, poor Sancho is nothing without Don\nQuixote.) He had been alarmed at our not coming to the inn; Loxa was\nsuch a wild mountain place, full of contrabandistas, enchanters, and\ninfiernos; he did not well know what might have happened, and set out to\nseek us, inquiring after us of every person he met, until he traced us\nacross the bridge, and, to his great joy, caught sight of us strolling\nin the alameda.\n\nThe inn to which he conducted us was called the Corona, or Crown, and we\nfound 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 a\ngraceful form and round pliant limbs. Her step was firm and elastic; her\ndark 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, and\ncurling 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;\nbottinas, or spatter-dashes, 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,\nand almost with equal finery; a man about thirty, square-built, with\nstrong Roman features, handsome, though slightly pitted with the\nsmall-pox; with a free, bold, and somewhat daring air. His powerful\nblack horse was decorated with tassels and fanciful trappings, and a\ncouple of broad-mouthed blunderbusses hung behind the saddle. He had the\nair of one of those contrabandistas I have seen in the mountains of\nRonda, and evidently had a good understanding with the brother of mine\nhostess; nay, if I mistake not, he was a favored admirer of the widow.\nIn fact, the whole inn and its inmates had something of a contrabandista\naspect, and a blunderbuss stood in a corner beside the guitar. The\nhorseman I have mentioned passed his evening in the posada, and sang\nseveral bold mountain romances with great spirit. As we were at supper,\ntwo poor Asturians put in in distress, begging food and a night\u2019s\nlodging. They had been waylaid by robbers as they came from a fair among\nthe mountains, robbed of a horse which carried all their stock in trade,\nstripped of their money, and most of their apparel, beaten for having\noffered resistance, and left almost naked in the road. My companion,\nwith a prompt generosity natural to him, ordered them a supper and a\nbed, and gave them a sum of money to help them forward towards their\nhome.\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\ngossip with mine hostess. He was dressed in the ordinary Andalusian\ncostume, but had a huge sabre tucked under his arm; wore large\nmoustaches, and had something of a lofty swaggering air. Every one\nseemed to regard him with great 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\nhis arm. In the time of the French invasion he surprised six troopers\nwho were asleep; he first secured their horses, then attacked them with\nhis sabre, killed some, and took the rest prisoners. For this exploit\nthe king allows him a peseta (the fifth of a duro, or dollar) per day\nand has dignified him with the title of Don.\n\nI was amused to behold his swelling language and demeanor. 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, \u201cWhen I draw\nit, the earth trembles\u201d (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 there\nfrom 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\nmore nor less than a charivari to celebrate the nuptials of an old man\nwith a buxom damsel. Wishing him joy of his bride and his serenade, I\nreturned to 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\nhave remarked among the dandy mountaineers of Ronda. Indeed, all this\npart of Andalusia abounds with such game-looking characters. They loiter\nabout the towns and villages; seem to have plenty of time and plenty of\nmoney; \u201chorse to ride and weapon to wear.\u201d Great gossips, great smokers,\napt at touching the guitar, singing couplets to their maja belles, and\nfamous dancers of the bolero. Throughout all Spain the men, however\npoor, have a gentlemanlike abundance of leisure; seeming to consider it\nthe attribute of a true cavaliero never to be in a hurry; but the\nAndalusians are gay as well as leisurely, and have none of the squalid\naccompaniments of idleness. The adventurous contraband trade which\nprevails throughout these mountain regions, and along the maritime\nborders of Andalusia, is doubtless at the bottom of this galliard\ncharacter.\n\nIn contrast to the costume of these groups was that of two long-legged\nValencians conducting a donkey, laden with articles of merchandise;\ntheir musket slung crosswise over his back, ready for action. They wore\nround jackets (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, colored 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\nwell-armed, and followed on foot by an escopetero or musketeer. He\nsaluted us courteously, and soon let us into his quality. He was chief\nof the customs, or rather, I should suppose, chief of an armed company\nwhose business it is to patrol the roads and look out for\ncontrabandistas. The escopetero was one of his guards. In the course of\nour morning\u2019s ride I drew from him some particulars concerning the\nsmugglers, who have risen to be a kind of mongrel chivalry in Spain.\nThey come into Andalusia, he said, from various parts, but especially\nfrom La Mancha; sometimes to receive goods, to be smuggled on an\nappointed night across the line at the plaza or strand of Gibraltar;\nsometimes to meet a vessel, which is to hover on a given night off a\ncertain part of the coast. They keep together and travel in the night.\nIn the daytime they lie quiet in barrancos, gullies of the mountains, or\nlonely farm-houses; where they are generally well received, as they make\nthe family liberal presents of their smuggled wares. Indeed, much of the\nfinery and trinkets worn by the wives and daughters of the mountain\nhamlets and farm-houses are presents from the gay and open-handed\ncontrabandistas.\n\nArrived at the part of the coast where a vessel is to meet them, they\nlook out at night from some rocky point or headland. If they descry a\nsail near the shore they make a concerted signal; sometimes it consists\nin suddenly displaying a lantern three times from beneath the folds of a\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\nup and 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 endeavor to\nescape with their steeds. Some get off in this way with the loss of\ntheir packages; some are taken, horses, packages, and all; others\nabandon everything, and make their escape by scrambling up the\nmountains. \u201cAnd then,\u201d cried Sancho, who had been listening with a\ngreedy ear, \u201c_se hacen ladrones leg\u00edtimos_,\u201d--and then they become\nlegitimate robbers.\n\nI could not help laughing at Sancho\u2019s 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 the road, and lay travellers under contribution, until\nthey had collected funds enough to mount and equip themselves in\ncontrabandista 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\u2019s repast was taken under a grove of olive-trees on the\nborder of a rivulet. We were in a classical neighborhood; 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\nGranada; and has in modern times been granted to the Duke of Wellington.\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\ntravel to the world\u2019s end. Our repast, however, was a gay one; made\nunder such delightful auspices. The day was without a cloud. The heat of\nthe sun was tempered by cool breezes from the mountains. Before us\nextended the glorious Vega. In the distance was romantic Granada\nsurmounted by the ruddy towers of the Alhambra, while far above it the\nsnowy summits of the Sierra 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\nposada. He was an escribano (notary), he said, and knew the city as\nthoroughly as his own pocket. \u201cAh Dios, Se\u00f1ores! what a city you are\ngoing to see. Such streets! such squares! such palaces! and then the\nwomen--ah Santa Maria pur\u00edsima--what women!\u201d--\u201cBut the posada you talk\nof,\u201d said I, \u201care you sure it is a good one?\u201d\n\n\u201cGood! 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.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd how will my horses fare?\u201d cried Sancho.\n\n\u201cLike King Chico\u2019s horses. _Chocolate con leche y bollos para almuerza_\u201d\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,\nand turning to us every moment with some fresh exclamation about the\ngrandeurs of Granada and the famous times we were to have at the posada.\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 into\nthe 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\ncare as two cavalleros de mucho valor, worthy of his best apartments and\nmost sumptuous fare. We were instantly reminded of the patronizing\nstranger who introduced Gil Blas with such a flourish of trumpets to the\nhost and hostess of the inn at Pennaflor, ordering trouts for his supper\nand eating voraciously at his expense. \u201cYou know not what you possess,\u201d\ncried he to the innkeeper and his wife. \u201cYou have a treasure in your\nhouse. Behold in this young gentleman the eighth wonder of the\nworld--nothing in this house is too good for Se\u00f1or Gil Blas of\nSantillane, who deserves to be entertained like a prince.\u201d\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\nbefore morning the little varlet, who was no doubt a good friend of the\nlandlord, had decoyed us into one of the shabbiest posadas in Granada.\n\n\n\n\nPALACE OF THE ALHAMBRA\n\n\nTo the traveller imbued with a feeling for the historical and poetical,\nso inseparably 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\nassociated with this Oriental pile! It was the royal abode of the\nMoorish kings, where, surrounded with the splendors and refinements of\nAsiatic luxury, they held dominion over what they vaunted as a\nterrestrial paradise, and made their last stand for empire in Spain. The\nroyal palace forms but a part of a fortress, the walls of which, studded\nwith towers, stretch irregularly round the whole crest of a hill, a spur\nof the Sierra Nevada or Snowy Mountains, and overlook the city;\nexternally it is a rude congregation of towers and battlements, with no\nregularity of plan nor grace of architecture, and giving little promise\nof the grace and beauty which prevail within.\n\nIn the time of the Moors the fortress was capable of containing within\nits outward precincts an army of forty thousand men, and served\noccasionally as a stronghold of the sovereigns against their rebellious\nsubjects. After the kingdom had passed into the hands of the Christians,\nthe Alhambra continued to be a royal demesne, and was occasionally\ninhabited by the Castilian monarchs. The emperor Charles V. commenced a\nsumptuous palace within its walls, but was deterred from completing it\nby repeated shocks of earthquakes. The last royal residents were Philip\nV. and his beautiful queen, Elizabetta of Parma, early in the eighteenth\ncentury. Great preparations were made for their reception. The palace\nand gardens were placed in a state of repair, and a new suite of\napartments erected, and decorated by artists brought from Italy. The\nsojourn of the sovereigns was transient, and after their departure the\npalace once more became desolate. Still the place was maintained with\nsome military state. The governor held it immediately from the crown,\nits jurisdiction extended down into the suburbs of the city, and was\nindependent of the captain-general of Granada. A considerable garrison\nwas kept up; the governor had his apartments in the front of the old\nMoorish palace, and never descended into Granada without some military\nparade. The fortress, in fact, was a little town of itself, having\nseveral streets of houses within its walls, together with a Franciscan\nconvent and a parochial church.\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 the\ndwellings became filled with a loose and lawless population;\ncontrabandistas, who availed themselves of its independent jurisdiction\nto carry on a wide and daring course of smuggling, and thieves and\nrogues of all sorts, who made this their place of refuge whence they\nmight depredate upon Granada and its vicinity. The strong arm of\ngovernment at length interfered; the whole community was thoroughly\nsifted; none were suffered to remain but such as were of honest\ncharacter, and had legitimate right to a residence; the greater part of\nthe houses were demolished and a mere hamlet left, with the parochial\nchurch and the Franciscan convent. During the recent troubles in Spain,\nwhen Granada was in the hands of the French, the Alhambra was garrisoned\nby their troops, and the palace was occasionally inhabited by the French\ncommander. With that enlightened taste which has ever distinguished the\nFrench nation in their conquests, this monument of Moorish elegance and\ngrandeur was rescued from the absolute ruin and desolation that were\noverwhelming it. The roofs were repaired, the saloons and galleries\nprotected from the weather, the gardens cultivated, the watercourses\nrestored, the fountains once more made to throw up their sparkling\nshowers; and Spain may thank her invaders for having preserved to her\nthe most beautiful and interesting of her historical monuments.\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 dispatch of his official duties. I\ncannot conclude this brief notice of the state of the fortress without\nbearing testimony to the honorable exertions of its present commander,\nDon Francisco de Serna, who is tasking all the limited resources at his\ncommand to put the palace in a state of repair, and by his judicious\nprecautions has for some time arrested its too certain decay. Had his\npredecessors discharged the duties of their station with equal fidelity,\nthe Alhambra might yet have remained in almost its pristine beauty; were\ngovernment to second him with means equal to his zeal, this relic of it\nmight still be preserved for many generations to adorn the land, and\nattract the curious and enlightened of every clime.\n\nOur first object of course, on the morning after our arrival, was a\nvisit to this time-honored edifice; it has been so often, however, and\nso minutely described by travellers, that I shall not undertake to give\na comprehensive and elaborate account of it, but merely occasional\nsketches of parts, with the incidents and associations connected with\nthem.\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 of\nwhat, in the time of the Moors, was the Great Bazaar, and where small\nshops and narrow alleys still retain the Oriental character. Crossing an\nopen place in front of the palace of the captain-general, we ascended a\nconfined and winding street, the name of which reminded us of the\nchivalric days of Granada. It is called the Calle, or street of the\nGomeres, from a Moorish family famous in chronicle and song. This street\nled up to the Puerta de las Granadas, a massive gateway of Grecian\narchitecture, built by Charles V., forming the entrance to the domains\nof the Alhambra.\n\nAt the gate were two or three ragged superannuated soldiers, dozing on a\nstone bench, the successors of the Zegris and the Abencerrages; while a\ntall, meagre varlet, whose rusty-brown cloak was evidently intended to\nconceal 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\nI have a traveller\u2019s dislike to officious ciceroni, and did not\naltogether like the garb of the applicant.\n\n\u201cYou are well acquainted with the place, I presume?\u201d\n\n\u201cNinguno mas; pues, Se\u00f1or, soy hijo de la Alhambra.\u201d (Nobody better; in\nfact, sir, I am a son of the Alhambra!)\n\nThe common Spaniards have certainly a most poetical way of expressing\nthemselves. \u201cA son of the Alhambra!\u201d 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\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. \u201cThen, perhaps,\u201d said I, \u201cyou may be a descendant from the\ngreat Cardinal Ximenes?\u201d--\u201cDios Sabe! God knows, Se\u00f1or! It may be so. We\nare the oldest family in the Alhambra,--_Christianos Viejos_, old\nChristians, without any taint of Moor or Jew. I know we belong to some\ngreat family or other, but I forget whom. My father knows all about it:\nhe has the coat of arms hanging up in his cottage, up in the fortress.\u201d\nThere is not any Spaniard, however poor, but has some claim to high\npedigree. The first title of this ragged worthy, however, had completely\ncaptivated me; so I gladly accepted the services of the \u201cson of the\nAlhambra.\u201d\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\nthe opposite side of the ravine, we were equally dominated by rival\ntowers on a rocky eminence. These, we were told, were the Torres\nVermejos, or vermilion towers, so called from their ruddy hue. No one\nknows their origin. They are of a date much anterior to the Alhambra;\nsome suppose them to have been built by the Romans; others, by some\nwandering colony of Ph\u0153nicians. Ascending the steep and shady avenue,\nwe arrived at the foot of a huge square Moorish tower, forming a kind of\nbarbican, through which passed the main entrance to the fortress. Within\nthe barbican was another group of veteran invalids, one mounting guard\nat the portal, while the rest, wrapped in their tattered cloaks, slept\non the stone benches. This portal is called the Gate of Justice, from\nthe tribunal held within its porch during the Moslem domination, for the\nimmediate trial of petty causes: a custom common to the Oriental\nnations, and occasionally alluded to in the Sacred Scriptures. \u201cJudges\nand officers shalt thou make thee _in all thy gates_, and they shall\njudge the people with just judgment.\u201d\n\nThe great vestibule, or porch of the gate, is formed by an immense\nArabian arch, of the horseshoe form, which springs to half the height of\nthe tower. On the keystone of this arch is engraven a gigantic hand.\nWithin the vestibule, on the keystone of the portal, is sculptured, in\nlike manner, a gigantic key. Those who pretend to some knowledge of\nMohammedan symbols, affirm that the hand is the emblem of doctrine, the\nfive fingers designating the five principal commandments of the creed of\nIslam, fasting, pilgrimage, alms-giving, ablution, and war against\ninfidels. The key, say they, is the emblem of the faith or of power; the\nkey of Daoud, or David, transmitted to the prophet. \u201cAnd the key of the\nhouse of David will I lay upon his shoulder; so he shall open and none\nshall shut, and he shall shut and none shall open.\u201d (Isaiah xxii. 22.)\nThe key we are told was emblazoned on the standard of the Moslems in\nopposition to the Christian emblem of the cross, when they subdued Spain\nor Andalusia. It betokened the conquering power invested in the prophet.\n\u201cHe that hath the key of David, he that openeth and no man shutteth;\nand shutteth and no man openeth.\u201d (Rev. iii. 7.)\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\nof the common people, who attach something of mystery and magic to\neverything Moorish, and have all kinds of superstitions connected with\nthis old Moslem fortress. According to Mateo, it was a tradition handed\ndown from the oldest inhabitants, and which he had from his father and\ngrandfather, that the hand and key were magical devices on which the\nfate of the Alhambra depended. The Moorish king who built it was a great\nmagician, or, as some believed, had sold himself to the devil, and had\nlaid the whole fortress under a magic spell. By this means it had\nremained standing for several years, in defiance of storms and\nearthquakes, while almost all other buildings of the Moors had fallen to\nruin and disappeared. This spell, the tradition went on to say, would\nlast until the hand on the outer arch should reach down and grasp the\nkey, when the whole pile would tumble to pieces, and all the treasures\nburied beneath it by the Moors would be revealed.\n\nNotwithstanding this ominous prediction, we ventured to pass through the\nspell-bound gateway, feeling some little assurance against magic art in\nthe protection of the Virgin, a statue of whom we observed above the\nportal.\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\nreservoirs which undermine it, cut in the living rock by the Moors to\nreceive the water brought by conduits from the Darro, for the supply of\nthe fortress. Here, also, is a well of immense depth, furnishing the\npurest and coldest of water,--another monument of the delicate taste of\nthe Moors, who were indefatigable in their exertions to obtain that\nelement in its crystal purity.\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\ndemolished to make way for this massive pile. The grand entrance was\nblocked up; so that the present entrance to the Moorish palace is\nthrough a simple and almost humble portal in a corner. With all the\nmassive grandeur and architectural merit of the palace of Charles V., we\nregarded it as an arrogant intruder, and passing by it with a feeling\nalmost of scorn, rang at the Moslem portal.\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\nSpanish custom, went by the more neighborly appellation of Tia Antonia\n(Aunt Antonia), who maintained the Moorish halls and gardens in order\nand showed them to strangers. While we were talking, the door was opened\nby a plump little black-eyed Andalusian damsel, whom Mateo addressed as\nDolores, but who from her bright looks and cheerful disposition\nevidently merited a merrier name. Mateo informed me in a whisper that\nshe was the niece of Tia Antonia, and I found she was the good fairy who\nwas to conduct us through the enchanted palace. Under her guidance we\ncrossed the threshold, and were at once transported, as if by magic\nwand, into other times and an Oriental realm, and were treading the\nscenes of Arabian story. Nothing could be in greater contrast than the\nunpromising exterior of the pile with the scene now before us. We found\nourselves in a vast patio or court, one hundred and fifty feet in\nlength, and upwards of eighty feet in breadth, paved with white marble,\nand decorated at each end with light Moorish peristyles, one of which\nsupported an elegant gallery of fretted architecture. Along the\nmouldings of the cornices and on various parts of the walls were\nescutcheons and ciphers, and cufic and Arabic characters in high relief,\nrepeating the pious mottoes of the Moslem monarchs, the builders of the\nAlhambra, or extolling their grandeur and munificence. Along the centre\nof the court extended an immense basin or tank (estanque), a hundred and\ntwenty-four feet in length, twenty-seven in breadth, and five in depth,\nreceiving its water from two marble vases. Hence it is called the Court\nof the Alberca (from al Beerkah, the Arabic for a pond or tank). Great\nnumbers of gold-fish were to be seen gleaming through the waters of the\nbasin, and it was bordered by hedges of roses.\n\nPassing from the Court of the Alberca under a Moorish archway, we\nentered the renowned Court of Lions. No part of the edifice gives a more\ncomplete idea of its original beauty than this, for none has suffered so\nlittle from the ravages of time. In the centre stands the fountain\nfamous in song and story. The alabaster basins still shed their diamond\ndrops; the twelve lions which support them, and give the court its name,\nstill cast forth crystal streams as in the days of Boabdil. The lions,\nhowever, are unworthy of their fame, being of miserable sculpture, the\nwork probably of some Christian captive. The court is laid out in\nflower-beds, instead of its ancient and appropriate pavement of tiles or\nmarble; the alteration, an instance of bad taste, was made by the French\nwhen in possession of Granada. Round the four sides of the court are\nlight Arabian arcades of open filigree work, supported by slender\npillars of white marble, which it is supposed were originally gilded.\nThe architecture, like that in most parts of the interior of the palace,\nis characterized by elegance rather than grandeur, bespeaking a\ndelicate and graceful taste, and a disposition to indolent enjoyment.\nWhen one looks upon the fairy traces of the peristyles, and the\napparently fragile fretwork of the walls, it is difficult to believe\nthat so much has survived the wear and tear of centuries, the shocks of\nearthquakes, the violence of war, and the quiet, though no less baneful,\npilferings of the tasteful traveller: it is almost sufficient to excuse\nthe popular tradition, that the whole is protected by a magic charm.\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\nof the portal through which they were introduced one by one into the\nCourt of Lions, and the white marble fountain in the centre of the hall\nbeside which they were beheaded. He showed us also certain broad ruddy\nstains on the pavement, traces of their blood, which, according to\npopular belief, can never be effaced.\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\nthe spirits of the murdered Abencerrages; who nightly haunt the scene of\ntheir suffering and invoke the vengeance of Heaven on their destroyer.\n\nThe sounds in question had no doubt been produced, as I had afterwards\nan opportunity of ascertaining, by the bubbling currents and tinkling\nfalls of water conducted under the pavement through pipes and channels\nto supply the fountains; but I was too considerate to intimate such an\nidea to the humble chronicler of the Alhambra.\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\nshow it to strangers; as he was one evening, about twilight, passing\nthrough the Court of Lions, he heard footsteps on the Hall of the\nAbencerrages; supposing some strangers to be lingering there, he\nadvanced to attend upon them, when to his astonishment he beheld four\nMoors richly dressed, with gilded cuirasses and cimeters, and poniards\nglittering with precious stones. They were walking to and fro, with\nsolemn pace; but paused and beckoned to him. The old soldier, however,\ntook to flight, and could never afterwards be prevailed upon to enter\nthe Alhambra. Thus it is that men sometimes turn their backs upon\nfortune; for it is the firm opinion of Mateo, that the Moors intended to\nreveal the place where their treasures lay buried. A successor to the\ninvalid soldier was more knowing; he came to the Alhambra poor; but at\nthe end of a year went off to Malaga, bought houses, set up a carriage,\nand still lives there, one of the richest as well as oldest men of the\nplace; all which, Mateo sagely surmised, was in consequence of his\nfinding out the golden secret of these phantom Moors.\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\nfirmly believed in it, and whose memory was stuffed with a kind of\nknowledge for which I have a lurking fancy, but which is too apt to be\nconsidered rubbish by less indulgent philosophers. I determined to\ncultivate the acquaintance of this learned Theban.\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.\nSome destroy the romance of the name by attributing it to two enormous\nslabs of alabaster which lie side by side, and form a great part of the\npavement: an opinion strongly supported by Mateo Ximenes. Others are\ndisposed to give the name a more poetical significance, as the vague\nmemorial of Moorish beauties who once graced this hall, which was\nevidently a part of the royal harem. This opinion I was happy to find\nentertained by our little bright-eyed guide, Dolores, who pointed to a\nbalcony over an inner porch; which gallery, she had been told, belonged\nto the women\u2019s apartment. \u201cYou see, Se\u00f1or,\u201d said she, \u201cit is all grated\nand latticed, like the gallery in a convent chapel where the nuns hear\nmass; for the Moorish kings,\u201d added she, indignantly, \u201cshut up their\nwives just like nuns.\u201d\n\nThe latticed \u201cjalousies,\u201d 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\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\nIt is impossible to contemplate this scene, so perfectly Oriental,\nwithout feeling the early associations of Arabian romance, and almost\nexpecting to see the white arm of some mysterious princess beckoning\nfrom the gallery, or some dark eye sparkling through the lattice. The\nabode of beauty is here as if it had been inhabited but yesterday; but\nwhere are the two sisters, 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\nbeautify the whole hill of the Alhambra.\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 the\nmountain with the freshness and verdure of the valley. While the city\nbelow pants with the noontide heat, and the parched Vega trembles to the\neye, the delicate airs from the Sierra Nevada play through these lofty\nhalls, bringing with them the sweetness of the surrounding gardens.\nEverything invites to that indolent repose, the bliss of southern\nclimes; and while the half-shut eye looks out from shaded balconies upon\nthe glittering landscape, the ear is lulled by the rustling of groves\nand the murmur 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\ngeneral introduction into an abode where, if so disposed, he may linger\nand loiter with me day by day until we gradually become familiar with\nall its localities.\n\n\n     NOTE ON MORISCO ARCHITECTURE\n\n     To an unpractised eye the light relievos and fanciful arabesques\n     which cover the walls of the Alhambra appear to have been\n     sculptured by the hand, with a minute and patient labor, an\n     inexhaustible variety of detail, yet a general uniformity and\n     harmony of design truly astonishing; and this may especially be\n     said of the vaults and cupolas, which are wrought like\n     honey-combs, or frostwork, with stalactites and pendants which\n     confound the beholder with the seeming intricacy of their patterns.\n     The astonishment ceases, however, when it is discovered that this\n     is all stucco-work; plates of plaster of Paris, cast in moulds and\n     skilfully joined so as to form patterns of every size and form.\n     This mode of diapering walls with arabesques, and stuccoing the\n     vaults with grotto-work, was invented in Damascus, but highly\n     improved by the Moors in Morocco, to whom Saracenic architecture\n     owes its most graceful and fanciful details. The process by which\n     all this fairy tracery was produced was ingeniously simple. The\n     wall in its naked state was divided off by lines crossing at right\n     angles, such as artists use in copying a picture; over these were\n     drawn a succession of intersecting segments of circles. By the aid\n     of these the artists could work with celerity and certainty, and\n     from the mere intersection of the plain and curved lines arose the\n     interminable variety of patterns and the general uniformity of\n     their character.[3]\n\n     Much gilding was used in the stucco-work, especially of the\n     cupolas; and the interstices were delicately pencilled with\n     brilliant colors, such as vermilion and lapis lazuli, laid on with\n     the whites of eggs. The primitive colors alone were used, says\n     Ford, by the Egyptians, Greeks, and Arabs, in the early period of\n     art; and they prevail in the Alhambra whenever the artist has been\n     Arabic or Moorish. It is remarkable how much of their original\n     brilliancy remains after the lapse of several centuries.\n\n     The lower part of the walls in the saloons, to the height of\n     several feet, is incrusted with glazed tiles, joined like the\n     plates of stucco-work, so as to form various patterns. On some of\n     them are emblazoned the escutcheons of the Moslem kings, traversed\n     with a band and motto. These glazed tiles (azulejos in Spanish,\n     az-zulaj in Arabic) are of Oriental origin; their coolness,\n     cleanliness, and freedom from vermin, render them admirably fitted\n     in sultry climates for paving halls and fountains, incrusting\n     bathing-rooms, and lining the walls of chambers. Ford is inclined\n     to give them great antiquity. From their prevailing colors,\n     sapphire and blue, he deduces that they may have formed the kind of\n     pavements alluded to in the sacred Scriptures:--\u201cThere was under\n     his feet as it were a paved work of a sapphire stone\u201d (Exod. xxiv.\n     10); and again, \u201cBehold I will lay thy stones with fair colors, and\n     lay thy foundations with sapphires\u201d (Isaiah liv. 11).\n\n     These glazed or porcelain tiles were introduced into Spain at an\n     early date by the Moslems. Some are to be seen among the Moorish\n     ruins which have been there upwards of eight centuries.\n     Manufactures of them still exist in the Peninsula, and they are\n     much used in the best Spanish houses, especially in the southern\n     provinces, for paving and lining the summer apartments.\n\n     The Spaniards introduced them into the Netherlands when they had\n     possession of that country. The people of Holland adopted them\n     with avidity, as wonderfully suited to their passion for household\n     cleanliness; and thus these Oriental inventions, the azulejos of\n     the Spanish, the az-zulaj of the Arabs, have come to be commonly\n     known as Dutch tiles.\n\n\n\n\nIMPORTANT NEGOTIATIONS\n\nTHE AUTHOR SUCCEEDS TO THE THRONE OF BOABDIL\n\n\nThe day was nearly spent before we could tear ourself 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\non the scenes we had witnessed, and could not but express surprise that\nhe should reside in the city when he had such a paradise at his command.\nHe pleaded the inconvenience of a residence in the palace from its\nsituation on the crest of a hill, distant from the seat of business and\nthe resorts of social intercourse. It did very well for monarchs, who\noften had need of castle walls to defend them from their own subjects.\n\u201cBut, se\u00f1ors,\u201d added he, smiling, \u201cif you think a residence there so\ndesirable, my apartments in the Alhambra are at your service.\u201d\n\nIt is a common and almost indispensable point of politeness in a\nSpaniard, to tell you his house is yours.--\u201cEsta casa es siempre \u00e0 la\ndisposicion de Vm.\u201d--\u201cThis house is always at the command of your\nGrace.\u201d In fact, anything of his which you admire, is immediately\noffered to you. It is equally a mark of good breeding in you not to\naccept it; so we merely bowed our acknowledgments of the courtesy of the\nGovernor in offering us a royal palace. We were mistaken, however. The\nGovernor was in earnest. \u201cYou will find a rambling set of empty,\nunfurnished rooms,\u201d said he; \u201cbut Tia Antonia, who has charge of the\npalace, may be able to put them in some kind of order, and to take care\nof you while you are there. If you can make any arrangement with her for\nyour accommodation, and are content with scanty fare in a royal abode,\nthe palace of King Chico is at your service.\u201d\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\ntimes that the sage Due\u00f1a of the fortress might be slow to capitulate.\nWe knew we had one friend at least in the garrison, who would be in our\nfavor, the bright-eyed little Dolores, whose good graces we had\npropitiated on our first visit; and who hailed our return to the palace\nwith her brightest 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 we\ncould bivouac on the floor. She could supply our table, but only in her\nown 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\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\ndays passed by like a dream, when my worthy associate, being summoned to\nMadrid on diplomatic duties, was compelled to abdicate, leaving me sole\nmonarch of this shadowy realm. For myself, being in a manner a\nhap-hazard loiterer about the world, and prone to linger in its pleasant\nplaces, here have I been suffering day by day to steal away unheeded,\nspell-bound, for aught I know, in this old enchanted pile. Having always\na companionable feeling for my reader, and being prone to live with him\non confidential terms, I shall make it a point to communicate to him my\nreveries and researches during this state of delicious thraldom. If they\nhave the power of imparting to his imagination any of the witching\ncharms of the place, he will not repine at lingering with me for a\nseason in the legendary halls of the Alhambra.\n\nAnd first it is proper to give him some idea of my domestic\narrangements: they are rather of a simple kind for the occupant of a\nregal palace; but I trust they will be less liable to disastrous\nreverses than those of my royal predecessors.\n\nMy quarters are at one end of the Governor\u2019s apartment, a suite of empty\nchambers, in front of the palace, looking out upon the great esplanade\ncalled _la plaza de los algibes_ (the place of the cisterns); the\napartment 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\nMolina, is a young man of sterling worth and Spanish gravity. He had\nserved in the army, both in Spain and the West Indies, but is now\nstudying medicine in the hope of one day or other becoming physician to\nthe fortress, a post worth at least one hundred and forty dollars a\nyear. The niece is the plump little black-eyed Dolores already\nmentioned; and who, it is said, will one day inherit all her aunt\u2019s\npossessions, consisting of certain petty tenements in the fortress, in a\nsomewhat ruinous condition it is true, but which, I am privately\nassured by Mateo Ximenes, yield a revenue of nearly one hundred and\nfifty dollars; so that she is quite an heiress in the eyes of the ragged\nson of the Alhambra. I am also informed by the same observant and\nauthentic personage, that a quiet courtship is going on between the\ndiscreet Manuel and his bright-eyed cousin, and that nothing is wanting\nto enable them to join their hands and expectations but his doctor\u2019s\ndiploma, and a dispensation from the Pope on account of their\nconsanguinity.\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, \u201cthe son of the Alhambra.\u201d 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\nhis various functions; so that he has cast his old brown mantle, as a\nsnake does his skin, and now appears about the fortress with a smart\nAndalusian hat and jacket, to his infinite satisfaction, and the great\nastonishment of his comrades. The chief fault of honest Mateo is an\nover-anxiety to be useful. Conscious of having foisted himself into my\nemploy, and that my simple and quiet habits render his situation a\nsinecure, he is at his wit\u2019s ends to devise modes of making himself\nimportant to my welfare. I am in a manner the victim of his\nofficiousness; I cannot put my foot over the threshold of the palace,\nto stroll about the fortress, but he is at my elbow, to explain\neverything I see; and if I venture to ramble among the surrounding\nhills, he insists upon attending me as a guard, though I vehemently\nsuspect he would be more apt to trust to the length of his legs than the\nstrength of his arms, in case of attack. After all, however, the poor\nfellow is at times an amusing companion; he is simple-minded and of\ninfinite good-humor, 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\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 a\nhundred years, during which he made but two migrations beyond the\nprecincts of the fortress. His sloop, for the greater part of a century,\nwas the resort of a knot of venerable gossips, where they would pass\nhalf the night talking about old times, and the wonderful events and\nhidden secrets of the place. The whole living, moving, thinking, and\nacting of this historical little tailor had thus been bounded by the\nwalls of the Alhambra; within them he had been born, within them he\nlived, breathed, and had his being, within them he died and was buried.\nFortunately for posterity his traditionary lore died not with him. The\nauthentic Mateo, when an urchin, used to be an attentive listener to the\nnarratives of his grandfather, and of the gossiping group assembled\nround the shopboard, and is thus possessed of a stock of valuable\nknowledge concerning the Alhambra, not to be found in books, and well\nworthy the attention of every curious traveller.\n\nSuch are the personages that constitute my regal household; and I\nquestion whether any of the potentates, Moslem or Christian, who have\npreceded me in the palace, have been waited upon with greater fidelity,\nor enjoyed a serener 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\narranged in vases by the skilful hand of Dolores, who takes a feminine\npride in the decoration of my chambers. My meals are made wherever\ncaprice dictates; sometimes in one of the Moorish halls, sometimes under\nthe arcades of the Court of Lions, surrounded by flowers and fountains:\nand when I walk out, I am conducted by the assiduous Mateo to the most\nromantic retreats of the mountains, and delicious haunts of the adjacent\nvalleys, not one of which but is the scene of some wonderful tale.\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 parlor, kitchen, and hall of audience, and\nwhich must have boasted of some splendor in the time of the Moors, if we\nmay judge from the traces yet remaining; but a rude fireplace has been\nmade in modern times in one corner, the smoke from which has discolored\nthe walls, and almost obliterated the ancient arabesques. A window, with\na balcony overhanging the valley of the Darro, lets in the cool evening\nbreeze; and here I take my frugal supper of fruit and milk, and mingle\nwith the conversation of the family. There is a natural talent or\nmother-wit, as it is called, about the Spaniards, which renders them\nintellectual and agreeable companions, whatever may be their condition\nin life, or however imperfect may have been their education: add to\nthis, they are never vulgar; nature has endowed them with an inherent\ndignity of spirit. The good Tia Antonia is a woman of strong and\nintelligent, though uncultivated mind; and the bright-eyed Dolores,\nthough she has read but three or four books in the whole course of her\nlife, has an engaging mixture of na\u00efvet\u00e9 and good sense, and often\nsurprises me by the pungency of her artless sallies. Sometimes the\nnephew entertains us by reading some old comedy of Calderon or Lope de\nVega, to which he is evidently prompted by a desire to improve as well\nas amuse his cousin Dolores; though, to his great mortification, the\nlittle damsel generally falls asleep before the first act is completed.\nSometimes Tia Antonia has a little levee of humble friends and\ndependants, the inhabitants of the adjacent hamlet, or the wives of the\ninvalid soldiers. These look up to her with great deference, as the\ncustodian of the palace, and pay their court to her by bringing the news\nof the place, or the rumors that may have straggled up from Granada. In\nlistening to these evening gossipings I have picked up many curious\nfacts illustrative of the manners of the people and the peculiarities of\nthe neighborhood.\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\nboyhood, when, on the banks of the Hudson, I first pored over the pages\nof old Gines Perez de Hytas\u2019s apocryphal but chivalresque history of the\ncivil wars of Granada, and the feuds of its gallant cavaliers, the\nZegries and Abencerrages, that city has ever been a subject of my waking\ndreams; and often have I trod in fancy the romantic halls of the\nAlhambra. Behold for once a day-dream realized; yet I can scarce credit\nmy senses, or believe that I do indeed inhabit the palace of Boabdil,\nand look down from its balconies upon chivalric Granada. As I loiter\nthrough these Oriental chambers, and hear the murmur of fountains and\nthe song of the nightingale; as I inhale the odor of the rose, and feel\nthe influence of the balmy climate, I am almost tempted to fancy myself\nin the paradise of Mahomet, and that the plump little Dolores is one of\nthe bright-eyed houris, destined to administer to the happiness of true\nbelievers.\n\n\n\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 tower\nfalls to decay, it is seized upon by some tatterdemalion family, who\nbecome joint-tenants, with the bats and owls, of its gilded halls; and\nhang 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\nplaced here to give a farcical termination to the drama of human pride.\nOne of these even bears the mockery of a regal title. It is a little old\nwoman named Maria Antonia Sabonea, but who goes by the appellation of la\nReyna Coquina, or the Cockle-queen. She is small enough to be a fairy;\nand a fairy she may be for aught I can find out, for no one seems to\nknow her origin. Her habitation is in a kind of closet under the outer\nstaircase of the palace, and she sits in the cool stone corridor, plying\nher needle and singing from morning till night, with a ready joke for\nevery one that passes; for though one of the poorest, she is one of the\nmerriest little women breathing. Her great merit is a gift for\nstory-telling, having, I verily believe, as many stories at her command\nas the inexhaustible Scheherezade of the Thousand and One Nights. Some\nof these I have heard her relate in the evening tertulias of Dame\nAntonia, at which she is occasionally a humble attendant.\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\nlittle fairy queen is a portly old fellow with a bottle-nose, who goes\nabout in a rusty garb, with a cocked hat of oil-skin and a red cockade.\nHe is one of the legitimate sons of the Alhambra, and has lived here all\nhis life, filling various offices, such as deputy alguazil, sexton of\nthe parochial church, and marker of a fives-court established at the\nfoot of one of the towers. He is as poor as a rat, but as proud as he is\nragged, boasting of his descent from the illustrious house of Aguilar,\nfrom which sprang Gonzalvo of Cordova, the grand captain. Nay, he\nactually bears the name of Alonzo de Aguilar, so renowned in the history\nof the Conquest; though the graceless wags of the fortress have given\nhim the title of _el padre santo_, or the holy father, the usual\nappellation of the Pope, which I had thought too sacred in the eyes of\ntrue Catholics to be thus ludicrously applied. It is a whimsical caprice\nof fortune to present, in the grotesque person of this tatterdemalion, a\nnamesake and descendant of the proud Alonzo de Aguilar, the mirror of\nAndalusian chivalry, leading an almost mendicant existence about this\nonce haughty fortress, which his ancestor aided to reduce; yet such\nmight have been the lot of the descendants of Agamemnon and Achilles,\nhad they lingered about the ruins of Troy!\n\nOf this motley community, I find the family of my gossiping squire,\nMateo Ximenes, to form, from their numbers at least, a very important\npart. His boast of being a son of the Alhambra is not unfounded. His\nfamily has inhabited the fortress ever since the time of the Conquest,\nhanding down an hereditary poverty from father to son; not one of them\nhaving ever been known to be worth a maravedi. His father, by trade a\nribbon-weaver, and who succeeded the historical tailor as the head of\nthe family, is now near seventy years of age, and lives in a hovel of\nreeds and plaster, built by his own hands, just above the iron gate. The\nfurniture consists of a crazy bed, a table, and two or three chairs; a\nwooden chest, containing, besides his scanty clothing, the \u201carchives of\nthe family.\u201d These are nothing more nor less than the papers of various\nlaw-suits sustained by different generations; by which it would seem\nthat, with all their apparent carelessness and good-humor, they are a\nlitigious brood. Most of the suits have been brought against gossiping\nneighbors for questioning the purity of their blood, and denying their\nbeing _Christianos viejos_, _i.e._ old Christians, without Jewish or\nMoorish taint. In fact, I doubt whether this jealousy about their blood\nhas not kept them so poor in purse: spending all their earnings on\nescribanos and alguazils. The pride of the hovel is an escutcheon\nsuspended against the wall, in which are emblazoned quarterings of the\narms of the Marquis of Caiesedo, and of various other noble houses, with\nwhich this poverty-stricken brood claim affinity.\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\nmore, appear to enjoy their existence. The wife takes her holiday stroll\non the Paseo of Granada, with a child in her arms and half a dozen at\nher heels; and the eldest daughter, now verging into womanhood, dresses\nher hair with flowers, and dances gayly to the castanets.\n\nThere are two classes of people to whom life seems one long\nholiday,--the very rich and the very poor; one, because they need do\nnothing; the other, because they have nothing to do; but there are none\nwho understand the art of doing nothing and living upon nothing, better\nthan the poor classes of Spain. Climate does one half, and temperament\nthe rest. Give a Spaniard the shade in summer and the sun in winter, a\nlittle bread, garlic, oil, and garbances, an old brown cloak and a\nguitar, and let the world roll on as it pleases. Talk of poverty! with\nhim it has no disgrace. It sits upon him with a grandiose style, like\nhis ragged cloak. He is a hidalgo, even when in rags.\n\nThe \u201csons of the Alhambra\u201d are an eminent illustration of this practical\nphilosophy. As the Moors imagined that the celestial paradise hung over\nthis favored 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\u2019\ndays as the most laborious artisan. They attend all f\u00eates and dancings\nin Granada and its vicinity, light bonfires on the hills on St. John\u2019s\neve, and dance away the moonlight nights on the harvest-home of a small\nfield within the precincts of the fortress, which yield a few bushels of\nwheat.\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\nfavorite amusements of the ragged \u201csons of the Alhambra,\u201d who, with the\ngood-for-nothing ingenuity of arrant idlers, have thus invented the art\nof angling in the sky.\n\n\n\n\nTHE HALL OF AMBASSADORS\n\n\nIn one of my visits to the old Moorish chamber where the good Tia\nAntonia cooks her dinner and receives her company, I observed a\nmysterious door in one corner, leading apparently into the ancient part\nof the edifice. My curiosity being aroused, I opened it, and found\nmyself in a narrow, blind corridor, groping along which I came to the\nhead of a dark winding staircase, leading down an angle of the Tower of\nComares. Down this staircase I descended darkling,\n\n[Illustration: ENTRANCE TO THE HALL OF AMBASSADORS]\n\nguiding myself by the wall until I came to a small door at the bottom,\nthrowing which open, I was suddenly dazzled by emerging into the\nbrilliant antechamber of the Hall of Ambassadors; with the fountain of\nthe Court of the Alberca sparkling before me. The antechamber is\nseparated from the court by an elegant gallery, supported by slender\ncolumns with spandrels of open work in the Morisco style. At each end of\nthe antechamber are alcoves, and its ceiling is richly stuccoed and\npainted. Passing through a magnificent portal, I found myself in the\nfar-famed Hall of Ambassadors, the audience chamber of the Moslem\nmonarchs. It is said to be thirty-seven feet square, and sixty feet\nhigh; occupies the whole interior of the Tower of Comares; and still\nbears the traces of past magnificence. The walls are beautifully\nstuccoed and decorated with Morisco fancifulness; the lofty ceiling was\noriginally of the same favorite material, with the usual frostwork and\npensile ornaments or stalactites; which, with the embellishments of\nvivid coloring 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 colored; still Oriental in its character,\nreminding one of \u201cthose ceilings of cedar and vermilion that we read of\nin the Prophets and the Arabian Nights.\u201d[4]\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\nwell as solemnity in the gloom, as through it we have gleams of rich\ngilding and the brilliant tints of the Moorish pencil.\n\nThe royal throne was placed opposite the entrance in a recess, which\nstill bears an inscription intimating that Yusef I. (the monarch who\ncompleted the Alhambra) made this the throne of his empire. Everything\nin this noble hall seems to have been calculated to surround the throne\nwith impressive dignity and splendor; there was none of the elegant\nvoluptuousness which reigns in other parts of the palace. The tower is\nof massive strength, domineering over the whole edifice and overhanging\nthe steep hill-side. On three sides of the Hall of Ambassadors are\nwindows cut through the immense thickness of the walls, and commanding\nextensive prospects. The balcony of the central window especially looks\ndown upon the verdant valley of the Darro, with its walks, its groves,\nand gardens. To the left it enjoys a distant prospect of the Vega; while\ndirectly in front rises the rival height of the Albaycin, with its\nmedley of streets, and terraces, and gardens, and once crowned by a\nfortress that vied in power with the Alhambra. \u201cIll fated the man who\nlost all this!\u201d exclaimed Charles V., as he looked forth from this\nwindow upon the enchanting scenery it commands.\n\nThe balcony of the window where this royal exclamation was made, has of\nlate become one of my favorite resorts. I have just been seated there,\nenjoying the close of a long brilliant day. The sun, as he sank behind\nthe purple mountains of Alhama, sent a stream of effulgence up the\nvalley of the Darro, that spread a melancholy pomp over the ruddy towers\nof the Alhambra; while the Vega, covered with a slight sultry vapor that\ncaught the setting ray, seemed spread out in the distance like a golden\nsea. Not a breath of air disturbed the stillness of the hour, and though\nthe faint sound of music and merriment now and then rose from the\ngardens of the Darro, it but rendered more impressive the monumental\nsilence of the pile which overshadowed me. It was one of those hours and\nscenes in which memory asserts an almost magical power, and, like the\nevening sun beaming on these mouldering towers, sends back her\nretrospective rays to light up the glories of the past.\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\nvoluptuous character prevalent throughout its internal architecture, and\nto contrast it with the grand but gloomy solemnity of the Gothic\nedifices reared by the Spanish conquerors. The very architecture thus\nbespeaks the opposite and irreconcilable natures of the two warlike\npeople who so long battled here for the mastery of the Peninsula. By\ndegrees I fell into a course of musing upon the singular fortunes of the\nArabian or Morisco-Spaniards, whose whole existence is as a tale that is\ntold, and certainly forms one of the most anomalous yet splendid\nepisodes in history. Potent and durable as was their dominion, we\nscarcely know how to call them. They were a nation without a legitimate\ncountry or name. A remote wave of the great Arabian inundation, cast\nupon the shores of Europe, they seem to have all the impetus of the\nfirst rush of the torrent. Their career of conquest, from the rock of\nGibraltar to the cliffs of the Pyrenees, was as rapid and brilliant as\nthe Moslem victories of Syria and Egypt. Nay, had they not been checked\non the plains of Tours, all France, all Europe, might have been overrun\nwith the same facility as the empires of the East, and the Crescent at\nthis day have glittered on the fanes of Paris and London.\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\ngiven them as they supposed by Allah, and strove to embellish it with\neverything that could administer to the happiness of man. Laying the\nfoundations of their power in a system of wise and equitable laws,\ndiligently cultivating the arts and sciences, and promoting agriculture,\nmanufactures, and commerce, they gradually formed an empire unrivalled\nfor its prosperity by any of the empires of Christendom; and diligently\ndrawing round them the graces and refinements which marked the Arabian\nempire in the East, at the time of its greatest civilization, they\ndiffused the light of Oriental knowledge through the western regions of\nbenighted Europe.\n\nThe cities of Arabian Spain became the resort of Christian artisans, to\ninstruct 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\ntreasured lore of antiquity; the lovers of the gay science resorted to\nCordova and Granada, to imbibe the poetry and music of the East; and the\nsteel-clad warriors of the North hastened thither to accomplish\nthemselves in the graceful exercises and courteous usages of chivalry.\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 be\nderided as arrogant and vain? Generation after generation, century after\ncentury, passed away, and still they maintained possession of the land.\nA period elapsed longer than that which has passed since England was\nsubjugated 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\nback to 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 neighbors in the West by impassable barriers of faith and\nmanners, and separated by seas and deserts from their kindred of the\nEast, the Morisco-Spaniards were an isolated people. Their whole\nexistence was a prolonged, though gallant and chivalric struggle for a\nfoothold in a usurped land.\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\npersevering valor of the Goth.\n\nNever was the annihilation of a people more complete than that of the\nMorisco-Spaniards. Where are they? Ask the shores of Barbary and its\ndesert 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\nbear witness to their power and dominion, as solitary rocks, left far in\nthe interior, bear testimony to the extent of some vast inundation. Such\nis the Alhambra;--a Moslem pile in the midst of a Christian land; an\nOriental palace amidst the Gothic edifices of the West; an elegant\nmemento of a brave, intelligent, and graceful people, who conquered,\nruled, flourished, and passed away.\n\n\n\n\nTHE JESUITS\u2019 LIBRARY\n\n\nSince indulging in the foregoing reverie, my curiosity has been aroused\nto know something of the princes who left behind them this monument of\nOriental taste and magnificence,--and whose names still appear among the\ninscriptions on its walls. To gratify this curiosity, I have descended\nfrom this region of fancy and fable, where everything is liable to take\nan imaginary tint, and have carried my researches among the dusty tomes\nof the old Jesuits\u2019 Library, in the University. This once boasted\nrepository of erudition is now a mere shadow of its former self, having\nbeen stripped of its manuscripts and rarest works by the French, when\nmasters of Granada; still it contains, among many ponderous tomes of the\nJesuit fathers, which the French were careful to leave behind, several\ncurious tracts of Spanish literature; and above all, a number of those\nantiquated parchment-bound chronicles for which I have a particular\nveneration.\n\nIn this old library I have passed many delightful hours of quiet,\nundisturbed, literary foraging; for the keys of the doors and bookcases\nwere kindly intrusted to me, and I was left alone, to rummage at my\npleasure,--a rare indulgence in these sanctuaries of learning, which too\noften tantalize the thirsty student with the sight of sealed fountains\nof knowledge.\n\nIn the course of these visits I gleaned a variety of facts concerning\nhistorical characters connected with the Alhambra, some of which I here\nsubjoin, trusting they may prove acceptable to the reader.\n\n\n\n\nALHAMAR, THE FOUNDER OF THE ALHAMBRA\n\n\nThe Moors of Granada regarded the Alhambra as a miracle of art, and had\na tradition that the king who founded it dealt in magic, or at least in\nalchemy, by means whereof he procured the immense sums of gold expended\nin its erection. A brief view of his reign will show the secret of his\nwealth. He is known in Arabian history as Muhamed Ibn-l-Ahmar; but his\nname in general is written simply Alhamar, and was given to him, we are\ntold, on account of his ruddy complexion.[5]\n\nHe was of the noble and opulent line of the Beni Nasar, or tribe of\nNasar, and was born in Arjona, in the year of the Hegira 592 (A.D.\n1195). At his birth the astrologers, we are told, cast his horoscope\naccording to Oriental custom, and pronounced it highly auspicious; and a\nsanton predicted for him a glorious career. No expense was spared in\nfitting him for the high destinies prognosticated. Before he attained\nthe full years of manhood, the famous battle of the Navas (or plains) of\nTolosa shattered the Moorish empire, and eventually severed the Moslems\nof Spain from the Moslems of Africa. Factions soon arose among the\nformer, headed by warlike chiefs ambitious of grasping the sovereignty\nof the Peninsula. Alhamar became engaged in these wars; he was the\ngeneral and leader of the Beni Nasar, and, as such, he opposed and\nthwarted the ambition of Aben Hud, who had raised his standard among\nthe warlike mountains of the Alpuxaras, and been proclaimed king of\nMurcia and Granada. Many conflicts took place between these warring\nchieftains; Alhamar dispossessed his rival of several important places,\nand was proclaimed king of Jaen by his soldiery; but he aspired to the\nsovereignty of the whole of Andalusia, for he was of a sanguine spirit\nand lofty ambition. His valor and generosity went hand in hand; what he\ngained by the one he secured by the other; and at the death of Aben Hud\n(A.D. 1238) he became sovereign of all the territories which owed\nallegiance to that powerful chief. He made his formal entry into Granada\nin the same year, amid the enthusiastic shouts of the multitude, who\nhailed him as the only one capable of uniting the various factions which\nprevailed, and which threatened to lay the empire at the mercy of the\nChristian princes.\n\nAlhamar established his court in Granada; he was the first of the\nillustrious line of Nasar that sat upon a throne. He took immediate\nmeasures to put his little kingdom in a posture of defence against the\nassaults to be expected from his Christian neighbors, repairing and\nstrengthening the frontier posts and fortifying the capital. Not content\nwith the provisions of the Moslem law, by which every man is made a\nsoldier, he raised a regular army to garrison his strongholds, allowing\nevery soldier stationed on the frontier a portion of land for the\nsupport of himself, his horse, and his family,--thus interesting him in\nthe defence of the soil in which he had a property. These wise\nprecautions were justified by events. The Christians, profiting by the\ndismemberment of the Moslem power, were rapidly regaining their ancient\nterritories. James the Conqueror had subjected all Valencia, and\nFerdinand the Saint sat down in person before Jaen, the bulwark of\nGranada. Alhamar ventured to oppose him in open field, but met with a\nsignal defeat, and retired discomfited to his capital. Jaen still held\nout, and kept the enemy at bay during an entire winter, but Ferdinand\nswore not to raise his camp until he had gained possession of the place.\nAlhamar found it impossible to throw reinforcements into the besieged\ncity; he saw that its fall must be followed by the investment of his\ncapital, and was conscious of the insufficiency of his means to cope\nwith the potent sovereign of Castile. Taking a sudden resolution,\ntherefore, he repaired privately to the Christian camp, made his\nunexpected appearance in the presence of King Ferdinand, and frankly\nannounced himself as the king of Granada. \u201cI come,\u201d said he, \u201cconfiding\nin your good faith, to put myself under your protection. Take all I\npossess and receive me as your vassal\u201d; so saying, he knelt and kissed\nthe king\u2019s hand in token of allegiance.\n\nFerdinand was won by this instance of confiding faith, and determined\nnot to be outdone in generosity. He raised his late enemy from the\nearth, embraced him as a friend, and, refusing the wealth he offered,\nleft him sovereign of his dominions, under the feudal tenure of a yearly\ntribute, attendance at the Cortes as one of the nobles of the empire,\nand service in war with a certain number of horsemen. He moreover\nconferred on him the honor of knighthood, and armed him with his own\nhands.\n\nIt was not long after this that Alhamar was called upon for his military\nservices, to aid King Ferdinand in his famous siege of Seville. The\nMoorish king sallied forth with five hundred chosen horsemen of Granada,\nthan whom none in the world knew better how to manage the steed or wield\nthe lance. It was a humiliating service, however, for they had to draw\nthe sword against their brethren of the faith.\n\nAlhamar gained a melancholy distinction by his prowess in this renowned\nconquest, but more true honor by the humanity which he prevailed upon\nFerdinand to introduce into the usages of war. When in 1248 the famous\ncity of Seville surrendered to the Castilian monarch, Alhamar returned\nsad and full of care to his dominions. He saw the gathering ills that\nmenaced the Moslem cause; and uttered an ejaculation often used by him\nin moments of anxiety and trouble,--\u201cHow straitened and wretched would\nbe our life, if our hope were not so spacious and extensive.\u201d \u201cQue\nangoste y miserabile seria nuestra vida, sino fuera tan dilatada y\nespaciosa nuestra esperanza!\u201d\n\nAs he approached Granada on his return he beheld arches of triumph which\nhad been erected in honor of his martial exploits. The people thronged\nforth to see him with impatient joy, for his benignant rule had won all\nhearts. Wherever he passed he was hailed with acclamations as \u201cEl\nGhalib!\u201d (the conqueror). Alhamar gave a melancholy shake of the head on\nhearing the appellation. \u201c_Wa le ghalib ile Al\u00e1h!_\u201d (there is no\nconqueror but God) exclaimed he. From that time forward this exclamation\nbecame his motto, and the motto of his descendants, and appears to this\nday emblazoned on his escutcheons in the halls of the Alhambra.\n\nAlhamar had purchased peace by submission to the Christian yoke; but he\nwas conscious that, with elements so discordant and motives for\nhostility so deep and ancient, it could not be permanent. Acting,\ntherefore, upon the old maxim, \u201cArm thyself in peace and clothe thyself\nin summer,\u201d he improved the present interval of tranquillity by\nfortifying his dominions, replenishing his arsenals, and promoting those\nuseful arts which give wealth and real power. He confided the command of\nhis various cities to such as had distinguished themselves by valor and\nprudence, and who seemed most acceptable to the people. He organized a\nvigilant police, and established rigid rules for the administration of\njustice. The poor and the distressed always found ready admission to his\npresence, and he attended personally to their assistance and redress. He\nerected hospitals for the blind, the aged, and infirm, and all those\nincapable of labor, and visited them frequently; not on set days with\npomp and form, so as to give time for everything to be put in order, and\nevery abuse concealed, but suddenly, and unexpectedly, informing\nhimself, by actual observation and close inquiry, of the treatment of\nthe sick, and the conduct of those appointed to administer to their\nrelief. He founded schools and colleges, which he visited in the same\nmanner, inspecting personally the instruction of the youth. He\nestablished butcheries and public ovens, that the people might be\nfurnished with wholesome provisions at just and regular prices. He\nintroduced abundant streams of water into the city, erecting baths and\nfountains, and constructing aqueducts and canals to irrigate and\nfertilize the Vega. By these means prosperity and abundance prevailed in\nthis beautiful city; its gates were thronged with commerce, and its\nwarehouses filled with luxuries and merchandise of every clime and\ncountry.\n\nHe moreover gave premiums and privileges to the best artisans; improved\nthe breed of horses and other domestic animals; encouraged husbandry;\nand increased the natural fertility of the soil twofold by his\nprotection, making the lovely valleys of his kingdom to bloom like\ngardens. He fostered also the growth and fabrication of silk, until the\nlooms of Granada surpassed even those of Syria in the fineness and\nbeauty of their productions. He moreover caused the mines of gold and\nsilver and other metals, found in the mountainous regions of his\ndominions, to be diligently worked, and was the first king of Granada\nwho struck money of gold and silver with his name, taking great care\nthat the coins should be skilfully executed.\n\nIt was towards the middle of the thirteenth century, and just after his\nreturn from the siege of Seville, that he commenced the splendid palace\nof the Alhambra; superintending the building of it in person; mingling\nfrequently among the artists and workmen, and directing their labors.\n\nThough thus magnificent in his works and great in his enterprises, he\nwas simple in his person and moderate in his enjoyments. His dress was\nnot merely void of splendor, but so plain as not to distinguish him from\nhis subjects. His harem boasted but few beauties, and these he visited\nbut seldom, though they were entertained with great magnificence. His\nwives were daughters of the principal nobles, and were treated by him as\nfriends and rational companions. What is more, he managed to make them\nlive in friendship with one another. He passed much of his time in his\ngardens; especially in those of the Alhambra, which he had stored with\nthe rarest plants and the most beautiful and aromatic flowers. Here he\ndelighted himself in reading histories, or in causing them to be read\nand related to him, and sometimes, in intervals of leisure, employed\nhimself in the instruction of his three sons, for whom he had provided\nthe most learned and virtuous masters.\n\nAs he had frankly and voluntarily offered himself a tributary vassal to\nFerdinand, so he always remained loyal to his word, giving him repeated\nproofs of fidelity and attachment. When that renowned monarch died in\nSeville in 1254, Alhamar sent ambassadors to condole with his successor,\nAlonzo X., and with them a gallant train of a hundred Moorish cavaliers\nof distinguished rank, who were to attend round the royal bier during\nthe funeral ceremonies, each bearing a lighted taper. This grand\ntestimonial of respect was repeated by the Moslem monarch during the\nremainder of his life on each anniversary of the death of King\nFerdinand el Santo, when the hundred Moorish knights repaired from\nGranada to Seville, and took their stations with lighted tapers in the\ncentre of the sumptuous cathedral round the cenotaph of the illustrious\ndeceased.\n\nAlhamar retained his faculties and vigor to an advanced age. In his\nseventy-ninth year (A.D. 1272) he took the field on horseback,\naccompanied by the flower of his chivalry, to resist an invasion of his\nterritories. As the army sallied forth from Granada, one of the\nprincipal adalides, or guides, who rode in the advance, accidentally\nbroke his lance against the arch of the gate. The counsellors of the\nking, alarmed by this circumstance, which was considered an evil omen,\nentreated him to return. Their supplications were in vain. The king\npersisted, and at noontide the omen, say the Moorish chroniclers, was\nfatally fulfilled. Alhamar was suddenly struck with illness, and had\nnearly fallen from his horse. He was placed on a litter, and borne back\ntowards Granada, but his illness increased to such a degree that they\nwere obliged to pitch his tent in the Vega. His physicians were filled\nwith consternation, not knowing what remedy to prescribe. In a few hours\nhe died, vomiting blood and in violent convulsions. The Castilian\nprince, Don Philip, brother of Alonzo X., was by his side when he\nexpired. His body was embalmed, enclosed in a silver coffin, and buried\nin the Alhambra in a sepulchre of precious marble, amidst the unfeigned\nlamentations of his subjects, who bewailed him as a parent.\n\nI have said that he was the first of the illustrious line of Nasar that\nsat upon a throne. I may add that he was the founder of a brilliant\nkingdom which will ever be famous in history and romance as the last\nrallying-place of Moslem power and splendor in the Peninsula. Though his\nundertakings were vast, and his expenditures immense, yet his treasury\nwas always full; and this seeming contradiction gave rise to the story\nthat he was versed in magic art, and possessed of the secret for\ntransmuting baser metals into gold. Those who have attended to his\ndomestic policy, as here set forth, will easily understand the natural\nmagic and simple alchemy which made his ample treasury to overflow.\n\n\n\n\nYUSEF ABUL HAGIG\n\nTHE FINISHER OF THE ALHAMBRA\n\n\nTo the foregoing particulars, concerning the Moslem princes who once\nreigned in these halls, I shall add a brief notice of the monarch who\ncompleted and embellished the Alhambra. Yusef Abul Hagig (or, as it is\nsometimes written, Haxis) was another prince of the noble line of Nasar.\nHe ascended the throne of Granada in the year of grace 1333, and is\ndescribed by Moslem writers as having a noble presence, great bodily\nstrength, and a fair complexion; and the majesty of his countenance\nincreased, say they, by suffering his beard to grow to a dignified\nlength and dyeing it black. His manners were gentle, affable, and\nurbane; he carried the benignity of his nature into warfare, prohibiting\nall wanton cruelty, and enjoining mercy and protection towards women and\nchildren, the aged and infirm, and all friars and other persons of holy\nand recluse life. But though he possessed the courage common to generous\nspirits, the bent of his genius was more for peace than war, and though\nrepeatedly obliged by circumstances to take up arms, he was generally\nunfortunate.\n\nAmong other ill-starred enterprises, he undertook a great campaign, in\nconjunction with the king of Morocco, against the kings of Castile and\nPortugal, but was defeated in the memorable battle of Salado, which had\nnearly proved a death-blow to the Moslem power in Spain.\n\nYusef obtained a long truce after this defeat, and now his character\nshone forth in its true lustre. He had an excellent memory, and had\nstored his mind with science and erudition; his taste was altogether\nelegant and refined, and he was accounted the best poet of his time.\nDevoting himself to the instruction of his people and the improvement of\ntheir morals and manners, he established schools in all the villages,\nwith simple and uniform systems of education; he obliged every hamlet of\nmore than twelve houses to have a mosque, and purified the ceremonies of\nreligion, and the festivals and popular amusements, from various abuses\nand indecorums which had crept into them. He attended vigilantly to the\npolice of the city, establishing nocturnal guards and patrols, and\nsuperintending all municipal concerns. His attention was also directed\ntowards finishing the great architectural works commenced by his\npredecessors, and erecting others on his own plans. The Alhambra, which\nhad been founded by the good Alhamar, was now completed. Yusef\nconstructed the beautiful Gate of Justice, forming the grand entrance to\nthe fortress, which he finished in 1348. He likewise adorned many of the\ncourts and halls of the palace, as may be seen by the inscriptions on\nthe walls, in which his name repeatedly occurs. He built also the noble\nAlcazar or citadel of Malaga, now unfortunately a mere mass of crumbling\nruins, but which most probably exhibited in its interior similar\nelegance and magnificence with the Alhambra.\n\nThe genius of a sovereign stamps a character upon his time. The nobles\nof Granada, imitating the elegant and graceful taste of Yusef, soon\nfilled the city of Granada with magnificent palaces; the halls of which\nwere paved with mosaic, the walls and ceilings wrought in fretwork, and\ndelicately gilded and painted with azure, vermilion, and other brilliant\ncolors, or minutely inlaid with cedar and other precious woods;\nspecimens of which have survived, in all their lustre, the lapse of\nseveral centuries. Many of the houses had fountains, which threw up jets\nof water to refresh and cool the air. They had lofty towers also, of\nwood or stone, curiously carved and ornamented, and covered with plates\nof metal that glittered in the sun. Such was the refined and delicate\ntaste in architecture that prevailed among this elegant people; insomuch\nthat, to use the beautiful simile of an Arabian writer, \u201cGranada, in the\ndays of Yusef, was as a silver vase filled with emeralds and jacinths.\u201d\n\nOne anecdote will be sufficient to show the magnanimity of this generous\nprince. The long truce which had succeeded the battle of Salado was at\nan end, and every effort of Yusef to renew it was in vain. His deadly\nfoe, Alfonso XI. of Castile, took the field with great force, and laid\nsiege to Gibraltar. Yusef reluctantly took up arms, and sent troops to\nthe relief of the place. In the midst of his anxiety, he received\ntidings that his dreaded foe had suddenly fallen a victim to the plague.\nInstead of manifesting exultation on the occasion, Yusef called to mind\nthe great qualities of the deceased, and was touched with a noble\nsorrow. \u201cAlas!\u201d cried he, \u201cthe world has lost one of its most excellent\nprinces; a sovereign who knew how to honor merit, whether in friend or\nfoe!\u201d\n\nThe Spanish chroniclers themselves bear witness to this magnanimity.\nAccording to their accounts, the Moorish cavaliers partook of the\nsentiment of their king, and put on mourning for the death of Alfonzo.\nEven those of Gibraltar, who had been so closely invested, when they\nknew that the hostile monarch lay dead in his camp, determined among\nthemselves that no hostile movement should be made against the\nChristians. The day on which the camp was broken up, and the army\ndeparted, bearing the corpse of Alfonzo, the Moors issued in multitudes\nfrom Gibraltar, and stood mute and melancholy, watching the mournful\npageant. The same reverence for the deceased was observed by all the\nMoorish commanders on the frontiers, who suffered the funeral train to\npass in safety, bearing the corpse of the Christian sovereign from\nGibraltar to Seville.[6]\n\nYusef did not long survive the enemy he had so generously deplored. In\nthe year 1354, as he was one day praying in the royal mosque of the\nAlhambra, a maniac rushed suddenly from behind and plunged a dagger in\nhis side. The cries of the king brought his guards and courtiers to his\nassistance. They found him weltering in his blood. He made some signs as\nif to speak, but his words were unintelligible. They bore him senseless\nto the royal apartments, where he expired almost immediately. The\nmurderer was cut to pieces, and his limbs burnt in public to gratify the\nfury of the populace.\n\nThe body of the king was interred in a superb sepulchre of white marble;\na long epitaph, in letters of gold upon an azure ground, recorded his\nvirtues. \u201cHere lies a king and martyr, of an illustrious line, gentle,\nlearned, and virtuous; renowned for the graces of his person and his\nmanners; whose clemency, piety, and benevolence were extolled throughout\nthe kingdom of Granada. He was a great prince; an illustrious captain; a\nsharp sword of the Moslems; a valiant standard-bearer among the most\npotent monarchs,\u201d &c.\n\nThe mosque still exists which once resounded with the dying cries of\nYusef, but the monument which recorded his virtues has long since\ndisappeared. His name, however, remains inscribed among the delicate and\ngraceful ornaments of the Alhambra, and will be perpetuated in\nconnection with this renowned pile, which it was his pride and delight\nto beautify.\n\n\n\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.\nI attempted to open it, but it was locked. I knocked, but no one\nanswered, and the sound seemed to reverberate through empty chambers.\nHere then was a mystery. Here was the haunted wing of the castle. How\nwas I to get at the dark secrets here shut up from the public eye?\nShould I come privately at night with lamp and sword, according to the\nprying custom of heroes of romance; or should I endeavor to draw the\nsecret from P\u00e9pe the stuttering gardener; or the ingenuous Dolores, or\nthe loquacious Mateo? Or should I go frankly and openly to Dame Antonia\nthe chatelaine, and ask her all about it? I chose the latter course, as\nbeing the simplest though the least romantic; and found, somewhat to my\ndisappointment, that there was no mystery in the case. I was welcome to\nexplore the apartment, and there was the key.\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\nantiquated, was European. There was nothing Moorish about it. The first\ntwo rooms were lofty; the ceilings, broken in many places, were of\ncedar, deeply panelled and skilfully carved with fruits and flowers,\nintermingled with grotesque masks 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,\ndismantled and open to wind and weather, looked out into a charming\nlittle secluded garden, where an alabaster fountain sparkled among roses\nand myrtles, and was surrounded by orange and citron trees, some of\nwhich flung their branches into the chambers. Beyond these rooms were\ntwo saloons, longer but less lofty, looking also into the garden. In the\ncompartments of the panelled ceilings were baskets of fruit and garlands\nof flowers, painted by no mean hand, and in tolerable preservation. The\nwalls also had been painted in fresco in the Italian style, but the\npaintings were nearly obliterated; the windows were in the same\nshattered state with those of the other chambers. This fanciful suite of\nrooms terminated in an open gallery with balustrades, running at right\nangles along another side of the garden. The whole apartment, so\ndelicate and elegant in its decorations, so choice and sequestered in\nits situation along this retired little garden, and so different in\narchitecture from the neighboring halls, awakened an interest in its\nhistory. I found on inquiry that it was an apartment fitted up by\nItalian artists in the early part of the last century, at the time when\nPhilip V. and his second wife, the beautiful Elizabetta of Farnese,\ndaughter of the Duke of Parma, were expected at the Alhambra. It was\ndestined for the queen and the ladies of her train. One of the loftiest\nchambers had been her sleeping-room. A narrow staircase, now walled up,\nled up to a delightful belvidere, originally a mirador of the Moorish\nsultanas, communicating with the harem; but which was fitted up as a\nboudoir for the fair Elizabetta, and still retains the name of _el\ntocador de la Reyna_, or the queen\u2019s toilette.\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 in\nits character, and also had its history. It was in fact the garden of\nLindaraxa, so often mentioned in descriptions of the Alhambra; but who\nthis Lindaraxa was I had never heard explained. A little research gave\nme the few particulars known about her. She was a Moorish beauty who\nflourished in the court of Muhamed the Left-Handed, and was the daughter\nof his loyal adherent, the alcayde of Malaga, who sheltered him in his\ncity when driven from the throne. On regaining his crown, the alcayde\nwas rewarded for his fidelity. His daughter had her apartment in the\nAlhambra, 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.[7]\n\nFour centuries had elapsed since the fair Lindaraxa passed away, yet how\nmuch of the fragile beauty of the scenes she inhabited remained! The\ngarden still bloomed in which she delighted; the fountain still\npresented the crystal mirror in which her charms may once have been\nreflected; the alabaster, it is true, had lost its whiteness; the basin\nbeneath, overrun with weeds, had become the lurking-place of the\nlizard, but there was something in the very decay that enhanced the\ninterest of the scene, speaking as it did of that mutability, the\nirrevocable lot of man and all his 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\nbeheld them in their pristine splendor, glittering with the pageantry of\na court.\n\nWhen I returned to my quarters, in the governor\u2019s 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.\nI proposed the change to Dame Antonia and her family, and it occasioned\nvast surprise. They could not conceive any rational inducement for the\nchoice of an apartment so forlorn, remote, and solitary. Dolores\nexclaimed at its frightful loneliness; nothing but bats and owls\nflitting about,--and then a fox and wildcat kept in the vaults of the\nneighboring baths, and roamed about at night. The good Tia had more\nreasonable objections. The neighborhood was infested by vagrants;\ngypsies swarmed in the caverns of the adjacent hills; the palace was\nruinous and easy to be entered in many places; the rumor of a stranger\nquartered alone in one of the remote and ruined apartments, out of the\nhearing of the rest of the inhabitants, might tempt unwelcome visitors\nin the night, especially as foreigners were always supposed to be well\nstocked with money. I was not to be diverted from my humor, however, and\nmy will was law with these good people. So, calling in the assistance of\na carpenter, and the over officious Mateo Ximenes, the doors and windows\nwere soon placed in a state of tolerable security, and the\nsleeping-room of the stately Elizabetta prepared for my reception. Mateo\nkindly volunteered as a body-guard to sleep in my antechamber; but I did\nnot think it worth while to put his valor to the proof.\n\nWith all the hardihood I had assumed and all the precautions I had\ntaken, I must confess the first night passed in these quarters was\ninexpressibly dreary. I do not think it was so much the apprehension of\ndangers from without that affected me, as the character of the place\nitself, with all its strange associations: the deeds of violence\ncommitted there; the tragical ends of many of those who had once reigned\nthere in splendor. As I passed beneath the fated halls of the Tower of\nComares on the way to my chamber, I called to mind a quotation, that\nused to thrill me in the days of 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\none engaged on a perilous enterprise; and when I heard their retreating\nsteps die away along the waste antechambers and echoing galleries, and\nturned the key of my door, I was reminded of those hobgoblin stories,\nwhere the hero is left to accomplish the adventure of an enchanted\nhouse.\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 gayety and\nloveliness; here were the very traces of their elegance and enjoyment;\nbut what and where were they? Dust and ashes! tenants of the tomb!\nphantoms of the memory!\n\nA vague and indescribable awe was creeping over me. I would fain have\nascribed it to the thoughts of robbers awakened by the evening\u2019s\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 my\nchamber 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,\nseemed to mope and mow at me.\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 a\nmere 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\nthese remote and ruined apartments. Might not some vagrant foe be\nlurking before or behind me, in the outer darkness? My own shadow, cast\nupon the wall, began to disturb me. The echoes of my own footsteps along\nthe corridors made me pause and look round. I was traversing scenes\nfraught with dismal recollections. One dark passage led down to the\nmosque where Yusef, the Moorish monarch, the finisher of the Alhambra,\nhad been basely murdered. In another place I trod the gallery where\nanother monarch had been struck down by the poniard of a relative whom\nhe 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\nit had 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\nshadows and fancies conjured up by the gloom of the preceding night; or\nbelieve that the scenes around me, so naked and apparent, could have\nbeen clothed with 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 the\nravings of a poor maniac, a brother of her aunt, who was subject to\nviolent paroxysms, during which he was confined in a vaulted room\nbeneath the Hall of Ambassadors.\n\nIn the course of a few evenings a thorough change took place in the\nscene and its associations. The moon, which when I took possession of my\nnew apartments was invisible, gradually gained each evening upon the\ndarkness of the night, and at length rolled in full splendor above the\ntowers, pouring a flood of tempered light into every court and hall. The\ngarden beneath my window, before wrapped in gloom, was gently lighted\nup; the orange-and citron-trees were tipped with silver; the fountain\nsparkled in the moonbeams, and even the blush of the rose was faintly\nvisible.\n\nI now felt the poetic merit of the Arabic inscription on the\nwalls,--\u201cHow beauteous is this garden; where the flowers of the earth\nvie with the stars of heaven. What can compare with the vase of yon\nalabaster fountain filled with crystal water? nothing but the moon in\nher fulness, shining in the midst of an unclouded sky!\u201d\n\nOn such heavenly nights I would sit for hours at my window inhaling the\nsweetness of the garden, and musing on the checkered 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\nof Granada struck the midnight hour, I have sallied out on another tour\nand wandered over the whole building; but how different from my first\ntour! No longer dark and mysterious; no longer peopled with shadowy\nfoes; no longer recalling scenes of violence and murder; all was open,\nspacious, beautiful; everything called up pleasing and romantic fancies;\nLindaraxa once more walked in her garden; the gay chivalry of Moslem\nGranada once more glittered about the Court of Lions! Who can do justice\nto a moonlight night in such a climate and such a place? The temperature\nof a summer midnight in Andalusia is perfectly ethereal. We seem lifted\nup into a purer atmosphere; we feel a serenity of soul, a buoyancy of\nspirits, an elasticity of frame, which render mere existence happiness.\nBut when moonlight is added to all this, the effect is like enchantment.\nUnder its plastic sway the Alhambra seems to regain its pristine\nglories. Every rent and chasm of time; every mouldering tint and\nweather-stain is gone; the marble resumes its original whiteness; the\nlong colonnades brighten in the moonbeams; the halls are illuminated\nwith a softened radiance,--we tread the enchanted palace of an Arabian\ntale!\n\nWhat a delight, at such a time, to ascend to the little airy pavilion of\nthe queen\u2019s 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\nSierra Nevada, robbed of their ruggedness and softened into a fairy\nland, with their snowy summits gleaming like silver clouds against the\ndeep blue sky. And then to lean over the parapet of the Tocador and gaze\ndown upon Granada and the Albaycin spread out like a map below; all\nburied in deep repose; the white palaces and convents sleeping in the\nmoonshine, and beyond all these the vapory Vega fading away like a\ndreamland in the distance.\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\u2019s 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\u201cfeeding my fancy with sugared suppositions,\u201d and enjoying that mixture\nof reverie and sensation which steal away existence in a southern\nclimate; so that it has been almost morning before I have retired to\nbed, and been lulled to sleep by the falling waters of the fountain of\nLindaraxa.\n\n\n\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\u2019s-eye view of\nGranada and its environs!\n\nCome then, worthy reader and comrade, follow my steps into this\nvestibule, ornamented with rich tracery, which opens into the Hall of\nAmbassadors. We will not enter the hall, however, but turn to this small\ndoor opening into the wall. Have a care! here are steep winding steps\nand but scanty light; yet up this narrow, obscure, and spiral staircase,\nthe proud monarchs of Granada and their queens have often ascended to\nthe battlements to watch the approach of invading armies, or gaze with\nanxious hearts on the battles 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\nand country; of rocky mountain, verdant valley, and fertile plain; of\ncastle, cathedral, Moorish towers, and Gothic domes, crumbling ruins,\nand blooming groves. Let us approach the battlements, and cast our eyes\nimmediately below. See, on this side we have the whole plain of the\nAlhambra laid open to us, and can look down into its courts and gardens.\nAt the foot of the tower is the Court of the Alberca, with its great\ntank or fishpool, bordered with flowers; and yonder is the Court of\nLions, with its famous fountain, and its light Moorish arcades; and in\nthe centre of the pile is the little garden of Lindaraxa, buried in the\nheart of the building, with its roses and citrons and shrubbery of\nemerald green.\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\nfragments buried among vines, fig-trees, and aloes.\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, must\nreduce this crumbling pile to a mere mass of ruin. The deep narrow glen\nbelow us, which gradually widens as it opens from the mountains, is the\nvalley of the Darro; you see the little river winding its way under\nembowered terraces, and among orchards and flower-gardens. It is a\nstream 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\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 favorite 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 walls. At present you see none but a few loitering monks\nthere, and a group of water-carriers. The latter are burdened with\nwater-jars of ancient Oriental construction, such as were used by the\nMoors. They have been filled at the cold and limpid spring called the\nfountain of Avellanos. Yon mountain path leads to the fountain, a\nfavorite resort of Moslems as well as Christians; for this is said to be\nthe Adinamar (Aynu-l-adamar), the \u201cFountain of Tears,\u201d mentioned by Ibn\nBatuta the traveller, and celebrated in the histories and romances of\nthe Moors.\n\nYou start! \u2019tis nothing but a hawk that we have frightened from his\nnest. This old tower is a complete breeding-place for vagrant birds; the\nswallow and martlet abound in every chink and cranny, and circle about\nit the whole day long; while at night, when all other birds have gone to\nrest, the moping owl comes out of its lurking-place, and utters its\nboding cry from the battlements. See how the hawk we have dislodged\nsweeps away below us, skimming over the tops of the trees, and sailing\nup to the ruins above the Generalife!\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\nthat combination of delights so rare in a southern city,--the fresh\nvegetation and temperate airs of a northern climate, with the vivifying\nardor of a tropical sun, and the cloudless azure of a southern sky. It\nis this a\u00ebrial treasury of snow, which, melting in proportion to the\nincrease of the summer heat, sends down rivulets and streams through\nevery glen and gorge of the Alpuxarras, diffusing emerald verdure and\nfertility throughout a chain of happy and sequestered valleys.\n\nThose mountains may be well called the glory of Granada. They dominate\nthe whole extent of Andalusia, and may be seen from its most distant\nparts. The muleteer hails them, as he views their frosty peaks from the\nsultry level of the plain; and the Spanish mariner on the deck of his\nbark, far, far off on the bosom of the blue Mediterranean, watches them\nwith a pensive eye, thinks of delightful Granada, and chants, in low\nvoice, some old romance about the Moors.\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, \u201cThe\nlast sigh of the Moor.\u201d\n\nFurther this way these arid hills slope down into the luxurious Vega,\nfrom which he had just emerged: a blooming wilderness of grove and\ngarden, and teeming orchard, with the Xenil winding through it in silver\nlinks, and feeding innumerable rills; which, conducted through ancient\nMoorish channels, maintain the landscape in perpetual verdure. Here were\nthe beloved bowers and gardens, and rural pavilions, for which the\nunfortunate Moors fought with such desperate valor. The very hovels and\nrude granges; now inhabited by boors, show, by the remains of arabesques\nand other tasteful decoration, that they were elegant residences in the\ndays of the Moslems. Behold, in the very centre of this eventful plain,\na place which in a manner links the history of the Old World with that\nof the New. Yon line of walls and towers gleaming in the morning sun, is\nthe city of Santa Fe, built by the Catholic sovereigns during the siege\nof Granada, after a conflagration had destroyed their camp. It was to\nthese walls Columbus was called back by the heroic queen, and within\nthem the treaty was concluded which led to the discovery of the Western\nWorld. Behind yon promontory to the west is the bridge of Pinos,\nrenowned for many a bloody fight between Moors and Christians. At this\nbridge the messenger overtook Columbus when, despairing of success with\nthe Spanish sovereigns, he was departing to carry his project of\ndiscovery to the court of France.\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 by\nday, 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 clangor of drum and trumpet.\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; \u201cwhose\nhistory,\u201d says an Arabian writer, \u201cabounds in generous actions and noble\ndeeds that will last through all succeeding ages, and live forever in\nthe memory of man.\u201d--But let us sit down on this parapet, and I will\nrelate the anecdote.\n\nIt was in the year of grace 1319, that Ismael ben Ferrag beheld from\nthis tower a Christian camp whitening the skirts of yon mountain of\nElvira. The royal princes, Don Juan and Don Pedro, regents of Castile\nduring the minority of Alfonso XI., had already laid waste the country\nfrom Alcaudete to Alcal\u00e1 la Real, capturing the castle of Illora and\nsetting fire to its suburbs, and they now carried their insulting\nravages to the very gates of Granada, defying the king to sally forth\nand give them battle.\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 neighboring 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 rear,\nbut their march was confused and irregular, the army being greatly\nencumbered by the spoils and captives they had taken.\n\nBy this time King Ismael had received his expected resources, and\nputting them under the command of Osmyn, one of the bravest of his\ngenerals, sent them forth in hot pursuit of the enemy. The Christians\nwere overtaken in the defiles of the mountains. A panic seized them;\nthey were completely routed, and driven with great slaughter across the\nborders. Both of the princes lost their lives. The body of Don Pedro was\ncarried off by his soldiers, but that of Don Juan was lost in the\ndarkness of the night. His son wrote to the Moorish king, entreating\nthat the body of his father might be sought and honorably treated.\nIsmael forgot in a moment that Don Juan was an enemy, who had carried\nravage and insult to the very gate of his capital; he only thought of\nhim as a gallant cavalier and a royal prince. By his command diligent\nsearch was made for the body. It was found in a barranco and brought to\nGranada. There Ismael caused it to be laid out in state on a lofty bier,\nsurrounded by torches and tapers, in one of these halls of the Alhambra.\nOsmyn and other of the noblest cavaliers were appointed as a guard of\nhonor, and the Christian captives were assembled to pray around it.\n\nIn the mean time, Ismael wrote to the son of Prince Juan to send a\nconvoy for the body, assuring him it should be faithfully delivered up.\nIn due time, a band of Christian cavaliers arrived for the purpose. They\nwere honorably received and entertained by Ismael, and, on their\ndeparture with the body, the guard of honor of Moslem cavaliers escorted\nthe funeral train to the frontier.\n\nBut enough;--the sun is high above the mountains, and pours his full\nfervor on our heads. Already the terraced roof is hot beneath our feet;\nlet us abandon it, and refresh ourselves under the Arcades by the\nFountain of the Lions.\n\n\n\n\nTHE TRUANT\n\n\nWe have had a scene of a petty tribulation in the Alhambra, which has\nthrown a cloud over the sunny countenance of Dolores. This little damsel\nhas a female passion for pets of all kinds; and from the superabundant\nkindness of her disposition, one of the ruined courts of the Alhambra is\nthronged with her favorites. A stately peacock and his hen seem to hold\nregal sway here, over pompous turkeys, querulous guinea-fowls, and a\nrabble rout of common cocks and hens. The great delight of Dolores,\nhowever, has for some time past been centred in a youthful pair of\npigeons, who have lately entered into the holy state of wedlock, and\neven supplanted a tortoise-shell cat and kittens in her affections.\n\nAs a tenement for them wherein to commence house-keeping, she had fitted\nup a small chamber adjacent to the kitchen, the window of which looked\ninto one of the quiet Moorish courts. Here they lived in happy ignorance\nof any world beyond the court and its sunny roofs. Never had they\naspired to soar above the battlements, or to mount to the summit of the\ntowers. Their virtuous union was at length crowned by two spotless and\nmilk-white eggs, to the great joy of their cherishing little mistress.\nNothing could be more praiseworthy than the conduct of the young married\nfolks on this interesting occasion. They took turns to sit upon the nest\nuntil the eggs were hatched, and while their callow progeny required\nwarmth and shelter;--while one thus stayed at home, the other foraged\nabroad for food, and brought home abundant supplies.\n\nThis scene of conjugal felicity has suddenly met with a reverse. Early\nthis morning, as Dolores was feeding the male pigeon, she took a fancy\nto give him a peep at the great world. Opening a window, therefore,\nwhich looks down upon the valley of the Darro, she launched him at once\nbeyond the walls of the Alhambra. For the first time in his life the\nastonished bird had to try the full vigor of his wings. He swept down\ninto the valley, and then rising upwards with a surge, soared almost to\nthe clouds. Never before had he risen to such a height, or experienced\nsuch delight in flying; and, like a young spendthrift just come to his\nestate, he seemed giddy with excess of liberty, and with the boundless\nfield of action suddenly opened to him. For the whole day he has been\ncircling about in capricious flights, from tower to tower, and tree to\ntree. Every attempt has been vain to lure him back by scattering grain\nupon the roofs; he seems to have lost all thought of home, of his tender\nhelpmate, and his callow young. To add to the anxiety of Dolores, he has\nbeen joined by two _palomas ladrones_, or robber pigeons, whose instinct\nit is to entice wandering pigeons to their own dove-cotes. The fugitive,\nlike many other thoughtless youths on their first launching upon the\nworld, seems quite fascinated with these knowing but graceless\ncompanions, who have undertaken to show him life, and introduce him to\nsociety. He has been soaring with them over all the roofs and steeples\nof Granada. A thunder-storm has passed over the city, but he has not\nsought his home; night has closed in, and still he comes not. To deepen\nthe pathos of the affair, the female pigeon, after remaining several\nhours on the nest without being relieved, at length went forth to seek\nher recreant mate; but stayed away so long that the young ones perished\nfor want of the warmth and shelter of the parent bosom. At a late hour\nin the evening, word was brought to Dolores that the truant bird had\nbeen seen upon the towers of the Generalife. Now it happens that the\n_Administrador_ of that ancient palace has likewise a dove-cote, among\nthe inmates of which are said to be two or three of these inveigling\nbirds, the terror of all neighboring pigeon-fanciers. Dolores\nimmediately concluded that the two feathered sharpers who had been seen\nwith her fugitive were these bloods of the Generalife. A council of war\nwas forthwith held in the chamber of Tia Antonia. The Generalife is a\ndistinct jurisdiction from the Alhambra, and of course some punctilio,\nif not jealousy, exists between their custodians. It was determined,\ntherefore, to send P\u00e8pe, the stuttering lad of the gardens, as\nambassador to the Administrador, requesting that if such fugitive should\nbe found in his dominions, he might be given up as a subject of the\nAlhambra. P\u00e8pe departed accordingly, on his diplomatic expedition,\nthrough the moonlit groves and avenues, but returned in an hour with the\nafflicting intelligence that no such bird was to be found in the\ndove-cote of the Generalife. The Administrador, however, pledged his\nsovereign word that if such vagrant should appear there, even at\nmidnight, he should instantly be arrested and sent back prisoner to his\nlittle black-eyed mistress.\n\nThus stands the melancholy affair, which has occasioned much distress\nthroughout the palace, and has sent the inconsolable Dolores to a\nsleepless pillow.\n\n---- \u201cSorrow endureth for a night,\u201d says the proverb, \u201cbut joy cometh in\nthe morning.\u201d The first object that met my eyes, on leaving my room this\nmorning, was Dolores, with the truant pigeon in her hands, and her eyes\nsparkling with joy. He had appeared at an early hour on the battlements,\nhovering shyly about from roof to roof, but at length entered the\nwindow, and surrendered himself prisoner. He gained but little credit,\nhowever, by his return; for the ravenous manner in which he devoured the\nfood set before him showed that, like the prodigal son, he had been\ndriven home by sheer famine. Dolores upbraided him for his faithless\nconduct, calling him all manners of vagrant names, though, womanlike,\nshe fondled him at the same time to her bosom, and covered him with\nkisses. I observed, however, that she had taken care to clip his wings\nto prevent all future soarings;--a precaution which I mention for the\nbenefit of all those who have truant lovers or wandering husbands. More\nthan one valuable moral might be drawn from the story of Dolores and her\npigeon.\n\n\n\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\nmountain, valley, and vega, there was a little busy scene of human life\nlaid open to inspection immediately below. At the foot of the hill was\nan alameda, or public walk, which, though not so fashionable as the more\nmodern and splendid paseo of the Xenil, still boasted a varied and\npicturesque concourse. Hither resorted the small gentry of the suburbs,\ntogether with priests and friars, who walked for appetite and digestion;\nmajos and majas, the beaux and belles of the lower classes, in their\nAndalusian dresses; swaggering contrabandistas, and sometimes\nhalf-muffled and mysterious loungers of the higher ranks, on some secret\nassignation.\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 to\nsweep 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 of\ntheir 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\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\npatios, 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\nterraced roofs during the summer season, it follows that many a glance\nat their domestic life might be obtained by an a\u00ebrial spectator like\nmyself, who could 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\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\noccasionally act in direct opposition to the part assigned them, and\ndisconcert the whole drama. Reconnoitring one day with my glass the\nstreets of the Albaycin, I beheld the procession of a novice about to\ntake the veil; and remarked several circumstances which excited the\nstrongest sympathy in the fate of the youthful being thus about to be\nconsigned to a living tomb. I ascertained to my satisfaction that she\nwas beautiful, and, from the paleness of her cheek, that she was a\nvictim rather than a votary. She was arrayed in bridal garments, and\ndecked with a chaplet of white flowers, but her heart evidently revolted\nat this mockery of a spiritual union, and yearned after its earthly\nloves. A tall stern-looking man walked near her in the procession: it\nwas, of course, the tyrannical father, who, from some bigoted or sordid\nmotive, had compelled this sacrifice. Amid the crowd was a dark handsome\nyouth, in Andalusian garb, who seemed to fix on her an eye of agony. It\nwas doubtless the secret lover from whom she was forever to be\nseparated. My indignation rose as I noted the malignant expression\npainted on the countenances of the attendant monks and friars. The\nprocession arrived at the chapel of the convent; the sun gleamed for the\nlast time upon the chaplet of the poor novice, as she crossed the fatal\nthreshold and disappeared within the building. The throng poured in with\ncowl, and cross, and minstrelsy; the lover paused for a moment at the\ndoor. I could divine the tumult of his feelings; but he mastered them,\nand entered. There was a long interval. I pictured to myself the scene\npassing within: the poor novice despoiled of her transient finery, and\nclothed in the conventual garb; the bridal chaplet taken from her brow,\nand 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,\nand the plaintive requiem of the nuns; the father looked on, unmoved,\nwithout a tear; the lover--no--my imagination refused to portray the\nanguish of the lover--there the picture remained a blank.\n\nAfter a time the throng again poured forth, and dispersed various ways,\nto enjoy the light of the sun and mingle with the stirring scenes of\nlife; but the victim, with her bridal chaplet, was no longer there. The\ndoor of the convent closed that severed her from the world forever. I\nsaw the father and the lover issue forth; they were in earnest\nconversation. The latter was vehement in his gesticulations; I expected\nsome violent termination to my drama; but an angle of a building\ninterfered and closed the scene. My eye afterwards was frequently turned\nto that convent with painful interest. I remarked late at night a\nsolitary light twinkling from a remote lattice of one of its towers.\n\u201cThere,\u201d said I, \u201cthe unhappy nun sits weeping in her cell, while\nperhaps her lover paces the street below in unavailing anguish.\u201d\n\n--The officious Mateo interrupted my meditations and destroyed in an\ninstant the cobweb tissue of my fancy. With his usual zeal he had\ngathered facts concerning the scene, which put my fictions all to\nflight. The heroine of my romance was neither young nor handsome; she\nhad no lover; she had entered the convent of her own free will, as a\nrespectable asylum, and was one of the most cheerful residents within\nits 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\ntwo, the pretty coquetries of a dark-eyed brunette, who, from the covert\nof a balcony shrouded with flowering shrubs and a silken awning, was\ncarrying on a mysterious correspondence with a handsome, dark,\nwell-whiskered cavalier, who lurked frequently in the street beneath her\nwindow. Sometimes I saw him at an early hour, stealing forth wrapped to\nthe eyes in a mantle. Sometimes he loitered at a corner, in various\ndisguises, apparently waiting for a private signal to slip into the\nhouse. Then there was the tinkling of a guitar at night and a lantern\nshifted from place to place in the balcony. I imagined another intrigue\nlike that of Almaviva, but was again disconcerted in all my\nsuppositions. The supposed lover turned out to be the husband of the\nlady, and a noted contrabandista; and all his mysterious signs and\nmovements had doubtless some smuggling scheme in view.\n\n--I occasionally amused myself with noting from this balcony the gradual\nchanges of the scenes below, according to the different stages of the\nday.\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\nreviving animation; for the fresh hours of dawning are precious in the\nsummer season in a sultry climate. All are anxious to get the start of\nthe sun, in the business of the day. The muleteer drives forth his\nloaded train for the journey; the traveller slings his carbine behind\nhis saddle, and mounts his steed at the gate of the hostel; the brown\npeasant from the country urges forward his loitering beasts, laden with\npanniers of sunny fruit and fresh dewy vegetables, for already the\nthrifty housewives are hastening 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,\nthe dainty shoe and cobweb stocking, the raven tresses exquisitely\nbraided, the fresh-plucked rose, gleaming among them like a gem, show\nthat earth divides with Heaven the empire of her thoughts. Keep an eye\nupon her, careful mother, or virgin aunt, or vigilant duenna, whichever\nyou may be, that walk behind!\n\nAs the morning advances, the din of labor 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\nnoon there is a pause. The panting city sinks into lassitude, and for\nseveral hours there is a general repose. The windows are closed, the\ncurtains drawn, the inhabitants retired into the coolest recesses of\ntheir mansions; the full-fed monk snores in his dormitory; the brawny\nporter lies stretched on the pavement beside his burden; the peasant and\nthe laborer sleep beneath the trees of the Alameda, lulled by the sultry\nchirping of the locust. The streets are deserted, except by the\nwater-carrier, who refreshes the ear by proclaiming the merits of his\nsparkling beverage, \u201ccolder than the mountain snow (_mas friaque la\nnieve_).\u201d\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\nthat the tyrant of the day has fallen. Now begins the bustle of\nenjoyment, when the citizens pour forth to breathe the evening air, and\nrevel away the brief twilight in the walks and gardens of the Darro and\nXenil.\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\nlights, like the starry firmament. Now break forth from court and\ngarden, and street and lane, the tinkling of innumerable guitars, and\nthe clicking of castanets; blending, at this lofty height, in a faint\nbut general concert. \u201cEnjoy the moment\u201d is the creed of the gay and\namorous Andalusian, and at no time does he practise it more zealously\nthan on the balmy nights of summer, wooing his mistress with the dance,\nthe love-ditty, and the passionate 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\nspacious house, in an obscure street of the Albaycin, about which he\nrelated, as nearly as I can recollect, the following anecdote.\n\n\n\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\u2019 days and holidays, and Saint Monday into the\nbargain, and yet, with all his devotion, he grew poorer and poorer, and\ncould scarcely earn bread for his numerous family. One night he was\nroused from his first sleep by a knocking at his door. He opened it, and\nbeheld before him a tall, meagre, cadaverous-looking priest.\n\n\u201c\u2018Hark ye, honest friend!\u2019 said the stranger; \u2018I have observed that you\nare a good Christian, and one to be trusted; will you undertake a job\nthis very night?\u2019\n\n\u201c\u2018With all my heart, Se\u00f1or Padre, on condition that I am paid\naccordingly.\u2019\n\n\u201c\u2018That you shall be; but you must suffer yourself to be blindfolded.\u2019\n\n\u201cTo 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\nkey, turned a creaking lock, and opened what sounded like a ponderous\ndoor. They entered, the door was closed and bolted, and the mason was\nconducted through an echoing corridor and a spacious hall to an interior\npart of the building. Here the bandage was removed from his eyes, and he\nfound himself in a patio, or court, dimly lighted by a single lamp. In\nthe centre was the dry basin of an old Moorish fountain, under which the\npriest requested him to form a small vault, bricks and mortar being at\nhand for the purpose. He accordingly worked all night, but without\nfinishing the job. Just before daybreak the priest put a piece of gold\ninto his hand, and having again blindfolded him, conducted him back to\nhis dwelling.\n\n\u201c\u2018Are you willing,\u2019 said he, \u2018to return and complete your work?\u2019\n\n\u201c\u2018Gladly, Se\u00f1or Padre, provided I am so well paid.\u2019\n\n\u201c\u2018Well, then, to-morrow at midnight I will call again.\u2019\n\n\u201cHe did so, and the vault was completed.\n\n\u201c\u2018Now,\u2019 said the priest, \u2018you must help me to bring forth the bodies\nthat are to be buried in this vault.\u2019\n\n\u201cThe poor mason\u2019s 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\non perceiving three or four portly jars standing in one corner. They\nwere evidently full of money, and it was with great labor that he and\nthe priest carried them forth and consigned them to their tomb. The\nvault was then closed, the pavement replaced, and all traces of the work\nwere obliterated. The mason was again hoodwinked and led forth by a\nroute different from that by which he had come. After they had wandered\nfor a long time through a perplexed maze of lanes and alleys, they\nhalted. The priest then put two pieces of gold into his hand: \u2018Wait\nhere,\u2019 said he, \u2018until you hear the cathedral bell toll for matins. If\nyou presume to uncover your eyes before that time, evil will befall\nyou\u2019: so saying, he departed. The mason waited faithfully, amusing\nhimself by weighing the gold pieces in his hand, and clinking them\nagainst each other. The moment the cathedral bell rang its matin peal,\nhe uncovered his eyes, and found himself on the banks of the Xenil;\nwhence he made the best of his way home, and revelled with his family\nfor a whole fortnight on the profits of his two nights\u2019 work; after\nwhich he was as poor as ever.\n\n\u201cHe continued to work a little, and pray a good deal, and keep saints\u2019\ndays and holidays, from year to year, while his family grew up as gaunt\nand ragged as a crew of gypsies. As he was seated one evening at the\ndoor of his hovel, he was accosted by a rich old curmudgeon, who was\nnoted for owning many houses, and being a griping landlord. The man of\nmoney eyed him for a moment from beneath a pair of anxious shagged\neyebrows.\n\n\u201c\u2018I am told, friend, that you are very poor.\u2019\n\n\u201c\u2018There is no denying the fact, Se\u00f1or,--it speaks for itself.\u2019\n\n\u201c\u2018I presume, then, that you will be glad of a job, and will work cheap.\u2019\n\n\u201c\u2018As cheap, my master, as any mason in Granada.\u2019\n\n\u201c\u2018That\u2019s 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\nlive in it; so I must contrive to patch it up and keep it together at as\nsmall expense as possible.\u2019\n\n\u201cThe 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\nplace came over him.\n\n\u201c\u2018Pray,\u2019 said he, \u2018who occupied this house formerly?\u2019\n\n\u201c\u2018A pest upon him!\u2019 cried the landlord; \u2018it 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\ntake possession of his wealth; but nothing could they find but a few\nducats in a leathern purse. The worst luck has fallen on me, for, since\nhis death, the old fellow continues to occupy my house without paying\nrent, and there is no taking the law of a dead man. The people pretend\nto hear the clinking of gold all night in the chamber where the old\npriest slept, as if he were counting over his money, and sometimes a\ngroaning and moaning about the court. Whether true or false, these\nstories have brought a bad name on my house, and not a tenant will\nremain in it.\u2019\n\n\u201c\u2018Enough,\u2019 said the mason sturdily: \u2018let 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\nthough he should come in the shape of a big bag of money!\u2019\n\n\u201cThe 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\nbe heard by day in the pocket of the living mason. In a word, he\nincreased rapidly in wealth, to the admiration of all his neighbors, and\nbecame one of the richest men in Granada: he gave large sums to the\nChurch, by way, no doubt, of satisfying his conscience, and never\nrevealed the secret of the vault until on his death-bed to his son and\nheir.\u201d\n\n\n\n\nTHE COURT OF LIONS\n\n\nThe peculiar charm of this old dreamy palace is its power of calling up\nvague 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 \u201cvain shadows,\u201d I am prone to seek those parts\nof the Alhambra which are most favorable 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 splendor exist in almost their original brilliancy.\nEarthquakes have shaken the foundations of this pile, and rent its\nrudest towers; yet see! not one of those slender columns has been\ndisplaced, not an arch of that light and fragile colonnade given way,\nand all the fairy fretwork of these domes, apparently as unsubstantial\nas the crystal fabrics of a morning\u2019s frost, exist after the lapse of\ncenturies, almost as fresh as if from the hand of the Moslem artist. I\nwrite in the midst of these mementos of the past, in the fresh hour of\nearly morning, in the fated Hall of the Abencerrages. The blood-stained\nfountain, the legendary monument of their massacre, is before me; the\nlofty jet almost casts its dew upon my paper. How difficult to reconcile\nthe ancient tale of violence and blood with the gentle and peaceful\nscene around! Everything here appears calculated to inspire kind and\nhappy feelings, for everything is delicate and beautiful. The very light\nfalls tenderly from above, through the lantern of a dome tinted and\nwrought as if by fairy hands. Through the ample and fretted arch of the\nportal I behold the Court of Lions, with brilliant sunshine gleaming\nalong its colonnades and sparkling in its fountains. The lively swallow\ndives into the court, and, rising with a surge, darts away twittering\nover the roofs; the busy bee toils humming among the flower-beds; and\npainted butterflies hover from plant to plant, and flutter up and sport\nwith each other in the sunny air. It needs but a slight exertion of the\nfancy to picture some pensive beauty of the harem, loitering in these\nsecluded 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\nthe tale of departed grandeur.\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, in\npresence 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\n\n[Illustration: FOUNTAIN OF LIONS.]\n\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\nstand in a remote corner, the humble and neglected spectator of the\npageant. I see in imagination the Catholic sovereigns prostrating\nthemselves before the altar, and pouring forth thanks for their victory;\nwhile the vaults resound with sacred minstrelsy, and the deep-toned Te\nDeum.\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 neighboring Tower of Comares.\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 realized: an\nenchanted Moor had broken the spell of centuries, and become visible. He\nproved, 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\nrhubarb, trinkets, and perfumes. As he spoke Spanish fluently, I was\nenabled to hold conversation with him, and found him shrewd and\nintelligent. He told me that he came up the hill occasionally in the\nsummer, to pass a part of the day in the Alhambra, which reminded him of\nthe old palaces in Barbary, being built and adorned in similar style,\nthough 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\u201cAh, Se\u00f1or,\u201d said he, \u201cwhen 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\nmusic. He who could make the best verses, and she who had the most\ntuneful voice, might be sure of favor and preferment. In those days, if\nany one asked for bread, the reply was, make me a couplet; and the\npoorest beggar, if he begged in rhyme, would often be rewarded with a\npiece of gold.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd is the popular feeling for poetry,\u201d said I, \u201centirely lost among\nyou?\u201d\n\n\u201cBy no means, Se\u00f1or; 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\ntheir gold to the sound of poetry or music.\u201d\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 of\nthis pile. He shook his head, and shrugged his shoulders, as he\ninterpreted it. \u201cSuch might have been the case,\u201d said he; \u201cthe 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\nmonarchs would never have been able to conquer it by open force.\u201d\n\nI endeavored 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\nfather; but the Moor would admit of no palliation.\n\n\u201cMuley Abul Hassan,\u201d said he, \u201cmight 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!\u201d With these words\nthe Moor 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 favored region of\nAndalusia, the delights of Granada, and the remains of its royal palace.\nThe replies awakened all those fond recollections, so deeply cherished\nby the Moors, of the power and splendor of their ancient empire in\nSpain. Turning to his Moslem attendants, the Pacha stroked his beard,\nand broke forth in passionate lamentations, that such a sceptre should\nhave fallen from the sway of true believers. He consoled himself,\nhowever, with the persuasion, that the power and prosperity of the\nSpanish nation were on the decline; that a time would come when the\nMoors would conquer their rightful domains; and that the day was perhaps\nnot far distant when Mohammedan worship would again be offered up in the\nMosque of Cordova, and a Mohammedan prince sit on his throne in the\nAlhambra.\n\nSuch is the general aspiration and belief among the Moors of Barbary;\nwho consider Spain, or Andaluz, as it was anciently called, their\nrightful heritage, of which they have been despoiled by treachery and\nviolence. These ideas are fostered and perpetuated by the descendants of\nthe exiled Moors of Granada, scattered among the cities of Barbary.\nSeveral of these reside in Tetuan, preserving their ancient names, such\nas Paez and Medina, and refraining from inter-marriage with any families\nwho cannot claim the same high origin. Their vaunted lineage is regarded\nwith a degree of popular deference rarely shown in Mohammedan\ncommunities to any hereditary distinction, 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 on\nFridays, 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\nHoly Sepulchre. Nay, it is added, that some of them retain the ancient\nmaps and deeds of the estates and gardens of their ancestors at Granada,\nand even the keys of the houses; holding them as evidences of their\nhereditary claims, to be produced at the anticipated day of restoration.\n\nMy conversation with the Moors 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 honorable name on the historic page, how cruelly\nhas he been defrauded of his hopes! Who is there that has turned the\nleast attention to the romantic history of the Moorish domination in\nSpain, without kindling with indignation at the alleged atrocities of\nBoabdil? Who has not been touched with the woes of his lovely and gentle\nqueen, subjected by him to a trial of life and death, on a false charge\nof infidelity? Who has not been shocked by his alleged murder of his\nsister and her two children, in a transport of passion? Who has not felt\nhis blood boil at the inhuman massacre of the gallant Abencerrages,\nthirty-six of whom, it is affirmed, he ordered to be beheaded in the\nCourt of Lions? All these charges have been reiterated in various forms;\nthey have passed into ballads, dramas, and romances, until they have\ntaken too thorough possession of the public mind to be eradicated. There\nis not a foreigner of education that visits the Alhambra, but asks for\nthe fountain where the Abencerrages were beheaded; and gazes with\nhorror at the grated gallery where the queen is said to have been\nconfined; not a peasant of the Vega or the Sierra, but sings the story\nin rude couplets, to the accompaniment of his guitar, while his hearers\nlearn to execrate the very name of Boabdil.\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\nof the Catholic sovereigns, and actually present in the camp throughout\nthe war. I have examined all the Arabian authorities I could get access\nto, through the medium of translation, and have found nothing to justify\nthese dark and hateful accusations. The most of these tales may be\ntraced to a work commonly called \u201cThe Civil Wars of Granada,\u201d containing\na pretended history of the feuds of the Zegries and Abencerrages, during\nthe last struggle of the Moorish empire. The work appeared originally in\nSpanish, and professed to be translated from the Arabic by one Gines\nPerez de Hita, an inhabitant of Murcia. It has since passed into various\nlanguages, and Florian has taken from it much of the fable of his\nGonsalvo of Cordova: it has thus, in a great measure, usurped the\nauthority of real history, and is currently believed by the people, and\nespecially the peasantry of Granada. The whole of it, however, is a mass\nof fiction, mingled with a few disfigured truths, which give it an air\nof veracity. It bears internal evidence of its falsity; the manners and\ncustoms of the Moors being extravagantly misrepresented in it, and\nscenes depicted totally incompatible with their habits and their faith,\nand which never could have been recorded by a Mahometan writer.\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 to\nbe 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\nkingdom, without having his name thus wantonly traduced, and rendered a\nby-word and a theme of infamy in his native land, and in the very\nmansion of his fathers!\n\nIf the reader is sufficiently interested in these questions to tolerate\na little historical detail, the following facts, gleaned from what\nappear to be authentic sources, and tracing the fortunes of the\nAbencerrages, may serve to exculpate the unfortunate Boabdil from the\nperfidious massacre of that illustrious line so shamelessly charged to\nhim. It will also serve to throw a proper light upon the alleged\naccusation and imprisonment of his queen.\n\n\n\n\nTHE ABENCERRAGES\n\n\nA grand line of distinction existed among the Moslems of Spain, between\nthose of Oriental origin and those from Western Africa. Among the former\nthe Arabs considered themselves the purest race, as being descended from\nthe countrymen of the Prophet, who first raised the standard of Islam;\namong the latter, the most warlike and powerful were the Berber tribes\nfrom Mount Atlas and the deserts of Sahara, commonly known as Moors, who\nsubdued the tribes of the seacoast, founded the city of Morocco, and for\na long time disputed with the Oriental races the control of Moslem\nSpain.\n\nAmong the Oriental races the Abencerrages held a distinguished rank,\npriding themselves on a pure Arab descent from the Beni Seraj, one of\nthe tribes who were Ansares or Companions of the Prophet. The\nAbencerrages flourished for a time at Cordova; but probably repaired to\nGranada after the downfall of the Western Caliphat; it was there they\nattained their historical and romantic celebrity, being foremost among\nthe splendid chivalry which graced the court of the Alhambra.\n\nTheir highest and most dangerous prosperity was during the precarious\nreign of Muhamed Nasar, surnamed El Hayzari, or the Left-handed. That\nill-starred monarch, when he ascended the throne in 1423, lavished his\nfavors upon this gallant line, making the head of the tribe, Jusef Aben\nZeragh, his vizier, or prime minister, and advancing his relatives and\nfriends to the most distinguished posts about the court. This gave great\noffence to other tribes, and caused intrigues among their chiefs.\nMuhamed lost popularity also by his manners. He was vain, inconsiderate,\nand haughty; disdained to mingle among his subjects; forbade those\njousts and tournaments, the delight of high and low, and passed his time\nin the luxurious retirement of the Alhambra. The consequence was a\npopular insurrection: the palace was stormed; the king escaped through\nthe gardens, fled to the sea-coast, crossed in disguise to Africa, and\ntook refuge with his kinsman, the sovereign of Tunis.\n\nMuhamed el Zaguer, cousin of the fugitive monarch, took possession of\nthe vacant throne. He pursued a different course from his predecessor.\nHe not only gave f\u00eates and tourneys, but entered the lists himself, in\ngrand and sumptuous array; he distinguished himself in managing his\nhorse, in tilting, riding at the ring, and other chivalrous exercises;\nfeasted with his cavaliers, and made them magnificent presents.\n\nThose who had been in favor with his predecessor, now experienced a\nreverse; he manifested such hostility to them that more than five\nhundred of the principal cavaliers left the city. Jusef Aben Zeragh,\nwith forty of the Abencerrages, abandoned Granada in the night, and\nsought the court of Juan the king of Castile. Moved by their\nrepresentations, that young and generous monarch wrote letters to the\nsovereign of Tunis, inviting him to assist in punishing the usurper and\nrestoring the exiled king to his throne. The faithful and indefatigable\nvizier accompanied the bearer of these letters to Tunis, where he\nrejoined his exiled sovereign. The letters were successful. Muhamed el\nHayzari landed in Andalusia with five hundred African horse, and was\njoined by the Abencerrages and others of his adherents and by his\nChristian allies; wherever he appeared the people submitted to him;\ntroops sent against him deserted to his standard; Granada was recovered\nwithout a blow; the usurper retreated to the Alhambra, but was beheaded\nby his own soldiers (1428), after reigning between two and three years.\n\nEl Hayzari, once more on the throne, heaped honors on the loyal vizier,\nthrough whose faithful services he had been restored, and once more the\nline of the Abencerrages basked in the sunshine of royal favor. El\nHayzari sent ambassadors to King Juan, thanking him for his aid, and\nproposing a perpetual league of amity. The king of Castile required\nhomage and yearly tribute. These the left-handed monarch refused,\nsupposing the youthful king too much engaged in civil war to enforce his\nclaims. Again the kingdom of Granada was harassed by invasions, and its\nVega laid waste. Various battles took place with various success. But El\nHayzari\u2019s greatest danger was near at home. There was at that time in\nGranada a cavalier, Don Pedro Venegas by name, a Moslem by faith, but\nChristian by descent, whose early history borders on romance. He was of\nthe noble house of Luque, but captured when a child, eight years of age,\nby Cid Yahia Alnayar, prince of Almeria,[8] who adopted him as his son,\neducated him in the Moslem faith, and brought him up among his children,\nthe Celtimerian princes, a proud family, descended in direct line from\nAben Hud, one of the early Granadian kings. A mutual attachment sprang\nup between Don Pedro and the princess Cetimerien, a daughter of Cid\nYahia, famous for her beauty, and whose name is perpetuated by the ruins\nof her palace in Granada--still bearing traces of Moorish elegance and\nluxury. In process of time they were married; and thus a scion of the\nSpanish house of Luque became engrafted on the royal stock of Aben Hud.\n\nSuch is the early story of Don Pedro Venegas, who at the time of which\nwe treat was a man mature in years, and of an active, ambitious spirit.\nHe appears to have been the soul of a conspiracy set on foot about this\ntime, to topple Muhamed the Left-handed from his unsteady throne, and\nelevate in his place Yusef Aben Alhamar, the eldest of the Celtimerian\nprinces. The aid of the king of Castile was to be secured, and Don Pedro\nproceeded on a secret embassy to Cordova for the purpose. He informed\nKing Juan of the extent of the conspiracy; that Yusef Aben Alhamar could\nbring a large force to his standard as soon as he should appear in the\nVega, and would acknowledge himself his vassal, if with his aid he\nshould attain the crown. The aid was promised and Don Pedro hastened\nback to Granada with the tidings. The conspirators now left the city, a\nfew at a time, under various pretexts; and when King Juan passed the\nfrontier, Yusef Aben Alhamar brought eight thousand men to his standard,\nand kissed his hand in token of allegiance.\n\nIt is needless to recount the various battles by which the kingdom was\ndesolated, and the various intrigues by which one half of it was roused\nto rebellion. The Abencerrages stood by the failing fortunes of Muhamed\nthroughout the struggle; their last stand was at Loxa, where their\nchief, the vizier Yusef Aben Zeragh, fell bravely fighting, and many of\ntheir noblest cavaliers were slain: in fact, in that disastrous war the\nfortunes of the family were nearly wrecked.\n\nAgain the ill-starred Muhamed was driven from his throne, and took\nrefuge in Malaga, the alcayde of which still remained true to him.\n\nYusef Aben Alhamar, commonly known as Yusef II., entered Granada in\ntriumph on the first of January, 1432, but he found it a melancholy\ncity, where half of the inhabitants were in mourning. Not a noble family\nbut had lost some member; and in the slaughter of the Abencerrages at\nLoxa had fallen some of the brightest of the chivalry.\n\nThe royal pageant passed through silent streets, and the barren homage\nof a court in the halls of the Alhambra ill supplied the want of sincere\nand popular devotion. Yusef Aben Alhamar felt the insecurity of his\nposition. The deposed monarch was at hand in Malaga; the sovereign of\nTunis espoused his cause, and pleaded with the Christian monarchs in his\nfavor; above all, Yusef felt his own unpopularity in Granada; previous\nfatigues had impaired his health, a profound melancholy settled upon\nhim, and in the course of six months he sank into the grave.\n\nAt the news of his death, Muhamed the Left-handed hastened from Malaga,\nand again was placed on the throne. From the wrecks of the Abencerrages\nhe chose as vizier Abdelbar, one of the worthiest of that magnanimous\nline. Through his advice he restrained his vindictive feelings and\nadopted a conciliatory policy. He pardoned most of his enemies. Yusef,\nthe defunct usurper, had left three children. His estates were\napportioned among them. Aben Celim, the eldest son, was confirmed in\nthe title of Prince of Almeria and Lord of Marchena in the Alpuxarras.\nAhmed, the youngest, was made Se\u00f1or of Luchar; and Equivila, the\ndaughter, received rich patrimonial lands in the fertile Vega, and\nvarious houses and shops in the Zacatin of Granada. The vizier Abdelbar\ncounselled the king, moreover, to secure the adherence of the family by\nmatrimonial connections. An aunt of Muhamed was accordingly given in\nmarriage to Aben Celim, while the prince Nasar, younger brother of the\ndeceased usurper, received the hand of the beautiful Lindaraxa, daughter\nof Muhamed\u2019s faithful adherent, the alcayde of Malaga. This was the\nLindaraxa whose name still designates one of the gardens of the\nAlhambra.\n\nDon Pedro de Venegas alone, the husband of the princess Cetimerien,\nreceived no favor. He was considered as having produced the late\ntroubles by his intrigues. The Abencerrages charged him with the\nreverses of their family and the deaths of so many of their bravest\ncavaliers. The king never spoke of him but by the opprobrious\nappellation of the Tornadizo, or Renegade. Finding himself in danger of\narrest and punishment, he took leave of his wife, the princess, his two\nsons, Abul Cacim and Reduan, and his daughter, Cetimerien, and fled to\nJaen. There, like his brother-in-law, the usurper, he expiated his\nintrigues and irregular ambition by profound humiliation and melancholy,\nand died in 1434 a penitent, because a disappointed man.[9]\n\nMuhamed el Hayzari was doomed to further reverses. He had two nephews,\nAben Osmyn, surnamed el Anaf, or the Lame, and Aben Ismael. The former,\nwho was of an ambitious spirit, resided in Almeria; the latter in\nGranada, where he had many friends. He was on the point of espousing a\nbeautiful girl, when his royal uncle interfered and gave her to one of\nhis favorites. Enraged at this despotic act, the prince Aben Ismael took\nhorse and weapons and sallied from Granada for the frontier, followed by\nnumerous cavaliers. The affair gave general disgust, especially to the\nAbencerrages who were attached to the prince. No sooner did tidings\nreach Aben Osmyn of the public discontent than his ambition was aroused.\nThrowing himself suddenly into Granada, he raised a popular tumult,\nsurprised his uncle in the Alhambra, compelled him to abdicate, and\nproclaimed himself king. This occurred in September, 1445. The\nAbencerrages now gave up the fortunes of the left-handed king as\nhopeless, and himself as incompetent to rule. Led by their kinsman, the\nvizier Abdelbar, and accompanied by many other cavaliers, they abandoned\nthe court and took post in Montefrio. Thence Abdelbar wrote to Prince\nAben Ismael, who had taken refuge in Castile, inviting him to the camp,\noffering to support his pretensions to the throne, and advising him to\nleave Castile secretly, lest his departure should be opposed by King\nJuan II. The prince, however, confiding in the generosity of the\nCastilian monarch, told frankly the whole matter. He was not mistaken.\nKing Juan not merely gave him permission to depart, but promised him\naid, and gave him letters to that effect to his commanders on the\nfrontiers. Aben Ismael departed with a brilliant escort, arrived in\nsafety at Montefrio, and was proclaimed king of Granada by Abdelbar and\nhis partisans, the most important of whom were the Abencerrages. A long\ncourse of civil wars ensued between the two cousins, rivals for the\nthrone. Aben Osmyn was aided by the kings of Navarre and Aragon, while\nJuan II., at war with his rebellious subjects, could give little\nassistance to Aben Ismael.\n\nThus for several years the country was torn by internal strife and\ndesolated by foreign inroads, so that scarce a field but was stained\nwith blood. Aben Osmyn was brave, and often signalized himself in arms;\nbut he was cruel and despotic, and ruled with an iron hand. He offended\nthe nobles by his caprices, and the populace by his tyranny, while his\nrival cousin conciliated all hearts of his benignity. Hence there were\ncontinual desertions from Granada to the fortified camp at Montefrio,\nand the party of Aben Ismael was constantly gaining strength. At length\nthe king of Castile, having made peace with the kings of Aragon and\nNavarre, was enabled to send a choice body of troops to the assistance\nof Aben Ismael. The latter now left his trenches in Montefrio, and took\nthe field. The combined forces marched upon Granada. Aben Osmyn sallied\nforth to the encounter. A bloody battle ensued, in which both of the\nrival cousins fought with heroic valor. Aben Osmyn was defeated and\ndriven back to his gates. He summoned the inhabitants to arms, but few\nanswered to his call; his cruelty had alienated all hearts. Seeing his\nfortunes at an end, he determined to close his career by a signal act of\nvengeance. Shutting himself up in the Alhambra, he summoned thither a\nnumber of the principal cavaliers whom he suspected of disloyalty. As\nthey entered, they were one by one put to death. This is supposed by\nsome to be the massacre which gave its fatal name to the Hall of the\nAbencerrages. Having perpetrated this atrocious act of vengeance, and\nhearing by the shouts of the populace that Aben Ismael was already\nproclaimed king in the city, he escaped with his satellites by the Cerro\ndel Sol and the valley of the Darro to the Alpuxarra Mountains; where he\nand his followers led a kind of robber life, laying villages and roads\nunder contribution.\n\nAben Ismael II., who thus attained the throne in 1454, secured the\nfriendship of King Juan II. by acts of homage and magnificent presents.\nHe gave liberal rewards to those who had been faithful to him, and\nconsoled the families of those who had fallen in his cause. During his\nreign, the Abencerrages were again among the most favored of the\nbrilliant chivalry that graced his court. Aben Ismael, however, was not\nof a warlike spirit; his reign was distinguished rather by works of\npublic utility, the ruins of some of which are still to be seen on the\nCerro del Sol.\n\nIn the same year of 1454 Juan II. died, and was succeeded by Henry IV.\nof Castile, surnamed the Impotent. Aben Ismael neglected to renew the\nleague of amity with him which had existed with his predecessor, as he\nfound it to be unpopular with the people of Granada. King Henry resented\nthe omissions, and, under pretext of arrears of tribute, made repeated\nforays into the kingdom of Granada. He gave countenance also to Aben\nOsmyn and his robber hordes, and took some of them into pay; but his\nproud cavaliers refused to associate with infidel outlaws, and\ndetermined to seize Aben Osmyn; who, however, made his escape, first to\nSeville, and thence to Castile.\n\nIn the year 1456, on the occasion of a great foray into the Vega by the\nChristians, Aben Ismael, to secure a peace, agreed to pay the king of\nCastile a certain tribute annually, and at the same time to liberate six\nhundred Christian captives; or, should the number of captives fall\nshort, to make it up in Moorish hostages. Aben Ismael fulfilled the\nrigorous terms of the treaty, and reigned for a number of years with\nmore tranquillity than usually fell to the lot of the monarchs of that\nbelligerent kingdom. Granada enjoyed a great state of prosperity during\nhis reign, and was the seat of festivity and splendor. His sultana was a\ndaughter of Cid Hiaya Abraham Alnayar, prince of Almeria; and he had by\nher two sons, Abul Hassan, and Abi Abdallah, surnamed El Zagal, the\nfather and uncle of Boabdil. We approach now the eventful period\nsignalized by the conquest of Granada.\n\nMuley Abul Hassan succeeded to the throne on the death of his father in\n1465. One of his first acts was to refuse payment of the degrading\ntribute exacted by the Castilian monarch. His refusal was one of the\ncauses of the subsequent disastrous war. I confine myself, however, to\nfacts connected with the fortunes of the Abencerrages and the charges\nadvanced against Boabdil.\n\nThe reader will recollect that Don Pedro Venegas, surnamed El Tornadizo,\nwhen he fled from Granada in 1433, left behind him two sons, Abul Cacim\nand Reduan, and a daughter, Cetimerien. They always enjoyed a\ndistinguished rank in Granada, from their royal descent by the mother\u2019s\nside, and from being connected, through the princes of Almeria, with the\nlast and the present king. The sons had distinguished themselves by\ntheir talents and bravery, and the daughter Cetimerien was married to\nCid Hiaya, grandson of King Yusef and brother-in-law of El Zagal. Thus\npowerfully connected, it is not surprising to find Abul Cacim Venegas\nadvanced to the post of vizier of Muley Abul Hassan, and Reduan Venegas\none of his most favored generals. Their rise was regarded with an evil\neye by the Abencerrages, who remembered the disasters brought upon their\nfamily, and the deaths of so many of their line, in the war fomented by\nthe intrigues of Don Pedro, in the days of Yusef Aben Alhamar. A feud\nhad existed ever since between the Abencerrages and the house of\nVenegas. It was soon to be aggravated by a formidable schism which took\nplace in the royal harem.\n\nMuley Abul Hassan, in his youthful days, had married his cousin, the\nPrincess Ayxa la Horra, daughter of his uncle, the ill-starred sultan,\nMuhamed the Left-handed;[10] by her he had two sons, the eldest of whom\nwas Boabdil, heir presumptive to the throne. Unfortunately at an\nadvanced age he took another wife, Isabella de Solis, a young and\nbeautiful Christian captive, better known by her Moorish appellation of\nZoraya; by her he had also two sons. Two factions were produced in the\npalace by the rivalry of the sultanas, who were each anxious to secure\nfor their children the succession to the throne. Zoraya was supported by\nthe vizier Abul Cacim Venegas, his brother Reduan Venegas, and their\nnumerous connections, partly through sympathy with her as being, like\nthemselves, of Christian lineage, and partly because they saw she was\nthe favorite of the doting monarch.\n\nThe Abencerrages, on the contrary, rallied round the sultana Ayxa;\npartly through hereditary opposition to the family of Venegas, but\nchiefly, no doubt, through a strong feeling of loyalty to her as\ndaughter of Muhamed Alhayzari, the ancient benefactor of their line.\n\nThe dissensions of the palace went on increasing. Intrigues of all kinds\ntook place, as is usual in royal palaces. Suspicions were artfully\ninstilled in the mind of Muley Abul Hassan that Ayxa was engaged in a\nplot to depose him and put her son Boabdil on the throne. In his first\ntransports of rage he confined them both in the Tower of Comares,\nthreatening the life of Boabdil. At dead of night the anxious mother\nlowered her son from a window of the tower by the scarfs of herself and\nher female attendants; and some of her adherents, who were in waiting\nwith swift horses, bore him away to the Alpuxarras. It is this\nimprisonment of the sultana Ayxa which possibly gave rise to the fable\nof the queen of Boabdil being confined by him in a tower to be tried for\nher life. No other shadow of a ground exists for it, and here we find\nthe tyrant jailer was his father, and the captive sultana his mother.\n\nThe massacre of the Abencerrages in the halls of the Alhambra is placed\nby some about this time, and attributed also to Muley Abul Hassan, on\nsuspicion of their being concerned in the conspiracy. The sacrifice of a\nnumber of the cavaliers of that line is said to have been suggested by\nthe vizier Abul Cacim Venegas, as a means of striking terror into the\nrest.[11] If such were really the case, the barbarous measure proved\nabortive. The Abencerrages continued intrepid, as they were loyal, in\ntheir adherence to the cause of Ayxa and her son Boabdil, throughout the\nwar which ensued, while the Venegas were ever foremost in the ranks of\nMuley Abul Hassan and El Zagal. The ultimate fortunes of these rival\nfamilies is worthy of note. The Venegas, in the last struggle of\nGranada, were among those who submitted to the conquerors, renounced the\nMoslem creed, returned to the faith from which their ancestor had\napostatized, were rewarded with offices and estates, intermarried with\nSpanish families, and have left posterity among the nobles of the land.\nThe Abencerrages remained true to their faith, true to their king, true\nto their desperate cause, and went down with the foundering wreck of\nMoslem domination, leaving nothing behind them but a gallant and\nromantic name in history.\n\nIn this historical outline, I trust I have shown enough to put the fable\nconcerning Boabdil and the Abencerrages in a true light. The story of\nthe accusation of his queen, and his cruelty to his sister, are equally\nvoid of foundation. In his domestic relations he appears to have been\nkind and affectionate. History gives him but one wife, Morayma, the\ndaughter of the veteran alcayde of Loxa, old Aliatar, famous in song and\nstory for his exploits in border warfare; and who fell in that\ndisastrous foray into the Christian lands in which Boabdil was taken\nprisoner. Morayma was true to Boabdil throughout all his vicissitudes.\nWhen he was dethroned by the Castilian monarchs, she retired with him to\nthe petty domain allotted him in the valleys of the Alpuxarras. It was\nonly when (dispossessed of this by the jealous precautions and subtle\nchicanery of Ferdinand, and elbowed, as it were, out of his native land)\nhe was preparing to embark for Africa, that her health and spirits,\nexhausted by anxiety and long suffering, gave way, and she fell into a\nlingering illness aggravated by corroding melancholy. Boabdil was\nconstant and affectionate to her to the last; the sailing of the ships\nwas delayed for several weeks, to the great annoyance of the suspicious\nFerdinand. At length Morayma sank into the grave, evidently the victim\nof a broken heart, and the event was reported to Ferdinand by his agent\nas one propitious to his purposes, removing the only obstacle to the\nembarkation of Boabdil.[12]\n\n\n\n\nMEMENTOS OF BOABDIL\n\n\nWhile my mind was still warm with the subject of the unfortunate\nBoabdil, I set forth to trace the mementos of him still existing in this\nscene of his sovereignty and misfortunes. In the Tower of Comares,\nimmediately under the Hall of Ambassadors, are two vaulted rooms,\nseparated by a narrow passage; these are said to have been the prisons\nof himself and his mother, the virtuous Ayxa la Horra; indeed, no other\npart of the tower would have served for the purpose. The external walls\nof these chambers are of prodigious thickness, pierced with small\nwindows secured by iron bars. A narrow stone gallery, with a low\nparapet, extends along three sides of the tower just below the windows,\nbut at a considerable height from the ground. From this gallery, it is\npresumed, the queen lowered her son with the scarfs of herself and her\nfemale attendants during the darkness of the night to the hillside,\nwhere some of his faithful adherents waited with fleet steeds to bear\nhim 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\u2019s heart, to the last echoes of the horses\u2019 hoofs\nas her son scoured along the narrow valley of the Darro.\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\nsuperstitious feeling, he requested of the Catholic monarchs that no one\nafterwards might be permitted to pass through it. His prayer, according\nto ancient chronicles, was complied with, through the sympathy of\nIsabella, and the gate was walled up.[13]\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 de\nlos siete suelos_). It is famous in the neighborhood as the scene of\nstrange apparitions and Moorish enchantments. According to Swinburne the\ntraveller, it was originally the great gate of entrance. The antiquaries\nof Granada pronounce it the entrance to that quarter of the royal\nresidence where the king\u2019s body-guards 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\nfrom the Christian army and the officers to whom the fortress was to be\ngiven up.[14]\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\nMounting my horse, I followed up the route of the Moslem monarch from\nthis place of his exit. Crossing the hill of Los Martyros, and keeping\nalong the garden-wall of a convent bearing the same name, I descended a\nrugged ravine beset by thickets of aloes and Indian figs, and lined with\ncaves and hovels swarming with gypsies. The descent was so steep and\nbroken that I was fain to alight and lead my horse. By this _via\ndolorosa_ poor Boabdil took his sad departure to avoid passing through\nthe city; partly, perhaps, through unwillingness that its inhabitants\nshould behold his humiliation; but chiefly, in all probability, lest it\nmight cause some popular agitation. For the last reason, undoubtedly,\nthe detachment sent to take possession of the fortress ascended by the\nsame route.\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\ncourse of the Xenil, arrived at a small chapel, once a mosque, now the\nHermitage of San Sebastian. Here, according to tradition, Boabdil\nsurrendered the keys of Granada to King Ferdinand. I rode slowly thence\nacross the Vega to a village where the family and household of the\nunhappy king awaited him, for he had sent them forward on the preceding\nnight from the Alhambra, that his mother and wife might not participate\nin his personal humiliation, or be exposed to the gaze of the\nconquerors. Following on in the route of the melancholy band of royal\nexiles, I arrived at the foot of a chain of barren and dreary heights,\nforming the skirt of the Alpuxarra Mountains. From the summit of one of\nthese the unfortunate Boabdil took his last look at Granada; it bears a\nname expressive of his sorrows, _La Cuesta de las Lagrimas_ (the hill of\ntears). Beyond it, a sandy road winds across a rugged cheerless waste,\ndoubly dismal to the unhappy monarch, as it led to exile.\n\nI spurred my horse to the summit of a rock, where Boabdil uttered his\nlast sorrowful exclamation, as he turned his eyes from taking their\nfarewell gaze: it is still denominated _el ultimo suspiro del Moro_ (the\nlast sigh of the Moor). Who can wonder at his anguish at being expelled\nfrom such a kingdom and such an abode? With the Alhambra he seemed to be\nyielding up all the honors of his line, and all the glories and delights\nof life.\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\nhad vainly sought to instil into him her own resolute spirit. \u201cYou do\nwell,\u201d said she, \u201cto weep as a woman over what you could not defend as a\nman\u201d; a speech savoring more of the pride of the princess than the\ntenderness of 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\nwavering Boabdil. \u201cHad I been he, or he been I,\u201d said the haughty\npotentate, \u201cI would rather have made this Alhambra my sepulchre than\nhave lived without a kingdom in the Alpuxarra.\u201d How easy it is for those\nin power and prosperity to preach heroism to the vanquished! how little\ncan they understand that life itself may rise in value with the\nunfortunate, when naught but life remains!\n\nSlowly descending the \u201cHill of Tears,\u201d 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 favor. 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\npeople by his affable and gracious manners; he was always placable, and\nnever inflicted any severity of punishment upon those who occasionally\nrebelled against him. He was personally brave; but wanted moral\ncourage; and, in times of difficulty and perplexity, was wavering and\nirresolute. This feebleness of spirit hastened his downfall, while it\ndeprived him of that heroic grace which would have given grandeur and\ndignity to his fate, and rendered him worthy of closing the splendid\ndrama of the Moslem domination in Spain.\n\n\n\n\nPUBLIC F\u00caTES OF GRANADA\n\n\nMy devoted squire and whilom ragged cicerone Mateo Ximenes had a\npoor-devil passion for f\u00eates and holidays, and was never so eloquent as\nwhen detailing the civil and religious festivals at Granada. During the\npreparations for the annual Catholic f\u00eate of Corpus Christi, he was in a\nstate of incessant transition between the Alhambra and the subjacent\ncity, bringing me daily accounts of the magnificent arrangements that\nwere in progress, and endeavoring, but in vain, to lure me down from my\ncool and airy retreat to witness them. At length, on the eve of the\neventful day, I yielded to his solicitations and descended from the\nregal halls of the Alhambra under his escort, as did of yore the\nadventure-seeking Haroun Alraschid under that of his Grand Vizier\nGiaffar. Though it was yet scarce sunset, the city gates were already\nthronged with the picturesque villagers of the mountains, and the brown\npeasantry of the Vega. Granada has ever been the rallying-place of a\ngreat mountainous region, studded with towns and villages. Hither,\nduring the Moorish domination, the chivalry of this region repaired, to\njoin in the splendid and semi-warlike f\u00eates of the Vivarrambla, and\nhither the \u00e9lite of its population still resort to join in the pompous\nceremonials of the Church. Indeed, many of the mountaineers from the\nAlpuxarras and the Sierra de Ronda, who now bow to the cross as zealous\nCatholics, bear the stamp of their Moorish origin, and are indubitable\ndescendants of the fickle subjects of Boabdil.\n\nUnder the guidance of Mateo, I made my way through streets already\nteeming with a holiday population, to the square of the Vivarrambla,\nthat great place for tilts and tourneys so often sung in the Moorish\nballads of love and chivalry. A gallery or arcade of wood had been\nerected along the sides of the square, for the grand religious\nprocession of the following day. This was brilliantly illuminated for\nthe evening as a promenade; and bands of music were stationed on\nbalconies on each of the four fa\u00e7ades of the square. All the fashion and\nbeauty of Granada, all of its population of either sex that had good\nlooks or fine clothes to display, thronged this arcade, promenading\nround and round the Vivarrambla. Here, too, were the _Majos_ and\n_Majas_, the rural beaux and belles, with fine forms, flashing eyes, and\ngay Andalusian costumes; some of them from Ronda itself, that stronghold\nof the mountains, famous for contrabandistas, bullfighters, and\nbeautiful women.\n\nWhile this gay but motley throng kept up a constant circulation in the\ngallery, the centre of the square was occupied by the peasantry from the\nsurrounding country; who made no pretensions to display, but came for\nsimple, hearty enjoyment. The whole square was covered with them;\nforming separate groups of families and neighborhoods, like gypsy\nencampments, some were listening to the traditional ballad drawled out\nto the tinkling of the guitar; some were engaged in gay conversation;\nsome were dancing to the click of the castanet. As I threaded my way\nthrough this teeming region with Mateo at my heels, I passed\noccasionally some rustic party, seated on the ground, making a merry\nthough frugal repast. If they caught my eye as I loitered by, they\nalmost invariably invited me to partake of their simple fare. This\nhospitable usage, inherited from their Moslem invaders, and originating\nin the tent of the Arab, is universal throughout the land, and observed\nby the poorest Spaniard.\n\nAs the night advanced, the gayety gradually died away in the arcades;\nthe bands of music ceased to play, and the brilliant crowd dispersed to\ntheir homes. The centre of the square still remained well peopled, and\nMateo assured me that the greater part of the peasantry, men, women, and\nchildren, would pass the night there, sleeping on the bare earth beneath\nthe open canopy of heaven. Indeed, a summer night requires no shelter in\nthis favored climate; and a bed is a superfluity which many of the hardy\npeasantry of Spain never enjoy, and which some of them affect to\ndespise. The common Spaniard wraps himself in his brown cloak, stretches\nhimself on his manta or mule-cloth, and sleeps soundly, luxuriously\naccommodated if he can have a saddle for a pillow. In a little while the\nwords of Mateo were made good; the peasant multitude nestled down on the\nground to their night\u2019s repose, and by midnight the scene on the\nVivarrambla resembled the bivouac of an army.\n\nThe next morning, accompanied by Mateo, I revisited the square at\nsunrise. It was still strewed with groups of sleepers: some were\nreposing from the dance and revel of the evening; others, who had left\ntheir villages after work on the preceding day, having trudged on foot\nthe greater part of the night, were taking a sound sleep to freshen\nthemselves for the festivities of the day. Numbers from the mountains,\nand the remote villages of the plain, who had set out in the night,\ncontinued to arrive with their wives and children. All were in high\nspirits; greeting each other and exchanging jokes and pleasantries. The\ngay tumult thickened as the day advanced. Now came pouring in at the\ncity gates, and parading through the streets, the deputations from the\nvarious villages, destined to swell the grand procession. These village\ndeputations were headed by their priests, bearing their respective\ncrosses and banners, and images of the blessed Virgin and of patron\nsaints; all which were matters of great rivalship and jealousy among the\npeasantry. It was like the chivalrous gatherings of ancient days, when\neach town and village sent its chiefs, and warriors, and standards, to\ndefend the capital, or grace its festivities.\n\nAt length all these various detachments congregated into one grand\npageant, which slowly paraded round the Vivarrambla, and through the\nprincipal streets, where every window and balcony was hung with\ntapestry. In this procession were all the religious orders, the civil\nand military authorities, and the chief people of the parishes and\nvillages: every church and convent had contributed its banners, its\nimages, its relics, and poured forth its wealth for the occasion. In the\ncentre of the procession walked the archbishop, under a damask canopy,\nand surrounded by inferior dignitaries and their dependants. The whole\nmoved to the swell and cadence of numerous bands of music, and, passing\nthrough the midst of a countless yet silent multitude, proceeded onward\nto the cathedral.\n\nI could not but be struck with the changes of times and customs, as I\nsaw this monkish pageant passing through the Vivarrambla, the ancient\nseat of Moslem pomp and chivalry. The contrast was indeed forced upon\nthe mind by the decorations of the square. The whole front of the wooden\ngallery erected for the procession, extending several hundred feet, was\nfaced with canvas, on which some humble though patriotic artist had\npainted, by contract, a series of the principal scenes and exploits of\nthe Conquest, as recorded in chronicle and romance. It is thus the\nromantic legends of Granada mingle themselves with everything, and are\nkept fresh in the public mind.\n\nAs we wended our way back to the Alhambra, Mateo was in high glee and\ngarrulous vein. \u201cAh, Se\u00f1or,\u201d exclaimed he, \u201cthere is no place in all the\nworld like Granada for grand ceremonies (_funciones grandes_); a man\nneed spend nothing on pleasure here, it is all furnished him gratis.\u201d\nPero, el dia de la Toma! Ah, Se\u00f1or! el dia de la Toma! \u201cBut the day of\nthe Taking! ah, Se\u00f1or the day of the Taking!\u201d--that was the great day\nwhich crowned Mateo\u2019s notions of perfect felicity. The Dia de la Toma, I\nfound, was the anniversary of the capture or taking possession of\nGranada by the army of Ferdinand and Isabella.\n\nOn that day, according to Mateo, the whole city is abandoned to revelry.\nThe great alarm-bell on the watch-tower of the Alhambra (_la Torre de la\nvela_) sends forth its clanging peals from morn till night; the sound\npervades the whole Vega, and echoes along the mountains, summoning the\npeasantry from far and near to the festivities of the metropolis. \u201cHappy\nthe damsel,\u201d says Mateo, \u201cwho can get a chance to ring that bell; it is\na charm to insure a husband within the year.\u201d\n\nThroughout the day the Alhambra is thrown open to the public. Its halls\nand courts, where the Moorish monarchs once held sway, resound with the\nguitar and castanet, and gay groups, in the fanciful dresses of\nAndalusia, perform their traditional dances inherited from the Moors.\n\nA grand procession, emblematic of the taking possession of the city,\nmoves through the principal streets. The banner of Ferdinand and\nIsabella, that precious relic of the Conquest, is brought forth from its\ndepository, and borne in triumph by the Alferez mayor, or grand\nstandard-bearer. The portable camp-altar, carried about with the\nsovereigns in all their campaigns, is transported into the chapel royal\nof the cathedral, and placed before their sepulchre, where their\neffigies lie in monumental marble. High mass is then performed in memory\nof the Conquest; and at a certain part of the ceremony the Alferez mayor\nputs on his hat, and waves the standard above the tomb of the\nconquerors.\n\nA more whimsical memorial of the Conquest is exhibited in the evening at\nthe theatre. A popular drama is performed, entitled AVE MARIA, turning\non a famous achievement of Hernando del Pulgar, surnamed \u201cel de las\nHaza\u00f1as\u201d (he of the exploits), a madcap warrior, the favorite hero of\nthe populace of Granada. During the time of the siege, the young Moorish\nand Spanish cavaliers vied with each other in extravagant bravadoes. On\none occasion this Hernando del Pulgar, at the head of a handful of\nfollowers, made a dash into Granada in the dead of the night, nailed the\ninscription of AVE MARIA with his dagger to the gate of the principal\nmosque, a token of having consecrated it to the Virgin, and effected his\nretreat in safety.[15]\n\nWhile the Moorish cavaliers admired this daring exploit, they felt bound\nto resent it. On the following day, therefore, Tarf\u00e9, one of the\nstoutest among them, paraded in front of the Christian army, dragging\nthe tablet bearing the sacred inscription AVE MARIA, at his horse\u2019s\ntail. The cause of the Virgin was eagerly vindicated by Garcilaso de la\nVega, who slew the Moor in single combat, and elevated the tablet in\ndevotion and triumph at the end of his lance.\n\nThe drama founded on this exploit is prodigiously popular with the\ncommon people. Although it has been acted time out of mind, it never\nfails to draw crowds, who become completely lost in the delusions of\nthe scene. When their favorite Pulgar strides about with many a mouthy\nspeech, in the very midst of the Moorish capital, he is cheered with\nenthusiastic bravos; and when he nails the tablet to the door of the\nmosque, the theatre absolutely shakes with the thunders of applause. On\nthe other hand, the unlucky actors who figure in the part of the Moors,\nhave to bear the brunt of popular indignation; which at times equals\nthat of the Hero of Lamanche, at the puppet-show of Gines de Passamonte;\nfor, when the infidel Tarf\u00e9 plucks down the tablet to tie it to his\nhorse\u2019s tail, some of the audience rise in fury, and are ready to jump\nupon the stage to revenge this insult to the Virgin.\n\nBy the way, the actual lineal descendant of Hernando del Pulgar was the\nMarquis de Salar. As the legitimate representative of that madcap hero,\nand in commemoration and reward of this hero\u2019s exploit above mentioned,\nhe inherited the right to enter the cathedral on certain occasions, on\nhorseback; to sit within the choir, and to put on his hat at the\nelevation of the host, though these privileges were often and\nobstinately contested by the clergy. I met him occasionally in society;\nhe was young, of agreeable appearance and manners, with bright black\neyes, in which appeared to lurk some of the fire of his ancestors. Among\nthe paintings in the Vivarrambla, on the f\u00eate of Corpus Christi, were\nsome depicting, in vivid style, the exploits of the family hero. An old\ngray-headed servant of the Pulgars shed tears on beholding them, and\nhurried home to inform the marquis. The eager zeal and enthusiasm of the\nold domestic only provoked a light laugh from his young master;\nwhereupon, turning to the brother of the marquis, with that freedom\nallowed in Spain to old family servants, \u201cCome, Se\u00f1or,\u201d cried he, \u201cyou\nare more considerate than your brother; come and see your ancestor in\nall his glory!\u201d\n\nIn emulation of this great _Dia de la Toma_ of Granada, almost every\nvillage and petty town of the mountains has its own anniversary,\ncommemorating, with rustic pomp and uncouth ceremonial, its deliverance\nfrom the Moorish yoke. On these occasions, according to Mateo, a kind of\nresurrection takes place of ancient armor and weapons; great two-handed\nswords, ponderous arquebuses with matchlocks, and other warlike relics,\ntreasured up from generation to generation, since the time of the\nConquest; and happy the community that possesses some old piece of\nordnance, peradventure one of the identical lombards used by the\nconquerors; it is kept thundering along the mountains all day long,\nprovided the community can afford sufficient expenditure of powder.\n\nIn the course of the day a kind of warlike drama is enacted. Some of the\npopulace parade the streets, fitted out with the old armor, as champions\nof the faith. Others appear dressed up as Moorish warriors. A tent is\npitched in the public square, inclosing an altar with an image of the\nVirgin. The Christian warriors approach to perform their devotions; the\ninfidels surround the tent to prevent their entrance; a mock fight\nensues; the combatants sometimes forget that they are merely playing a\npart, and dry blows of grievous weight are apt to be exchanged. The\ncontest, however, invariably terminates in favor of the good cause. The\nMoors are defeated and taken prisoners. The image of the Virgin, rescued\nfrom thraldom, is elevated in triumph; a grand procession succeeds, in\nwhich the conquerors figure with great applause and vainglory; while\ntheir captives are led in chains, to the evident delight and edification\nof the spectators.\n\nThese celebrations are heavy drains on the treasuries of these petty\ncommunities, and have sometimes to be suspended for want of funds; but,\nwhen times grow better, or sufficient money has been hoarded for the\npurpose, they are resumed with new zeal and prodigality.\n\nMateo informed me that he had occasionally assisted at these f\u00eates and\ntaken a part in the combats; but always on the side of the true faith;\n_porque Se\u00f1or_, added the ragged descendant of the Cardinal Ximenes,\ntapping his breast with something of an air,--\u201c_porque Se\u00f1or, soy\nChristiano viejo_.\u201d\n\n\n\n\nLOCAL TRADITIONS\n\n\nThe common people of Spain have an Oriental passion for story-telling,\nand are fond of the marvellous. They will gather round the doors of\ntheir cottages in summer evenings, or in the great cavernous\nchimney-corners of the ventas in the winter, and listen with insatiable\ndelight to miraculous legends of saints, perilous adventures of\ntravellers, and daring exploits of robbers and contrabandistas. The wild\nand solitary character of the country, the imperfect diffusion of\nknowledge, the scarceness of general topics of conversation, and the\nromantic adventurous life that every one leads in a land where\ntravelling is yet in its primitive state, all contribute to cherish this\nlove of oral narration, and to produce a strong infusion of the\nextravagant and incredible. There is no theme, however, more prevalent\nand popular than that of treasures buried by the Moors; it pervades the\nwhole country. In traversing the wild sierras, the scenes of ancient\nforay and exploit, you cannot see a Moorish atalaya, or watch-tower,\nperched among the cliffs, or beetling above its rock-built village, but\nyour muleteer, on being closely questioned, will suspend the smoking of\nhis cigarillo to tell some tale of Moslem gold buried beneath its\nfoundations; nor is there a ruined alcazar in a city but has its golden\ntradition, handed down from generation to generation among the poor\npeople of the neighborhood.\n\nThese, like most popular fictions, have sprung from some scanty\ngroundwork of fact. During the wars between Moor and Christian, which\ndistracted this country for centuries, towns and castles were liable\nfrequently and suddenly to change owners, and the inhabitants, during\nsieges and assaults, were fain to bury their money and jewels in the\nearth, or hide them in vaults and wells, as is often done at the present\nday in the despotic and belligerent countries of the East. At the time\nof the expulsion of the Moors, also, many of them concealed their most\nprecious effects, hoping that their exile would be but temporary, and\nthat they would be enabled to return and retrieve their treasures at\nsome future day. It is certain that from time to time hoards of gold and\nsilver coin have been accidentally digged up, after a lapse of\ncenturies, from among the ruins of Moorish fortresses and habitations;\nand it requires but a few facts of the kind to give birth to a thousand\nfictions.\n\nThe stories thus originating have generally something of an Oriental\ntinge, and are marked with that mixture of the Arabic and the Gothic\nwhich seems to me to characterize everything in Spain, and especially in\nits southern provinces. The hidden wealth is always laid under magic\nspell, and secured by charm and talisman. Sometimes it is guarded by\nuncouth monsters or fiery dragons, sometimes by enchanted Moors, who sit\nby it in armor, with drawn swords, but motionless as statues,\nmaintaining a sleepless watch for ages.\n\nThe Alhambra of course, from the peculiar circumstances of its history,\nis a stronghold for popular fictions of the kind; and various relics,\ndigged up from time to time, have contributed to strengthen them. At one\ntime an earthen vessel was found containing Moorish coins and the\nskeleton of a cock, which, according to the opinion of certain shrewd\ninspectors, must have been buried alive. At another time a vessel was\ndug up containing a great scarab\u00e6us or beetle of baked clay, covered\nwith Arabic inscriptions, which was pronounced a prodigious amulet of\noccult virtues. In this way the wits of the ragged brood who inhabit the\nAlhambra have been set wool-gathering, until there is not a hall, nor\ntower, nor vault, of the old fortress, that has not been made the scene\nof some marvellous tradition. Having, I trust, in the preceding papers\nmade the reader in some degree familiar with the localities of the\nAlhambra, I shall now launch out more largely into the wonderful legends\nconnected with it, and which I have diligently wrought into shape and\nform, from various legendary scraps and hints picked up in the course of\nmy perambulations,--in the same manner that an antiquary works out a\nregular historical document from a few scattered letters of an almost\ndefaced inscription.\n\nIf anything in these legends should shock the faith of the\nover-scrupulous reader, he must remember the nature of the place, and\nmake due allowances. He must not expect here the same laws of\nprobability that govern commonplace scenes and every-day life; he must\nremember that he treads the halls of an enchanted palace and that all is\n\u201chaunted ground.\u201d\n\n\n\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\nby the sagacious and all-knowing Mateo Ximenes. This edifice has borne\nfor centuries the name of \u201cThe House of the Weathercock\u201d (La casa del\nGallo de Viento), from a bronze figure on one of its turrets, in ancient\ntimes, of a warrior on horseback, and turning with every breeze. This\nweathercock was considered by the Moslems of Granada a portentous\ntalisman. According to some traditions, it bore the following Arabic\ninscription:\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,\nsurrounded by foes, their safety depended upon their being always on\ntheir guard and ready for the field.\n\nOthers, among whom is the Christian historian Marmol, affirms \u201cBadis\nAben Habus\u201d to have been a Moorish sultan of Granada, and that the\nweathercock was intended as a perpetual admonition of the instability of\nMoslem power, bearing the following words in Arabic:\n\n\u201cThus Ibn Habus al badise predicts Andalus shall one day vanish and pass\naway.\u201d[16]\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\ndown of the weathercock, when the old Kassaba was undergoing repairs.\n\n\u201cI saw it,\u201d says the venerable faquir, \u201cwith my own eyes; it was of a\nheptagonal shape, and had the following inscription in verse:\n\n\u201cThe palace at fair Granada presents a talisman.\u201d\n\n\u201cThe horseman, though a solid body, turns with every wind.\u201d\n\n\u201cThis to a wise man reveals a mystery. In a little while comes a\ncalamity to ruin both the palace and its owner.\u201d\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\nhis troops, who paraded before him in armor of polished steel and\ngorgeous silken robes, mounted on fleet steeds, and equipped with\nswords, spears, and shields embossed with gold and silver,--suddenly a\ntempest was seen hurrying from the southwest. In a little while black\nclouds overshadowed the heavens and burst forth with a deluge of rain.\nTorrents came roaring down from the mountains, bringing with them rocks\nand trees; the Darro overflowed its banks; mills were swept away,\nbridges destroyed, gardens laid waste; the inundation rushed into the\ncity, undermining houses, drowning their inhabitants, and overflowing\neven the square of the Great Mosque. The people rushed in affright to\nthe mosques to implore the mercy of Allah, regarding this uproar of the\nelements as the harbinger of dreadful calamities; and, indeed, according\nto the Arabian historian Al Makkari, it was but a type and prelude of\nthe direful war which ended in the downfall of the Moslem kingdom of\nGranada.\n\nI have thus given historic authorities sufficient to show the portentous\nmysteries connected with the House of the Weathercock, and its\ntalismanic horseman.\n\nI now proceed to relate still more surprising things about Aben Habuz\nand his palace; for the truth of which, should any doubt be entertained,\nI refer the dubious reader to Mateo Ximenes and his fellow-historiographers\nof the Alhambra.\n\n\n\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\na life of constant foray and depredation, now that he was grown feeble\nand superannuated, \u201clanguished for repose,\u201d and desired nothing more\nthan to live at peace with all the world, to husband his laurels, and to\nenjoy in quiet the possessions he had wrested from his neighbors.\n\nIt so happened, however, that this most reasonable and pacific old\nmonarch had young rivals to deal with; princes full of his early passion\nfor fame and fighting, and who were disposed to call him to account for\nthe scores he had run up with their fathers. Certain distant districts\nof his own territories, also, which during the days of his vigor he had\ntreated with a high hand, were prone, now that he languished for repose,\nto rise in rebellion and threaten to invest him in his capital. Thus he\nhad foes on every side; and as Granada is surrounded by wild and craggy\nmountains, which hide the approach of an enemy, the unfortunate Aben\nHabuz was kept in a constant state of vigilance and alarm, not knowing\nin what quarter hostilities might break out.\n\nIt was in vain that he built watch-towers on the mountains, and\nstationed guards at every pass with orders to make fires by night and\nsmoke by day, on the approach of an enemy. His alert foes, baffling\nevery precaution, would break out of some unthought-of defile, ravage\nhis lands beneath his very nose, and then make off with prisoners and\nbooty to the mountains. Was ever peaceable and retired conqueror in a\nmore uncomfortable predicament?\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\ntravelled almost the whole way from Egypt on foot, with no other aid\nthan a staff, marked with hieroglyphics. His fame had preceded him. His\nname was Ibrahim Ebn Abu Ayub; he was said to have lived ever since the\ndays of Mahomet, and to be son of Abu Ayub; the last of the companions\nof the Prophet. He had, when a child, followed the conquering army of\nAmru into Egypt, where he had remained many years studying the dark\nsciences, and particularly magic, 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\ntwo centuries, though, as he did not discover the secret until well\nstricken in years, he could only perpetuate his gray hairs and wrinkles.\n\nThis wonderful old man was honorably entertained by the king; who, like\nmost superannuated monarchs, began to take physicians into great favor.\nHe would have assigned him an apartment in his palace, but the\nastrologer preferred a cave in the side of the hill which rises above\nthe city of Granada, being the same on which the Alhambra has since been\nbuilt. He caused the cave to be enlarged so as to form a spacious and\nlofty hall, with a circular hole at the top, through which, as through a\nwell, he could see the heavens and behold the stars even at mid-day. The\nwalls of this hall were covered with Egyptian hieroglyphics with\ncabalistic symbols, and with the figures of the stars in their signs.\nThis hall he furnished with many implements, fabricated under his\ndirections by cunning artificers of Granada, but the occult properties\nof which were known only to himself.\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 neighbors, 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, \u201cKnow, O king, that, when I was in Egypt, I\nbeheld a great marvel devised by a pagan priestess of old. On a\nmountain, above the city of Borsa and overlooking the great valley of\nthe Nile, was a figure of a ram, and above it a figure of a cock, both\nof molten brass, and turning upon a pivot. Whenever the country was\nthreatened with invasion, the ram would turn in the direction of the\nenemy, and the cock would crow; upon this the inhabitants of the city\nknew of the danger, and of the quarter from which it was approaching,\nand could take timely means to guard against it.\u201d\n\n\u201cGod is great!\u201d exclaimed the pacific Aben Habuz, \u201cwhat a treasure would\nbe such a ram to keep an eye upon these mountains around me; and then\nsuch a cock, to crow in time of danger! Allah Akbar! how securely I\nmight sleep in my palace with such sentinels on the top!\u201d\n\nThe astrologer waited until the ecstasies of the king had subsided, and\nthen proceeded.\n\n\u201cAfter the victorious Amru (may he rest in peace!) had finished his\nconquest of Egypt, I remained among the priests of the land, studying\nthe rites and ceremonies of their idolatrous faith, and seeking to make\nmyself master of the hidden knowledge for which they are renowned. I was\none day seated on the banks of the Nile, conversing with an ancient\npriest, when he pointed to the mighty pyramids which rose like mountains\nout of the neighboring desert. \u2018All that we can teach thee,\u2019 said he,\n\u2018is nothing to the knowledge locked up in those mighty piles. In the\ncentre of the central pyramid is a sepulchral chamber, in which is\nenclosed the mummy of the high-priest who aided in rearing that\nstupendous pile; and with him is buried a wondrous book of knowledge,\ncontaining all the secrets of magic and art. This book was given to Adam\nafter his fall, and was handed down from generation to generation to\nKing Solomon the Wise, and by its aid he built the Temple of Jerusalem.\nHow it came into the possession of the builder of the pyramids is known\nto Him alone who knows all things.\u2019\n\n\u201cWhen I heard these words of the Egyptian priest, my heart burned to get\npossession of that book. I could command the services of many of the\nsoldiers 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.\u201d\n\n\u201cSon of Abu Ayub,\u201d exclaimed Aben Habuz, \u201cthou 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?\u201d\n\n\u201cThis 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.\u201d\n\n\u201cO wise son of Abu Ayub,\u201d cried Aben Habuz, \u201cbetter 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.\u201d\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\nwas built of stones brought from Egypt, and taken, it is said, from one\nof the pyramids. In the upper part of the tower was a circular hall,\nwith windows looking towards every point of the compass, and before each\nwindow was a table, on which was arranged, as on a chess-board, a mimic\narmy of horse and foot, with the effigy of the potentate that ruled in\nthat direction, all carved of wood. To each of these tables there was a\nsmall lance, no bigger than a bodkin, on which were engraved certain\nChaldaic characters. This hall was kept constantly closed, by a gate of\nbrass, with a great lock of steel, the key of which was in possession of\nthe king.\n\nOn the top of the tower was a bronze figure of a Moorish horseman, fixed\non 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\nturn in 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\u201cLet the drums and trumpets sound to arms, and all Granada be put on the\nalert,\u201d said Aben Habuz.\n\n\u201cO king,\u201d said the astrologer, \u201clet not your city be disquieted, nor\nyour warriors called to arms; we need no aid of force to deliver you\nfrom your enemies. Dismiss your attendants, and let us proceed alone to\nthe secret hall of the tower.\u201d\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\nthe brazen door and entered. The window that looked towards the Pass of\nLope was open. \u201cIn this direction,\u201d said the astrologer, \u201clies the\ndanger; approach, O king, and behold the mystery of the table.\u201d\n\nKing Aben Habuz approached the seeming chess-board, on which were\narranged the small wooden effigies, when, to his surprise, he perceived\nthat they were all in motion. The horses pranced and curveted, the\nwarriors brandished their weapons, and there was a faint sound of drums\nand trumpets, 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,\nin the drowsy ear of him who lies at noontide in the shade.\n\n\u201cBehold, O king,\u201d said the astrologer, \u201ca proof that thy enemies are\neven now in the field. They must be advancing through yonder mountains,\nby the Pass of Lope. Would you produce a panic and confusion amongst\nthem, and cause them to retreat without loss of life, strike these\neffigies with the but-end of this magic lance; would you cause bloody\nfeud and carnage, strike with the point.\u201d\n\nA livid streak passed across the countenance of Aben Habuz; he seized\nthe lance with trembling eagerness; his gray beard wagged with\nexultation as he tottered toward the table: \u201cSon of Abu Ayub,\u201d exclaimed\nhe, in chuckling tone, \u201cI think we will have a little blood!\u201d\n\nSo saying, he thrust the magic lance into some of the pigmy effigies,\nand belabored others with the but-end, upon which the former fell as\ndead upon the board, and the rest turning upon each other, began,\npell-mell, a 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\nout scouts 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 a\ndissension 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. \u201cAt length,\u201d said he, \u201cI shall lead a life of tranquillity,\nand have all my enemies in my power. O wise son of Abu Ayub, what can I\nbestow on thee in reward for such a blessing?\u201d \u201cThe wants of an old man\nand a philosopher, O king, are few and simple; grant me but the means of\nfitting up my cave as a suitable hermitage, and I am content.\u201d\n\n\u201cHow noble is the moderation of the truly wise!\u201d 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 the\nsolid rock, so as to form ranges of apartments connected with his\nastrological hall; these he caused to be furnished with luxurious\nottomans and divans, and the walls to be hung with the richest silks of\nDamascus. \u201cI am an old man,\u201d said he, \u201cand can no longer rest my bones\non stone couches, and these damp walls require covering.\u201d\n\nHe had baths too constructed, and provided with all kinds of perfumes\nand aromatic oils. \u201cFor a bath,\u201d said he, \u201cis necessary to counteract\nthe rigidity of age, and to restore freshness and suppleness to the\nframe withered by study.\u201d\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\nreceipt discovered by him in the tombs of Egypt. This oil was perpetual\nin its nature, and diffused a soft radiance like the tempered light of\nday. \u201cThe light of the sun,\u201d said he, \u201cis too garish and violent for the\neyes of an old man, and the light of the lamp is more congenial to the\nstudies of a philosopher.\u201d\n\nThe treasurer of King Aben Habuz groaned at the sums daily demanded to\nfit up this hermitage, and he carried his complaints to the king. The\nroyal word, however, had been given; Aben Habuz shrugged his shoulders:\n\u201cWe must have patience,\u201d said he; \u201cthis old man has taken his idea of a\nphilosophic retreat from the interior of the pyramids, and of the vast\nruins of Egypt; but all things have an end, and so will the furnishing\nof his cavern.\u201d\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\ndays buried in study. At the end of that time he appeared again before\nthe treasurer. \u201cOne thing more is necessary,\u201d said he, \u201cone trifling\nsolace for the intervals of mental labor.\u201d\n\n\u201cO wise Ibrahim, I am bound to furnish everything necessary for thy\nsolitude; what more dost thou require?\u201d\n\n\u201cI would fain have a few dancing-women.\u201d\n\n\u201cDancing-women!\u201d echoed the treasurer, with surprise.\n\n\u201cDancing-women,\u201d replied the sage, gravely; \u201cand let them be young and\nfair to look upon; for the sight of youth and beauty is refreshing. A\nfew will suffice, for I am a philosopher of simple habits and easily\nsatisfied.\u201d\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\nhimself, of quiet habits, to have war made easy, and to be enabled to\namuse himself in his chamber by brushing away whole armies like so many\nswarms of flies.\n\nFor a time he rioted in the indulgence of his humors, and even taunted\nand insulted his neighbors, to induce them to make incursions; but by\ndegrees they grew wary from repeated disasters, until no one ventured to\ninvade his territories. For many months the bronze horseman remained on\nthe 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\u2019 absence.\n\n\u201cWe have searched every mountain pass,\u201d said they, \u201cbut 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.\u201d\n\n\u201cA damsel of surpassing beauty!\u201d exclaimed Aben Habuz, his eyes gleaming\nwith animation; \u201clet her be conducted into my presence.\u201d\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\nher forehead, rivalling the lustre of her eyes. Around her neck was a\ngolden chain, to which was suspended a silver lyre, which hung by her\nside.\n\nThe flashes of her dark refulgent eye were like sparks of fire on the\nwithered yet combustible heart of Aben Habuz; the swimming\nvoluptuousness of her gait made his senses reel. \u201cFairest of women,\u201d\ncried he, with rapture, \u201cwho and what art thou?\u201d\n\n\u201cThe 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\nis a captive.\u201d\n\n\u201cBeware, O king!\u201d whispered Ibrahim Ebn Abu Ayub, \u201cthis 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.\u201d\n\n\u201cSon of Abu Ayub,\u201d replied the king, \u201cthou 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 favor in my eyes.\u201d\n\n\u201cHearken, O king!\u201d replied the astrologer. \u201cI have given thee many\nvictories by means of my talisman, but have never shared any of the\nspoil. Give me then this stray captive, to solace me in my solitude with\nher silver lyre. If she be indeed a sorceress, I have counter spells\nthat set her charms at defiance.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat! more women!\u201d cried Aben Habuz. \u201cHast thou not already\ndancing-women enough to solace thee?\u201d\n\n\u201cDancing-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.\u201d\n\n\u201cA truce with thy hermit cravings,\u201d said the king, impatiently. \u201cThis\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\nof Abishag the Shunamite.\u201d\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\nfull sway of his passion. His only study was how to render himself\namiable in the eyes of the Gothic beauty. He had not youth to recommend\nhim, it is true, but then he had riches; and when a lover is old, he is\ngenerally generous. The Zacatin of Granada was ransacked for the most\nprecious merchandise of the East; silks, jewels, precious gems,\nexquisite perfumes, all that Asia and Africa yielded of rich and rare,\nwere lavished upon the princess. All kinds of spectacles and festivities\nwere devised for her entertainment; minstrelsy, dancing, tournaments,\nbull-fights;--Granada for a time was a scene of perpetual pageant. The\nGothic princess regarded all this splendor with the air of one\naccustomed to magnificence. She received everything as a homage due to\nher rank, or rather to her beauty; for beauty is more lofty in its\nexactions even than rank. Nay, she seemed to take a secret pleasure in\nexciting the monarch to expenses that made his treasury shrink, and then\ntreating his extravagant generosity as a mere matter of course. With all\nhis assiduity and munificence, also, the venerable lover could not\nflatter himself that he had made any impression on her heart. She never\nfrowned on him, it is true, but then she never smiled. Whenever he began\nto plead his passion, she struck her silver lyre. There was a mystic\ncharm in the sound. In an instant the monarch began to nod; a drowsiness\nstole over him, and he gradually sank into a sleep, from which he awoke\nwonderfully refreshed, but perfectly cooled for the time of his passion.\nThis was very baffling to his suit; but then these slumbers were\naccompanied by agreeable dreams, which completely inthralled the senses\nof the drowsy lover; so he continued to dream on, while all Granada\nscoffed at his infatuation, and groaned at the treasures lavished for a\nsong.\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. \u201cO wise son of Abu\nAyub,\u201d said he, \u201cwell 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.\u201d\n\n\u201cPut from thee the infidel damsel who is the cause.\u201d\n\n\u201cSooner would I part with my kingdom,\u201d cried Aben Habuz.\n\n\u201cThou art in danger of losing both,\u201d replied the astrologer.\n\n\u201cBe not harsh and angry, O most profound of philosophers; consider the\ndouble distress of a monarch and a lover, and devise some means of\nprotecting 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.\u201d\n\nThe astrologer regarded him for a moment from under his bushy eyebrows.\n\n\u201cAnd what wouldst thou give, if I could provide thee such a retreat?\u201d\n\n\u201cThou 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.\u201d\n\n\u201cThou hast heard, O king, of the garden of Irem, one of the prodigies of\nArabia the happy.\u201d\n\n\u201cI have heard of that garden; it is recorded in the Koran, even in the\nchapter entitled \u2018The Dawn of Day.\u2019 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.\u201d\n\n\u201cDiscredit not, O king, the tales of travellers,\u201d rejoined the\nastrologer, gravely, \u201cfor they contain precious rarities of knowledge\nbrought from the ends of the earth. As to the palace and garden of Irem,\nwhat is generally told of them is true; I have seen them with mine own\neyes;--listen to my adventure, for it has a bearing upon the object of\nyour request.\n\n\u201cIn my younger days, when a mere Arab of the desert, I tended my\nfather\u2019s camels. In traversing the desert of Aden, one of them strayed\nfrom the rest, and was lost. I searched after it for several days, but\nin vain, until, wearied and faint, I laid myself down at noontide, and\nslept under a palm-tree by the side of a scanty well. When I awoke I\nfound myself at the gate of a city. I entered, and beheld noble streets,\nand squares, and market-places; but all were silent and without an\ninhabitant. I wandered on until I came to a sumptuous palace, with a\ngarden adorned with fountains and fish-ponds, and groves and flowers,\nand orchards laden with delicious fruit; but still no one was to be\nseen. Upon which, appalled at this loneliness, I hastened to depart;\nand, after issuing forth at the gate of the city, I turned to look upon\nthe place, but it was no longer to be seen; nothing but the silent\ndesert extended before my eyes.\n\n\u201cIn the neighborhood I met with an aged dervise, learned in the\ntraditions and secrets of the land, and related to him what had befallen\nme. \u2018This,\u2019 said he, \u2018is the far-famed garden of Irem, one of the\nwonders of the desert. It only appears at times to some wanderer like\nthyself gladdening him with the sight of towers and palaces and\ngarden-walls overhung with richly-laden fruit-trees, and then vanishes,\nleaving nothing but a lonely desert. And this is the story of it. In old\ntimes, when this country was inhabited by the Addites, King Sheddad, the\nson of Ad, the great-grandson of Noah, founded here a splendid city.\nWhen it was finished, and he saw its grandeur, his heart was puffed up\nwith pride and arrogance, and he determined to build a royal palace,\nwith gardens which should rival all related in the Koran of the\ncelestial paradise. But the curse of heaven fell upon him for his\npresumption. He and his subjects were swept from the earth, and his\nsplendid city, and palace, and gardens, were laid under a perpetual\nspell, which hides them from human sight, excepting that they are seen\nat intervals, by way of keeping his sin in perpetual remembrance.\u2019\n\n\u201cThis 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\nrevisit the garden of Irem. I did so, and found it revealed to my\ninstructed sight. I took possession of the palace of Sheddad, and passed\nseveral days in his mock paradise. The genii who watch over the place\nwere obedient to my magic power, and revealed to me the spells by which\nthe whole garden had been, as it were, conjured into existence, and by\nwhich it was rendered invisible. Such a palace and garden, O king, can\nI make for thee, even here, on the mountain above thy city. Do I not\nknow all the secret spells? and am I not in possession of the book of\nknowledge of Solomon the Wise?\u201d\n\n\u201cO wise son of Abu Ayub!\u201d exclaimed Aben Habuz, trembling with\neagerness, \u201cthou art a traveller indeed, and hast seen and learned\nmarvellous things! Contrive me such a paradise, and ask any reward, even\nto the half of my kingdom.\u201d\n\n\u201cAlas!\u201d replied the other, \u201cthou 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\nthe palace.\u201d\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 on\nthe keystone of the outer arch of the vestibule, which was loftier than\nthat 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 his\nastrological hall, engaged in secret incantations; on the third he\nascended the hill, and passed the whole day on its summit. At a late\nhour of the night he came down, and presented himself before Aben Habuz.\n\u201cAt length, O king,\u201d said he, \u201cmy labor is accomplished. On the summit\nof the hill stands one of the most delectable palaces that ever the\nhead of man devised, or the heart of man desired. It contains sumptuous\nhalls and galleries, delicious gardens, cool fountains, and fragrant\nbaths; in a word, the whole mountain is converted into a paradise. Like\nthe garden of Irem, it is protected by a mighty charm, which hides it\nfrom the view and search of mortals, excepting such as possess the\nsecret of its talismans.\u201d\n\n\u201cEnough!\u201d cried Aben Habuz, joyfully, \u201cto-morrow morning with the first\nlight we will ascend and take possession.\u201d 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\nGothic princess, her whole dress sparkling with jewels, while round her\nneck was suspended her silver lyre. The astrologer walked on the other\nside of the king, assisting his steps with his hieroglyphic staff, for\nhe never mounted steed of any kind.\n\nAben Habuz looked to see the towers of the palace brightening above him,\nand the embowered terraces of its gardens stretching along the heights;\nbut as yet nothing of the kind was to be descried. \u201cThat is the mystery\nand safeguard of the place,\u201d said the astrologer, \u201cnothing can be\ndiscerned until you have passed the spell-bound gateway, and been put in\npossession of the place.\u201d\n\nAs they approached the gateway, the astrologer paused, and pointed out\nto the king the mystic hand and key carved upon the portal of the arch.\n\u201cThese,\u201d said he, \u201care 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.\u201d\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\u201cBehold,\u201d cried the astrologer, \u201cmy promised reward; the first animal\nwith its burden which should enter the magic gateway.\u201d\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\u201cSon of Abu Ayub,\u201d said he, sternly, \u201cwhat equivocation is this? Thou\nknowest the meaning of my promise: the first beast of burden, with its\nload, 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.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat need I of wealth?\u201d cried the astrologer, scornfully; \u201chave I not\nthe book of knowledge of Solomon the Wise, and through it the command of\nthe secret treasures of the earth? The princess is mine by right; thy\nroyal word is pledged; I claim her as my own.\u201d\n\nThe princess looked down haughtily from her palfrey, and a light smile\nof scorn curled her rosy lip at this dispute between two gray-beards for\nthe possession of youth and beauty. The wrath of the monarch got the\nbetter of his discretion. \u201cBase son of the desert,\u201d cried he, \u201cthou\nmayst be master of many arts, but know me for thy master, and presume\nnot to juggle with thy king.\u201d\n\n\u201cMy master! my king!\u201d echoed the astrologer,--\u201cthe monarch of a\nmole-hill to claim sway over him who possesses the talismans of Solomon!\nFarewell, Aben Habuz; reign over thy petty kingdom, and revel in thy\nparadise of fools; for me, I will laugh at thee in my philosophic\nretirement.\u201d\n\nSo saying, he seized the bridle of the palfrey, smote the earth with his\nstaff, and sank with the Gothic princess through the centre of the\nbarbican. The earth closed over them, and no trace remained of the\nopening by 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 and\ndigged, 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\ndisappearance of Ibrahim Ebn Abu Ayub ceased the benefit of his\ntalismans. The bronze horseman remained fixed, with his face turned\ntoward the hill, and his spear pointed to the spot where the astrologer\nhad descended, as if there still 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 day\nbrought 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\ndivan, slumbering and nodding to the silver lyre of the princess, which\nseemed to 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 \u201cThe\nKing\u2019s Folly\u201d; while others named it \u201cThe Fool\u2019s Paradise.\u201d\n\nTo add to the chagrin of Aben Habuz, the neighbors 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\nthe most 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\nmeasure realizes the fabled delights of the garden of Irem. The\nspell-bound gateway still exists entire, protected no doubt by the\nmystic hand and key, and now forms the Gate of Justice, the grand\nentrance to the fortress. Under that gateway, it is said, the old\nastrologer remains in his subterranean hall, nodding on his divan,\nlulled 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\nneighboring trees; so that in fact it is the drowsiest military post in\nall Christendom. All this, say the ancient legends, will endure from age\nto age. The princess will remain captive to the astrologer; and the\nastrologer, bound up in magic slumber by the princess, until the last\nday, unless the mystic hand shall grasp the fated key, and dispel the\nwhole charm of this enchanted mountain.\n\n\n     NOTE TO THE ARABIAN ASTROLOGER\n\n     Al Makkari, in his history of the Mahommedan Dynasties in Spain,\n     cites from another Arabian writer an account of a talismanic effigy\n     somewhat similar to the one in the foregoing legend.\n\n     In Cadiz, says he, there formerly stood a square tower upwards of\n     one hundred cubits high, built of huge blocks of stone, fastened\n     together with clamps of brass. On the top was the figure of a man,\n     holding a staff in his right hand, his face turned to the Atlantic,\n     and pointing with the forefinger of his left hand to the Straits of\n     Gibraltar. It was said to have been set up in ancient times by the\n     Gothic kings of Andalus, as a beacon or guide to navigators. The\n     Moslems of Barbary and Andalus considered it a talisman which\n     exercised a spell over the seas. Under its guidance, swarms of\n     piratical people of a nation called Majus, appeared on the coast in\n     large vessels with a square sail in the bow, and another in the\n     stern. They came every six or seven years; captured everything they\n     met with on the sea;--guided by the statue, they passed through the\n     Straits into the Mediterranean, landed on the coasts of Andalus,\n     laid everything waste with fire and sword; and sometimes carried\n     their depredations on the opposite coasts even as far as Syria.\n\n     At length it came to pass in the time of the civil wars, a Moslem\n     Admiral who had taken possession of Cadiz, hearing that the statue\n     on top of the tower was of pure gold, had it lowered to the ground\n     and broken to pieces: when it proved to be of gilded brass. With\n     the destruction of the idol, the spell over the sea was at an end.\n     From that time forward nothing more was seen of the piratical\n     people of the ocean excepting that two of their barks were wrecked\n     on the coast, one at Marsu-l-Majus (the port of the Majus), the\n     other close to the promontory of Al Aghan.\n\n     The maritime invaders above mentioned by Al Makkari must have been\n     the Northmen.\n\n\n\n\nVISITORS TO THE ALHAMBRA\n\n\nFor nearly three months had I enjoyed undisturbed my dream of\nsovereignty in the Alhambra,--a longer term of quiet than had been the\nlot of many of my predecessors. During this lapse of time the progress\nof the season had wrought the usual change. On my arrival I had found\neverything in the freshness of May; the foliage of the trees was still\ntender and transparent; the pomegranate had not yet shed its brilliant\ncrimson blossoms; the orchards of the Xenil and the Darro were in full\nbloom; the rocks were hung with wild flowers, and Granada seemed\ncompletely surrounded by a wilderness of roses; among which innumerable\nnightingales sang, 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\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\nsmall gallery supported by marble pillars and Moresco arches. An\nalabaster fountain in the centre of the pavement still throws up a jet\nof water to cool the place. On each side are deep alcoves with raised\nplatforms, where the bathers, after their ablutions, reclined on\ncushions, soothed to voluptuous repose by the fragrance of the perfumed\nair and the notes of soft music from the gallery. Beyond this hall are\nthe interior chambers, still more retired; the _sanctum sanctorum_ of\nfemale privacy; for here the beauties of the Harem indulged in the\nluxury of the baths. A soft mysterious light reigns through the place,\nadmitted through small apertures (lumbreras) in the vaulted ceiling. The\ntraces of ancient elegance are still to be seen; and the alabaster baths\nin which the sultanas once reclined. The prevailing obscurity and\nsilence have made these vaults a favorite resort of bats, who nestle\nduring the day in the dark nooks and corners, and on being disturbed,\nflit mysteriously about the twilight chambers, heightening, in an\nindescribable degree, their air of desertion and decay.\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 way\nI 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\nwas roused one morning by the report of fire-arms, which reverberated\namong the towers as if the castle had been taken by surprise. On\nsallying forth, I found an old cavalier with a number of domestics in\npossession of the Hall of Ambassadors. He was an ancient count who had\ncome up from his palace in Granada to pass a short time in the Alhambra\nfor the benefit of purer air; and who, being a veteran and inveterate\nsportsman, was endeavoring to get an appetite for his breakfast by\nshooting at swallows from the balconies. It was a harmless amusement;\nfor though, by the alertness of his attendants in loading his pieces, he\nwas enabled to keep up a brisk fire, I could not accuse him of the death\nof a single swallow. Nay, the birds themselves seemed to enjoy the\nsport, and to deride his want of skill, skimming in circles close to the\nbalconies, and twittering as they darted by.\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\nof the Lions and its adjacent halls, while I maintained peaceful\npossession of the regions of the baths and the little garden of\nLindaraxa. We took our meals together under the arcades of the court,\nwhere the fountains cooled the air, and bubbling rills ran along the\nchannels of the marble pavement.\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\nalways some of his official dependants, his chaplain, his lawyer, his\nsecretary, his steward, and other officers and agents of his extensive\npossessions, who brought him up the news or gossip of the city, and\nformed his evening party of tresillo or ombre. Thus he held a kind of\ndomestic court, where each one paid him deference, and sought to\ncontribute to his amusement, without, however, any appearance of\nservility, or any sacrifice of self-respect. In fact, nothing of the\nkind was exacted by the demeanor of the count; for whatever may be said\nof Spanish pride, it rarely chills or constrains the intercourse of\nsocial or domestic life. Among no people are the relations between\nkindred more unreserved and cordial, or between superior and dependant\nmore free from haughtiness on the one side, and obsequiousness on the\nother. In these respects there still remains in Spanish life, especially\nin the provinces, much of the vaunted simplicity of the olden time.\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 and\ndevelopment, 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 demeanor in contrast to the usual fire of Spanish beauty, but in\nunison with the guileless and confiding innocence of her manners. She\nhad at the same time the innate aptness and versatility of her\nfascinating country-women. Whatever she undertook to do she did well and\napparently without effort. She sang, played the guitar and other\ninstruments, and danced the picturesque dances of her country to\nadmiration, but never seemed to seek admiration. Everything was\nspontaneous, prompted by her own 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 of\ntresillo under the vestibule of the Court of Lions, she, attended by\nDolores, who acted as her maid of honor, 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\nlittle being, sporting in happy and innocent girlhood in its marble\nhalls, dancing to the sound of the Moorish castanets, or mingling the\nsilver warbling of her voice with the music of its fountains.\n\n\n\n\nRELICS AND GENEALOGIES\n\n\nIf I had been pleased and interested by the count and his family, as\nfurnishing a picture of a Spanish domestic life, I was still more so\nwhen apprised of historical circumstances which linked them with the\nheroic times of Granada. In fact, in this worthy old cavalier, so\ntotally unwarlike, or whose deeds in arms extended, at most, to a war on\nswallows and martlets, I discovered a lineal descendant and actual\nrepresentative of Gonsalvo of Cordova, \u201cThe Grand Captain,\u201d who won some\nof his brightest laurels before the walls of Granada, and was one of the\ncavaliers commissioned by Ferdinand and Isabella to negotiate the terms\nof surrender; nay, more, the count was entitled, did he choose it, to\nclaim remote affinity with some of the ancient Moorish princes, through\na scion of his house, Don Pedro Venegas, surnamed the Tornadizo; and by\nthe same token his daughter, the fascinating little Carmen, might claim\nto be rightful representative of the princess Cetimerien or the\nbeautiful Lindaraxa.[17]\n\nUnderstanding from the count that he had some curious relics of the\nConquest, preserved in his family archives, I accompanied him early one\nmorning down to his palace in Granada to examine them. The most\nimportant of these relics was the sword of the Grand Captain; a weapon\ndestitute of all ostentatious ornament, as the weapons of great generals\nare apt to be, with a plain hilt of ivory and a broad thin blade. It\nmight furnish a comment on hereditary honors, to see the sword of the\nGrand Captain legitimately declined into such feeble hands.\n\nThe other relics of the Conquest were a number of espingardas or muskets\nof unwieldy size and ponderous weight, worthy to rank with those\nenormous two-edged swords preserved in old armories, which look like\nrelics from the days of the giants.\n\nBeside other hereditary honors, I found the old count was Alferez mayor,\nor grand standard-bearer, in which capacity he was entitled to bear the\nancient standard of Ferdinand and Isabella, on certain high and solemn\noccasions, and to wave it over their tombs. I was shown also the\ncaparisons of velvet, sumptuously embroidered with gold and silver, for\nsix horses, with which he appeared in state when a new sovereign was to\nbe proclaimed in Granada and Seville; the count mounting one of the\nhorses, and the other five being led by lackeys in rich liveries.\n\nI had hoped to find among the relics and antiquities of the count\u2019s\npalace some specimens of the armor and weapons of the Moors of Granada,\nsuch as I had heard were preserved as trophies by the descendants of the\nConquerors; but in this I was disappointed. I was the more curious in\nthis particular, because an erroneous idea has been entertained by many,\nas to the costumes of the Moors of Spain; supposing them to be of the\nusual Oriental type. On the contrary, we have it on the authority of\ntheir own writers, that they adopted in many respects the fashions of\nthe Christians. The turban, especially, so identified in idea with the\nMoslem, was generally abandoned, except in the western provinces, where\nit continued in use among people of rank and wealth, and those holding\nplaces under government. A woollen cap, red or green, was commonly worn\nas a substitute; probably the same kind originating in Barbary, and\nknown by the name of Tunis or Fez, which at the present day is worn\nthroughout the East, though generally under the turban. The Jews were\nobliged to wear them of a yellow color.\n\nIn Murcia, Valencia, and other eastern provinces, men of the highest\nrank might be seen in public bare-headed. The warrior king, Aben Hud,\nnever wore a turban, neither did his rival and competitor Al Hamar, the\nfounder of the Alhambra. A short cloak called Taylasan, similar to that\nseen in Spain in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, was worn by\nall ranks. It had a hood or cape which people of condition sometimes\ndrew over the head; but the lower class never.\n\nA Moslem cavalier in the thirteenth century, as described by Ibnu Said,\nwas equipped for war very much in the Christian style. Over a complete\nsuit of mail he wore a short scarlet tunic. His helmet was of polished\nsteel; a shield was slung at his back; he wielded a huge spear with a\nbroad point, sometimes a double point. His saddle was cumbrous,\nprojecting very much in front and in rear, and he rode with a banner\nfluttering behind him.\n\nIn the time of Al Khattib of Granada, who wrote in the fourteenth\ncentury, the Moslems of Andalus had resumed the Oriental costumes, and\nwere again clad and armed in Arabic fashion: with light helmet, thin but\nwell-tempered cuirass, long slender lance, commonly of reed, Arabian\nsaddle and leathern buckler, made of double folds of the skin of the\nantelope. A wonderful luxury prevailed at that time in the arms and\nequipments of the Granadian cavaliers. Their armor was inlaid with gold\nand silver. Their cimeters were of the keenest Damascus blades, with\nsheaths richly wrought and enamelled, and belts of golden filigree\nstudded with gems. Their daggers of Fez had jewelled hilts, and their\nlances were set off with gay banderoles. Their horses were caparisoned\nin correspondent style, with velvet and embroidery.\n\nAll this minute description, given by a contemporary, and an author of\ndistinction, verifies those gallant pictures in the old Morisco Spanish\nballads which have sometimes been deemed apocryphal, and give a vivid\nidea of the brilliant appearance of the chivalry of Granada, when\nmarshalled forth in warlike array, or when celebrating the chivalrous\nf\u00eates of the Vivarrambla.\n\n\n\n\nTHE GENERALIFE\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\nthe Generalife; a fairy palace, full of storied recollections. Here are\nstill to be seen the famous cypresses of enormous size which flourished\nin the time of the Moors, and which tradition has connected with the\nfabulous story of Boabdil and his sultana.\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\ndesperate fight Tarfe the Moor, a champion of Herculean strength. Here\ntoo hangs a portrait which has long passed for that of the unfortunate\nBoabdil, but\n\n[Illustration: THE GENERALIFE FROM THE ALHAMBRA.]\n\nwhich 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\nConquest, and was christianized by the name of Don Pedro de Granada\nVenegas, was descended the present proprietor of the palace, the Marquis\nof Campotejar. The proprietor, however, dwells in a foreign land, and\nthe palace has no longer a princely inhabitant.\n\nYet here is everything to delight a southern voluptuary: fruits,\nflowers, fragrance, green arbors and myrtle hedges, delicate air and\ngushing waters. Here I had an opportunity of witnessing those scenes\nwhich painters are fond of depicting about southern palaces and gardens.\nIt was the saint\u2019s day of the count\u2019s daughter, and she had brought up\nseveral of her youthful companions from Granada, to sport away a long\nsummer\u2019s day among the breezy halls and bowers of the Moorish palaces. A\nvisit to the Generalife was the morning\u2019s entertainment. Here some of\nthe gay company dispersed itself in groups about the green walks, the\nbright fountains, the flights of Italian steps, the noble terraces and\nmarble balustrades. Others, among whom I was one, took their seats in an\nopen gallery or colonnade commanding a vast prospect; with the Alhambra,\nthe city, and the Vega, far below, and the distant horizon of\nmountains--a dreamy world, all glimmering to the eye in summer sunshine.\nWhile thus seated, the all-pervading tinkling of the guitar and click of\nthe castanets came stealing up from the valley of the Darro, and\nhalf-way down the mountain we descried a festive party under the trees,\nenjoying themselves in true Andalusian style; some lying on the grass,\nothers dancing to the music.\n\nAll these sights and sounds, together with the princely seclusion of the\nplace, the sweet quiet which prevailed around, and the delicious\nserenity of the weather, had a witching effect upon the mind, and drew\nfrom some of the company, versed in local story, several of the popular\nfancies and traditions connected with this old Moorish palace; they were\n\u201csuch stuff as dreams are made of,\u201d but out of them I have shaped the\nfollowing legend, which I hope may have the good fortune to prove\nacceptable to the reader.\n\n\n\n\nLEGEND OF PRINCE AHMED AL KAMEL\n\nOR, THE 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 superexcellence which they\nperceived in him in his very infancy. The astrologers countenanced them\nin their foresight, predicting everything in his favor that could make a\nperfect prince and a prosperous sovereign. One cloud only rested upon\nhis destiny, and even that was of a roseate hue: he would be of an\namorous temperament, and run great perils from the tender passion. If,\nhowever, he could be kept from the allurements of love until of mature\nage, these dangers would be averted, and his life thereafter be one\nuninterrupted course of felicity.\n\nTo prevent all danger of the kind, the king wisely determined to rear\nthe prince in a seclusion where he should never see a female face, nor\nhear even the name of love. For this purpose he built a beautiful palace\non the brow of the hill above the Alhambra, in the midst of delightful\ngardens, but surrounded by lofty walls, being, in fact, the same palace\nknown at the present day by the name of the Generalife. In this palace\nthe youthful prince was shut up, and intrusted to the guardianship and\ninstruction of Eben Bonabben, one of the wisest and dryest of Arabian\nsages, who had passed the greatest part of his life in Egypt, studying\nhieroglyphics, and making researches among the tombs and pyramids, and\nwho saw more charms in an Egyptian mummy than in the most tempting of\nliving beauties. The sage was ordered to instruct the prince in all\nkinds of knowledge but one,--he was to be kept utterly ignorant of love.\n\u201cUse every precaution for the purpose you may think proper,\u201d said the\nking, \u201cbut remember, O Eben Bonabben, if my son learns aught of that\nforbidden knowledge while under your care, your head shall answer for\nit.\u201d A withered smile came over the dry visage of the wise Bonabben at\nthe menace. \u201cLet your majesty\u2019s heart be as easy about your son, as mine\nis about my head: am I a man likely to give lessons in the idle\npassion?\u201d\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\nnot words to communicate it. His mental endowments were the peculiar\ncare of Eben Bonabben, who sought to initiate him into the abstruse lore\nof Egypt; but in this the prince made little progress, and it was soon\nevident that he had no turn for philosophy.\n\nHe was, however, amazingly ductile for a youthful prince, ready to\nfollow any advice, and always guided by the last counsellor. He\nsuppressed his yawns, and listened patiently to the long and learned\ndiscourses of Eben Bonabben, from which he imbibed a smattering of\nvarious kinds of knowledge, and thus happily attained his twentieth\nyear, a miracle of princely wisdom--but totally ignorant of love.\n\nAbout this time, however, a change came over the conduct of the prince.\nHe completely abandoned his studies, and took to strolling about the\ngardens, and musing by the side of the fountains. He had been taught a\nlittle music among his various accomplishments; it now engrossed a great\npart of his time, and a turn for poetry became apparent. The sage Eben\nBonabben took the alarm, and endeavored to work these idle humors out of\nhim by a severe course of algebra; but the prince turned from it with\ndistaste. \u201cI cannot endure algebra,\u201d said he; \u201cit is an abomination to\nme. I want something that speaks more to the heart.\u201d\n\nThe sage Eben Bonabben shook his dry head at the words. \u201cHere is an end\nto philosophy,\u201d thought he. \u201cThe prince has discovered he has a heart!\u201d\nHe now kept anxious watch upon his pupil, and saw that the latent\ntenderness of his nature was in activity, and only wanted an object. He\nwandered about the gardens of the Generalife in an intoxication of\nfeelings 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\nthe most touching notes, and then throw it aside, and break forth into\nsighs and ejaculations.\n\nBy degrees this loving disposition began to extend to inanimate objects;\nhe had his favorite flowers, which he cherished with tender assiduity;\nthen he became attached to various trees, and there was one in\nparticular, of a graceful form and drooping foliage, on which he\nlavished his amorous devotion, carving his name on its bark, hanging\ngarlands on its branches, and singing couplets in its praise, to the\naccompaniment 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 to\nhim 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 of\nthe garden, and shut him up in the highest tower of the Generalife. It\ncontained 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\nAhmed.\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\nagreeable knowledge; and algebra was not to be mentioned. Fortunately\nEben Bonabben had been instructed, when in Egypt, in the language of\nbirds by a Jewish Rabbin, who had received it in lineal transmission\nfrom Solomon the Wise, who had been taught it by the queen of Sheba. At\nthe very mention of such a study, the eyes of the prince sparkled with\nanimation, and he applied himself to it with such avidity, that he soon\nbecame as great an adept as his master.\n\nThe tower of the Generalife was no longer a solitude; he had companions\nat hand with whom he could converse. The first acquaintance he formed\nwas with a hawk, who built his nest in a crevice of the lofty\nbattlements, whence he soared far and wide in quest of prey. The prince,\nhowever, found little to like or esteem in him. He was a mere pirate of\nthe air, swaggering and boastful, whose talk was all about rapine and\ncarnage, and desperate 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\ndark sciences; he was grievously given to metaphysics, and the prince\nfound his prosings even more ponderous than those of the sage Eben\nBonabben.\n\nThen there was a bat, that hung all day by his heels in the dark corner\nof a vault, but sallied out in slipshod style at twilight. He, however,\nhad but twilight ideas on all subjects, derided things of which he had\ntaken but an imperfect view, and seemed to take delight in nothing.\n\nBesides these there was a swallow, with whom the prince was at first\nmuch taken. He was a smart talker, but restless, bustling, and forever\non the wing; seldom remaining long enough for any continued\nconversation. He turned out in the end to be a mere smatterer, who did\nbut skim over the surface of things, pretending to know everything, but\nknowing nothing thoroughly.\n\nThese were the only feathered associates with whom the prince had any\nopportunity of exercising his newly acquired language; the tower was too\nhigh for any other birds to frequent it. He soon grew weary of his new\nacquaintances, 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\nheard the same universal theme--love--love--love--chanted forth, and\nresponded to it in every variety of note and tone. The prince listened\nin silence and perplexity. \u201cWhat can be this love,\u201d thought he, \u201cof\nwhich the world seems so full, and of which I know nothing?\u201d He applied\nfor information to his friend the hawk. The ruffian bird answered in a\ntone of scorn: \u201cYou must apply,\u201d said he, \u201cto the vulgar peaceable\nbirds of earth, who are made for the prey of us princes of the air. My\ntrade is war, and fighting my delight. I am a warrior, and know nothing\nof this thing called love.\u201d\n\nThe prince turned from him with disgust, and sought the owl in his\nretreat. \u201cThis is a bird,\u201d said he, \u201cof peaceful habits, and may be able\nto solve my question.\u201d So he asked the owl to tell him what was this\nlove about which all the birds in the groves below were singing.\n\nUpon this the owl put on a look of offended dignity. \u201cMy nights,\u201d said\nhe, \u201care taken up in study and research, and my days in ruminating in my\ncell upon all that I have learnt. As to these singing birds of whom you\ntalk, I never listen to them--I despise them and their themes. Allah be\npraised, I cannot sing; I am a philosopher, and know nothing of this\nthing called love.\u201d\n\nThe prince now repaired to the vault, where his friend the bat was\nhanging by the heels, and propounded the same question. The bat wrinkled\nup his nose into a most snappish expression. \u201cWhy do you disturb me in\nmy morning\u2019s nap with such an idle question?\u201d said he, peevishly. \u201cI\nonly fly by twilight, when all birds are asleep, and never trouble\nmyself with their concerns. I am neither bird nor beast, and I thank\nheaven for it. I have found out the villany of the whole of them, and\nhate them one and all. In a word, I am a misanthrope--and know nothing\nof this thing called love.\u201d\n\nAs a last resort, the prince now sought the swallow, and stopped him\njust as he was circling about the summit of the tower. The swallow, as\nusual, was in a prodigious hurry, and had scarce time to make a reply.\n\u201cUpon my word,\u201d said he, \u201cI have so much public business to attend to,\nand so many pursuits to follow, that I have had no time to think on the\nsubject. I have every day a thousand visits to pay; a thousand affairs\nof importance to examine into, that leave me not a moment of leisure for\nthese little sing-song matters. In a word, I am a citizen of the\nworld--I know nothing of this thing called love.\u201d So saying, the swallow\ndived into the valley, and 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\nmood, his ancient guardian entered the tower. The prince advanced\neagerly to meet him. \u201cO Eben Bonabben,\u201d cried he, \u201cthou hast revealed to\nme much of the wisdom of the earth; but there is one thing of which I\nremain in utter ignorance, and would fain be informed.\u201d\n\n\u201cMy prince has but to make the inquiry, and everything within the\nlimited range of his servant\u2019s intellect is at his command.\u201d\n\n\u201cTell me then, O most profound of sages, what is the nature of this\nthing called love?\u201d\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\u201cWhat could suggest such a question to my prince,--where could he have\nlearnt so idle a word?\u201d\n\nThe prince led him to the window of the tower. \u201cListen, O Eben\nBonabben,\u201d said he. The sage listened. The nightingale sat in a thicket\nbelow the tower, singing to his paramour the rose; from every\nblossomed spray and tufted grove rose a strain of melody; and\nlove--love--love--was still the unvarying strain.\n\n\u201cAllah Akbar! God is great!\u201d exclaimed the wise Bonabben. \u201cWho shall\npretend to keep this secret from the heart of man, when even the birds\nof the air conspire to betray it?\u201d\n\nThen turning to Ahmed--\u201cO my prince,\u201d cried he, \u201cshut thine ears to\nthese seductive strains. Close thy mind against this dangerous\nknowledge. Know that this love is the cause of half the ills of wretched\nmortality. It is this which produces bitterness and strife between\nbrethren and friends; which causes treacherous murder and desolating\nwar. Care and sorrow, weary days and sleepless nights, are its\nattendants. It withers the bloom and blights the joy of youth, and\nbrings on the ills and griefs of premature old age. Allah preserve thee,\nmy prince, in total ignorance of this thing called love!\u201d\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, and\nteased 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 flowers?\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,\nwhich came laden with the perfume of orange-blossoms from the valley of\nthe Darro. The voice of the nightingale was faintly heard, still\nchanting the wonted theme. As the prince was listening and sighing,\nthere was a sudden rushing noise in the air; a beautiful dove, pursued\nby a hawk, darted in at the window, and fell panting on the floor, while\nthe pursuer, balked of his prey, soared off to the mountains.\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\u201cWhat aileth thee?\u201d said Ahmed. \u201cHast thou not everything thy heart can\nwish?\u201d\n\n\u201cAlas, no!\u201d replied the dove; \u201cam I not separated from the partner of my\nheart, and that too in the happy spring-time, the very season of love!\u201d\n\n\u201cOf love!\u201d echoed Ahmed. \u201cI pray thee, my pretty bird, canst thou then\ntell me what is love?\u201d\n\n\u201cToo 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\nbeings together, and unites them by delicious sympathies, making it\nhappiness to be with each other, but misery to be apart. Is there no\nbeing to whom you are drawn by these ties of tender affection?\u201d\n\n\u201cI like my old teacher Eben Bonabben better than any other being; but he\nis often tedious, and I occasionally feel myself happier without his\nsociety.\u201d\n\n\u201cThat 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\nnature is full of love. Every created being has its mate; the most\ninsignificant bird sings to its paramour; the very beetle wooes its\nlady-beetle in the dust, and yon butterflies which you see fluttering\nhigh above the tower and toying in the air, are happy in each other\u2019s\nloves. Alas, my prince! hast thou spent so many of the precious days of\nyouth without knowing anything of love? Is there no gentle being of\nanother sex--no beautiful princess nor lovely damsel who has ensnared\nyour heart, and filled your bosom with a soft tumult of pleasing pains\nand tender wishes?\u201d\n\n\u201cI begin to understand,\u201d said the prince, sighing; \u201csuch 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?\u201d\n\nA little further conversation ensued, and the first amatory lesson of\nthe prince was complete.\n\n\u201cAlas!\u201d said he, \u201cif 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.\u201d He opened the cage, took out the dove, and having fondly\nkissed it, carried it to the window. \u201cGo, happy bird,\u201d said he, \u201crejoice\nwith the partner of thy heart in the days of youth and spring-time. Why\nshould I make thee a fellow-prisoner in this dreary tower, where love\ncan never enter?\u201d\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. \u201cWhy hast\nthou kept me in this abject ignorance?\u201d cried he. \u201cWhy has the great\nmystery and principle of life been withheld from me, in which I find the\nmeanest 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\nof its raptures?\u201d\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\nprecautions that had been taken in his education to avert the threatened\nevils. \u201cAnd now, my prince,\u201d added he, \u201cmy life is in your hands. Let\nthe king your father discover that you have learned the passion of love\nwhile under my guardianship, and my head must answer for it.\u201d\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\nagainst them. Besides, he really was attached to Eben Bonabben, and\nbeing as yet but theoretically acquainted with the passion of love, he\nconsented to confine the knowledge of it to his own bosom, rather than\nendanger the head 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. \u201cHappy bird,\u201d said he, \u201cwho 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?\u201d\n\n\u201cIn 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\ndelightful garden with all kinds of fruits and flowers. It was in a\ngreen meadow, on the banks of a wandering stream; and in the centre of\nthe garden was a stately palace. I alighted in one of the bowers to\nrepose after my weary flight. On the green bank below me was a youthful\nprincess, in the very sweetness and bloom of her years. She was\nsurrounded by female attendants, young like herself, who decked her\nwith garlands and coronets of flowers; but no flower of field or garden\ncould compare with her for loveliness. Here, however, she bloomed in\nsecret, for the garden was surrounded by high walls, and no mortal man\nwas permitted to enter. When I beheld this beauteous maid, thus young\nand innocent and unspotted by the world, I thought, here is the being\nformed by heaven to inspire my prince with love.\u201d\n\nThe description was a spark of fire to the combustible heart of Ahmed;\nall the latent amorousness of his temperament had at once found an\nobject, and he conceived an immeasurable passion for the princess. He\nwrote a letter, couched in the most impassioned language, breathing his\nfervent devotion, but bewailing the unhappy thraldom of his person,\nwhich prevented him from seeking her out and throwing himself at her\nfeet. He added couplets of the most tender and moving eloquence, for he\nwas a poet by nature, and inspired by love. He addressed his letter--\u201cTo\nthe Unknown Beauty, from the captive Prince Ahmed\u201d; then perfuming it\nwith musk and roses, he gave it to the dove.\n\n\u201cAway, trustiest of messengers!\u201d said he. \u201cFly over mountain, and\nvalley, and river, and plain; rest not in bower, nor set foot on earth,\nuntil thou hast given this letter to the mistress of my heart.\u201d\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\npressed it to his lips and to his heart; he sat for hours contemplating\nit almost in an agony of tenderness. \u201cBeautiful image!\u201d said he, \u201calas,\nthou art but an image! Yet thy dewy eyes beam tenderly upon me; those\nrosy lips look as though they would speak encouragement: vain fancies!\nHave they not looked the same on some more happy rival? But where in\nthis wide world shall I hope to find the original? Who knows what\nmountains, what realms may separate us; what adverse chances may\nintervene? Perhaps now, even now, lovers may be crowding around her,\nwhile I sit here a prisoner in a tower, wasting my time in adoration of\na painted shadow.\u201d\n\nThe resolution of Prince Ahmed was taken. \u201cI will fly from this palace,\u201d\nsaid he, \u201cwhich has become an odious prison; and, a pilgrim of love,\nwill seek this unknown princess throughout the world.\u201d To escape from\nthe tower in the day, when every one was awake, might be a difficult\nmatter; but at night the palace was slightly guarded; for no one\napprehended any attempt of the kind from the prince, who had always been\nso passive in his captivity. How was he to guide himself, however, in\nhis darkling flight, being ignorant of the country? He bethought him of\nthe owl, who was accustomed to roam at night, and must know every\nby-lane and secret pass. Seeking him in his hermitage, he questioned him\ntouching his knowledge of the land. Upon this the owl put on a mighty\nself-important look. \u201cYou must know, O prince,\u201d said he, \u201cthat we owls\nare of a very ancient and extensive family, though rather fallen to\ndecay, and possess ruinous castles and palaces in all parts of Spain.\nThere is scarcely a tower of the mountains, or a fortress of the plains,\nor an old citadel of a city, but has some brother, or uncle, or cousin,\nquartered in it; and in going the rounds to visit this my numerous\nkindred, I have pried into every nook and corner, and made myself\nacquainted with every secret of the land.\u201d\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\u201cGo to!\u201d said the owl, with a look of displeasure; \u201cam I a bird to\nengage in a love-affair?--I, whose whole time is devoted to meditation\nand the moon?\u201d\n\n\u201cBe not offended, most solemn owl,\u201d replied the prince; \u201cabstract\nthyself for a time from meditation and the moon, and aid me in my\nflight, and thou shalt have whatever heart can wish.\u201d\n\n\u201cI have that already,\u201d said the owl: \u201ca few mice are sufficient for my\nfrugal table, and this hole in the wall is spacious enough for my\nstudies; and what more does a philosopher like myself desire?\u201d\n\n\u201cBethink 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 be a\nsovereign prince, and may advance thee to some post of honor and\ndignity.\u201d\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\nowl, made good his escape before morning to the mountains.\n\nHe now held a council with his mentor as to his future course.\n\n\u201cMight I advise,\u201d said the owl, \u201cI would recommend you to repair to\nSeville. You must know that many years since I was on a visit to an\nuncle, an owl of great dignity and power, who lived in a ruined wing of\nthe Alcazar of that place. In my hoverings at night over the city I\nfrequently remarked a light burning in a lonely tower. At length I\nalighted on the battlements, and found it to proceed from the lamp of an\nArabian magician: he was surrounded by his magic books, and on his\nshoulder was perched his familiar, an ancient raven who had come with\nhim from Egypt. I am acquainted with that raven, and owe to him a great\npart of the knowledge I possess. The magician is since dead, but the\nraven still inhabits the tower, for these birds are of wonderful long\nlife. I would advise you, O prince, to seek that raven, for he is a\nsoothsayer and a conjurer, and deals in the black art, for which all\nravens, and especially those of Egypt, are renowned.\u201d\n\nThe prince was struck with the wisdom of this advice, and accordingly\nbent his course towards Seville. He travelled only in the night, to\naccommodate his companion, and lay by during the day in some dark cavern\nor mouldering watch-tower, for the owl knew every hiding-hole of the\nkind, and had a most antiquarian taste for ruins.\n\nAt length one morning at daybreak they reached the city of Seville,\nwhere the owl, who hated the glare and bustle of crowded streets,\nhalted without the 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\nday, and known as the Giralda, the famous Moorish tower of Seville.\n\nThe prince ascended by a great winding staircase to the summit of the\ntower, 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\nby his venerable appearance and supernatural wisdom. \u201cPardon me, most\nancient and darkly wise raven,\u201d exclaimed he, \u201cif for a moment I\ninterrupt those studies which are the wonder of the world. You behold\nbefore you a votary of love, who would fain seek your counsel how to\nobtain the object of his passion.\u201d\n\n\u201cIn other words,\u201d said the raven, with a significant look, \u201cyou seek to\ntry my skill in palmistry. Come, show me your hand, and let me decipher\nthe mysterious lines of fortune.\u201d\n\n\u201cExcuse me,\u201d said the prince, \u201cI come not to pry into the decrees of\nfate, which are hidden by Allah from the eyes of mortals; I am a pilgrim\nof love, and seek but to find a clue to the object of my pilgrimage.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd can you be at any loss for an object in amorous Andalusia?\u201d said\nthe old raven, leering upon him with his single eye; \u201cabove all, can you\nbe at a loss in wanton Seville, where black-eyed damsels dance the\nzambra under every orange grove?\u201d\n\nThe prince blushed, and was somewhat shocked at hearing an old bird with\none foot in the grave talk thus loosely. \u201cBelieve me,\u201d said he, gravely,\n\u201cI am on none such light and vagrant errand as thou dost insinuate. The\nblack-eyed damsels of Andalusia who dance among the orange groves of the\nGuadalquivir are as naught 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\nart, inform me where she may be found.\u201d\n\nThe gray-headed raven was rebuked by the gravity of the prince.\n\n\u201cWhat know I,\u201d replied he, dryly, \u201cof youth and beauty? my visits are to\nthe old and withered, not the fresh and fair: the harbinger of fate am\nI; who croak bodings of death from the chimney-top, and flap my wings at\nthe sick man\u2019s window. You must seek elsewhere for tidings of your\nunknown beauty.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd where can I seek if not among the sons of wisdom, versed in the\nbook of destiny? Know that I am a royal prince, fated by the stars, and\nsent on a mysterious enterprise on which may hang the destiny of\nempires.\u201d\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, he\nreplied, \u201cTouching this princess, I can give thee no information of\nmyself, for my flight is not among gardens, or around ladies\u2019 bowers;\nbut hie thee to Cordova, seek the palm-tree of the great Abderahman,\nwhich stands in the court of the principal mosque: at the foot of it\nthou wilt find a great traveller who has visited all countries and\ncourts, and been a favorite with queens and princesses. He will give\nthee tidings of the object of thy search.\u201d\n\n\u201cMany thanks for this precious information,\u201d said the prince. \u201cFarewell,\nmost venerable conjurer.\u201d\n\n\u201cFarewell, pilgrim of love,\u201d 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\ngates the owl flew up to a dark hole in the wall, and the prince\nproceeded in quest of the palm-tree planted in days of yore by the great\nAbderahman. It stood in the midst of the great court of the mosque,\ntowering from amidst orange and cypress trees. Dervises and Faquirs were\nseated in groups under the cloisters of the court, and many of the\nfaithful were performing their ablutions at the fountains before\nentering 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. \u201cThis,\u201d said the\nprince to himself, \u201cmust be the great traveller who is to give me\ntidings of the unknown princess.\u201d He mingled in the crowd, but was\nastonished to perceive that they were all listening to a parrot, who\nwith his bright-green coat, pragmatical eye, and consequential top-knot,\nhad the air of a bird on excellent terms with himself.\n\n\u201cHow is this,\u201d said the prince to one of the bystanders, \u201cthat so many\ngrave persons can be delighted with the garrulity of a chattering bird?\u201d\n\n\u201cYou know not whom you speak of,\u201d said the other; \u201cthis parrot is a\ndescendant of the famous parrot of Persia, renowned for his\nstory-telling talent. He has all the learning of the East at the tip of\nhis tongue, and can quote poetry as fast as he can talk. He has visited\nvarious foreign courts, where he has been considered an oracle of\nerudition. He has been a universal favorite also with the fair sex, who\nhave a vast admiration for erudite parrots that can quote poetry.\u201d\n\n\u201cEnough,\u201d said the prince, \u201cI will have some private talk with this\ndistinguished traveller.\u201d\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. \u201cExcuse\nmy merriment,\u201d said he, \u201cbut the mere mention of love always sets me\nlaughing.\u201d\n\nThe prince was shocked at this ill-timed mirth. \u201cIs not love,\u201d said he,\n\u201cthe great mystery of nature, the secret principle of life, the\nuniversal bond of sympathy?\u201d\n\n\u201cA fig\u2019s end!\u201d cried the parrot, interrupting him; \u201cprithee where hast\nthou learned this sentimental jargon? trust me, love is quite out of\nvogue; one never hears of it in the company of wits and people of\nrefinement.\u201d\n\nThe prince sighed as he recalled the different language of his friend\nthe dove. But this parrot, thought he, has lived about the court, he\naffects the wit and the fine gentleman, he knows nothing of the thing\ncalled love. Unwilling to provoke any more ridicule of the sentiment\nwhich filled his heart, he now directed his inquiries to the immediate\npurport of his visit.\n\n\u201cTell me,\u201d said he, \u201cmost accomplished parrot, thou who hast everywhere\nbeen admitted to the most secret bowers of beauty, hast thou in the\ncourse of thy travels met with the original of this portrait?\u201d\n\nThe parrot took the picture in his claw, turned his head from side to\nside, and examined it curiously with either eye. \u201cUpon my honor,\u201d said\nhe, \u201ca very pretty face, very pretty; but then one sees so many pretty\nwomen in one\u2019s 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 favorite with me!\u201d\n\n\u201cThe Princess Aldegonda!\u201d echoed the prince; \u201cand where is she to be\nfound?\u201d\n\n\u201cSoftly, softly,\u201d said the parrot, \u201ceasier 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\nsome prediction of those meddlesome fellows the astrologers. You\u2019ll not\nget a sight of her; no mortal man can see her. I was admitted to her\npresence to entertain her, and I assure you, on the word of a parrot who\nhas seen the world, I have conversed with much sillier princesses in my\ntime.\u201d\n\n\u201cA word in confidence, my dear parrot,\u201d said the prince. \u201cI 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\ncourt.\u201d\n\n\u201cWith all my heart,\u201d said the parrot; \u201cbut let it be a sinecure if\npossible, for we wits have a great dislike to labor.\u201d\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\u2019s society, but never had he been more mistaken. They were\neternally bickering. The one was a wit, the other a philosopher. The\nparrot quoted poetry, was critical on new readings and eloquent on small\npoints of erudition; the owl treated all such knowledge as trifling, and\nrelished nothing but metaphysics. Then the parrot would sing songs and\nrepeat _bon mots_ and crack jokes upon his solemn neighbor, and laugh\noutrageously at his own wit; all which proceedings the owl considered as\na grievous invasion of his dignity, and would scowl and sulk and swell,\nand be silent for a whole day together.\n\nThe prince heeded not the wranglings of his companions, being wrapped up\nin the dreams of his own fancy and the contemplation of the portrait of\nthe beautiful princess. In this way they journeyed through the stern\npasses of the Sierra Morena, across the sunburnt plains of La Mancha and\nCastile, and along the banks of the \u201cGolden Tagus,\u201d which winds its\nwizard mazes over one half of Spain and Portugal. At length they came in\nsight of a strong city with walls and towers built on a rocky\npromontory, round the foot of which the Tagus circled with brawling\nviolence.\n\n\u201cBehold,\u201d exclaimed the owl, \u201cthe ancient and renowned city of Toledo; a\ncity famous for its antiquities. Behold those venerable domes and\ntowers, hoary with time and clothed with legendary grandeur, in which so\nmany of my ancestors have meditated.\u201d\n\n\u201cPish!\u201d cried the parrot, interrupting his solemn antiquarian rapture,\n\u201cwhat 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.\u201d\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\npalace rising from amidst the bowers of a delicious garden. It was just\nsuch a place as had been described by the dove as the residence of the\noriginal of the picture. He gazed at it with a throbbing heart; \u201cperhaps\nat this moment,\u201d thought he, \u201cthe beautiful princess is sporting beneath\nthose shady bowers, or pacing with delicate step those stately terraces,\nor reposing beneath those lofty roofs!\u201d As he looked more narrowly, he\nperceived that the walls of the garden were of great height, so as to\ndefy access, while numbers of armed guards patrolled around them.\n\nThe prince turned to the parrot. \u201cO most accomplished of birds,\u201d said\nhe, \u201cthou hast the gift of human speech. Hie thee to yon garden; seek\nthe idol of my soul, and tell her that Prince Ahmed, a pilgrim of love,\nand guided by the stars, has arrived in quest of her on the flowery\nbanks of the Tagus.\u201d\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\nother down 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, \u201cDry thy tears, most\nbeautiful of princesses,\u201d said he; \u201cI come to bring solace to thy\nheart.\u201d\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\u201cAlas! what solace canst thou yield,\u201d said she, \u201cseeing thou art but a\nparrot?\u201d\n\nThe parrot was nettled at the question. \u201cI have consoled many beautiful\nladies in my time,\u201d said he; \u201cbut let that pass. At present I come\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.\u201d\n\nThe eyes of the beautiful princess sparkled at these words even brighter\nthan the diamonds in her coronet. \u201cO sweetest of parrots,\u201d cried she,\n\u201cjoyful indeed are thy tidings, for I was faint and weary, and sick\nalmost unto death with doubt of the constancy of Ahmed. Hie thee back,\nand tell him that the words of his letter are engraven in my heart, and\nhis poetry has been the food of my soul. Tell him, however, that he must\nprepare to prove his love by force of arms; to-morrow is my seventeenth\nbirthday, when the king my father holds a great tournament; several\nprinces are to enter the lists, and my hand is to be the prize of the\nvictor.\u201d\n\nThe parrot again took wing, and rustling through the groves, flew back\nto where the prince awaited his return. The rapture of Ahmed on finding\nthe original of his adored portrait, and finding her kind and true, can\nonly be conceived by those favored mortals who have had the good fortune\nto realize day-dreams and turn a shadow into substance: still there was\none thing that alloyed his transport--this impending tournament. In\nfact, the banks of the Tagus were already glittering with arms, and\nresounding with trumpets of the various knights, who, with proud\nretinues, were prancing on towards Toledo to attend the ceremonial. The\nsame star that had controlled the destiny of the prince had governed\nthat of the princess, and until her seventeenth birthday she had been\nshut up from the world, to guard her from the tender passion. The fame\nof her charms, however, had been enhanced rather than obscured by this\nseclusion. Several powerful princes had contended for her hand; and her\nfather, who was a king of wondrous shrewdness, to avoid making enemies\nby showing partiality, had referred them to the arbitrament of arms.\nAmong the rival candidates were several renowned for strength and\nprowess. What a predicament for the unfortunate Ahmed, unprovided as he\nwas with weapons, and unskilled in the exercise of chivalry! \u201cLuckless\nprince that I am!\u201d said he, \u201cto have been brought up in seclusion under\nthe eye of a philosopher! Of what avail are algebra and philosophy in\naffairs of love? Alas, Eben Bonabben! why hast thou neglected to\ninstruct me in the management of arms?\u201d Upon this the owl broke silence,\npreluding his harangue with a pious ejaculation, for he was a devout\nMussulman.\n\n\u201cAllah Akbar! God is great!\u201d exclaimed he; \u201cin his hands are all secret\nthings--he alone governs the destiny of princes! Know, O prince, that\nthis land is full of mysteries, hidden from all but those who, like\nmyself, can grope after knowledge in the dark. Know that in the\nneighboring mountains there is a cave, and in that cave there is an iron\ntable, and on that table there lies a suit of magic armor, and beside\nthat table there stands a spell-bound steed, which have been shut up\nthere for many generations.\u201d\n\nThe prince stared with wonder, while the owl, blinking his huge round\neyes, and erecting his horns, proceeded.\n\n\u201cMany 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\narmor belonged to a Moorish magician, who took refuge in this cavern\nwhen Toledo was captured by the Christians, and died here, leaving his\nsteed and weapons under a mystic spell, never to be used but by a\nMoslem, and by him only from sunrise to mid-day. In that interval,\nwhoever uses them will overthrow every opponent.\u201d\n\n\u201cEnough: let us seek this cave!\u201d exclaimed Ahmed.\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 armor, against it leaned the lance, and beside it\nstood an Arabian steed, caparisoned for the field, but motionless as a\nstatue. The armor 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\nwhen Ahmed laid his hand upon his neck, he pawed the ground and gave a\nloud neigh of joy that shook the walls of the cavern. Thus amply\nprovided with \u201chorse and rider and weapon to wear,\u201d the prince\ndetermined to defy the field 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\nplumed knights with their pages and esquires, among whom figured\nconspicuously the princes who were to contend in the tourney. All the\nbeauties of the land, however, were eclipsed when the Princess Aldegonda\nappeared in the royal pavilion, and for the first time broke forth upon\nthe gaze of an admiring world. A murmur of wonder ran through the crowd\nat her transcendent loveliness; and the princes who were candidates for\nher hand, merely on the faith of her reported charms, now felt tenfold\nardor for the conflict.\n\nThe princess, however, had a troubled look. The color came and went from\nher cheek, and her eye wandered with a restless and unsatisfied\nexpression over the plumed throng of knights. The trumpets were about\nsounding for the encounter, when the herald announced the arrival of a\nstrange knight; and Ahmed rode into the field. A steel helmet studded\nwith gems rose above his turban; his cuirass was embossed with gold; his\ncimeter and dagger were of the workmanship of Fez, and flamed with\nprecious stones. A round shield was at his shoulder, and in his hand he\nbore the lance of charmed virtue. The caparison of his Arabian steed was\nrichly embroidered and swept the ground, and the proud animal pranced\nand snuffed the air, and neighed with joy at once more beholding the\narray of arms. The lofty and graceful demeanor of the prince struck\nevery eye, and when his appellation was announced, \u201cThe Pilgrim of\nLove,\u201d a universal flutter and agitation prevailed among the fair dames\nin the galleries.\n\nWhen Ahmed presented himself at the lists, however, they were closed\nagainst him: none but princes, he was told, were admitted to the\ncontest. He declared his name and rank. Still worse!--he was a Moslem,\nand could not engage in a tourney where the hand of a Christian princess\nwas the prize.\n\nThe rival princes surrounded him with haughty and menacing aspects; and\none of insolent demeanor and herculean frame sneered at his light and\nyouthful form, and scoffed at his amorous appellation. The ire of the\nprince was roused. He defied his rival to the encounter. They took\ndistance, wheeled, and charged; and at the first touch of the magic\nlance, the brawny scoffer was tilted from his saddle. Here the prince\nwould have paused, but, alas! he had to deal with a demoniac horse and\narmor; once in action, nothing could control them. The Arabian steed\ncharged into the thickest of the throng; the lance overturned everything\nthat presented; the gentle prince was carried pell-mell about the field,\nstrewing it with high and low, gentle and simple, and grieving at his\nown involuntary exploits. The king stormed and raged at this outrage on\nhis subjects and his guests. He ordered out all his guards--they were\nunhorsed as fast as they came up. The king threw off his robes, grasped\nbuckler and lance, and rode forth to awe the stranger with the presence\nof majesty itself. Alas! majesty fared no better than the vulgar; the\nsteed and lance were no respecters of persons; to the dismay of Ahmed,\nhe was borne full tilt against the king, and in a moment the royal heels\nwere in the air, and the crown was rolling in the dust.\n\nAt this moment the sun reached the meridian; the magic spell resumed its\npower; the Arabian steed scoured across the plain, leaped the barrier,\nplunged 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 armor, 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 armor had reduced him. Never should he dare to show\nhis face at Toledo after inflicting such disgrace upon its chivalry and\nsuch an outrage on its king. What too would the princess think of so\nrude 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\nconfusion; every one was talking of the sudden apparition, prodigious\nexploits, and strange disappearance of the Moslem knight. Some\npronounced him a Moorish magician; others thought him a demon who had\nassumed a human shape, while others related traditions of enchanted\nwarriors hidden in the caves of the mountains, and thought it might be\none of these, who had made a sudden irruption from his den. All agreed\nthat no mere ordinary mortal could have wrought such wonders, or\nunhorsed such accomplished and stalwart Christian warriors.\n\nThe owl flew forth at night and hovered about the dusky city, perching\non the roofs and chimneys. He then wheeled his flight up to the royal\npalace, which stood on a rocky summit of Toledo, and went prowling about\nits terraces and battlements, eavesdropping at every cranny, and glaring\nin with his big goggling eyes at every window where there was a light,\nso as to throw two or three maids of honor into fits. It was not until\nthe gray dawn began to peer above the mountains that he returned from\nhis mousing expedition, and related to the prince what he had seen.\n\n\u201cAs I was prying about one of the loftiest towers of the palace,\u201d said\nhe, \u201cI beheld through a casement a beautiful princess. She was reclining\non a couch with attendants and physicians around her, but she would none\nof their ministry and relief. When they retired, I beheld her draw forth\na letter from her bosom, and read and kiss it, and give way to loud\nlamentations; at which, philosopher as I am, I could but be greatly\nmoved.\u201d\n\nThe tender heart of Ahmed was distressed at these tidings. \u201cToo true\nwere thy words, O sage Eben Bonabben,\u201d cried he; \u201ccare and sorrow and\nsleepless nights are the lot of lovers. Allah preserve the princess from\nthe blighting influence of this thing called love!\u201d\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\nthe highest tower of the palace, every avenue to which was strongly\nguarded. In the mean time a devouring melancholy had seized upon her, of\nwhich no one could divine the cause--she refused food and turned a deaf\near to every consolation. The most skilful physicians had essayed their\nart in vain; it was thought some magic spell had been practised upon\nher, and the king made proclamation, declaring that whoever should\neffect her cure should 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\u201cAllah Akbar!\u201d exclaimed he, \u201chappy the man that shall effect that cure,\nshould he but know what to choose from the royal treasury.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat mean you, most reverend owl?\u201d said Ahmed.\n\n\u201cHearken, O prince, to what I shall relate. We owls, you must know, are\na learned body, and much given to dark and dusty research. During my\nlate prowling at night about the domes and turrets of Toledo, I\ndiscovered a college of antiquarian owls, who hold their meetings in a\ngreat vaulted tower where the royal treasury is deposited. Here they\nwere discussing the forms and inscriptions and designs of ancient gems\nand jewels, and of golden and silver vessels, heaped up in the treasury,\nthe fashion of every country and age; but mostly they were interested\nabout certain relics and talismans that have remained in the treasury\nsince the time of Roderick the Goth. Among these was a box of\nsandal-wood secured by bands of steel of Oriental workmanship, and\ninscribed with mystic characters known only to the learned few. This\nbox and its inscription had occupied the college for several sessions,\nand had caused much long and grave dispute. At the time of my visit a\nvery ancient owl, who had recently arrived from Egypt, was seated on the\nlid of the box, lecturing upon the inscription, and he proved from it\nthat the coffer contained the silken carpet of the throne of Solomon the\nWise; which doubtless had been brought to Toledo by the Jews who took\nrefuge there after the downfall of Jerusalem.\u201d\n\nWhen the owl had concluded his antiquarian harangue, the prince remained\nfor a time absorbed in thought. \u201cI have heard,\u201d said he, \u201cfrom 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.\u201d\n\nThe next day the prince laid aside his rich attire, and arrayed himself\nin the simple garb of an Arab of the desert. He dyed his complexion to a\ntawny hue, and no one could have recognized 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. \u201cWhat\ncan a vagrant Arab like thyself pretend to do,\u201d said they, \u201cin a case\nwhere the most learned of the land have failed?\u201d The king, however,\noverheard the tumult, and ordered the Arab to be brought into his\npresence.\n\n\u201cMost potent king,\u201d said Ahmed, \u201cyou 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\nfree her from its sway.\u201d\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\nprincess. The windows opened upon a terrace with balustrades, commanding\na view over Toledo and all the surrounding country. The windows were\ndarkened, for the princess lay within, a prey to a devouring grief that\nrefused all alleviation.\n\nThe prince seated himself on the terrace, and performed several wild\nArabian airs on his pastoral pipe, which he had learnt from his\nattendants in the Generalife at Granada. The princess continued\ninsensible, and the doctors who were present shook their heads, and\nsmiled with incredulity and contempt: at length the prince laid aside\nthe reed, and, to a simple melody, chanted the amatory verses of the\nletter which had declared his passion.\n\nThe princess recognized 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.\n\u201cWonderful youth!\u201d exclaimed he, \u201cthou shalt henceforth be the first\nphysician of my court, and no other prescription will I take but thy\nmelody. For the present receive thy reward, the most precious jewel in\nmy treasury.\u201d\n\n\u201cO king,\u201d replied Ahmed, \u201cI care not for silver or gold or precious\nstones. One relic hast thou in thy treasury, handed down from the\nMoslems who once owned Toledo--a box of sandal-wood containing a silken\ncarpet: give me that box, and I am content.\u201d\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\nwas of fine green silk, covered with Hebrew and Chaldaic characters. The\ncourt physicians looked at each other, shrugged their shoulders, and\nsmiled at the simplicity of this new practitioner, who could be content\nwith so paltry a fee.\n\n\u201cThis carpet,\u201d said the prince, \u201conce covered the throne of Solomon the\nWise; it is worthy of being placed beneath the feet of beauty.\u201d\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\u201cWho,\u201d said he, \u201cshall 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!\u201d\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. \u201cHow is this,\u201d said he, \u201cthat\nthou hast suffered an infidel to get possession of such a talisman?\u201d\n\n\u201cAlas, sir, we knew not its nature, nor could we decipher the\ninscription of the box. If it be indeed the carpet of the throne of the\nwise Solomon, it is possessed of magic power, and can transport its\nowner from place to place through the air.\u201d\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\nwas suffered to continue in her faith; not that he was particularly\npious, but religion is always a point of pride and etiquette with\nprinces. Instead of bloody battles, there was a succession of feasts and\nrejoicings, after which the king returned well pleased to Toledo, and\nthe youthful couple continued to reign as happily as wisely, in the\nAlhambra.\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,\nand stopping at the various hereditary possessions of his family; the\nlatter figuring 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\nmaster of ceremonies. It is needless to say that never was a realm more\nsagely administered, nor a court conducted with more exact punctilio.\n\n\n\n\nA RAMBLE AMONG THE HILLS\n\n\nI used frequently to amuse myself towards the close of the day, when the\nheat had subsided, with taking long rambles about the neighboring hills\nand the deep umbrageous valleys, accompanied by my historiographic\nsquire, Mateo, to whose passion for gossiping I on such occasions gave\nthe most unbounded license; and there was scarce a rock, or ruin, or\nbroken fountain, or lonely glen, about which he had not some marvellous\nstory; or, above all, some golden legend; for never was poor devil so\nmunificent in 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\n(de los siete suelos), the identical tower whence Boabdil is said to\nhave issued, when he surrendered his capital. Here, pointing to a low\narchway in the foundation, Mateo informed me of a monstrous sprite or\nhobgoblin, said to infest this tower, ever since the time of the Moors,\nand to guard the treasures of a Moslem king. Sometimes it issues forth\nin the dead of the night, and scours the avenues of the Alhambra, and\nthe streets of Granada, in the shape of a headless horse, pursued by six\ndogs with terrible yells and howlings.\n\n\u201cBut have you ever met with it yourself, Mateo, in any of your rambles?\u201d\ndemanded I.\n\n\u201cNo, 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\nthese vaults, and that they hunt him at nights in revenge.\u201d\n\nI forbear to dwell upon the marvellous details given by the\nsimple-minded Mateo about this redoubtable phantom, which has, in fact,\nbeen time out of mind a favorite theme of nursery tales and popular\ntradition in Granada, and of which honorable mention is made by an\nancient and learned historian and topographer of the place.\n\nLeaving this eventful pile, we continued our course, skirting the\nfruitful orchards of the Generalife, in which two or three nightingales\nwere pouring forth a rich strain of melody. Behind these orchards we\npassed a number of Moorish tanks, with a door cut into the rocky bosom\nof the hill, but closed up. These tanks, Mateo informed me, were\nfavorite bathing-places of himself and his comrades in boyhood, until\nfrightened away by a story of a hideous Moor, who used to issue forth\nfrom the door in the rock to entrap unwary bathers.\n\nLeaving these haunted tanks behind us, we pursued our ramble up a\nsolitary mule-path winding among the hills, and soon found ourselves\namidst wild and melancholy mountains, destitute of trees, and here and\nthere tinted with scanty verdure. Everything within sight was severe and\nsterile, and it was scarcely possible to realize the idea that but a\nshort distance behind us was the Generalife, with its blooming orchards\nand terraced gardens, and that we were in the vicinity of delicious\nGranada, that city of groves and fountains. But such is the nature of\nSpain; wild and stern the moment it escapes from cultivation; the desert\nand the garden are ever side by side.\n\nThe narrow defile up which we were passing is called, according to\nMateo, _el Barranco de la tinaja_, or the ravine of the jar, because a\njar full of Moorish gold was found here in old times. The brain of poor\nMateo was continually running upon these golden legends.\n\n\u201cBut what is the meaning of the cross I see yonder upon a heap of\nstones, in that narrow part of the ravine?\u201d\n\n\u201cOh, that\u2019s nothing--a muleteer was murdered there some years since.\u201d\n\n\u201cSo then, Mateo, you have robbers and murderers even at the gates of the\nAlhambra?\u201d\n\n\u201cNot at present, Se\u00f1or; that was formerly, when there used to be many\nloose fellows about the fortress; but they\u2019ve all been weeded out. Not\nbut that the gypsies who live in caves in the hill-sides, just out of\nthe fortress, are many of them fit for anything; but we have had no\nmurder about here for a long time past. The man who murdered the\nmuleteer was hanged in the fortress.\u201d\n\nOur path continued up the barranco, with a bold, rugged height to our\nleft, called the \u201cSilla del Moro,\u201d 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\nWe at length arrived on the highest part of the promontory above\nGranada, called the mountain of the sun. The evening was approaching;\nthe setting sun just gilded the loftiest heights. Here and there a\nsolitary shepherd might be descried driving his flock down the\ndeclivities, to be folded for the night; or a muleteer and his lagging\nanimals, threading some mountain path to arrive at the city gates before\nnightfall.\n\nPresently the deep tones of the Cathedral bell came swelling up the\ndefiles, proclaiming the hour of \u201coration\u201d 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. It\nspreads 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\nscene.\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\nhaunted mountain of the sun, where ruined tanks and cisterns, and the\nmouldering foundations of extensive buildings, spoke of former\npopulousness, but where all was now silent and desolate.\n\nAs we were wandering about among these traces of old times, we came to a\ncircular 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\nfavorite element in its greatest purity. Mateo, however, had a different\nstory, and one much more to his humor. According to a tradition, in\nwhich his father and grandfather firmly believed, this was an entrance\nto the subterranean caverns of the mountain, in which Boabdil and his\ncourt lay bound in magic spell, and whence they sallied forth at night,\nat allotted times, to revisit their ancient abodes.\n\n\u201cAh, 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\ntime. At last one who thought it must be enchanted touched it with the\ncross, by way of breaking the charm; and faith he did break it, for the\npot sank out of sight and never was seen any more.\n\n\u201cAll this is fact, Se\u00f1or; for my grandfather was an eye-witness.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat! Mateo; did he see the pot?\u201d\n\n\u201cNo, Se\u00f1or, but he saw the hole where the pot had hung.\u201d\n\n\u201cIt\u2019s the same thing, Mateo.\u201d\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\nretained a lingering gleam of daylight; its snowy peaks glaring against\nthe dark blue firmament, and seeming close to us, from the extreme\npurity of the atmosphere.\n\n\u201cHow near the Sierra looks this evening!\u201d said Mateo; \u201cit seems as if\nyou could touch it with your hand; and yet it is many long leagues off.\u201d\nWhile he was speaking, a star appeared over the snowy summit of the\nmountain, the only one yet visible in the heavens, and so pure, so\nlarge, so bright and beautiful, as to call forth ejaculations of delight\nfrom honest Mateo.\n\n\u201cQue estrella hermosa! que clara y limpia es!--No pueda ser estrella mas\nbrillante!\u201d\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 to\nthe 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\ntheir transports!\n\n\u201cBut what lights are those, Mateo, which I see twinkling along the\nSierra Nevada, just below the snowy region, and which might be taken for\nstars, only that they are ruddy, and against the dark side of the\nmountain?\u201d\n\n\u201cThose, 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,\nSe\u00f1or, is a lump of ice in the middle of Andalusia, to keep it all cool\nin summer.\u201d\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\nlights moving at a distance, and apparently advancing up the ravine. On\nnearer approach they proved to be torches borne by a train of uncouth\nfigures arrayed in black: it would have been a procession dreary enough\nat any time, 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\ntrain bearing a corpse to the burying-ground among the hills.\n\nAs the procession passed by, the lugubrious light of the torches,\nfalling on the rugged features and funeral-weeds of the attendants, had\nthe most 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\nof a sinner up the crater of Stromboli.\n\n\u201cAh! Se\u00f1or,\u201d cried Mateo, \u201cI could tell you a story of a procession once\nseen among these mountains, but then you\u2019d laugh at me, and say it was\none of the legacies of my grandfather the tailor.\u201d\n\n\u201cBy no means, Mateo. There is nothing I relish more than a marvellous\ntale.\u201d\n\n\u201cWell, Se\u00f1or, it is about one of those very men we have been talking of,\nwho gather snow on the Sierra Nevada.\n\n\u201cYou must know, that a great many years since, in my grandfather\u2019s 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\nto side, while his sure-footed old mule stepped along the edge of\nprecipices, and down steep and broken barrancos, just as safe and steady\nas if it had been on plain ground. At length Tio Nicolo awoke, and gazed\nabout him, and rubbed his eyes--and, in good truth, he had reason. The\nmoon shone almost as bright as day, and he saw the city below him, as\nplain as your hand, and shining with its white buildings, like a silver\nplatter, in the moonshine; but, Lord! Se\u00f1or, it was nothing like the\ncity he had left a few hours before! Instead of the cathedral, with its\ngreat dome and turrets, and the churches with their spires, and the\nconvents with their pinnacles, all surmounted with the blessed cross, he\nsaw nothing but Moorish mosques, and minarets, and cupolas, all topped\noff with glittering crescents, such as you see on the Barbary flags.\nWell, Se\u00f1or, as you may suppose, Tio Nicolo was mightily puzzled at all\nthis, but while he was gazing down upon the city, a great army came\nmarching up the mountains, winding along the ravines, sometimes in the\nmoonshine, sometimes in the shade. As it drew nigh, he saw that there\nwere horse and foot, all in Moorish armor. Tio Nicolo tried to scramble\nout of their way, but his old mule stood stockstill, and refused to\nbudge, trembling, at the same time, like a leaf,--for dumb beasts,\nSe\u00f1or, are just as much frightened at such things as human beings. Well,\nSe\u00f1or, the hobgoblin army came marching by; there were men that seemed\nto blow trumpets, and others to beat drums and strike cymbals, yet never\na sound did they make; they all moved on without the least noise, just\nas I have seen painted armies move across the stage in the theatre of\nGranada, and all looked as pale as death. At last, in the rear of the\narmy, between two black Moorish horsemen, rode the Grand Inquisitor of\nGranada, on a mule as white as snow. Tio Nicolo wondered to see him in\nsuch company, for the Inquisitor was famous for his hatred of Moors,\nand, indeed, of all kinds of Infidels, Jews, and heretics, and used to\nhunt them out with fire and scourge. However, Tio Nicolo felt himself\nsafe, now that there was a priest of such sanctity at hand. So making\nthe sign of the cross, he called out for his benediction, when, hombre!\nhe received a blow that sent him and his old mule over the edge of a\nsteep bank, down which they rolled, head-over-heels, to the bottom! Tio\nNicolo did not come to his senses until long after sunrise, when he\nfound himself at the bottom of a deep ravine, his mule grazing beside\nhim, and his panniers of snow completely melted. He crawled back to\nGranada sorely bruised and battered, but was glad to find the city\nlooking as usual, with Christian churches and crosses. When he told the\nstory of his night\u2019s adventure, every one laughed at him; some said he\nhad dreamed it all, as he dozed on his mule; others thought it all a\nfabrication of his own; but what was strange, Se\u00f1or, and made people\nafterwards think more seriously of the matter, was, that the Grand\nInquisitor died within the year. I have often heard my grandfather, the\ntailor, say, that there was more meant by that hobgoblin army bearing\noff the resemblance of the priest, than folks dared to surmise.\u201d\n\n\u201cThen you would insinuate, friend Mateo, that there is a kind of Moorish\nlimbo, or purgatory, in the bowels of these mountains, to which the\npadre Inquisitor was borne off.\u201d\n\n\u201cGod forbid, Se\u00f1or! I know nothing of the matter. I only relate what I\nheard from my grandfather.\u201d\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\ngoblin researches. I found that the redoubtable phantom, the Belludo,\nhad been time out of mind a favorite theme of nursery tales and popular\ntraditions in Granada, and that honorable mention had even been made of\nit by an ancient historian and topographer of the place. The scattered\nmembers of one of these popular traditions I have gathered together,\ncollated them with infinite pains, and digested them into the following\nlegend; which only wants a number of learned notes and references at\nbottom to take its rank among those concrete productions gravely passed\nupon the world for Historical Facts.\n\n\n\n\nLEGEND OF THE MOOR\u2019S 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\nthe living rock to a great depth, the water of which is cold as ice and\nclear as crystal. The wells made by the Moors are always in repute, for\nit is well known what pains they took to penetrate to the purest and\nsweetest springs and fountains. The one of which we now speak is famous\nthroughout Granada, insomuch that water-carriers, some bearing great\nwater-jars on their shoulders, others driving asses before them laden\nwith earthen vessels, are ascending and descending the steep woody\navenues of the Alhambra, from early dawn until a late hour of the\nnight.\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\nhere on the stone benches, under an awning spread over the well to\nshelter the toll-gatherer from the sun, and dawdle over the gossip of\nthe fortress, and question every water-carrier that arrives about the\nnews of the city, and make long comments on everything they hear and\nsee. Not an hour of the day but loitering housewives and idle\nmaid-servants may be seen, lingering, with pitcher on head or in hand,\nto hear the last of the endless tattle of these worthies.\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\nnatives of Gallicia. No man says, \u201cGet me a porter,\u201d but, \u201cCall a\nGallego.\u201d\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: \u201c_Quien quiere agua--agua mas fria\nque la nieve?_\u201d--\u201cWho wants water--water colder than snow? Who wants\nwater from the well of the Alhambra, cold as ice and clear as crystal?\u201d\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\u2019 days, and\nthose innumerable holidays which are rather more numerous in Spain than\nthe 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\nwater; neglecting house, household, and everything else, to loiter\nslipshod in the houses of her gossip neighbors.\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\na handful of maravedis to spare, to take the whole litter forth with\nhim, some in his arms, some tugging at his skirts, and some trudging at\nhis heels, and to treat them to a gambol among the orchards of the Vega,\nwhile his wife was dancing with her holiday friends in the Angosturas of\nthe Darro.\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. \u201cOne more journey to the well,\u201d said he to himself, \u201cto earn a\nSunday\u2019s puchero for the little ones.\u201d So saying, he trudged manfully up\nthe steep avenue of the Alhambra, singing as he went, and now and then\nbestowing 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 a\nsolitary 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. \u201cI am\nfaint and ill,\u201d said he; \u201caid me to return to the city, and I will pay\nthee double what thou couldst gain by thy jars of water.\u201d\n\nThe honest heart of the little water-carrier was touched with compassion\nat the appeal of the stranger. \u201cGod forbid,\u201d said he, \u201cthat I should ask\nfee or reward for doing a common act of humanity.\u201d 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\nhim from falling to the earth.\n\nWhen they entered the city, the water-carrier demanded whither he should\nconduct him. \u201cAlas!\u201d said the Moor, faintly, \u201cI 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.\u201d\n\nHonest Peregil thus saw himself unexpectedly saddled with an infidel\nguest, but he was too humane to refuse a night\u2019s shelter to a\nfellow-being in so forlorn a plight; so he conducted the Moor to his\ndwelling. The children, who had sallied forth open-mouthed as usual on\nhearing the tramp of the donkey, ran back with affright when they beheld\nthe turbaned stranger, and hid themselves behind their mother. The\nlatter stepped forth intrepidly, like a ruffling hen before her brood\nwhen a vagrant dog approaches.\n\n\u201cWhat infidel companion,\u201d cried she, \u201cis this you have brought home at\nthis late hour, to draw upon us the eyes of the inquisition?\u201d\n\n\u201cBe quiet, wife,\u201d replied the Gallego; \u201chere is a poor sick stranger,\nwithout friend or home; wouldst thou turn him forth to perish in the\nstreets?\u201d\n\nThe wife would still have remonstrated, for although she lived in a\nhovel, she was a furious stickler for the credit of her house; the\nlittle water-carrier, however, for once was stiffnecked, and refused to\nbend beneath the yoke. He assisted the poor Moslem to alight, and spread\na mat and a sheep-skin for him, on the ground, in the coolest part of\nthe house; being 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, \u201cMy\nend,\u201d said he, \u201cI fear is at hand. If I die, I bequeath you this box as\na reward for your charity\u201d: so saying, he opened his albornoz, or cloak,\nand showed a small box of sandal-wood, strapped round his body. \u201cGod\ngrant, my friend,\u201d replied the worthy little Gallego, \u201cthat you may live\nmany years to enjoy your treasure, whatever it may be.\u201d The Moor shook\nhis head; he laid his hand upon the box, and would have said something\nmore concerning it, but his convulsions returned with increasing\nviolence, and in a little while he expired.\n\nThe water-carrier\u2019s wife was now as one distracted. \u201cThis comes,\u201d said\nshe, \u201cof 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\nlives, shall be ruined by notaries and alguazils.\u201d\n\nPoor Peregil was in equal tribulation, and almost repented himself of\nhaving done a good deed. At length a thought struck him. \u201cIt is not yet\nday,\u201d said he; \u201cI 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.\u201d\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\nthe ass, 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 a\nbarber named Pedrillo Pedrugo, one of the most prying, tattling, and\nmischief-making of his gossip tribe. He was a weasel-faced,\nspider-legged varlet, supple and insinuating; the famous barber of\nSeville could not surpass him for his universal knowledge of the affairs\nof others, and he had no more power of retention than a sieve. It was\nsaid that he slept but with one eye at a time, and kept one ear\nuncovered, so that even in his sleep he might see and hear all that was\ngoing on. Certain it is, he was a sort of scandalous chronicle for the\nquidnuncs of Granada, and had more customers than all the rest of his\nfraternity.\n\nThis 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 him as a look-out, and he saw\nhis neighbor assist a man in Moorish garb into his dwelling. This was so\nstrange an occurrence, that Pedrillo Pedrugo slept not a wink that\nnight. Every five minutes he was at his loophole, watching the lights\nthat gleamed through the chinks of his neighbor\u2019s door, and before\ndaylight he 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\neverything upside down, until sunrise. He then took a basin under his\narm, and sallied 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\u201cStrange doings!\u201d said Pedrugo, who played barber and newsmonger at the\nsame time,--\u201cstrange doings! Robbery, and murder, and burial all in one\nnight!\u201d\n\n\u201cHey!--how!--what is that you say?\u201d cried the alcalde.\n\n\u201cI say,\u201d replied the barber, rubbing a piece of soap over the nose and\nmouth of the dignitary, for a Spanish barber disdains to employ a\nbrush,--\u201cI 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!\u201d\n\n\u201cBut how do you know all this?\u201d demanded the alcalde.\n\n\u201cBe patient, Se\u00f1or, and you shall hear all about it,\u201d 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\nsame time, shaving his beard, washing his chin, and wiping him dry with\na dirty napkin, 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\nGranada. It could not be denied, however, that he set a high value upon\njustice, for he sold it at its weight in gold. He presumed the case in\npoint to be one of murder and robbery; doubtless there must be a rich\nspoil; how was it to be secured into the legitimate hands of the law?\nfor as to merely entrapping the delinquent--that would be feeding the\ngallows; but entrapping the booty--that would be enriching the judge,\nand such, according to his creed, was the great end of justice. So\nthinking, he summoned to his presence his trustiest alguazil--a gaunt,\nhungry-looking varlet, clad, according to the custom of his order, in\nthe ancient Spanish garb, a broad black beaver turned up at its sides; a\nquaint ruff; a small black cloak dangling from his shoulders; rusty\nblack under-clothes that set off his spare wiry frame, while in his hand\nhe bore a slender white wand, the dreaded insignia of his office. Such\nwas the legal bloodhound of the ancient Spanish breed, that he put upon\nthe traces of the unlucky water-carrier, and such was his speed and\ncertainty, that he was upon the haunches of poor Peregil before he had\nreturned to his dwelling, and brought both him and his donkey before the\ndispenser of justice.\n\nThe alcalde bent upon him one of the most terrific frowns. \u201cHark ye,\nculprit!\u201d roared he, in a voice that made the knees of the little\nGallego smite together,--\u201chark ye, culprit! there is no need of denying\nthy guilt, everything is known to me. A gallows is the proper reward for\nthe crime thou hast committed, but I am merciful, and readily listen to\nreason. The man that has been murdered in thy house was a Moor, an\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.\u201d\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 the\nwhole story of the dying Moor with the straightforward simplicity of\ntruth, but it was all in vain. \u201cWilt thou persist in saying,\u201d demanded\nthe judge, \u201cthat this Moslem had neither gold nor jewels, which were the\nobject of thy cupidity?\u201d\n\n\u201cAs I hope to be saved, your worship,\u201d replied the water-carrier, \u201che\nhad nothing but a small box of sandal-wood which he bequeathed to me in\nreward for my services.\u201d\n\n\u201cA box of sandal-wood! a box of sandal-wood!\u201d exclaimed the alcalde, his\neyes sparkling at the idea of precious jewels. \u201cAnd where is this box?\nwhere have you concealed it?\u201d\n\n\u201cAn\u2019 it please your grace,\u201d replied the water-carrier, \u201cit is in one of\nthe panniers of my mule, and heartily at the service of your worship.\u201d\n\nHe had hardly spoken the words, when the keen alguazil darted off, and\nreappeared in an instant with the mysterious box of sandal-wood. The\nalcalde 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\nthe water-carrier, which was corroborated by the testimony of his wife.\nBeing convinced, therefore, of his innocence, he discharged him from\narrest; nay, more, he permitted him to carry off the Moor\u2019s legacy, the\nbox of sandal-wood and its contents, as the well-merited reward of his\nhumanity; but 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-humor forsook him. \u201cDog of an alcalde!\u201d would he cry, \u201cto rob a\npoor man of the means of his subsistence, of the best friend he had in\nthe world!\u201d And then at the remembrance of the beloved companion of his\nlabors, all the kindness of his nature would break forth. \u201cAh, donkey of\nmy heart!\u201d would he exclaim, resting his burden on a stone, and wiping\nthe sweat from his brow,--\u201cah, donkey of my heart! I warrant me thou\nthinkest of thy old master! I warrant me thou missest the\nwater-jars--poor beast.\u201d\n\nTo add to his afflictions, his wife received him, on his return home,\nwith whimperings and repinings; she had clearly the vantage-ground of\nhim, having warned him not to commit the egregious act of hospitality\nwhich had brought on him all these misfortunes; and, like a knowing\nwoman, she took every occasion to throw her superior sagacity in his\nteeth. If her children lacked food, or needed a new garment, she could\nanswer with a sneer, \u201cGo to your father--he is heir to King Chico of the\nAlhambra: ask him to help you out of the Moor\u2019s strong box.\u201d\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\u2019s 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. \u201cUnlucky was the day that I ever set eyes on\nthee,\u201d he cried, \u201cor sheltered thy master beneath my roof!\u201d\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\nlength rallying his ideas, \u201cWho knows,\u201d thought he, \u201cbut this writing\nmay be of some importance, as the Moor seems to have guarded it with\nsuch care?\u201d Picking it up therefore, he put it in his bosom, and the\nnext morning, as he was crying water through the streets, he stopped at\nthe shop of a Moor, a native of Tangiers, who sold trinkets and\nperfumery in the Zacatin, and asked him to explain the contents.\n\nThe Moor read the scroll attentively, then stroked his beard and smiled.\n\u201cThis manuscript,\u201d said he, \u201cis 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!\u201d\n\n\u201cBah!\u201d cried the little Gallego, \u201cwhat is all that to me? I am no\nenchanter, and know nothing of buried treasure.\u201d So saying, he\nshouldered his water-jar, left the scroll in the hands of the Moor, and\ntrudged forward on his daily rounds.\n\nThat evening, however, as he rested himself about twilight at the well\nof the Alhambra, he found a number of gossips assembled at the place,\nand their conversation, as is not unusual at that shadowy hour, turned\nupon old tales and traditions of a supernatural nature. Being all poor\nas rats, they dwelt with peculiar fondness upon the popular theme of\nenchanted riches left by the Moors in various parts of the Alhambra.\nAbove all, they concurred in the belief that there were great treasures\nburied deep in the 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\nreturned alone down the darkling avenues. \u201cIf, after all, there should\nbe treasure hid beneath that tower; and if the scroll I left with the\nMoor should enable me to get at it!\u201d In the sudden ecstasy of the\nthought he had wellnigh 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. \u201cYou can read Arabic,\u201d said he; \u201csuppose 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.\u201d\n\n\u201cHold,\u201d replied the Moslem; \u201cthis writing is not sufficient of itself;\nit must be read at midnight, by the light of a taper singularly\ncompounded and prepared, the ingredients of which are not within my\nreach. Without such a taper the scroll is of no avail.\u201d\n\n\u201cSay no more!\u201d cried the little Gallego; \u201cI have such a taper at hand,\nand will bring it here in a moment.\u201d So saying, he hastened home, and\nsoon returned with the end of yellow wax taper that he had found in the\nbox of sandal-wood.\n\nThe Moor felt it and smelt to it. \u201cHere are rare and costly perfumes,\u201d\nsaid he, \u201ccombined 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.\u201d\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\ntower, shrouded by trees and rendered formidable by so many traditionary\ntales. By the light of a lantern they groped their way through bushes,\nand over fallen stones, to the door of a vault beneath the tower. With\nfear and trembling they descended a flight of steps cut into the rock.\nIt led to an empty chamber, damp and drear, from which another flight of\nsteps led to a deeper vault. In this way they descended four several\nflights, leading into as many vaults, one below the other, but the floor\nof the fourth was solid; and though, according to tradition, there\nremained three vaults still below, it was said to be impossible to\npenetrate further, the residue being shut up by strong enchantment. The\nair of this vault was damp and chilly, and had an earthy smell, and the\nlight scarce cast forth any rays. They paused here for a time, in\nbreathless suspense, until they faintly heard the clock of the\nwatch-tower strike midnight; upon this they lit the waxen taper, which\ndiffused an odor of myrrh and frankincense and 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,\nthey descended, and by the light of the lantern found themselves in\nanother vault covered with Arabic inscriptions. In the centre stood a\ngreat chest, secured with seven bands of steel, at each end of which sat\nan enchanted Moor in armor, but motionless as a statue, being controlled\nby the power of the incantation. Before the chest were several jars\nfilled with gold and silver and precious stones. In the largest of these\nthey thrust their arms up to the elbow, and at every dip hauled forth\nhandfuls of broad yellow pieces of Moorish gold, or bracelets and\nornaments of the same precious metal, while occasionally a necklace of\nOriental pearl would stick to their fingers. Still they trembled and\nbreathed short while cramming their pockets with the spoils; and cast\nmany a fearful glance at the two enchanted Moors, who sat grim and\nmotionless, glaring upon them with unwinking eyes. At length, struck\nwith a sudden panic at some fancied noise, they both rushed up the\nstaircase, tumbled over one another into the upper apartment, overturned\nand extinguished the waxen taper, and the pavement again closed with a\nthundering 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\nto content themselves for the present with this mere skimming of the\njars, but to return on some future night and drain them to the bottom.\nTo make sure of each other\u2019s good faith, also, they divided the\ntalismans between them, one retaining the scroll and the other the\ntaper; this done, they set off with light hearts and well-lined pockets\nfor 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\u201cFriend Peregil,\u201d said he, \u201call this affair must be kept a profound\nsecret until we have secured the treasure, and conveyed it out of harm\u2019s\nway. If a whisper of it gets to the ear of the alcalde, we are undone!\u201d\n\n\u201cCertainly,\u201d replied the Gallego, \u201cnothing can be more true.\u201d\n\n\u201cFriend Peregil,\u201d said the Moor, \u201cyou are a discreet man, and I make no\ndoubt can keep a secret; but you have a wife.\u201d\n\n\u201cShe shall not know a word of it,\u201d replied the little water-carrier\nsturdily.\n\n\u201cEnough,\u201d said the Moor, \u201cI depend upon thy discretion and thy promise.\u201d\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. \u201cMighty well,\u201d\ncried she as he entered, \u201cyou\u2019ve come at last, after rambling about\nuntil this hour of the night. I wonder you have not brought home\nanother Moor as a house-mate.\u201d Then bursting into tears, she began to\nwring her hands and smite her breast. \u201cUnhappy woman that I am!\u201d\nexclaimed she, \u201cwhat will become of me? My house stripped and plundered\nby lawyers and alguazils; my husband a do-no-good, that no longer brings\nhome bread to his family, but goes rambling about day and night, with\ninfidel Moors! O my children! my children! what will become of us? We\nshall all have to beg in the streets!\u201d\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\nto be restrained. Thrusting his hand into the latter he hauled forth\nthree or four broad gold pieces, and slipped them into her bosom. The\npoor woman stared with astonishment, and could not understand the\nmeaning of this golden shower. Before she could recover her surprise,\nthe little Gallego drew forth a chain of gold and dangled it before her,\ncapering with exultation, his mouth distended from ear to ear.\n\n\u201cHoly Virgin protect us!\u201d exclaimed the wife. \u201cWhat hast thou been\ndoing, Peregil? surely thou hast not been committing murder and\nrobbery!\u201d\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 her 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\nstory of his good fortune. This, however, he did not do until he had\nexacted from her the most solemn promise to keep it a profound secret\nfrom every living being.\n\nTo describe her joy would be impossible. She flung her arms round the\nneck of her husband, and almost strangled him with her caresses. \u201cNow,\nwife,\u201d exclaimed the little man with honest exultation, \u201cwhat say you\nnow to the Moor\u2019s legacy? Henceforth never abuse me for helping a\nfellow-creature in distress.\u201d\n\nThe honest Gallego retired to his sheep-skin 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\ncoin, trying on necklaces and earrings, and fancying the figure she\nshould one day 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\u2019s 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\nsurprising strictness. For a whole day and a half she went about with a\nlook of mystery and a heart swelling almost to bursting, yet she held\nher peace, though surrounded by her gossips. It is true, she could not\nhelp giving herself a few airs, apologized for her ragged dress, and\ntalked of ordering a new basqui\u00f1a all trimmed with gold lace and bugles,\nand a new lace mantilla. She threw out hints of her husband\u2019s intention\nof leaving off his trade of water-carrying, as it did not altogether\nagree with his health. In fact she thought they should all retire to the\ncountry for the summer, that the children might have the benefit of the\nmountain air, for there was no living in the city in this sultry season.\n\nThe neighbors 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\nback was turned.\n\nIf she restrained herself abroad, however, she indemnified herself at\nhome, and putting a string of rich Oriental pearls round her neck,\nMoorish bracelets on her arms, and an aigrette of diamonds on her head,\nsailed backwards and forwards in her slattern rags about the room, now\nand then stopping to admire herself in a broken mirror. Nay, in the\nimpulse of her simple vanity, she could not resist, on one occasion,\nshowing herself at the window to enjoy the effect of her finery on the\npassers-by.\n\nAs the fates would have it, Pedrillo Pedrugo, the meddlesome barber, was\nat 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\nan instant he was at his loophole reconnoitring the slattern spouse of\nthe water-carrier, decorated with the splendor of an eastern bride. No\nsooner had he taken an accurate inventory of her ornaments, than he\nposted off with all speed to the alcalde. In a little while the hungry\nalguazil was again on the scent, and before the day was over the\nunfortunate Peregil was once more dragged into the presence of the\njudge.\n\n\u201cHow is this, villain!\u201d cried the alcalde, in a furious voice. \u201cYou told\nme that the infidel who died in your house left nothing behind but an\nempty 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.\u201d\n\nThe terrified water-carrier fell on his knees, and made a full relation\nof the 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 dispatched 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 the\nharpies of the law. When he beheld the water-carrier standing with\nsheepish looks and downcast countenance, he comprehended the whole\nmatter. \u201cMiserable animal,\u201d said he, as he passed near him, \u201cdid I not\nwarn thee against babbling to thy wife?\u201d\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\u201cSoftly, good Se\u00f1or Alcalde,\u201d said the Mussulman, who by this time had\nrecovered his usual shrewdness and self-possession. \u201cLet us not mar\nfortune\u2019s favors in the scramble for them. Nobody knows anything of this\nmatter but ourselves; let us keep the secret. There is wealth enough in\nthe cave to enrich us all. Promise a fair division, and all shall be\nproduced; refuse, and the cave shall remain forever closed.\u201d\n\nThe alcalde consulted apart with the alguazil. The latter was an old fox\nin his profession. \u201cPromise anything,\u201d said he, \u201cuntil 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.\u201d\n\nThe alcalde relished the advice. Smoothing his brow and turning to the\nMoor, \u201cThis is a strange story,\u201d said he, \u201cand 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 mercy at my hands. In the mean time you must\nremain in custody.\u201d\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\nalguazil 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\narrived at the tower without being observed, and tying the donkey to a\nfig-tree, descended into the fourth vault of the tower.\n\nThe scroll was produced, the yellow waxen taper lighted, and the Moor\nread the form of incantation. The earth trembled as before, and the\npavement opened with a thundering sound, disclosing the narrow flight of\nsteps. The alcalde, the alguazil, and the barber were struck aghast, and\ncould not summon courage to descend. The Moor and the water-carrier\nentered the lower vault, and found the two Moors seated as before,\nsilent and motionless. They removed two of the great jars, filled with\ngolden coin and precious stones. The water-carrier bore them up one by\none upon his shoulders, but though a strong-backed little man, and\naccustomed to carry burdens, he staggered beneath their weight, and\nfound, when slung on each side of his donkey, they were as much as the\nanimal could bear.\n\n\u201cLet us be content for the present,\u201d said the Moor; \u201chere is as much\ntreasure as we can carry off without being perceived, and enough to make\nus all wealthy to our heart\u2019s desire.\u201d\n\n\u201cIs there more treasure remaining behind?\u201d demanded the alcalde.\n\n\u201cThe greatest prize of all,\u201d said the Moor, \u201ca huge coffer bound with\nbands of steel, and filled with pearls and precious stones.\u201d\n\n\u201cLet us have up the coffer by all means,\u201d cried the grasping alcalde.\n\n\u201cI will descend for no more,\u201d said the Moor, doggedly; \u201cenough is enough\nfor a reasonable man--more is superfluous.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd I,\u201d said the water-carrier, \u201cwill bring up no further burden to\nbreak the back of my poor donkey.\u201d\n\nFinding commands, threats, and entreaties equally vain, the alcalde\nturned to his two adherents. \u201cAid me,\u201d said he, \u201cto bring up the coffer,\nand its contents shall be divided between us.\u201d 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\nthree worthies 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\u201cWhat hast thou done?\u201d cried Peregil, as soon as he could recover\nbreath. \u201cThe alcalde and the other two are shut up in the vault.\u201d\n\n\u201cIt is the will of Allah!\u201d said the Moor, devoutly.\n\n\u201cAnd will you not release them?\u201d demanded the Gallego.\n\n\u201cAllah forbid!\u201d replied the Moor, smoothing his beard. \u201cIt is written in\nthe book of fate that they shall remain enchanted until some future\nadventurer arrive to break the charm. The will of God be done!\u201d so\nsaying, he hurled the end of the waxen taper far among the gloomy\nthickets of the glen.\n\nThere was now no remedy; so the Moor and the water-carrier proceeded\nwith the richly laden donkey toward the city, nor could honest Peregil\nrefrain from hugging and kissing his long-eared fellow-laborer, thus\nrestored to him from the clutches of the law; and, in fact, it is\ndoubtful which gave the simple-hearted little man most joy at the\nmoment, the gaining of the treasure, 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\naccidents, but made off to enjoy their wealth undisturbed in other\ncountries. The Moor returned to Africa, to his native city of Tangiers,\nand the Gallego, with his wife, his children, and his donkey, made the\nbest of his way to Portugal. Here, under the admonition and tuition of\nhis wife, he became a personage of some consequence, for she made the\nworthy little man array his long body and short legs in doublet and\nhose, with a feather in his hat and a sword by his side, and laying\naside his familiar appellation of Peregil, assume the more sonorous\ntitle of Don Pedro Gil: his progeny grew up a thriving and\nmerry-hearted, though short and bandy-legged generation, while Se\u00f1ora\nGil, befringed, belaced, and betasselled from her head to her heels,\nwith glittering rings on every finger, became a model of slattern\nfashion 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 spell-bound at\nthe present day. Whenever there shall be a lack in Spain of pimping\nbarbers, sharking alguazils, and corrupt alcaldes, they may be sought\nafter; but if they have to wait until such time for their deliverance,\nthere is danger of their enchantment enduring until doomsday.\n\n\n\n\nTHE TOWER OF LAS INFANTAS\n\n\nIn an evening\u2019s 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 of a\nMoorish tower in the outer wall of the Alhambra, rising high above the\ntree-tops, and catching the ruddy rays of the setting sun. A solitary\nwindow at a great height commanded a view of the glen; and as I was\nregarding it, a young female looked out, with her head adorned with\nflowers. She was evidently superior to the usual class of people\ninhabiting the old towers of the fortress; and this sudden and\npicturesque glimpse of her reminded me of the descriptions of captive\nbeauties in fairy tales. These fanciful associations were increased on\nbeing informed by my attendant Mateo, that this was the Tower of the\nPrincesses (La Torre de las Infantas); so called, from having been,\naccording to tradition, the residence of the daughters of the Moorish\nkings. I have since visited the tower. It is not generally shown to\nstrangers, though well worthy of attention, for the interior is equal,\nfor beauty of architecture and delicacy of ornament, to any part of the\npalace. The elegance of the central hall, with its marble fountain, its\nlofty arches, and richly fretted dome; the arabesques and stucco-work of\nthe small but well-proportioned chambers, though injured by time and\nneglect, all accord with the story of its being anciently the abode of\nroyal beauty.\n\nThe little old fairy queen who lives under the staircase of the\nAlhambra, and frequents the evening tertulias of Dame Antonia, tells\nsome fanciful traditions about three Moorish princesses who were once\nshut up in this tower by their father, a tyrant king of Granada, and\nwere only permitted to ride out at night about the hills, when no one\nwas permitted to come in their way under pain of death. They still,\naccording to her account, may be seen occasionally when the moon is in\nthe full, riding in lonely places along the mountain-side, on palfreys\nrichly caparisoned and sparkling with jewels, but they vanish on being\nspoken to.\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\n\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, or\n\u201cThe Left-handed.\u201d Some say he was so called on account of his being\nreally more expert with his sinister than his dexter hand; others,\nbecause he was prone to take everything by the wrong end, or, in other\nwords, to mar wherever he meddled. Certain it is, either through\nmisfortune or mismanagement, he was continually in trouble: thrice was\nhe driven from his throne, and on one occasion barely escaped to Africa\nwith his life, in the disguise of a fisherman.[18] Still he was as brave\nas he was blundering; and though left-handed, wielded his cimeter to\nsuch purpose, that he each time re-established himself upon his throne\nby dint of hard fighting. Instead, however, of learning wisdom from\nadversity, he hardened his neck, and stiffened his left arm in\nwilfulness. The evils of a public nature which he thus brought upon\nhimself and his kingdom may be learned by those who will delve into the\nArabian annals of Granada; the present legend deals but with his\ndomestic 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\nreturning from a foray into the land of the Christians. They were\nconducting a long string of mules laden with spoil, and many captives of\nboth sexes, among whom the monarch was struck with the appearance of a\nbeautiful damsel, richly attired, who sat weeping on a low palfrey, and\nheeded not the consoling 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\nthe foray. Mohamed claimed her as his royal share of the booty, and had\nher conveyed to his harem in the Alhambra. There everything was devised\nto soothe her melancholy; and the monarch, more and more enamored,\nsought to make her his queen. The Spanish maid at first repulsed his\naddresses: he was an infidel; he was the open foe of her country; what\nwas worse, he was stricken in years!\n\nThe monarch, finding his assiduities of no avail, determined to enlist\nin his favor the duenna, who had been captured with the lady. She was an\nAndalusian by birth, whose Christian name is forgotten, being mentioned\nin Moorish legends by no other appellation than that of the discreet\nKadiga; and discreet in truth she was, as her whole history makes\nevident. No sooner had the Moorish king held a little private\nconversation with her, than she saw at once the cogency of his\nreasoning, and undertook his cause with her young mistress.\n\n\u201cGo to, now!\u201d cried she; \u201cwhat is there in all this to weep and wail\nabout? Is it not better to be mistress of this beautiful palace, with\nall its gardens and fountains, than to be shut up within your father\u2019s\nold frontier tower? As to this Mohamed being an infidel, what is that to\nthe purpose? You marry him, not his religion; and if he is waxing a\nlittle old, the sooner will you be a widow, and mistress of yourself; at\nany rate, you are in his power, and must either be a queen or a slave.\nWhen in the hands of a robber, it is better to sell one\u2019s merchandise\nfor a fair price, than to have it taken by main force.\u201d\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\nthree daughters at a birth were pretty well for a man somewhat stricken\nin years, 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. \u201cDaughters, O king!\u201d said they, \u201care 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.\u201d\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\ningenuity to 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,\nbequeathing her infant daughters to his love, and to the fidelity of the\ndiscreet Kadiga.\n\nMany years had yet to elapse before the princesses would arrive at that\nperiod of danger--the marriageable age. \u201cIt is good, however, to be\ncautious in time,\u201d said the shrewd monarch; so he determined to have\nthem reared in the royal castle of Salobre\u00f1a. This was a sumptuous\npalace, incrusted, as it were, in a powerful Moorish fortress on the\nsummit of a hill overlooking the Mediterranean Sea. It was a royal\nretreat, in which the Moslem monarchs shut up such of their relatives as\nmight endanger their safety; allowing them all kinds of luxuries and\namusements, in the midst of which they passed their lives in voluptuous\nindolence.\n\nHere the princesses remained, immured from the world, but surrounded by\nenjoyment, and attended by female slaves who anticipated their wishes.\nThey had delightful gardens for their recreation, filled with the\nrarest fruits and flowers, with aromatic groves and perfumed baths. On\nthree sides the castle looked down upon a rich valley, enamelled with\nall kinds of culture, and bounded by the lofty Alpuxarra mountains; on\nthe other side it overlooked the broad sunny sea.\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\nthings.\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\nfrom her number of pet-flowers, and pet-birds, and pet-animals, all of\nwhich she cherished with the fondest care. Her amusements, too, were of\na gentle nature, and mixed up with musing and reverie. She would sit for\nhours in a balcony, gazing on the sparkling stars of a summer\u2019s night,\nor on the sea when lit up by the moon; and at such times, the song of a\nfisherman, faintly heard from the beach, or the notes of a Moorish flute\nfrom some gliding bark, sufficed to elevate her feelings into ecstasy.\nThe least uproar of the elements, however, filled her with dismay; and a\nclap of thunder 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 the\nsea-coast. One of the exterior walls straggled down the profile of the\nhill, until it reached a jutting rock overhanging the sea, with a narrow\nsandy 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 her\nsisters, 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\nthe tower: a number of Moorish soldiers landed on the narrow beach,\nconducting several Christian prisoners. The curious Zayda awakened her\nsisters, and all three peeped cautiously through the close jalousies of\nthe lattice which screened them from sight. Among the prisoners were\nthree Spanish cavaliers, richly dressed. They were in the flower of\nyouth, and of noble presence; and the lofty manner in which they carried\nthemselves, though loaded with chains and surrounded with enemies,\nbespoke the grandeur of their souls. The princesses gazed with intense\nand breathless interest. Cooped up as they had been in this castle among\nfemale attendants, seeing nothing of the male sex but black slaves, or\nthe rude fishermen of the sea-coast, it is not to be wondered at that\nthe appearance of three gallant cavaliers, in the pride of youth and\nmanly beauty, should produce some commotion in their bosom.\n\n\u201cDid ever nobler being tread the earth than that cavalier in crimson?\u201d\ncried Zayda, the eldest of the sisters. \u201cSee how proudly he bears\nhimself, as though all around him were his slaves!\u201d\n\n\u201cBut notice that one in green!\u201d exclaimed Zorayda. \u201cWhat grace! what\nelegance! what spirit!\u201d\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;\nthen heaving long-drawn sighs, they turned round, looked at each other\nfor a moment, 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. \u201cPoor\nyouths!\u201d exclaimed she, \u201cI\u2019ll warrant their captivity makes many a fair\nand high-born lady\u2019s heart ache in their native land! Ah! my children,\nyou have little idea of the life these cavaliers lead in their own\ncountry. Such prankling at tournaments! such devotion to the ladies!\nsuch courting and serenading!\u201d\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\nbridled up, and slyly regarded herself in a mirror, when the theme\nturned upon the charms of the Spanish ladies; while Zorahayda suppressed\na struggling sigh 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\ndiscreet old woman awoke at length to the mischief she might be doing.\nShe had been accustomed to think of the princesses only as children; but\nthey had imperceptibly ripened beneath her eye, and now bloomed before\nher three lovely damsels of the marriageable age. It is time, thought\nthe duenna, to 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,\nwith a message from the sage Kadiga, congratulating him on the\nanniversary of his daughters\u2019 birth-day. The slave at the same time\npresented a delicate little basket decorated with flowers, within which,\non a couch of vine and fig-leaves, lay a peach, an apricot, and a\nnectarine, with their bloom and down and dewy sweetness upon them, and\nall in the early stage of tempting ripeness. The monarch was versed in\nthe Oriental language of fruits and flowers, and rapidly divined the\nmeaning of this emblematical offering.\n\n\u201cSo,\u201d said he, \u201cthe critical period pointed out by the astrologers is\narrived: my daughters are at a marriageable age. What is to be done?\nThey are shut up from the eyes of men; they are under the eyes of the\ndiscreet Kadiga,--all very good,--but still they are not under my own\neye, as was prescribed by the astrologers: I must gather them under my\nwing, and trust to no other guardianship.\u201d\n\nSo saying, he ordered that a tower of the Alhambra should be prepared\nfor their reception, and departed at the head of his guards for the\nfortress of 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\nseparates the crude, unformed, and thoughtless girl from the blooming,\nblushing, meditative woman. It is like passing from the flat, bleak,\nuninteresting plains of La Mancha to the voluptuous valleys and swelling\nhills of Andalusia.\n\nZayda was tall and finely formed, with a lofty demeanor and a\npenetrating eye. She entered with a stately and decided step, and made a\nprofound reverence to Mohamed, treating him more as her sovereign than\nher father. Zorayda was of the middle height, with an alluring look and\nswimming gait, and a sparkling beauty, heightened by the assistance of\nthe toilette. She approached her father with a smile, kissed his hand,\nand saluted him with several stanzas from a popular Arabian poet, with\nwhich the monarch was delighted. Zorahayda was shy and timid, smaller\nthan her sisters, and with a beauty of that tender beseeching kind which\nlooks for fondness and protection. She was little fitted to command,\nlike her elder sister, or to dazzle like the second, but was rather\nformed to creep to the bosom of manly affection, to nestle within it,\nand be content. She drew near to her father, with a timid and almost\nfaltering step, and would have taken his hand to kiss, but on looking up\ninto his face, and seeing it beaming with a paternal smile, the\ntenderness of her nature broke forth, and she threw herself upon his\nneck.\n\nMohamed the Left-handed surveyed his blooming daughters with mingled\npride and perplexity, for while he exulted in their charms, he bethought\nhimself of the prediction of the astrologers. \u201cThree daughters! three\ndaughters!\u201d muttered he repeatedly to himself, \u201cand all of a\nmarriageable age! Here\u2019s tempting Hesperian fruit, that requires a\ndragon watch!\u201d\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\nhorsemen of hideous aspect, and clad in shining armor.\n\nThe princesses rode beside the king, closely veiled, on beautiful white\npalfreys, with velvet caparisons, embroidered with gold, and sweeping\nthe ground; the bits and stirrups were of gold, and the silken bridles\nadorned with pearls and precious stones. The palfreys were covered with\nlittle silver bells, which made the most musical tinkling as they ambled\ngently along. Woe to the unlucky wight, however, who lingered in the way\nwhen he heard the tinkling of these bells!--the guards were ordered to\ncut him down without mercy.\n\nThe cavalcade was drawing near to Granada, when it overtook, on the\nbanks of the river Xenil, a small body of Moorish soldiers with a convoy\nof prisoners. It was too late for the soldiers to get out of the way, so\nthey threw themselves on their faces on the earth, ordering their\ncaptives to do the like. Among the prisoners were the three identical\ncavaliers whom the princesses had seen from the pavilion. They either\ndid not understand, or were too haughty to obey the order, and remained\nstanding and gazing upon 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\nthe captain of the guard threw himself at his feet. \u201cLet not your\nhighness,\u201d said he, \u201cdo a deed that may cause great scandal throughout\nthe kingdom. These are three brave and noble Spanish knights, who have\nbeen taken in battle, fighting like lions; they are of high birth, and\nmay bring great ransoms.\u201d--\u201cEnough!\u201d said the king. \u201cI will spare their\nlives, but punish their audacity--let them be taken to the Vermilion\nTowers, and put to hard labor.\u201d\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\nprincesses had been thrown back, and the radiance of their beauty\nrevealed; and in prolonging the parley, the king had given that beauty\ntime to have its full effect. In those days people fell in love much\nmore suddenly than at present, as all ancient stories make manifest: it\nis not a matter of wonder, therefore, that the hearts of the three\ncavaliers were completely captured; especially as gratitude was added to\ntheir admiration; it is a little singular, however, though no less\ncertain, that each of them was enraptured with a several beauty. As to\nthe princesses, they were more than ever struck with the noble demeanor\nof the captives, and cherished in their breasts all that they had heard\nof their valor and noble lineage.\n\nThe cavalcade resumed its march; the three princesses rode pensively\nalong on their tinkling palfreys, now and then stealing a glance behind\nin search of the Christian captives, and the latter were conducted to\ntheir allotted prison in the Vermilion Towers.\n\nThe residence provided for the princesses was one of the most dainty\nthat fancy could devise. It was in a tower somewhat apart from the main\npalace of the Alhambra, though connected with it by the wall which\nencircled the whole summit of the hill. On one side it looked into the\ninterior of the fortress, and had, at its foot, a small garden filled\nwith the rarest flowers. On the other side it overlooked a deep\nembowered ravine separating the grounds of the Alhambra from those of\nthe Generalife. The interior of the tower was divided into small fairy\napartments, beautifully ornamented in the light Arabian style,\nsurrounding a lofty hall, the vaulted roof of which rose almost to the\nsummit of the tower. The walls and the ceilings of the hall were adorned\nwith arabesque and fretwork, sparkling with gold and with brilliant\npencilling. In the centre of the marble pavement was an alabaster\nfountain, set round with aromatic shrubs and flowers, and throwing up a\njet of water that cooled the whole edifice and had a lulling sound.\nRound the hall were suspended cages of gold and silver wire, containing\nsinging birds of the finest plumage or sweetest note.\n\nThe princesses had been represented as always cheerful when in the\ncastle of the Salobre\u00f1a; the king had expected to see them enraptured\nwith the Alhambra. To his surprise, however, they began to pine, and\ngrow melancholy, and dissatisfied with everything around them. The\nflowers yielded them no fragrance, the song of the nightingale disturbed\ntheir night\u2019s rest, and they were out of all patience with the alabaster\nfountain, with its eternal drop-drop and splash-splash, from morning\ntill night and from night till morning.\n\nThe king, who was somewhat of a testy, tyrannical disposition, took this\nat 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\u201cThey are no longer children,\u201d said he to himself, \u201cthey are women\ngrown, and require suitable objects to interest them.\u201d He put in\nrequisition, therefore, all the dressmakers, and the jewellers, and the\nartificers in gold and silver throughout the Zacatin of Granada, and the\nprincesses were overwhelmed with robes of silk, and tissue, and brocade,\nand cashmere shawls, and necklaces of pearls and diamonds, and rings,\nand bracelets, and anklets, and all manner of precious things.\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\u2019 end. He had in\ngeneral a laudable confidence in his own judgment, and never took\nadvice. \u201cThe whims and caprices of three marriageable damsels, however,\nare sufficient,\u201d said he, \u201cto puzzle the shrewdest head.\u201d So for once in\nhis life he called in the aid of counsel.\n\nThe person to whom he applied was the experienced duenna.\n\n\u201cKadiga,\u201d said the king, \u201cI know you to be one of the most discreet\nwomen in the whole world, as well as one of the most trustworthy; for\nthese reasons I have always continued you about the persons of my\ndaughters. Fathers cannot be too wary in whom they repose such\nconfidence; I now wish you to find out the secret malady that is preying\nupon the princesses, and to devise some means of restoring them to\nhealth and cheerfulness.\u201d\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 endeavored to insinuate herself into their confidence.\n\n\u201cMy 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?\u201d\n\nThe princesses looked vacantly round the apartment, and sighed.\n\n\u201cWhat more, then, would you have? Shall I get you the wonderful parrot\nthat talks all languages, and is the delight of Granada?\u201d\n\n\u201cOdious!\u201d exclaimed the princess Zayda. \u201cA horrid, screaming bird, that\nchatters words without ideas: one must be without brains to tolerate\nsuch a pest.\u201d\n\n\u201cShall I send for a monkey from the rock of Gibraltar, to divert you\nwith his antics?\u201d\n\n\u201cA monkey! faugh!\u201d cried Zorayda; \u201cthe detestable mimic of man. I hate\nthe nauseous animal.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat 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\u2019s.\u201d\n\n\u201cI am terrified at the sight of these black slaves,\u201d said the delicate\nZorahayda; \u201cbesides, I have lost all relish for music.\u201d\n\n\u201cAh! my child, you would not say so,\u201d replied the old woman, slyly, \u201chad\nyou heard the music I heard last evening, from the three Spanish\ncavaliers whom we met on our journey. But bless me, children! what is\nthe matter that you blush so and are in such a flutter?\u201d\n\n\u201cNothing, nothing, good mother; pray proceed.\u201d\n\n\u201cWell; as I was passing by the Vermilion Towers last evening, I saw the\nthree cavaliers resting after their day\u2019s labor. 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\nmy native country. And then to see three such noble and handsome youths\nin chains and slavery!\u201d\n\nHere the kind-hearted old woman could not restrain her tears.\n\n\u201cPerhaps, mother, you could manage to procure us a sight of these\ncavaliers,\u201d said Zayda.\n\n\u201cI think,\u201d said Zorayda, \u201ca little music would be quite reviving.\u201d\n\nThe timid Zorahayda said nothing, but threw her arms round the neck of\nKadiga.\n\n\u201cMercy on me!\u201d exclaimed the discreet old woman; \u201cwhat 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.\u201d\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 was\nshe to see three beautiful princesses break their hearts for the mere\ntinkling of a guitar? Besides, though she had been so long among the\nMoors, and changed her faith in imitation of her mistress, like a trusty\nfollower, 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, \u201cHussein\nBaba,\u201d said she; \u201cmy mistresses the three princesses, who are shut up in\nthe tower, and in sad want of amusement, have heard of the musical\ntalents of the three Spanish cavaliers, and are desirous of hearing a\nspecimen of their skill. I am sure you are too kind-hearted to refuse\nthem so innocent a gratification.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat! 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.\u201d\n\n\u201cNo 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 labor, let them play and sing, as if for their\nown recreation. In this way the princesses will be able to hear them\nfrom the windows of the tower, and you may be sure of their paying well\nfor your compliance.\u201d\n\nAs the good old woman concluded her harangue, she kindly pressed the\nrough hand 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-laborers were sleeping in the shade, and the guard nodding\ndrowsily at his post, they seated themselves among the herbage at the\nfoot of the tower, and sang a Spanish roundelay to the accompaniment of\nthe guitar.\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. \u201cAllah preserve us!\u201d cried she, \u201cthey\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.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat! bastinado such gallant cavaliers, and for singing so charmingly!\u201d\nThe three beautiful princesses were filled with horror at the idea. With\nall her virtuous indignation, the good old woman was of a placable\nnature, and easily appeased. Besides, the music seemed to have a\nbeneficial effect upon her young mistresses. A rosy bloom had already\ncome to their cheeks, and their eyes began to sparkle. She made no\nfurther objection, therefore, to the amorous ditty of the cavaliers.\n\nWhen it was finished, the princesses remained silent for a time; at\nlength Zorayda took up a lute, and with a sweet, though faint and\ntrembling voice, warbled a little Arabian air, the burden of which was,\n\u201cThe rose is concealed among her leaves, but she listens with delight to\nthe song of the nightingale.\u201d\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\nwithout being perceived by the guards. They conversed with the cavaliers\nalso, by means of flowers, with the symbolical language of which they\nwere mutually acquainted; the difficulties of their intercourse added to\nits charms, and strengthened the passion they had so singularly\nconceived; for love delights to struggle with difficulties, and thrives\nthe most hardily on the 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\nowing to 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. \u201cAh, my children!\u201d cried she, \u201cI saw what all this\nwould come to, but you would have your way; you may now hang up your\nlutes on the willows. The Spanish cavaliers are ransomed by their\nfamilies; they are down in Granada, and preparing to return to their\nnative country.\u201d\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\nglass, and wiped away her tears, and cried afresh. The gentle Zorahayda\nleaned over the balcony and wept in silence, and her tears fell drop by\ndrop among the flowers of the bank where the faithless cavaliers had so\noften been seated.\n\nThe discreet Kadiga did all in her power to soothe their sorrow. \u201cTake\ncomfort, my children,\u201d said she, \u201cthis 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\u2019ll warrant these cavaliers have\ntheir loves among the Spanish beauties of Cordova and Seville, and will\nsoon be serenading under their balconies, and thinking no more of the\nMoorish beauties in the Alhambra. Take comfort, therefore, my children,\nand drive them from your hearts.\u201d\n\nThe comforting words of the discreet Kadiga only redoubled the distress\nof the three princesses, and for two days they continued inconsolable.\nOn the morning of the third the good old woman entered their apartment,\nall ruffling with indignation.\n\n\u201cWho would have believed such insolence in mortal man!\u201d exclaimed she,\nas soon as she could find words to express herself; \u201cbut I am rightly\nserved for having connived at this deception of your worthy father.\nNever talk more to me of your Spanish cavaliers.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhy, what has happened, good Kadiga?\u201d exclaimed the princesses in\nbreathless anxiety.\n\n\u201cWhat 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\nCordova, and become their wives!\u201d\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,--\u201cThat ever I should live to be\nso insulted!--I, the most faithful of servants!\u201d\n\nAt length the eldest princess, who had most spirit and always took the\nlead, approached her and laying her hand upon her shoulder, \u201cWell,\nmother,\u201d said she, \u201csupposing we were willing to fly with these\nChristian cavaliers--is such a thing possible?\u201d\n\nThe good old woman paused suddenly in her grief, and looking up,\n\u201cPossible,\u201d echoed she; \u201cto be sure it is possible. Have not the\ncavaliers already bribed Hussein Baba, the renegado captain of the\nguard, and arranged the whole plan? But, then, to think of deceiving\nyour father! your father, who has placed such confidence in me!\u201d Here\nthe worthy woman gave way to a fresh burst of grief, and began again to\nrock backward and forward, and to wring her hands.\n\n\u201cBut our father has never placed any confidence in us,\u201d said the eldest\nprincess, \u201cbut has trusted to bolts and bars, and treated us as\ncaptives.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhy, that is true enough,\u201d replied the old woman, again pausing in her\ngrief; \u201che has indeed treated you most unreasonably, keeping you shut up\nhere, to waste your bloom in a moping old tower, like roses left to\nwither in a flower-jar. But, then, to fly from your native land!\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd 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?\u201d\n\n\u201cWhy, that again is all very true; and your father, I must confess, is\nrather tyrannical; but what then,\u201d relapsing into her grief, \u201cwould you\nleave me behind to bear the brunt of his vengeance?\u201d\n\n\u201cBy no means, my good Kadiga; cannot you fly with us?\u201d\n\n\u201cVery 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\nyou willing to renounce the faith of your father?\u201d\n\n\u201cThe Christian faith was the original faith of our mother,\u201d said the\neldest princess; \u201cI am ready to embrace it, and so, I am sure, are my\nsisters.\u201d\n\n\u201cRight again,\u201d exclaimed the old woman, brightening up; \u201cit 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\nof your souls, and I rejoice to see that they are now in a fair way to\nbe saved. Yes, my children, I too was born a Christian, and have\nremained a Christian in my heart, and am resolved to return to the\nfaith. I have talked on the subject with Hussein Baba, who is a Spaniard\nby birth, and comes from a place not far from my native town. He is\nequally anxious to see his own country, and to be reconciled to the\nChurch; and the cavaliers have promised that, if we are disposed to\nbecome man and wife, on returning to our native land, they will provide\nfor us handsomely.\u201d\n\nIn a word, it appeared that this extremely discreet and provident old\nwoman had consulted with the cavaliers and the renegado, and had\nconcerted the whole plan of escape. The eldest princess immediately\nassented to it; and her example, as usual, determined the conduct of her\nsisters. It is true the youngest hesitated, for she was gentle and timid\nof soul, and there was a struggle in her bosom between filial feeling\nand youthful passion: the latter, however, as usual, gained the victory,\nand with silent 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\nsally-ports on the banks of the Darro and the Xenil. They had been\nconstructed at different times by the Moorish kings, as means of escape\nfrom sudden insurrections, or of secretly issuing forth on private\nenterprises. Many of them are now entirely lost, while others remain,\npartly choked with rubbish, and partly walled up,--monuments of the\njealous precautions and warlike stratagems of the Moorish government. By\none of these passages Hussein Baba had undertaken to conduct the\nprincesses to a sally-port beyond the walls of the city, where the\ncavaliers were to be ready with fleet steeds, to bear the whole party\nover the borders.\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\nturn of the youngest princess, Zorahayda, she hesitated and trembled.\nSeveral times she ventured a delicate little foot upon the ladder, and\nas often drew it back, while her poor little heart fluttered more and\nmore the longer she delayed. She cast a wistful look back into the\nsilken chamber; she had lived in it, to be sure, like a bird in a cage;\nbut within it she was secure; who could tell what dangers might beset\nher, should she flutter forth into the wide world! Now she bethought her\nof her gallant Christian lover, and her little foot was instantly upon\nthe ladder; and anon she thought of her father, and shrank back. But\nfruitless is the attempt to describe the conflict in the bosom of one so\nyoung and tender and 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\nsweetness of the sin, but terrified at its perils.\n\nEvery moment increased the danger of discovery. A distant tramp was\nheard. \u201cThe patrols are walking their rounds,\u201d cried the renegado; \u201cif\nwe linger, we perish. Princess, descend instantly, or we leave you.\u201d\n\nZorahayda was for a moment in fearful agitation; then loosening the\nladder of ropes, with desperate resolution she flung it from the\nbalcony.\n\n\u201cIt is decided!\u201d cried she; \u201cflight is now out of my power! Allah guide\nand bless ye, my dear sisters!\u201d\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. The\ntwo 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\ntrumpets from the battlements of the Alhambra.\n\n\u201cOur flight is discovered!\u201d said the renegado.\n\n\u201cWe have fleet steeds, the night is dark, and we may distance all\npursuit,\u201d replied the cavaliers.\n\nThey put spurs to their horses, and scoured across the Vega. They\nattained the foot of the mountain of Elvira, which stretches like a\npromontory into the plain. The renegado paused and listened. \u201cAs yet,\u201d\nsaid he, \u201cthere is no one on our traces, we shall make good our escape\nto the mountains.\u201d While he spoke, a light blaze sprang up on the top of\nthe watch-tower of the Alhambra.\n\n\u201cConfusion!\u201d cried the renegado, \u201cthat 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.\u201d\n\nAway they dashed--the clattering of their horses\u2019 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\u201cForward! forward!\u201d cried the renegado, with many an oath, \u201cto the\nbridge,--to the bridge, before the alarm has reached there!\u201d\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\nwith Christian and Moslem blood. To their confusion, the tower on the\nbridge blazed with lights and glittered with armed men. The renegado\npulled up his steed, rose in his stirrups and looked about him for a\nmoment; then beckoning to the cavaliers, he struck off from the road,\nskirted the river for some distance, and dashed into its waters. The\ncavaliers called upon the princesses to cling to them, and did the same.\nThey were borne for some distance down the rapid current, the surges\nroared round them, but the beautiful princesses clung to their Christian\nknights, and never uttered a complaint. The cavaliers attained the\nopposite bank in safety, and were conducted by the renegado, by rude and\nunfrequented paths and wild barrancos, through the heart of the\nmountains, so as to avoid all the regular passes. In a word, they\nsucceeded in reaching the ancient city of Cordova; where their\nrestoration to their country and friends was celebrated with great\nrejoicings, for they were of the noblest families. The beautiful\nprincesses were forthwith received into the bosom of the Church, and,\nafter being in all due form made regular Christians, were rendered happy\nwives.\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. \u201cGrasp me not so tightly,\u201d cried\nHussein Baba; \u201chold on by my belt and fear nothing.\u201d She held firmly\nwith both hands by the leathern belt that girded the broad-backed\nrenegado; but when he halted with the cavaliers to take breath on the\nmountain summit, the duenna was no longer to be seen.\n\n\u201cWhat has become of Kadiga?\u201d cried the princesses in alarm.\n\n\u201cAllah alone knows!\u201d replied the renegado; \u201cmy belt came loose when in\nthe 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.\u201d\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 the\nwater: a fisherman, who was drawing his nets some distance down the\nstream, brought her to land, and was not a little astonished at his\nmiraculous draught. What further became of the discreet Kadiga, the\nlegend does not mention; certain it is that she evinced her discretion\nin never venturing 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 upon\nhim by the most faithful of servants. It was the only instance in which\nhe had called in the aid of counsel, and he was never afterwards known\nto be guilty of a similar weakness. He took good care, however, to guard\nhis remaining daughter, who had no disposition to elope; it is thought,\nindeed, that she secretly repented having remained behind: now and then\nshe was seen leaning on the battlements of the tower, and looking\nmournfully towards the mountains in the direction of Cordova, and\nsometimes the notes of her lute were heard accompanying plaintive\nditties, in which she was said to lament the loss of her sisters and her\nlover, and to bewail her solitary life. She died young, and, according\nto popular rumor, was buried in a vault beneath the tower, and her\nuntimely fate has given rise to more than one traditionary fable.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\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\u2019s daughter, and some of her young\ncompanions, to whom it was read in one of the evening tertulias, thought\ncertain parts of it had much appearance of reality; and Dolores, who was\nmuch more versed than they in the improbable truths of the Alhambra,\nbelieved every word of it.\n\n\n\n\nLEGEND OF THE ROSE OF THE ALHAMBRA\n\n\nFor some time after the surrender of Granada by the Moors, that\ndelightful city was a frequent and favorite residence of the Spanish\nsovereigns, until they were frightened away by successive shocks of\nearthquakes, which toppled down various houses, and made the old Moslem\ntowers rock to their foundation.\n\nMany, many years then rolled away, during which Granada was rarely\nhonored 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 neighbors.\nIt was rumored that the spirit of the youthful Zorahayda, who had\nperished in that tower, was often seen by moonlight seated beside the\nfountain in the hall, or moaning about the battlements, and that the\nnotes of her silver lute would be heard at midnight by wayfarers passing\nalong the glen.\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\nabout barbican and battlement, recalled the ancient and warlike glories\nof the fortress. A softer spirit, however, reigned within the royal\npalace. There was the rustling of robes and the cautious tread and\nmurmuring voice of reverential courtiers about the antechambers; a\nloitering of pages and maids of honor about the gardens, and the sound\nof music stealing from open casements.\n\nAmong those who attended in the train of the monarchs was a favorite\npage of the queen, named Ruyz de Alarcon. To say that he was a favorite\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\ndeference and respect, yet he was at heart a roguish stripling, petted\nand spoiled by the ladies about the court, and experienced in the ways\nof women far beyond 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\nwith him for his amusement a favorite ger-falcon of the queen. In the\ncourse of his rambles, seeing a bird rising from a thicket, he unhooded\nthe hawk and let him fly. The falcon towered high in the air, made a\nswoop at his quarry, but missing it, soared away, regardless of the\ncalls of the page. The latter followed the truant bird with his eye, in\nits capricious flight, until he saw it alight upon the battlements of a\nremote and lonely tower, in the outer wall of the Alhambra, built on the\nedge of a ravine that separated the royal fortress from the grounds of\nthe Generalife. It was in fact the \u201cTower of the Princesses.\u201d\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\nwalls.\n\nA small garden, enclosed by a trellis-work of reeds overhung with\nmyrtle, lay before the tower. Opening a wicket, the page passed between\nbeds of flowers and thickets of roses to the door. It was closed and\nbolted. A crevice in the door gave him a peep into the interior. There\nwas a small Moorish hall with fretted walls, light marble columns, and\nan alabaster fountain surrounded with flowers. In the centre hung a gilt\ncage containing a singing-bird; beneath it, on a chair, lay a\ntortoise-shell cat among reels of silk and other articles of female\nlabor, and a guitar decorated with ribbons leaned against the fountain.\n\nRuyz 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;\nand the 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\nbeautiful apparition the fairy of the tower? He knocked again, and more\nloudly. After a little while the beaming face once more peeped forth; it\nwas that of 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\u201cI dare not open the door, Se\u00f1or,\u201d replied the little damsel, blushing,\n\u201cmy aunt has forbidden it.\u201d\n\n\u201cI do beseech you, fair maid--it is the favorite falcon of the queen: I\ndare not return to the palace without it.\u201d\n\n\u201cAre you then one of the cavaliers of the court?\u201d\n\n\u201cI am, fair maid; but I shall lose the queen\u2019s favor and my place, if I\nlose this hawk.\u201d\n\n\u201cSanta Maria! It is against you cavaliers of the court my aunt has\ncharged me especially to bar the door.\u201d\n\n\u201cAgainst wicked cavaliers, doubtless, but I am none of these, but a\nsimple, harmless page, who will be ruined and undone if you deny me this\nsmall request.\u201d\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\ndescended, and opened the door with a trembling hand, and if the page\nhad been charmed by a mere glimpse of her countenance from the window,\nhe was ravished 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.\nHer glossy hair was parted on her forehead with scrupulous exactness,\nand decorated with a fresh plucked rose, according to the universal\ncustom of the country. It is true her complexion was tinged by the ardor\nof a southern sun, but it served to give richness to the mantling bloom\nof her cheek, and to heighten the lustre of her melting eyes.\n\nRuyz 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\nmean time, had seated herself by the fountain in the hall, and was\nwinding silk; but in her agitation she let fall the reel upon the\npavement. The page sprang and picked it up, then dropping gracefully on\none knee, presented it to her; but, seizing the hand extended to receive\nit, imprinted on it a kiss more fervent and devout than he had ever\nimprinted on the fair hand of his sovereign.\n\n\u201cAve Maria, Se\u00f1or!\u201d exclaimed the damsel, blushing still deeper with\nconfusion 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\nat court 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\nher eyes cast down upon her work, entangling the silk which she\nattempted to wind.\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\nand effrontery among the most knowing and experienced ladies of the\ncourt, found himself awed and abashed in the presence of a simple damsel\nof fifteen.\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 first\nwhisperings 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\nfirst time, 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\u201cMy aunt is returning from mass!\u201d cried the damsel in affright: \u201cI pray\nyou, Se\u00f1or, depart.\u201d\n\n\u201cNot until you grant me that rose from your hair as a remembrance.\u201d\n\nShe hastily untwisted the rose from her raven locks. \u201cTake it,\u201d cried\nshe, agitated and blushing, \u201cbut pray begone.\u201d\n\nThe page took the rose, and at the same time covered with kisses the\nfair hand that gave it. Then, placing the flower in his bonnet, and\ntaking the falcon upon his fist, he bounded off through the garden,\nbearing away with him the heart of the gentle Jacinta.\n\nWhen the vigilant aunt arrived at the tower, she remarked the agitation\nof her niece, and an air of confusion in the hall; but a word of\nexplanation sufficed. \u201cA ger-falcon had pursued his prey into the hall.\u201d\n\n\u201cMercy 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!\u201d\n\nThe vigilant Fredegonda was one of the most wary of ancient spinsters.\nShe had a becoming terror and distrust of what she denominated \u201cthe\nopposite sex,\u201d which had gradually increased through a long life of\ncelibacy. Not that the good lady had ever suffered from their wiles,\nnature having set up a safeguard in her face that forbade all trespass\nupon her premises; but ladies who have least cause to fear for\nthemselves are most ready to keep a watch over their more tempting\nneighbors.\n\nThe niece was an 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 whose\novershadowing care she vegetated in obscurity, like an opening rose\nblooming 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\nturn common to the people of Andalusia, the peasantry of the\nneighborhood had given her the appellation of \u201cthe Rose of the\nAlhambra.\u201d\n\nThe wary aunt continued to keep a faithful watch over her tempting\nlittle niece as long as the court continued at Granada, and flattered\nherself that her vigilance had been successful. It is true the good lady\nwas now 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\nmaids were often lured to their undoing. Alas! what chance with a simple\nmaid has 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 gayly embroidered dress, at the feet of her niece.\nAt the sound of her footsteps he gave a tender adieu, bounded lightly\nover the barrier of reeds and myrtles, sprang upon his horse, and was\nout of sight in an instant.\n\nThe tender Jacinta, in the agony of her grief, lost all thought of her\naunt\u2019s displeasure. Throwing herself into her arms, she broke forth into\nsobs and tears.\n\n\u201cAy de mi!\u201d cried she; \u201che\u2019s gone!--he\u2019s gone!--he\u2019s gone! and I shall\nnever see him more!\u201d\n\n\u201cGone!--who is gone?--what youth is that I saw at your feet?\u201d\n\n\u201cA queen\u2019s page, aunt, who came to bid me farewell.\u201d\n\n\u201cA queen\u2019s page, child!\u201d echoed the vigilant Fredegonda, faintly, \u201cand\nwhen did you become acquainted with the queen\u2019s page?\u201d\n\n\u201cThe morning that the ger-falcon came into the tower. It was the queen\u2019s\nger-falcon, and he came in pursuit of it.\u201d\n\n\u201cAh silly, silly girl! know that there are no ger-falcons half so\ndangerous as these young prankling pages, and it is precisely such\nsimple birds as thee that they pounce upon.\u201d\n\nThe aunt was at first indignant at learning that in despite of her\nboasted vigilance, a tender intercourse had been carried on by the\nyouthful lovers, almost beneath her eye; but when she found that her\nsimple-hearted niece, though thus exposed, without the protection of\nbolt or bar, to all the machinations of the opposite sex, had come forth\nunsinged from the fiery ordeal, she consoled herself with the persuasion\nthat it was owing to the chaste and cautious maxims in which she had, as\nit were, steeped her 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\ntime with each flower upon its bank, then passes on, and leaves them all\nin tears.\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\ncovered with a snowy mantle, and wintry blasts howled through the halls\nof the Alhambra--still he came not. The winter passed away. Again the\ngenial spring burst forth with song and blossom and balmy zephyr; the\nsnows melted from the mountains, until none remained but on the lofty\nsummit of Nevada, glistening through the sultry summer air. Still\nnothing was heard of the forgetful page.\n\nIn the mean time the poor little Jacinta grew pale and thoughtful. Her\nformer occupations and amusements were abandoned, her silk lay\nentangled, her guitar unstrung, her flowers were neglected, the notes of\nher bird unheeded, and her eyes, once so bright, were dimmed with secret\nweeping. If any solitude could be devised to foster the passion of a\nlove-lorn damsel it would be such a place as the Alhambra, where\neverything seems disposed to produce tender and romantic reveries. It is\na very paradise for lovers; how hard then to be alone in such a\nparadise--and not merely alone, but forsaken!\n\n\u201cAlas, silly child!\u201d would the staid and immaculate Fredegonda say, when\nshe found her niece in one of her desponding moods--\u201cdid 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\ncourt, would prohibit his union with one so humble and portionless as\nthou. Pluck up thy resolution, therefore, and drive these idle notions\nfrom thy mind.\u201d\n\nThe words of the immaculate Fredegonda only served to increase the\nmelancholy of her niece, but she sought to indulge it in private. At a\nlate hour one midsummer night, after her aunt had retired to rest, she\nremained alone in the hall of the tower, seated beside the alabaster\nfountain. It was here that the faithless page had first knelt and kissed\nher hand; it was here that he had often vowed eternal fidelity. The poor\nlittle damsel\u2019s heart was overladen with sad and tender recollections,\nher tears began to flow, and slowly fell drop by drop into the\nfountain. 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\nventure to return. The next morning she related what she had seen to her\naunt, but the good lady treated it as a fantasy of her troubled mind, or\nsupposed she had fallen asleep and dreamt beside the fountain. \u201cThou\nhast been thinking of the story of the three Moorish princesses that\nonce inhabited this tower,\u201d continued she, \u201cand it has entered into thy\ndreams.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat story, aunt? I know nothing of it.\u201d\n\n\u201cThou 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.\u201d\n\n\u201cI now recollect to have heard of it,\u201d said Jacinta, \u201cand to have wept\nover the fate of the gentle Zorahayda.\u201d\n\n\u201cThou mayest well weep over her fate,\u201d continued the aunt, \u201cfor the\nlover of Zorahayda was thy ancestor. He long bemoaned his Moorish love;\nbut time cured him of his grief, and he married a Spanish lady, from\nwhom thou art descended.\u201d\n\nJacinta ruminated upon these words. \u201cThat what I have seen is no fantasy\nof the brain,\u201d said she to herself, \u201cI am confident. If indeed it be the\nspirit of the gentle Zorahayda, which I have heard lingers about this\ntower, of what should I be afraid? I\u2019ll watch by the fountain\nto-night--perhaps the visit will be repeated.\u201d\n\nTowards midnight, when everything was quiet, she again took her seat in\nthe hall. As the bell in the distant watch-tower of the Alhambra struck\nthe 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\nrich with jewels, and in her hand she held a silver lute. Jacinta\ntrembled and was faint, but was reassured by the soft and plaintive\nvoice of the apparition, and the sweet expression of her pale,\nmelancholy countenance.\n\n\u201cDaughter of mortality,\u201d said she, \u201cwhat aileth thee? Why do thy tears\ntrouble my fountain, and thy sighs and plaints disturb the quiet watches\nof the night?\u201d\n\n\u201cI weep because of the faithlessness of man, and I bemoan my solitary\nand forsaken state.\u201d\n\n\u201cTake 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\nlacked courage equal to my faith, and lingered till too late. For this\nthe evil genii are permitted to have power over me, and I remain\nenchanted in this tower until some pure Christian will deign to break\nthe magic spell. Wilt thou undertake the task?\u201d\n\n\u201cI will,\u201d replied the damsel, trembling.\n\n\u201cCome 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\nshall the enchantment be dispelled, and my troubled spirit have repose.\u201d\n\nThe damsel advanced with faltering steps, dipped her hand in the\nfountain, collected water in the palm, and sprinkled it over the pale\nface of the phantom.\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\nmelted from sight, so that it seemed merely as if a shower of dew-drops\nhad fallen into 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. On\ndescending into the hall, however, the truth of the vision was\nestablished, for beside the fountain she beheld the silver lute\nglittering in the morning sunshine.\n\nShe hastened to her aunt, to relate all that had befallen her, and\ncalled her to behold the lute as a testimonial of the reality of her\nstory. If the good lady had any lingering doubts, they were removed when\nJacinta touched the instrument, for she drew forth such ravishing tones\nas to thaw even the frigid bosom of the immaculate Fredegonda, that\nregion of eternal winter, into a genial flow. Nothing but supernatural\nmelody could have 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\nneighboring trees, and hushing their own strains, listened in charmed\nsilence.\n\nRumor soon spread the news abroad. The inhabitants of Granada thronged\nto the Alhambra to catch a few notes of the transcendent music that\nfloated about 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\nhonor to her; or rather, who should secure the charms of her lute to\ndraw fashionable throngs to their saloons. Wherever she went her\nvigilant aunt kept a dragon watch at her elbow, awing the throngs of\nimpassioned admirers who hung in raptures on her strains. The report of\nher wonderful powers spread from city to city. Malaga, Seville, Cordova,\nall became successively mad on the theme; nothing was talked of\nthroughout Andalusia but the beautiful minstrel of the Alhambra. How\ncould it be otherwise among a people so musical and gallant as the\nAndalusians, when the lute was magical in its powers, and the minstrel\ninspired by love!\n\nWhile all Andalusia was thus music mad, a different mood prevailed at\nthe 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 splendors\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\nfamous Italian singer Farinelli about the court as a kind of royal\nphysician.\n\nAt the moment we treat of, however, a freak had come over the mind of\nthis sapient and illustrious Bourbon that surpassed all former vagaries.\nAfter a long spell of imaginary illness, which set all the strains of\nFarinelli and the consultations of a whole orchestra of court-fiddlers\nat defiance, the monarch fairly, in idea, gave up the ghost, and\nconsidered himself absolutely 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\u2019s 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 rumor reached the court of the\nfemale minstrel who was turning the brains of all Andalusia. The queen\ndispatched 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 honor was walking in\nthose 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\n\u201cthe Rose of the Alhambra.\u201d\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.\nIf the stately Elizabetta had been interested by the appearance of\nJacinta, she was still more pleased when she learnt that she was of a\nmeritorious though impoverished line, and that her father had bravely\nfallen in the service of the crown. \u201cIf thy powers equal their renown,\u201d\nsaid she, \u201cand thou canst cast forth this evil spirit that possesses thy\nsovereign, thy fortunes shall henceforth be my care, and honors and\nwealth attend thee.\u201d\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\nof courtiers. They arrived at length at a great chamber hung with black.\nThe windows were closed to exclude the light of day: a number of yellow\nwax tapers in silver sconces diffused a lugubrious light, and dimly\nrevealed the figures of mutes in mourning dresses, and courtiers who\nglided about with noiseless step and woe-begone visage. In the midst of\na funeral bed or bier, his hands folded on his breast, and the tip of\nhis nose just visible, 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, he\nset it down for some angelic melody or the music of the spheres. By\ndegrees the theme was varied, and the voice of the minstrel accompanied\nthe instrument. She poured forth one of the legendary ballads treating\nof the ancient glories of the Alhambra and the achievements of the\nMoors. Her whole soul entered into the theme, for with the recollections\nof the Alhambra was associated the story of her love. The\nfuneral-chamber resounded with the animating strain. It entered into the\ngloomy heart of the monarch. He raised his head and gazed around; he sat\nup on his couch, his eye began to kindle--at length, leaping upon the\nfloor, he called for sword 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\nthe bosom of Ruyz de Alarcon.\n\nThe nuptials of the happy couple were celebrated soon afterwards with\ngreat splendor, and the Rose of the Alhambra became the ornament and\ndelight of the court. \u201cBut hold--not so fast\u201d--I hear the reader\nexclaim; \u201cthis is jumping to the end of a story at a furious rate! First\nlet us know how Ruyz de Alarcon managed to account to Jacinta for his\nlong neglect?\u201d Nothing more easy; the venerable, time-honored excuse,\nthe opposition to his wishes by a proud, pragmatical old father:\nbesides, young people who really like one another soon come to an\namicable understanding, and bury all past grievances when once they\nmeet.\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 favorite 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 in\nItaly, 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\u2019s\near, but let it go no further: that fiddle is now bewitching the whole\nworld,--it is the fiddle of Paganini!\n\n\n\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 a\nhawk in one of the Moorish towers. His history, which he was fond of\ntelling, was a tissue of those adventures, mishaps, and vicissitudes\nthat render the life of almost every Spaniard of note as varied and\nwhimsical as the pages of Gil Blas.\n\nHe was in America at twelve years of age, and reckoned among the most\nsignal and fortunate events of his life, his having seen General\nWashington. Since then he had taken a part in all the wars of his\ncountry; he could speak experimentally of most of the prisons and\ndungeons of the Peninsula; had been lamed of one leg, crippled in his\nhands, and so cut up and carbonadoed that he was a kind of walking\nmonument of the troubles of Spain, on which there was a scar for every\nbattle and broil, as every year of captivity was notched upon the tree\nof Robinson Crusoe. The greatest misfortune of the brave old cavalier,\nhowever, appeared to have been his having commanded at Malaga during a\ntime of peril and confusion, and been made a general by the inhabitants,\nto protect them from the invasion of the French. This had entailed upon\nhim a number of just claims upon government, that I feared would employ\nhim until his dying day in writing and printing petitions and memorials,\nto the great disquiet of his mind, exhaustion of his purse, and penance\nof his friends; not one of whom could visit him without having to listen\nto a mortal document of half an hour in length, and to carry away half\na dozen pamphlets in his pocket. This, however, is the case throughout\nSpain; everywhere you meet with some worthy wight brooding in a corner,\nand nursing up some pet grievance and cherished wrong. Besides, a\nSpaniard who has a lawsuit, or a claim upon government, may be\nconsidered as furnished with employment for the remainder of his life.\n\nI visited the veteran in his quarters in the upper part of the Torre del\nVino, or Wine Tower. His room was small but snug, and commanded a\nbeautiful view of the Vega. It was arranged with a soldier\u2019s 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\nside, and above them two cocked hats, one for parade, and one for\nordinary use. A small shelf, containing some half dozen books, formed\nhis library, one of which, a little old mouldy volume of philosophical\nmaxims, was his favorite reading. This he thumbed and pondered over day\nby day; applying every maxim to his own particular case, provided it had\na little tinge of wholesome bitterness, and treated of the injustice of\nthe world.\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\nquestion, I learnt some curious facts about an old military commander of\nthe fortress, who seems to have resembled him in some respects, and to\nhave had similar fortunes in the wars. These particulars have been\naugmented by inquiries among some of the old inhabitants of the place,\nparticularly the father of Mateo Ximenes, of whose traditional stories\nthe worthy I am about to introduce to the reader was a favorite hero.\n\n\n\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 \u201cthe one-armed governor.\u201d He in\nfact prided himself upon being an old soldier, wore his moustaches\ncurled up to his eyes, a pair of campaigning boots, and a toledo as long\nas a spit, 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\nobliged to dismount at the gate, and lead his horse by the bridle. Now\nas the hill of the Alhambra rises from the very midst of the city of\nGranada, being, as it were, an excrescence of the capital, it must at\nall times be somewhat irksome to the captain-general, who commands the\nprovince, to have thus an _imperium in imperio_, a petty independent\npost in the very centre of his domains. It was rendered the more\ngalling, in the present instance, from the irritable jealousy of the old\ngovernor, that took fire on the least question of authority and\njurisdiction; and from the loose vagrant character of the people who had\ngradually nestled themselves within the fortress, as in a sanctuary, and\nthence carried on a system of roguery and depredation at the expense of\nthe honest inhabitants of the city.\n\nThus there was a perpetual feud and heart-burning between the\ncaptain-general and the governor, the more virulent on the part of the\nlatter, inasmuch as the smallest of two neighboring potentates is always\nthe 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\nfortress overlooked the palace and public square in front of it; and on\nthis bastion the old governor would occasionally strut backwards and\nforwards, with his toledo girded by his side, keeping a wary eye down\nupon his rival, like a hawk reconnoitring his quarry from his nest in a\ndry tree.\n\nWhenever he descended into the city, it was in grand parade; on\nhorseback, surrounded by his guards; or in his state coach, an ancient\nand unwieldy Spanish edifice of carved timber and gilt leather, drawn by\neight mules, with running footmen, outriders, and lackeys; on which\noccasions he flattered himself he impressed every beholder with awe and\nadmiration as vicegerent of the king; though the wits of Granada,\nparticularly those who loitered about the palace of the captain-general,\nwere apt to sneer at his petty parade, and, in allusion to the vagrant\ncharacter of his subjects, to greet him with the appellation of \u201cthe\nking of the beggars.\u201d One of the most fruitful sources of dispute\nbetween these two doughty rivals was the right claimed by the governor\nto have all things passed free of duty through the city that were\nintended for the use of himself or his garrison. By degrees this\nprivilege had given rise to extensive smuggling. A nest of\ncontrabandistas took up their abode in the hovels of the fortress and\nthe numerous caves in its vicinity, and drove a thriving business under\nthe connivance of the soldiers of the garrison.\n\nThe vigilance of the captain-general was aroused. He consulted his legal\nadviser and factotum, a shrewd meddlesome escribano, or notary, who\nrejoiced in an opportunity of perplexing the old potentate of the\nAlhambra, and involving him in a maze of legal subtilties. 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 him\nin vindication of the right. Governor Manco was a straight-forward\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\u201cWhat!\u201d said he, curling up his moustaches fiercely, \u201cdoes the\ncaptain-general set his man of the pen to practise confusions upon me?\nI\u2019ll let him see an old soldier is not to be baffled by schoolcraft.\u201d\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\nthe flag of the Alhambra. While this question was agitated between the\ntwo pragmatical potentates, it so happened that a mule laden with\nsupplies for the fortress arrived one day at the gate of Xenil, by which\nit was to traverse a suburb of the city on its way to the Alhambra. The\nconvoy was headed by a testy old corporal, who had long served under the\ngovernor, and was a man after his own heart; as rusty and stanch as an\nold Toledo blade.\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\nand ready for a snap and a snarl.\n\n\u201cWho goes there?\u201d said the sentinel at the gate.\n\n\u201cSoldier of the Alhambra!\u201d said the corporal, without turning his head.\n\n\u201cWhat have you in charge?\u201d\n\n\u201cProvisions for the garrison.\u201d\n\n\u201cProceed.\u201d\n\nThe corporal marched straight forward, followed by the convoy, but had\nnot advanced many paces before a posse of custom-house officers rushed\nout of a small toll-house.\n\n\u201cHallo there!\u201d cried the leader. \u201cMuleteer, halt, and open those\npackages.\u201d\n\nThe corporal wheeled round and drew himself up in battle-array. \u201cRespect\nthe flag of the Alhambra,\u201d said he; \u201cthese things are for the governor.\u201d\n\n\u201cA figo for the governor and a figo for his flag. Muleteer, halt, I\nsay.\u201d\n\n\u201cStop the convoy at your peril!\u201d cried the corporal, cocking his musket.\n\u201cMuleteer, proceed.\u201d\n\nThe muleteer gave his beast a hearty thwack; the custom-house officer\nsprang forward and seized the halter; whereupon the corporal levelled\nhis piece and shot him dead.\n\nThe street was immediately in an uproar.\n\nThe old corporal was seized, and after undergoing sundry kicks, and\ncuffs, and cudgellings, which are generally given impromptu by the mob\nin Spain as a foretaste of the after penalties of the law, he was loaded\nwith irons and conducted to the city prison, while his comrades were\npermitted to proceed with the convoy, after it had been well rummaged,\nto 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 vapored 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 dispatched a message demanding the surrender\nof the corporal, as to him alone belonged the right of sitting in\njudgment on the offences of those under his command. The\ncaptain-general, aided by the pen of the delighted escribano, replied at\ngreat length, arguing, that, as the offence had been committed within\nthe walls of his city, and against one of his civil officers, it was\nclearly within his proper jurisdiction. The governor rejoined by a\nrepetition of his demand; the captain-general gave a sur-rejoinder of\nstill greater length and legal acumen; the governor became hotter and\nmore peremptory in his demands, and the captain-general cooler and more\ncopious in his replies; until the old lion-hearted soldier absolutely\nroared with fury at being thus entangled in the meshes of legal\ncontroversy.\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 to\nSpanish 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 the\nAlhambra. 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\nattend to the affair in person. For this purpose he ordered out his\ncarriage of state, and, surrounded by his guards, rumbled down the\navenue of the Alhambra into the city. Driving to the house of the\nescribano, he summoned him to the portal.\n\nThe eye of the old governor gleamed like a coal at beholding the\nsmirking man of the law advancing with an air of exultation.\n\n\u201cWhat is this I hear,\u201d cried he, \u201cthat you are about to put to death one\nof my soldiers?\u201d\n\n\u201cAll according to law--all in strict form of justice,\u201d said the\nself-sufficient escribano, chuckling and rubbing his hands; \u201cI can show\nyour Excellency the written testimony in the case.\u201d\n\n\u201cFetch it hither,\u201d 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.\n\nHe returned with a satchel full of papers, and began to read a long\ndeposition with professional volubility. By this time a crowd had\ncollected, listening with out-stretched necks and gaping mouths.\n\n\u201cPrithee, man, get into the carriage, out of this pestilent throng, that\nI may the better hear thee,\u201d 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 the\ncaptain-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\u201cOho! is that the game?\u201d said Governor Manco. He gave orders, and\nimmediately a gibbet was reared on the verge of the great beetling\nbastion that overlooked the Plaza. \u201cNow,\u201d said he, in a message to the\ncaptain-general, \u201chang 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.\u201d\n\nThe captain-general was inflexible; troops were paraded in the square;\nthe drums beat, the bell tolled. An immense multitude of amateurs\ngathered together to behold the execution. On the other hand, the\ngovernor paraded his garrison on the bastion, and tolled the funeral\ndirge of the notary from the Torre de la Campana, or Tower of the Bell.\n\nThe notary\u2019s 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; \u201cfor you know the old governor too well,\u201d said she, \u201cto\ndoubt that he will put his threat in execution, if you hang the\nsoldier.\u201d\n\nThe captain-general was overpowered by her tears and lamentations, and\nthe clamors of her callow brood. The corporal was sent up to the\nAlhambra, under a guard, in his gallows garb, like a hooded friar, but\nwith head erect and a face of iron. The escribano was demanded in\nexchange, according to the cartel. The once bustling and self-sufficient\nman of the law was drawn forth from his dungeon more dead than alive.\nAll his flippancy and conceit had evaporated; his hair, it is said, had\nnearly turned gray with affright, and he had a downcast, dogged look, as\nif he still 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. \u201cHenceforth, my friend,\u201d said he, \u201cmoderate your\nzeal in hurrying others to the gallows; be not too certain of your\nsafety, even though you should have the law on your side; and above all\ntake care how you play off your schoolcraft another time upon an old\nsoldier.\u201d\n\n\n\n\nGOVERNOR MANCO AND THE SOLDIER\n\n\nWhile Governor Manco, or \u201cthe one-armed,\u201d kept up a show of military\nstate in the Alhambra, he became nettled at the reproaches continually\ncast upon his fortress, of being a nestling-place of rogues and\ncontrabandistas. On a sudden, the old potentate determined on reform,\nand setting vigorously to work, ejected whole nests of vagabonds out of\nthe fortress and the gypsy caves with which the surrounding hills are\nhoneycombed. He sent out soldiers, also, to patrol the avenues and\nfootpaths, with orders to 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\nnot unmusical 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\u201cWho goes there?\u201d\n\n\u201cA friend.\u201d\n\n\u201cWho and what are you?\u201d\n\n\u201cA poor soldier just from the wars, with a cracked crown and empty purse\nfor a reward.\u201d\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-humor.\n\nHaving answered the questions of the patrol, the soldier seemed to\nconsider himself entitled to make others in return. \u201cMay I ask,\u201d said\nhe, \u201cwhat city is that which I see at the foot of the hill?\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat city!\u201d cried the trumpeter; \u201ccome, that\u2019s too bad. Here\u2019s a fellow\nlurking about the Mountain of the Sun, and demands the name of the great\ncity of Granada!\u201d\n\n\u201cGranada! Madre di Dios! can it be possible?\u201d\n\n\u201cPerhaps not!\u201d rejoined the trumpeter; \u201cand perhaps you have no idea\nthat yonder are the towers of the Alhambra.\u201d\n\n\u201cSon of a trumpet,\u201d replied the stranger, \u201cdo not trifle with me; if\nthis be indeed the Alhambra, I have some strange matters to reveal to\nthe governor.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou will have an opportunity,\u201d said the corporal, \u201cfor we mean to take\nyou before him.\u201d By this time the trumpeter had seized the bridle of the\nsteed, the two privates had each secured an arm of the soldier, the\ncorporal put himself in front, gave the word, \u201cForward--march!\u201d and away\nthey marched for the Alhambra.\n\nThe sight of a ragged foot-soldier and a fine Arabian horse, brought in\ncaptive by the patrol, attracted the attention of all the idlers of the\nfortress, and of those gossip groups that generally assemble about wells\nand fountains at early dawn. The wheel of the cistern paused in its\nrotations, and the slipshod 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. \u201cIt\nis a deserter,\u201d said one; \u201cA contrabandista,\u201d said another; \u201cA\nbandolero,\u201d said a third;--until it was affirmed that a captain of a\ndesperate band of robbers had been captured by the prowess of the\ncorporal and his patrol. \u201cWell, well,\u201d said the old crones, one to\nanother, \u201ccaptain or not, let him get out of the grasp of old Governor\nManco if he can, though he is but one-handed.\u201d\n\nGovernor Manco was seated in one of the inner halls of the Alhambra,\ntaking his morning\u2019s cup of chocolate in company with his confessor,--a\nfat Franciscan friar, from the neighboring 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 scrutinized.\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 his\nchocolate-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\nsoldier was brought in, still closely pinioned by his captors, and\nguarded by the corporal. He maintained, however, a resolute\nself-confident air, and returned the sharp, scrutinizing look of the\ngovernor with an easy squint, which by no means pleased the punctilious\nold potentate.\n\n\u201cWell, culprit,\u201d said the governor, after he had regarded him for a\nmoment in silence, \u201cwhat have you to say for yourself--who are you?\u201d\n\n\u201cA soldier, just from the wars, who has brought away nothing but scars\nand bruises.\u201d\n\n\u201cA 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.\u201d\n\n\u201cMay 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.\u201d\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. \u201cThis holy friar,\u201d said he, \u201cis my confessor, you may\nsay anything in his presence;--and this damsel,\u201d nodding towards the\nhandmaid, who had loitered with an air of great curiosity, \u201cthis damsel\nis of great secrecy and discretion, and to be trusted with anything.\u201d\n\nThe soldier gave a glance between a squint and a leer at the demure\nhandmaid. \u201cI am perfectly willing,\u201d said he, \u201cthat the damsel should\nremain.\u201d\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\u201cMay it please your Excellency,\u201d said he, \u201cI am, as I before observed,\na soldier, and have seen some hard service, but my term of enlistment\nbeing expired, I was discharged, not long since, from the army at\nValladolid, and set out on foot for my native village in Andalusia.\nYesterday evening the sun went down as I was traversing a great dry\nplain of Old Castile.\u201d\n\n\u201cHold!\u201d cried the governor, \u201cwhat is this you say? Old Castile is some\ntwo or three hundred miles from this.\u201d\n\n\u201cEven so,\u201d replied the soldier, coolly. \u201cI told your Excellency I had\nstrange things to relate; but not more strange than true, as your\nExcellency will find, if you will deign me a patient hearing.\u201d\n\n\u201cProceed, culprit,\u201d said the governor, twirling up his moustaches.\n\n\u201cAs the sun went down,\u201d continued the soldier, \u201cI cast my eyes about in\nsearch of quarters for the night, but as far as my sight could reach\nthere were no signs of habitation. I saw that I should have to make my\nbed on the naked plain, with my knapsack for a pillow; but your\nExcellency is an old soldier, and knows that to one who has been in the\nwars, such a night\u2019s lodging is no great hardship.\u201d\n\nThe governor nodded assent, as he drew his pocket-handkerchief out of\nthe basket-hilt to drive away a fly that buzzed about his nose.\n\n\u201cWell, to make a long story short,\u201d continued the soldier, \u201cI 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\nsummer heat. At one end of the bridge was a Moorish tower, the upper end\nall in ruins, but a vault in the foundation quite entire. Here, thinks\nI, is a good place to make a halt; so I went down to the stream, and\ntook a hearty drink, for the water was pure and sweet, and I was parched\nwith thirst; then, opening my wallet, I took out an onion and a few\ncrusts, which were all my provisions, and seating myself on a stone on\nthe margin of the stream, began to make my supper,--intending afterwards\nto quarter myself for the night in the vault of the tower; and capital\nquarters they would have been for a campaigner just from the wars, as\nyour Excellency, who is an old soldier, may suppose.\u201d\n\n\u201cI have put up gladly with worse in my time,\u201d said the governor,\nreturning his pocket-handkerchief into the hilt of his sword.\n\n\u201cWhile I was quietly crunching my crust,\u201d pursued the soldier, \u201cI heard\nsomething stir within the vault; I listened--it was the tramp of a\nhorse. By-and-by a man came forth from a door in the foundation of the\ntower, close by the water\u2019s edge, leading a powerful horse by the\nbridle. I could not well make out what he was, by the starlight. It had\na suspicious look to be lurking among the ruins of a tower, in that wild\nsolitary place. He might be a mere wayfarer, like myself; he might be a\ncontrabandista; he might be a bandolero! what of that? thank heaven and\nmy poverty, I had nothing to lose; so I sat still and crunched my crust.\n\n\u201cHe 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\ndressed in a Moorish garb, with a cuirass of steel, and a polished\nskull-cap that I distinguished by the reflection of the stars upon it.\nHis horse, too, was harnessed in the Morisco fashion, with great shovel\nstirrups. He led him, as I said, to the side of the stream, into which\nthe animal plunged his head almost to the eyes, and drank until I\nthought he would have burst.\n\n\u201c\u2018Comrade,\u2019 said I, \u2018your steed drinks well; it\u2019s a good sign when a\nhorse plunges his muzzle bravely into the water.\u2019\n\n\u201c\u2018He may well drink,\u2019 said the stranger, speaking with a Moorish\naccent; \u2018it is a good year since he had his last draught.\u2019\n\n\u201c\u2018By Santiago,\u2019 said I, \u2018that 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\u2019s fare?\u2019 In fact, I felt the want of a\ncompanion in this lonely place, and was willing to put up with an\ninfidel. Besides, as your Excellency well knows, a soldier is never very\nparticular about the faith of his company, and soldiers of all countries\nare comrades on peaceable ground.\u201d\n\nThe governor again nodded assent.\n\n\u201cWell, as I was saying, I invited him to share my supper, such as it\nwas, for I could not do less in common hospitality. \u2018I have no time to\npause for meat or drink,\u2019 said he, \u2018I have a long journey to make before\nmorning.\u2019\n\n\u201c\u2018In what direction?\u2019 said I.\n\n\u201c\u2018Andalusia,\u2019 said he.\n\n\u201c\u2018Exactly my route,\u2019 said I; \u2018so, as you won\u2019t 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\u2019ll warrant he\u2019ll carry double.\u2019\n\n\u201c\u2018Agreed,\u2019 said the trooper; and it would not have been civil and\nsoldierlike to refuse, especially as I had offered to share my supper\nwith him. So up he mounted, and up I mounted behind him.\n\n\u201c\u2018Hold fast,\u2019 said he, \u2018my steed goes like the wind.\u2019\n\n\u201c\u2018Never fear me,\u2019 said I, and so off we set.\n\n\u201cFrom 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,\ntrees, houses, everything flew hurry-scurry behind us.\n\n\u201c\u2018What town is this?\u2019 said I.\n\n\u201c\u2018Segovia,\u2019 said he; and before the word was out of his mouth, the\ntowers of Segovia were out of sight. We swept up the Guadarrama\nmountains, and down by the Escurial; and we skirted the walls of\nMadrid, and we scoured away across the plains of La Mancha. In this way\nwe went up hill and down dale, by towers and cities, all buried in deep\nsleep, and across mountains, and plains, and rivers, just glimmering in\nthe starlight.\n\n\u201cTo make a long story short, and not to fatigue your Excellency, the\ntrooper suddenly pulled up on the side of a mountain. \u2018Here we are,\u2019\nsaid he, \u2018at the end of our journey.\u2019 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\nI could ask a question, the trooper struck his long Moorish spurs into\nthe horse\u2019s flanks, and dashed in with the throng. We passed along a\nsteep winding way, that descended into the very bowels of the mountain.\nAs we pushed on, a light began to glimmer up, by little and little, like\nthe first glimmerings of day, but what caused it I could not discern. It\ngrew stronger and stronger, and enabled me to see everything around. I\nnow noticed, as we passed along, great caverns, opening to the right and\nleft, like halls in an arsenal. In some there were shields, and helmets,\nand cuirasses, and lances, and cimeters, hanging against the walls; in\nothers there were great heaps of warlike munitions and camp-equipage\nlying upon the ground.\n\n\u201cIt would have done your Excellency\u2019s heart good, being an old soldier,\nto have seen such grand provision for war. Then, in other caverns, there\nwere long rows of horsemen armed to the teeth, with lances raised and\nbanners unfurled, all ready for the field; but they all sat motionless\nin their saddles, like so many statues. In other halls were warriors\nsleeping on the ground beside their horses, and foot-soldiers in groups\nready to fall into the ranks. All were in old-fashioned Moorish dresses\nand armor.\n\n\u201cWell, your Excellency, to cut a long story short, we at length entered\nan immense cavern, or I may say palace, of grotto-work, the walls of\nwhich seemed to be veined with gold and silver, and to sparkle with\ndiamonds and sapphires and all kinds of precious stones. At the upper\nend sat a Moorish king on a golden throne, with his nobles on each side,\nand a guard of African blacks with drawn cimeters. All the crowd that\ncontinued to flock in, and amounted to thousands and thousands, passed\none by one before his throne, each paying homage as he passed. Some of\nthe multitude were dressed in magnificent robes, without stain or\nblemish, and sparkling with jewels; others in burnished and enamelled\narmor; while others were in mouldered and mildewed garments, and in\narmor all battered and dented and covered with rust.\n\n\u201cI 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\nsilent no longer.\n\n\u201c\u2018Prithee, comrade,\u2019 said I, \u2018what is the meaning of all this?\u2019\n\n\u201c\u2018This,\u2019 said the trooper, \u2018is a great and fearful mystery. Know, O\nChristian, that you see before you the court and army of Boabdil the\nlast king of Granada.\u2019\n\n\u201c\u2018What is this you tell me?\u2019 cried I, \u2018Boabdil and his court were exiled\nfrom the land hundreds of years agone, and all died in Africa.\u2019\n\n\u201c\u2018So it is recorded in your lying chronicles,\u2019 replied the Moor; \u2018but\nknow that Boabdil and the warriors who made the last struggle for\nGranada were all shut up in the mountain by powerful enchantment. As\nfor the king and army that marched forth from Granada at the time of the\nsurrender, they were a mere phantom train of spirits and demons,\npermitted to assume those shapes to deceive the Christian sovereigns.\nAnd furthermore let me tell you, friend, that all Spain is a country\nunder the power of enchantment. There is not a mountain cave, not a\nlonely watch-tower in the plains, nor ruined castle on the hills, but\nhas some spell-bound warriors sleeping from age to age within its\nvaults, until the sins are expiated for which Allah permitted the\ndominion to pass for a time out of the hands of the faithful. Once every\nyear, on the eve of St. John, they are released from enchantment, from\nsunset to sunrise, and permitted to repair here to pay homage to their\nsovereign! and the crowds which you beheld swarming into the cavern are\nMoslem warriors from their haunts in all parts of Spain. For my own\npart, you saw the ruined tower of the bridge in Old Castile, where I\nhave now wintered and summered for many hundred years, and where I must\nbe back again by daybreak. As to the battalions of horse and foot which\nyou beheld drawn up in array in the neighboring caverns, they are the\nspell-bound warriors of Granada. It is written in the book of fate, that\nwhen the enchantment is broken, Boabdil will descend from the mountain\nat the head of this army, resume his throne in the Alhambra and his sway\nof Granada, and gathering together the enchanted warriors from all parts\nof Spain, will reconquer the Peninsula and restore it to Moslem rule.\u2019\n\n\u201c\u2018And when shall this happen?\u2019 said I.\n\n\u201c\u2018Allah alone knows: we had hoped the day of deliverance was at hand;\nbut there reigns at present a vigilant governor in the Alhambra, a\nstanch old soldier, well known as Governor Manco. While such a warrior\nholds command of the very outpost, and stands ready to check the first\nirruption from the mountain, I fear Boabdil and his soldiery must be\ncontent to rest upon their arms.\u201d\n\nHere the governor raised himself somewhat perpendicularly, adjusted his\nsword, and twirled up his moustaches.\n\n\u201cTo make a long story short, and not to fatigue your Excellency, the\ntrooper, having given me this account, dismounted from his steed.\n\n\u201c\u2018Tarry here,\u2019 said he, \u2018and guard my steed while I go and bow the knee\nto Boabdil.\u2019 So saying, he strode away among the throng that pressed\nforward to the throne.\n\n\u201c\u2018What\u2019s to be done?\u2019 thought I, when thus left to myself; \u2018shall 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?\u2019 A soldier\u2019s mind is soon made up, as\nyour Excellency well knows. As to the horse, he belonged to an avowed\nenemy of the faith and the realm, and was a fair prize according to the\nrules of war. So hoisting myself from the crupper into the saddle, I\nturned the reins, struck the Moorish stirrups into the sides of the\nsteed, and put him to make the best of his way out of the passage by\nwhich he had entered. As we scoured by the halls where the Moslem\nhorsemen sat in motionless battalions, I thought I heard the clang of\narmor and a hollow murmur of voices. I gave the steed another taste of\nthe stirrups and doubled my speed. There was now a sound behind me like\na rushing blast; I heard the clatter of a thousand hoofs; a countless\nthrong overtook me. I was borne along in the press, and hurled forth\nfrom the mouth of the cavern, while thousands of shadowy forms were\nswept off in every direction by the four winds of heaven.\n\n\u201cIn 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\u201cYour 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\u201cI descended the hill cautiously, leading my steed, for I was afraid to\nmount 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\nthe Alhambra, the fortress of the redoubted Governor Manco, the terror\nof all enchanted Moslems. When I heard this, I determined at once to\nseek your Excellency, to inform you of all that I had seen, and to warn\nyou of the perils that surround and undermine you, that you may take\nmeasures in time to guard your fortress, and the kingdom itself, from\nthis intestine army that lurks in the very bowels of the land.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd prithee, friend, you who are a veteran campaigner, and have seen so\nmuch service,\u201d said the governor, \u201chow would you advise me to proceed,\nin order to prevent this evil?\u201d\n\n\u201cIt is not for a humble private of the ranks,\u201d said the soldier,\nmodestly, \u201cto pretend to instruct a commander of your Excellency\u2019s\nsagacity, but it appears to me that your Excellency might cause all the\ncaves and entrances into the mountains to be walled up with solid\nmason-work, so that Boabdil and his army might be completely corked up\nin their subterranean habitation. If the good father, too,\u201d added the\nsoldier, reverently bowing to the friar, and devoutly crossing himself,\n\u201cwould consecrate the barricadoes with his blessing, and put up a few\ncrosses and relics and images of saints, I think they might withstand\nall the power of infidel enchantments.\u201d\n\n\u201cThey doubtless would be of great avail,\u201d said the friar.\n\nThe governor now placed his arm akimbo, with his hand resting on the\nhilt of his toledo, fixed his eye upon the soldier, and gently wagging\nhis head from one side to the other,--\n\n\u201cSo, friend,\u201d said he, \u201cthen 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\u2019ll find you have an older soldier to deal with, and one not easily\noutgeneralled. Ho! guards there! put this fellow in irons.\u201d\n\nThe demure handmaid would have put in a word in favor 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\nthat appeared to be well filled. Holding it by one corner, he turned out\nthe contents upon the table before the governor, and never did\nfreebooter\u2019s bag make more gorgeous delivery. Out tumbled rings, and\njewels, and rosaries of pearls, and sparkling diamond crosses, and a\nprofusion of ancient golden coin, some of which fell jingling to the\nfloor, and rolled away to the uttermost parts of the chamber.\n\nFor a time the functions of justice were suspended; there was a\nuniversal scramble after the glittering fugitives. The governor alone,\nwho was imbued with true Spanish pride, maintained his stately decorum,\nthough his eye betrayed a little anxiety until the last coin and jewel\nwas restored to the sack.\n\nThe friar was not so calm; his whole face glowed like a furnace, and\nhis eyes twinkled and flashed at sight of the rosaries and crosses.\n\n\u201cSacrilegious wretch that thou art!\u201d exclaimed he; \u201cwhat church or\nsanctuary hast thou been plundering of these sacred relics?\u201d\n\n\u201cNeither one nor the other, holy father. If they be sacrilegious spoils,\nthey must have been taken, in times long past, by the infidel trooper I\nhave mentioned. I was just going to tell his Excellency when he\ninterrupted me, that, on taking possession of the trooper\u2019s horse, I\nunhooked a leathern sack which hung at the saddle-bow, and which I\npresume contained the plunder of his campaignings in days of old, when\nthe Moors overran the country.\u201d\n\n\u201cMighty 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.\u201d\n\n\u201cYour Excellency will do as you think proper,\u201d said the prisoner,\ncoolly. \u201cI shall be thankful to your Excellency for any accommodation in\nthe fortress. A soldier who has been in the wars, as your Excellency\nwell knows, 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.\u201d\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\u2019s\nstable, and the trooper\u2019s sack was deposited in his Excellency\u2019s strong\nbox. To the latter, it is true, the friar made some demur, questioning\nwhether the sacred relics, which were evidently sacrilegious spoils,\nshould not be placed in custody of the church; but as the governor was\nperemptory on the subject, and was absolute lord in the Alhambra, the\nfriar discreetly dropped the discussion, but determined to convey\nintelligence of the fact to 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 neighborhood of Granada were terribly infested by a\ngang of robbers, under the command of a daring chief named Manuel\nBorasco, who were accustomed to prowl about the country, and even to\nenter the city in various disguises, to gain intelligence of the\ndeparture of convoys of merchandise, or travellers with well-lined\npurses, whom they took care to waylay in distant and solitary passes of\nthe road. These repeated and daring outrages had awakened the attention\nof government, and the commanders of the various posts had received\ninstructions to be on the alert, and to take up all suspicious\nstragglers. Governor Manco was particularly zealous in consequence of\nthe various stigmas that had been cast upon his fortress, and he now\ndoubted not he had entrapped some formidable desperado of this gang.\n\nIn the mean time 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 Towers; and every one who had been robbed by\nhim flocked to recognize the marauder. The Vermilion Towers, as is well\nknown, stand apart from the Alhambra on a sister hill, separated from\nthe main fortress by the ravine down which passes the main avenue. There\nwere no outer walls, but a sentinel patrolled before the tower. The\nwindow of the chamber in which the soldier was confined was strongly\ngrated, and looked upon a small esplanade. Here the good folks of\nGranada repaired to gaze at him, as they would at a laughing hyena,\ngrinning through the cage of a menagerie. Nobody, however, recognized\nhim for Manuel Borasco, for that terrible robber was noted for a\nferocious physiognomy, and had by no means the good-humored squint of\nthe prisoner. Visitors came not merely from the city, but from all parts\nof the country; but nobody knew him, and there began to be doubts in the\nminds of the common people whether there might not be some truth in his\nstory. That Boabdil and his army were shut up in the mountain, was an\nold tradition which many of the ancient inhabitants had heard from their\nfathers. Numbers went up to the Mountain of the Sun, or rather of St.\nElena, in search of the cave mentioned by the soldier; and saw and\npeeped into the deep dark pit, descending, no one knows how far, into\nthe mountain, and which remains there to this day--the fabled entrance\nto the subterranean abode of Boabdil.\n\nBy degrees the soldier became popular with the common people. A\nfreebooter of the mountains is by no means the opprobrious character in\nSpain that a robber is in any other country: on the contrary, he is a\nkind of chivalrous personage in the eyes of the lower classes. There is\nalways a disposition, also, to cavil at the conduct of those in command;\nand many began to murmur at the high-handed measures of old Governor\nManco, and to look upon the 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\nneighborhood, who would assemble on the esplanade in the evening and\ndance boleros to his music. Having trimmed off his rough beard, his\nsunburnt face found favor in the eyes of the fair, and the demure\nhandmaid of the governor declared that his squint was perfectly\nirresistible. This kind-hearted damsel had from the first evinced a deep\nsympathy in his fortunes, and having in vain tried to mollify the\ngovernor, had set to work privately to mitigate the rigor of his\ndispensations. Every day she brought the prisoner some crumbs of comfort\nwhich had fallen from the governor\u2019s table, or been abstracted from his\nlarder, together with, now and then, a consoling bottle of choice Val de\nPe\u00f1as, or rich Malaga.\n\nWhile this petty treason was going on in the very centre of the old\ngovernor\u2019s 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\u2019s 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. He\ndemanded his body therefore, and the _spolia opima_ taken with him. Due\ninformation 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\nthe Alhambra, 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 dispatching a number of the familiars of the Holy\nOffice. Word was brought late at night to the governor of these\nmachinations. \u201cLet them come,\u201d said he, \u201cthey\u2019ll find me beforehand with\nthem; he must rise bright and early who would take in an old soldier.\u201d\nHe accordingly issued orders to have the prisoner removed at daybreak,\nto the donjon-keep within the walls of the Alhambra. \u201cAnd d\u2019ye hear,\nchild,\u201d said he to his demure handmaid, \u201ctap at my door, and wake me\nbefore cock-crowing, that I may see to the matter myself.\u201d\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\nhis veteran corporal, who stood before him with terror stamped upon his\niron visage.\n\n\u201cHe\u2019s off! he\u2019s gone!\u201d cried the corporal, gasping for breath.\n\n\u201cWho\u2019s off--who\u2019s gone?\u201d\n\n\u201cThe 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.\u201d\n\n\u201cWho saw him last?\u201d\n\n\u201cYour handmaid; she brought him his supper.\u201d\n\n\u201cLet her be called instantly.\u201d\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 misfortunes 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\nlived in a cottage by the road-side leading up into the Sierra, declared\nthat he had heard the tramp of a powerful steed just before daybreak,\npassing up into the mountains. He had looked out at his casement, and\ncould just distinguish a horseman, with a female seated before him.\n\n\u201cSearch the stables!\u201d 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, \u201cA gift to Governor Manco, from an Old Soldier.\u201d\n\n\n\n\nA F\u00caTE IN THE ALHAMBRA\n\n\nThe Saint\u2019s day of my neighbor and rival potentate, the count, took\nplace during his sojourn in the Alhambra, on which occasion he gave a\ndomestic f\u00eate; assembling round him the members of his family and\nhousehold, while the stewards and old servants from his distant\npossessions came to pay him reverence and partake of the good cheer\nwhich was sure to be provided. It presented a type, though doubtless a\nfaint one, of the establishment 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\nduring the wars with the Moors; wars of inroads and surprises; when a\nnoble was liable to be suddenly assailed in his castle by a foray of the\nenemy, or summoned 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\u2019s 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\nmediocrity and scantiness of their furniture, were absolutely required,\nin the golden days of Spain, by the patriarchal habits of their\npossessors. They were little better than vast barracks for their\nhereditary generations of hangers-on that battened at the expense of a\nSpanish noble.\n\nThese patriarchal habits of the Spanish nobility have declined with\ntheir revenues; though the spirit which prompted them remains, and wars\nsadly with their altered fortunes. The poorest among them have always\nsome hereditary hangers-on, who live at their expense, and make them\npoorer. Some who, like my neighbor the count, retain a modicum of their\nonce princely possessions, keep up a shadow of the ancient system, and\ntheir estates are overrun and the produce consumed by generations of\nidle retainers.\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\u2019s day of the old count gave me a glimpse into a Spanish\ninterior. For two or three days previous preparations were made for the\nf\u00eate. Viands of all kinds were brought up from town, greeting the\nolfactory nerves of the old invalid guards, as they were borne past them\nthrough 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\nabout the palace before the hour of dinner, enjoying the luxuries of its\ncourts and fountains, and embosomed gardens, and music and laughter\nresounded through 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 \u201cLas dos Hermanas.\u201d 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\u2019\nwedding in \u201cDon Quixote\u201d was a picture of a Spanish banquet. A joyous\nconviviality prevailed round the board; for though Spaniards are\ngenerally abstemious, they are complete revellers on occasions like the\npresent, and none more so than the Andalusians. For my part, there was\nsomething peculiarly exciting in thus sitting at a feast in the royal\nhalls of the Alhambra, given by one who might claim remote affinity with\nits Moorish kings, and who was a lineal representative of Gonsalvo of\nCordova, one of the most distinguished of the Christian conquerors.\n\nThe banquet ended, the company adjourned to the Hall of Ambassadors.\nHere every one endeavored to contribute to the general amusement,\nsinging, improvising, telling wonderful tales, or dancing popular dances\nto that all-pervading talisman of Spanish pleasure, the guitar.\n\nThe count\u2019s gifted little daughter was as usual the life and delight of\nthe 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\nthe Vega with equal felicity; but everything was done with an\nall-pervading grace and a ladylike tact perfectly fascinating.\n\nThe great charm of everything she did was its freedom from pretension or\nambitious 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\ninnocent spirits. Indeed, I was told she had never exerted her talents\nin general society, but only, as at present, in the domestic circle.\n\nHer faculty of observation and her perception of character must have\nbeen remarkably quick, for she could have had only casual and transient\nglances at the scenes, manners, and customs depicted with such truth and\nspirit. \u201cIndeed it is a continual wonder to us,\u201d said the countess,\n\u201cwhere the child [la Ni\u00f1a] has picked up these things, her life being\npassed almost entirely at home, in the bosom of the family.\u201d\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 quick\ndrew back on being told that a Moorish king had been murdered there;\nthey ventured into the mysterious regions of the bath, frightening\nthemselves with the sounds and murmurs of hidden aqueducts, and flying\nwith mock panic at the alarm of phantom Moors. They then undertook the\nadventure of the Iron Gate, a place of baleful note in the Alhambra. It\nis a postern gate, opening into a dark ravine; a narrow covered way\nleads down to it, which used to be the terror of Dolores and her\nplaymates in childhood, as it was said a hand without a body would\nsometimes be stretched out from the wall and seize hold of the\npassers-by.\n\nThe little party of enchantment-hunters ventured to the entrance of the\ncovered 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\npresent, who, I believe, was the count\u2019s advocate or legal adviser,\nassured them that these statues were connected with one of the greatest\nmysteries of the Alhambra; that there was a curious history concerning\nthem, and, moreover, that they stood a living monument in marble of\nfemale secrecy and discretion. All present entreated him to tell the\nhistory of the statues. He took a little time to recollect the details,\nand then gave them in substance the following legend:\n\n\n\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 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\nother Spanish heroes, for the amusement of the old soldiers of the\nfortress; or would strike up a merrier tune, and set the girls dancing\nboleros and fandangos.\n\nLike most little men, Lope Sanchez had a strapping buxom dame for a\nwife, who could almost have put him in her pocket; but he lacked the\nusual poor man\u2019s lot--instead of ten children he had but one. This was\na little black-eyed girl about twelve years of age, named Sanchica, who\nwas as merry as himself, and the delight of his heart. She played about\nhim as he worked in the gardens, danced to his guitar as he sat in the\nshade, and ran as wild as a young fawn about the groves and alleys and\nruined halls of 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,\nand all the mountains were gray and silvery, and the city, with its\ndomes and spires, lay in shadows below, and the Vega was like a fairy\nland, with haunted streams gleaming among its dusky groves. On the\nhighest part of the mountain they lit up a bonfire, according to an old\ncustom of the country handed down from the Moors. The inhabitants of the\nsurrounding country were keeping a similar vigil, and bonfires, here and\nthere in the Vega, and along the folds of the mountains, blazed up\npalely in the moonlight.\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\ncuriously carved of jet, the fingers closed, and the thumb firmly\nclasped upon them. Overjoyed with her good fortune, she ran to her\nmother with her prize. It immediately became a subject of sage\nspeculation, and was eyed by some with superstitious distrust. \u201cThrow it\naway,\u201d said one; \u201cit\u2019s Moorish,--depend upon it, there\u2019s mischief and\nwitchcraft in it.\u201d \u201cBy no means,\u201d said another; \u201cyou may sell it for\nsomething to the jewellers of the Zacatin.\u201d In the midst of this\ndiscussion an old tawny soldier drew near, who had served in Africa, and\nwas as swarthy as a Moor. He examined the hand with a knowing look. \u201cI\nhave seen things of this kind,\u201d said he, \u201camong the Moors of Barbary. It\nis a great virtue to guard against the evil eye, and all kinds of spells\nand enchantments. I give you joy, friend Lope, this bodes good luck to\nyour child.\u201d\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 favorite 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. \u201cAmong yonder ruins,\u201d said she, pointing to some crumbling\nwalls and mounds of earth on a distant part of the mountain, \u201cthere 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 a\ntime 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,\nthat every one thought his brain was turned. He raved for a day or two\nabout the hobgoblin Moors that had pursued him in the cavern, and could\nhardly be persuaded to drive his goats up again to the mountain. He did\nso at last, but, poor man, he never came down again. The neighbors found\nhis goats browsing about the Moorish ruins, and his hat and mantle\nlying near the mouth of the pit, but he was never more heard of.\u201d\n\nThe little Sanchica listened with breathless attention to this story.\nShe was of a curious nature, and felt immediately a great hankering to\npeep into this dangerous pit. Stealing away from her companions, she\nsought the distant ruins, and, after groping for some time among them,\ncame to a small hollow, or basin, near the brow of the mountain, where\nit swept steeply down into the valley of the Darro. In the centre of\nthis basin yawned the mouth of the pit. Sanchica ventured to the verge,\nand peeped in. All was as black as pitch, and gave an idea of\nimmeasurable depth. Her blood ran cold; she drew back, then peeped in\nagain, then would have run away, then took another peep,--the very\nhorror of the thing was delightful to her. At length she rolled a large\nstone, and pushed it over the brink. For some time it fell in silence;\nthen struck some rocky projection with a violent crash; then rebounded\nfrom side to side, rumbling and tumbling, with a noise like thunder;\nthen made a final splash into water, far, far below,--and all was again\nsilent.\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 where\nshe 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\nleading to the Alhambra, when she seated herself on a bench of a woody\nrecess, to recover breath. The bell from the watch-tower of the Alhambra\ntolled midnight. There was a deep tranquillity as if all nature slept;\nexcepting the low tinkling sound of an unseen stream that ran under the\ncovert of the bushes. The breathing sweetness of the atmosphere was\nlulling her to sleep, when her eye was caught by something glittering at\na distance, and to her surprise she beheld a long cavalcade of Moorish\nwarriors pouring down the mountain-side and along the leafy avenues.\nSome were armed with lances and shields; others, with cimeters and\nbattle-axes, and with polished cuirasses that flashed in the moonbeams.\nTheir horses pranced proudly and champed upon their bits, but their\ntramp caused no more sound than if they had been shod with felt, and the\nriders were all as pale as death. Among them rode a beautiful lady, with\na crowned head and long golden locks entwined with pearls. The housings\nof her palfrey were of crimson velvet embroidered with gold, and swept\nthe earth; but she rode all disconsolate, with eyes ever fixed upon the\nground.\n\nThen succeeded a train of courtiers magnificently arrayed in robes and\nturbans of divers colors, and amidst them, on a cream-colored 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\nyellow beard, and his resemblance to his portrait, which she had often\nseen in the picture-gallery of the Generalife. She gazed in wonder and\nadmiration at this royal pageant, as it passed glistening among the\ntrees; but though she knew these monarchs and courtiers and warriors, so\npale and silent, were out of the common course of nature, and things of\nmagic and enchantment, yet she looked on with a bold heart, such courage\ndid she derive from the mystic talisman of the hand, which was suspended\nabout her 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 and\nthere 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\nlady, in ancient Spanish dress, with a coronet all sparkling with\ndiamonds, and her hair entwined with pearls, who was softly playing on a\nsilver lyre. The little Sanchica now recollected a story she had heard\namong the old people of the Alhambra, concerning a Gothic princess\nconfined in the centre of the mountain by an old Arabian magician, whom\nshe kept bound up in magic sleep by the power of music.\n\nThe lady paused with surprise at seeing a mortal in that enchanted hall.\n\u201cIs it the eve of the blessed St. John?\u201d said she.\n\n\u201cIt is,\u201d replied Sanchica.\n\n\u201cThen for one night the magic charm is suspended. Come hither, child,\nand fear not. I am a Christian like thyself, though bound here by\nenchantment. Touch my fetters with the talisman that hangs about thy\nneck, and for this night I shall be free.\u201d\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. \u201cNow,\u201d said the lady, \u201ctouch his staff with\nthe talismanic hand of jet.\u201d The child did so, and it fell from his\ngrasp, and he sank in a deep sleep on the ottoman. The lady gently laid\nthe silver lyre on the ottoman, leaning it against the head of the\nsleeping magician; then touching the chords until they vibrated in his\near,--\u201cO potent spirit of harmony,\u201d said she, \u201ccontinue thus to hold his\nsenses in thraldom till the return of day. Now follow me, my child,\u201d\ncontinued she, \u201cand thou shalt behold the Alhambra as it was in the days\nof its glory, for thou hast a magic talisman that reveals all\nenchantments.\u201d Sanchica followed the lady in silence. They passed up\nthrough the entrance of the cavern into the barbican of the Gate of\nJustice, and thence to the Plaza de los Algibes, or esplanade within the\nfortress.\n\nThis was all filled with Moorish soldiery, horse and foot, marshalled in\nsquadrons, with banners displayed. There were royal guards also at the\nportal, and rows of African blacks with drawn cimeters. No one spoke a\nword, and Sanchica passed on fearlessly after her conductor. Her\nastonishment increased on entering the royal palace, in which she had\nbeen reared. The broad moonshine lit up all the halls and courts and\ngardens almost as brightly as if it were day, but revealed a far\ndifferent scene from that to which she was accustomed. The walls of the\napartments were no longer stained and rent by time. Instead of cobwebs,\nthey were now hung with rich silks of Damascus, and the gildings and\narabesque paintings were restored to their original brilliancy and\nfreshness. The halls, no longer naked and unfurnished, were set out with\ndivans and ottomans of the rarest stuffs, embroidered with pearls and\nstudded with precious gems, and all the fountains in the courts and\ngardens 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\nup with dainties, and arranging a delicious banquet. The Court of Lions\nwas thronged with guards, and courtiers, and alfaquis, as in the old\ntimes of the Moors; and at the upper end, in the saloon of judgment, sat\nBoabdil on his throne, surrounded by his court, and swaying a shadowy\nsceptre for the night. Notwithstanding all this throng and seeming\nbustle, not a voice nor a footstep was to be heard; nothing interrupted\nthe midnight silence but the splashing of the fountains. The little\nSanchica followed her conductress in mute amazement about the palace,\nuntil they came to a portal opening to the vaulted passages beneath the\ngreat Tower of Comares. On each side of the portal sat the figure of a\nnymph, wrought out of alabaster. Their heads were turned aside, and\ntheir regards fixed upon the same spot within the vault. The enchanted\nlady paused, and beckoned the child to her. \u201cHere,\u201d said she, \u201cis a\ngreat secret, which I will reveal to thee in reward for thy faith and\ncourage. These discreet statues watch over a treasure hidden in old\ntimes by a Moorish king. Tell thy father to search the spot on which\ntheir eyes are fixed, and he will find what will make him richer than\nany man in Granada. Thy innocent hands alone, however, gifted as thou\nart also with the talisman, can remove the treasure. Bid thy father use\nit discreetly, and devote a part of it to the performance of daily\nmasses for my deliverance from this unholy enchantment.\u201d\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.\nThe moon trembled upon the waters of the solitary fountain in the centre\nof the garden, and shed a tender light upon the orange and citron trees.\nThe beautiful lady plucked a branch of myrtle and wreathed it round the\nhead of the child. \u201cLet this be a memento,\u201d said she, \u201cof what I have\nrevealed to thee, and a testimonial of its truth. My hour is come; I\nmust return to the enchanted hall; follow me not, lest evil befall\nthee;--farewell. Remember what I have said, and have masses performed\nfor my deliverance.\u201d So saying, the lady entered a dark passage leading\nbeneath the Tower of Comares, 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\nsplendor, stained and dilapidated by time, and hung with cobwebs. The\nbat flitted about in the uncertain light, and the frog croaked from the\nfishpond.\n\nSanchica now made the best of her way to a remote staircase that led up\nto the humble apartment occupied by her family. The door as usual was\nopen, for Lope Sanchez was too poor to need bolt or bar; she crept\nquietly to her pallet, and, putting the myrtle wreath beneath her\npillow, soon fell asleep.\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 labors in the\ngarden, but had not been there long when his little daughter came\nrunning to him almost breathless. \u201cFather! father!\u201d cried she, \u201cbehold\nthe myrtle wreath which the Moorish lady bound round my head.\u201d\n\nLope Sanchez gazed with astonishment, for the stalk of the myrtle was of\npure gold, and every leaf was a sparkling emerald! Being not much\naccustomed to precious stones, he was ignorant of the real value of the\nwreath, 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 to\nenjoin 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\nmost discreet contrivance for guarding a secret. He drew a line from the\neyes of the statues to the point of regard, made a private mark on the\nwall, and then retired.\n\nAll day, however, the mind of Lope Sanchez was distracted with a\nthousand cares. He could not help hovering within distant view of the\ntwo statues, and became nervous from the dread that the golden secret\nmight be discovered. Every footstep that approached the place made him\ntremble. He would have given anything could he but have turned the heads\nof the statues, forgetting that they had looked precisely in the same\ndirection for some hundreds of years, without any person being the\nwiser.\n\n\u201cA plague upon them,\u201d he would say to himself, \u201cthey\u2019ll betray all; did\never mortal hear of such a mode of guarding a secret?\u201d 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. \u201cAy, there they stand,\u201d\nwould he say, \u201calways looking, and looking, and looking, just where they\nshould not. Confound them! they are just like all their sex; if they\nhave not tongues to tattle with they\u2019ll be sure to do it with their\neyes.\u201d\n\nAt length, to his relief, the long anxious day drew to a close. The\nsound of footsteps was no longer heard in the echoing halls of the\nAlhambra; the last stranger passed the threshold, the great portal was\nbarred and bolted, and the bat and the frog and the hooting owl\ngradually resumed their nightly vocations in the deserted palace.\n\nLope Sanchez waited, however, until the night was far advanced before he\nventured 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. \u201cBy your leaves, gentle ladies,\u201d thought Lope Sanchez,\nas he passed between them, \u201cI will relieve you from this charge that\nmust have set so heavy in your minds for the last two or three\ncenturies.\u201d He accordingly went to work at the part of the wall which he\nhad marked, and in a little while laid open a concealed recess, in which\nstood two great jars of porcelain. He attempted to draw them forth, but\nthey were immovable, until touched by the innocent hand of his little\ndaughter. With her aid he dislodged them from their niche, and found, to\nhis great joy, that they were filled with pieces of Moorish gold,\nmingled with jewels and precious stones. Before daylight he managed to\nconvey them to his chamber, and left the two guardian statues with their\neyes still fixed on the vacant wall.\n\nLope Sanchez had thus on a sudden become a rich man; but riches, as\nusual, brought a world of cares to which he had hitherto been a\nstranger. How was he to convey away his wealth with safety? How was he\neven to enter upon the enjoyment of it without awakening suspicion? Now,\ntoo, for the first time in his life the dread of robbers entered into\nhis mind. He looked with terror at the insecurity of his habitation, and\nwent to work to barricade the doors and windows; yet after all his\nprecautions he could not sleep soundly. His usual gayety was at an end,\nhe had no longer a joke or a song for his neighbors, and, in short,\nbecame the most miserable animal in the Alhambra. His old comrades\nremarked this alteration, pitied him heartily, and began to desert him;\nthinking he must be falling into want, and in danger of looking to them\nfor assistance. Little did they suspect that his only calamity was\nriches.\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, a\nsturdy, broad-shouldered, blue-bearded, bullet-headed friar of the\nneighboring convent of San Francisco, who was in fact the spiritual\ncomforter of half the good wives of the neighborhood. He was moreover in\ngreat esteem among divers sisterhoods of nuns; who requited him for his\nghostly 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 a\nsultry day. Yet notwithstanding his sleek condition, the knotted rope\nround his waist showed the austerity of his self-discipline; the\nmultitude doffed their caps to him as a mirror of piety, and even the\ndogs scented the odor of sanctity that exhaled from his garments, and\nhowled from their 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\nat the news. After a moment\u2019s pause, \u201cDaughter of my soul!\u201d said he,\n\u201cknow that thy husband has committed a double sin--a sin against both\nstate and church! The treasure he hath thus seized upon for himself,\nbeing found in the royal domains, belongs of course to the crown; but\nbeing infidel wealth, rescued as it were from the very fangs of Satan,\nshould be devoted to the church. Still, however, the matter may be\naccommodated. Bring hither thy myrtle wreath.\u201d\n\nWhen the good father beheld it, his eyes twinkled more than ever with\nadmiration of the size and beauty of the emeralds. \u201cThis,\u201d said he,\n\u201cbeing the first-fruits of this discovery, should be dedicated to pious\npurposes. I will hang it up as a votive offering before the image of San\nFrancisco in our chapel, and will earnestly pray to him, this very\nnight, that your husband be permitted to remain in quiet possession of\nyour wealth.\u201d\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 toward his convent.\n\nWhen Lope Sanchez came home, his wife told him what had passed. He was\nexcessively provoked, for he lacked his wife\u2019s devotion, and had for\nsome time groaned in secret at the domestic visitations of the friar.\n\u201cWoman,\u201d said he, \u201cwhat hast thou done? thou hast put everything at\nhazard by thy tattling.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat!\u201d cried the good woman, \u201cwould you forbid my disburdening my\nconscience to my confessor?\u201d\n\n\u201cNo, wife! confess as many of your own sins as you please; but as to\nthis money-digging, it is a sin of my own, and my conscience is very\neasy under the weight of it.\u201d\n\nThere was no use, however, in complaining; the secret was told, and,\nlike water spilled on the sand, was not again to be gathered. Their only\nchance was, that the friar would be discreet.\n\nThe next day, while Lope Sanchez was abroad, there was an humble\nknocking at the door, and Fray Simon entered with meek and demure\ncountenance.\n\n\u201cDaughter,\u201d said he, \u201cI have earnestly prayed to San Francisco, and he\nhas heard my prayer. In the dead of the night the saint appeared to me\nin a dream, but with a frowning aspect. \u2018Why,\u2019 said he, \u2018dost thou pray\nto me to dispense with this treasure of the Gentiles, when thou seest\nthe poverty of my chapel? Go to the house of Lope Sanchez, crave in my\nname a portion of the Moorish gold, to furnish two candlesticks for the\nmain altar, and let him possess the residue in peace.\u2019\u201d\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\nfilled a great leathern purse with pieces of Moorish gold, and gave it\nto the friar. The pious monk bestowed upon her, in return, benedictions\nenough, if paid by Heaven, to enrich her race to the latest posterity;\nthen slipping the purse into the sleeve of his habit, he folded his\nhands upon his breast, and departed with an air of humble thankfulness.\n\nWhen Lope Sanchez heard of this second donation to the church, he had\nwellnigh lost his senses. \u201cUnfortunate man,\u201d cried he, \u201cwhat will become\nof me? I shall be robbed by piecemeal; I shall be ruined and brought to\nbeggary.\u201d\n\nIt was with the utmost difficulty that his wife could pacify him, by\nreminding 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 for,\nnot to mention some half-dozen sturdy bullet-headed orphan children and\ndestitute foundlings that he had taken under his care. He repeated his\nvisits, 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\nfriar, he should have to make peace-offerings to every saint in the\ncalendar. He determined, therefore, to pack up his remaining wealth,\nbeat a secret retreat in the night, and make off to another part of the\nkingdom.\n\nFull of his project, he bought a stout mule for the purpose, and\ntethered it in a gloomy vault underneath the tower of the seven floors;\nthe very place whence the Belludo, or goblin horse, is said to issue\nforth at midnight, and scour the streets of Granada, pursued by a pack\nof hell-hounds. Lope Sanchez had little faith in the story, but availed\nhimself of the dread occasioned by it, knowing that no one would be\nlikely to pry into the subterranean stable of the phantom steed. He sent\noff his family in the course of the day, with orders to wait for him at\na distant village of the Vega. As the night advanced, he conveyed his\ntreasure to the vault under the tower, and having loaded his mule, he\nled it forth, and 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 the\nthickets of roses and laurels that border the great avenue. Here he\nremained, counting the quarters of hours as they were sounded on the\nbell of the watchtower, and listening to the dreary hootings of owls,\nand the distant 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 a\nmouse, he waited until his prey was directly before him, when darting\nforth from his leafy covert, and putting one hand on the shoulder and\nthe other on the crupper, he made a vault that would not have disgraced\nthe most experienced master of equitation, and alighted well-forked\nastride the steed. \u201cAh ha!\u201d said the sturdy friar, \u201cwe shall now see who\nbest understands the game.\u201d He had scarce uttered the words when the\nmule began to kick, and rear, and plunge, and then set off full speed\ndown the hill. The friar attempted to check him, but in vain. He bounded\nfrom rock to rock, and bush to bush; the friar\u2019s habit was torn to\nribbons and fluttered in the wind, his shaven poll received many a hard\nknock from the branches of the trees, and many a scratch from the\nbrambles. To add to his terror and distress, he found a pack of seven\nhounds in full cry at his heels, and perceived, too late, that he was\nactually mounted upon the terrible Belludo!\n\nAway then they went, according to the ancient phrase, \u201cpull devil, pull\nfriar,\u201d down the great avenue, across the Plaza Nueva, along the\nZacatin, around the Vivarrambla--never did huntsman and hound make a\nmore furious run, or more infernal uproar. In vain did the friar invoke\nevery saint in the calendar, and the holy Virgin into the bargain; every\ntime he mentioned a name of the kind it was like a fresh application of\nthe spur, and made the Belludo bound as high as a house. Through the\nremainder of the night was the unlucky Fray Simon carried hither and\nthither, and whither he would not, until every bone in his body ached,\nand he suffered a loss of leather too grievous to be mentioned. At\nlength the crowing of a cock gave the signal of returning day. At the\nsound the goblin steed wheeled about, and galloped back for his tower.\nAgain he scoured the Vivarrambla, the Zacatin, the Plaza Nueva, and the\navenue of fountains, the seven dogs yelling, and barking, and leaping\nup, and snapping at the heels of the terrified friar. The first streak\nof day had just appeared as they reached the tower; here the goblin\nsteed kicked up his heels, sent the friar a summerset through the air,\nplunged into the dark vault followed by the infernal pack, and a\nprofound silence succeeded to the late deafening clamor.\n\nWas ever so diabolical a trick played off upon a holy friar? A peasant\ngoing to his labors 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\nof his limbs; he consoled himself, in the mean time, with the thoughts\nthat though the mule with the treasure had escaped him, he had\npreviously had some rare pickings at the infidel spoils. His first care\non being able to use his limbs, was to search beneath his pallet, where\nhe had secreted the myrtle wreath and the leathern pouches of gold\nextracted from the piety of Dame Sanchez. What was his dismay at finding\nthe wreath, in effect, but a withered branch of myrtle, and the leathern\npouches filled with sand and gravel!\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,\nand the punishment of his superior. It was not until many years\nafterwards, on his death-bed, that he revealed to his confessor his\nnocturnal ride on the Belludo.\n\nNothing was heard of Lope Sanchez for a long time after his\ndisappearance from the Alhambra. His memory was always cherished as that\nof a merry companion, though it was feared, from the care and melancholy\nobserved in his conduct shortly before his mysterious departure, that\npoverty and distress had driven him to some extremity. Some years\nafterwards one of his old companions, an invalid soldier, being at\nMalaga, was knocked down and nearly run over by a coach and six. The\ncarriage stopped; an old gentleman, magnificently dressed, with a\nbag-wig and sword, stepped out to assist the poor invalid. What was the\nastonishment of the latter to behold in this grand cavalier his old\nfriend Lope Sanchez, who was actually celebrating the marriage of his\ndaughter Sanchica with one of the 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,\nand necklaces of pearls, and necklaces of diamonds, and rings on every\nfinger, altogether a finery of apparel that had not been seen since the\ndays of Queen Sheba. The little Sanchica had now grown to be a woman,\nand for grace and beauty might have been mistaken for a duchess, if not\na princess outright. The bridegroom sat beside her--rather a withered\nspindle-shanked little man, but this only proved him to be of the\ntrue-blue blood; a legitimate Spanish grandee being rarely above three\ncubits in stature. The match had been of the mother\u2019s 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\nthere well worthy the attention of the enterprising traveller. Though\nothers, and particularly all female visitors, regard them with great\ncomplacency as lasting monuments of the fact that women can keep a\nsecret.\n\n\n\n\nTHE CRUSADE OF THE GRAND MASTER OF ALC\u00c1NTARA\n\n\nIn the course of a morning\u2019s 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\ncity, that I was tempted to draw it forth from the parchment-bound\nvolume in which 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\nsuch inglorious tranquillity.\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\nancient chronicles, though others give the following as the motive for\nthis sudden resolution to go campaigning.\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,\nwith haggard countenance and fiery eye. All recognized him for a hermit,\nwho had been a soldier in his youth, but now led a life of penitence in\na cave. He advanced to the table and struck upon it with a fist that\nseemed of iron. \u201cCavaliers,\u201d said he, \u201cwhy sit ye here idly, with your\nweapons resting against the wall, while the enemies of the faith lord it\nover the fairest portion of the land?\u201d\n\n\u201cHoly father, what wouldst thou have us do,\u201d asked the grand master,\n\u201cseeing the wars are over and our swords bound up by treaties of peace?\u201d\n\n\u201cListen to my words,\u201d replied the hermit. \u201cAs 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,\na mere crescent, yet luminous as the brightest silver, and it hung in\nthe heavens over the kingdom of Granada. While I was looking at it,\nbehold there shot forth from the firmament a blazing star, which, as it\nwent, drew after it all the stars of heaven; and they assailed the moon\nand drove it from the skies; and the whole firmament was filled with the\nglory of that blazing star. While mine eyes were yet dazzled by this\nwondrous sight, some one stood by me with snowy wings and a shining\ncountenance. \u2018Oh man of prayer,\u2019 said he, \u2018get thee to the grand master\nof Alc\u00e1ntara and tell him of the vision thou hast beheld. He is the\nblazing star, destined to drive the crescent, the Moslem emblem, from\nthe land. Let him boldly draw the sword and continue the good work begun\nby Pelazo of old, and victory will assuredly attend his banner.\u2019\u201d\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 dispatched two\nof his stoutest warriors, armed _cap-\u00e0-pie_, on an embassy to the\nMoorish king. They entered the gates of Granada without molestation, as\nthe 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\nof Ambassadors. They delivered their message roundly and hardly. \u201cWe\ncome, O King, from Don Martin Ta\u00f1ez de Barbudo, grand master of\nAlc\u00e1ntara; who affirms the faith of Jesus Christ to be true and holy,\nand that of Mahomet false and detestable, and he challenges thee to\nmaintain the contrary, hand to hand, in single combat. Shouldst thou\nrefuse, he offers to combat with one hundred cavaliers against two\nhundred; or, in like proportion, to the number of one thousand, always\nallowing thy faith a double number of champions. Remember, O King, that\nthou canst not refuse this challenge; since thy prophet, knowing the\nimpossibility of maintaining his doctrines by argument, has commanded\nhis followers to enforce them with the sword.\u201d\n\nThe beard of King Yusef trembled with indignation. \u201cThe master of\nAlc\u00e1ntara,\u201d said he, \u201cis a madman to send such a message, and ye are\nsaucy knaves to bring it.\u201d\n\nSo saying, he ordered the ambassadors to be thrown into a dungeon, by\nway of giving them a lesson in diplomacy; and they were roughly treated\non their way thither by the populace, who were exasperated at this\ninsult to their 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. \u201cGod,\u201d said he, \u201chas blinded this infidel king for his\ndownfall. 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\nthy favor. There will be a great battle; the enemy will be overthrown;\nbut not one of thy soldiers will be slain.\u201d\n\nThe grand master called upon every warrior zealous in the Christian\ncause to aid him in this crusade. In a little while three hundred\nhorsemen and a thousand foot-soldiers rallied under his standard. The\nhorsemen were veterans, seasoned to battle and well-armed; but the\ninfantry were raw and undisciplined. The victory, however, was to be\nmiraculous; the grand master was a man of surpassing faith, and knew\nthat the weaker the means the greater the miracle. He sallied forth\nconfidently, therefore, with his little army, and the hermit strode\nahead, bearing a cross on the end of a long pole, and beneath it the\npennon of the order of Alc\u00e1ntara.\n\nAs they approached the city of Cordova they were overtaken by\nmessengers, spurring in all haste, bearing missives from the Castilian\nmonarch, forbidding the enterprise. The grand master was a man of a\nsingle mind and a single will; in other words, a man of one idea. \u201cWere\nI on any other errand,\u201d said he, \u201cI should obey these letters as coming\nfrom my lord the king; but I am sent by a higher power than the king. In\ncompliance with its commands I have advanced the cross thus far against\nthe infidels; and it would be treason to the standard of Christ to turn\nback without achieving my errand.\u201d\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\nof Cordova the people were amazed at beholding a hermit bearing a cross\nat the head of a warlike multitude; but when they learnt that a\nmiraculous victory was to be effected and Granada destroyed, laborers\nand artisans threw by the implements of their handicrafts and joined in\nthe crusade; while a mercenary rabble followed on with a view of\nplunder.\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\nendeavored 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 clamors; the cross was again reared and borne triumphantly across\nthe bridge.\n\nThe multitude increased as it proceeded; by the time the grand master\nhad reached Alcala la Real, which stands on a mountain overlooking the\nVega of Granada, upwards of five thousand men on foot had joined his\nstandard.\n\nAt Alcala came forth Alonzo Fernandez de Cordova, Lord of Aguilar, his\nbrother Diego Fernandez, Marshal of Castile, and other cavaliers of\nvalor and experience. Placing themselves in the way of the grand master,\n\u201cWhat madness is this, Don Martin?\u201d said they; \u201cthe Moorish king has two\nhundred thousand foot-soldiers and five thousand horse within his walls;\nwhat can you and your handful of cavaliers and your noisy rabble do\nagainst such force? Bethink you of the disasters which have befallen\nother Christian commanders, who have crossed these rocky borders with\nten times your force. Think, too, of the mischief that will be brought\nupon this kingdom by an outrage of the kind committed by a man of your\nrank and importance, a grand master of Alc\u00e1ntara. Pause, we entreat you,\nwhile the truce is yet unbroken. Await within the borders the reply of\nthe king of Granada to your challenge. If he agree to meet you singly,\nor with champions two or three, it will be your individual contest, and\nfight it out in God\u2019s name; if he refuse, you may return home with great\nhonor and the disgrace will fall upon the Moors.\u201d\n\nSeveral cavaliers, who had hitherto followed the grand master with\ndevoted zeal, were moved by these expostulations, and suggested to him\nthe policy of listening to this advice.\n\n\u201cCavaliers,\u201d said he, addressing himself to Alonzo Fernandez de Cordova\nand his companions, \u201cI thank you for the counsel you have so kindly\nbestowed upon me, and if I were merely in pursuit of individual glory I\nmight 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\nyou, cavaliers,\u201d turning to those of his followers who had wavered, \u201cif\nyour hearts fail you, or you repent of having put your hands to this\ngood work, return, in God\u2019s name, and my blessing go with you. For\nmyself, though I have none to stand by me but this holy hermit, yet will\nI assuredly proceed; until I have planted this sacred standard on the\nwalls of Granada, or perished in the attempt.\u201d\n\n\u201cDon Martin Ya\u00f1ez de Barbudo,\u201d replied the cavaliers, \u201cwe 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\nassured to the death we will follow thee.\u201d\n\nBy this time the common soldiers became impatient. \u201cForward! forward!\u201d\nshouted they. \u201cForward in the cause of faith.\u201d 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\natalaya 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\nel 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\u201cHow is this, father?\u201d said he to the hermit; \u201cyou assured me that not\none of my followers would be slain!\u201d\n\n\u201cTrue, 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?\u201d\n\nThe grand master was satisfied. He ordered wood to be piled against the\ndoor of the tower to burn it down. In the mean time 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\u2019s work before them. While thus engaged, they were startled\nby the sudden appearance of a great Moorish host. The atalayas had given\nthe alarm by fire and smoke from the mountain-tops of \u201can enemy across\nthe border,\u201d and the king of Granada had sallied forth with a great\nforce to the 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,\ncharged so suddenly that they separated the cavaliers from the\nfoot-soldiers and prevented their uniting. The grand master gave the old\nwar-cry, \u201cSantiago! Santiago! and close Spain!\u201d He and his knights\nbreasted the fury of the battle, but were surrounded by a countless host\nand assailed with arrows, stones, darts, and arquebuses. Still they\nfought fearlessly, and made prodigious slaughter. The hermit mingled in\nthe hottest of the fight. In one hand he bore the cross, in the other\nhe brandished a sword, with which he dealt about him like a maniac,\nslaying several of the enemy, until he sank to the ground covered with\nwounds. The grand master saw him fall, and saw too late the fallacy of\nhis prophecies. Despair, however, only made him fight the more fiercely,\nuntil he also fell overpowered by numbers. His devoted cavaliers\nemulated his holy zeal. Not one turned his back nor asked for mercy; all\nfought until they fell. As to the foot-soldiers, many were killed, many\ntaken prisoners; the residue escaped to Alcala la Real. When the Moors\ncame to strip the slain, the wounds of the cavaliers were all found to\nbe in front.\n\nSuch was the catastrophe of this fanatic enterprise. The Moors vaunted\nit as a decisive proof of the superior sanctity of their faith, and\nextolled their 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\nCastile, the peace of the two kingdoms was not interrupted. Nay, the\nMoors evinced a feeling of respect for the valor of the unfortunate\ngrand master, and readily gave up his body to Don Alonzo Fernandez de\nCordova, who came from Alcala to seek it. The Christians of the frontier\nunited in paying the last sad honors to his memory. His body was placed\nupon a bier, covered with the pennon of the order of Alc\u00e1ntara; and the\nbroken cross, the emblem of his confident hopes and fatal\ndisappointment, was borne before it. In this way his remains were\ncarried back in funeral procession, through the mountain tract which he\nhad traversed so resolutely. Wherever it passed, through a town or\nvillage, the populace followed, with tears and lamentations, bewailing\nhim as a valiant knight and a martyr to the faith. His body was interred\nin the chapel of the convent of Santa Maria de Almocovara, and on his\nsepulchre may still be seen engraven in quaint and antique Spanish the\nfollowing testimonial to his bravery:--\n\n\n     HERE LIES ONE WHOSE HEART NEVER KNEW FEAR.\n\n     (Aqui yaz aquel que par neua cosa nunca eve pavor en seu\n     corazon.)[19]\n\n\n\n\nSPANISH ROMANCE\n\n\nIn the latter part of my sojourn in the Alhambra, I made frequent\ndescents into the Jesuit\u2019s Library of the University; and relished more\nand more the old Spanish chronicles, which I found there bound in\nparchment. I delight in those quaint histories which treat of the times\nwhen the Moslems maintained a foothold in the Peninsula. With all their\nbigotry and occasional intolerance, they are full of noble acts and\ngenerous sentiments, and have a high, spicy, Oriental flavor, not to be\nfound in other records of the times, which were merely European. In\nfact, Spain, even at the present day, is a country apart; severed in\nhistory, habits, manners, and modes of thinking, from all the rest of\nEurope. It is a romantic country; but its romance has none of the\nsentimentality of modern European romance; it is chiefly derived from\nthe brilliant regions of the East, and from the high-minded school of\nSaracenic chivalry.\n\nThe Arab invasion and conquest brought a higher civilization, and a\nnobler style of thinking, into Gothic Spain. The Arabs were a\nquick-witted, sagacious, proud-spirited, and poetical people, and were\nimbued with Oriental science and literature. Wherever they established a\nseat of power, it became a rallying-place for the learned and\ningenious; and they softened and refined the people whom they conquered.\nBy degrees, occupancy seemed to give them an hereditary right to their\nfoothold in the land; they ceased to be looked upon as invaders, and\nwere regarded as rival neighbors. The Peninsula, broken up into a\nvariety of states, both Christian and Moslem, became, for centuries, a\ngreat campaigning-ground, where the art of war seemed to be the\nprincipal business of man, and was carried to the highest pitch of\nromantic chivalry. The original ground of hostility, a difference of\nfaith, gradually lost its rancor. Neighboring states, of opposite\ncreeds, were occasionally linked together in alliances, offensive and\ndefensive; so that the cross and crescent were to be seen side by side,\nfighting against some common enemy. In times of peace, too, the noble\nyouth of either faith resorted to the same cities, Christian or Moslem,\nto school themselves in military science. Even in the temporary truces\nof sanguinary wars, the warriors who had recently striven together in\nthe deadly conflicts of the field, laid aside their animosity, met at\ntournaments, jousts, and other military festivities, and exchanged the\ncourtesies of gentle and generous spirits. Thus the opposite races\nbecame frequently mingled together in peaceful intercourse, or if any\nrivalry took place, it was in those high courtesies and nobler acts,\nwhich bespeak the accomplished cavalier. Warriors, of opposite creeds,\nbecame ambitious of transcending each other in magnanimity as well as\nvalor. Indeed, the chivalric virtues were refined upon to a degree\nsometimes fastidious and constrained, but at other times inexpressibly\nnoble and affecting. The annals of the times teem with illustrious\ninstances of high-wrought courtesy, romantic generosity, lofty\ndisinterestedness, and punctilious honor, that warm the very soul to\nread them. These have furnished themes for national plays and poems, or\nhave been celebrated in those all-pervading ballads, which are as the\nlife-breath of the people, and thus have continued to exercise an\ninfluence on the national character, which centuries of vicissitude and\ndecline have not been able to destroy; so that, with all their faults,\nand they are many, the Spaniards, even at the present day, are, on many\npoints, the most high-minded and proud-spirited people of Europe. It is\ntrue, the romance of feeling derived from the sources I have mentioned,\nhas, like all other romance, its affectations and extremes. It renders\nthe Spaniard at times pompous and grandiloquent; prone to carry the\n\u201cpundonor,\u201d or point of honor, beyond the bounds of sober sense and\nsound morality; disposed, in the midst of poverty, to affect the \u201cgrande\ncaballero,\u201d and to look down with sovereign disdain upon \u201carts\nmechanical,\u201d and all the gainful pursuits of plebeian life; but this\nvery inflation of spirit, while it fills his brain with vapors, lifts\nhim above a thousand meannesses; and though it often keeps him in\nindigence, ever protects him from vulgarity.\n\nIn the present day, when popular literature is running into the low\nlevels of life, and luxuriating on the vices and follies of mankind; and\nwhen the universal pursuit of gain is trampling down the early growth of\npoetic feeling, and wearing out the verdure of the soul, I question\nwhether it would not be of service for the reader occasionally to turn\nto these records of prouder times and loftier modes of thinking; and to\nsteep himself to the very lips in old Spanish romance.\n\nWith these preliminary suggestions, the fruit of a morning\u2019s reading and\nrumination in the old Jesuit\u2019s Library of the University, I will give\nhim a legend in point, drawn forth from one of the venerable chronicles\nalluded to.\n\n\n\n\nLEGEND OF DON MUNIO SANCHO DE HINOJOSA\n\n\nIn the cloisters of the ancient Benedictine convent of San Domingo, at\nSilos, in Castile, are the mouldering yet magnificent monuments of the\nonce powerful and chivalrous family of Hinojosa. Among these reclines\nthe marble figure of a knight, in complete armor, with the hands pressed\ntogether, as if in prayer. On one side of his tomb is sculptured in\nrelief a band of Christian cavaliers, capturing a cavalcade of male and\nfemale Moors; on the other side, the same cavaliers are represented\nkneeling before an altar. The tomb, like most of the neighboring\nmonuments, is almost in ruins, and the sculpture is nearly\nunintelligible, excepting to the keen eye of the antiquary. The story\nconnected with the sepulchre, however, is still preserved in the old\nSpanish chronicles, and is to the following purport.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nIn old times, several hundred years ago, there was a noble Castilian\ncavalier, named Don Munio Sancho de Hinojosa, lord of a border castle,\nwhich had stood the brunt of many a Moorish foray. He had seventy\nhorsemen as his household troops, all of the ancient Castilian proof;\nstark warriors, hard riders, and men of iron; with these he scoured the\nMoorish lands, and made his name terrible throughout the borders. His\ncastle-hall was covered with banners, cimeters, and Moslem helms, the\ntrophies of his prowess. Don Munio was, moreover, a keen huntsman; and\nrejoiced in hounds of all kinds, steeds for the chase, and hawks for the\ntowering sport of falconry. When not engaged in warfare his delight was\nto beat up the neighboring forests; and scarcely ever did he ride forth\nwithout hound and horn, a boar-spear in his hand, or a hawk upon his\nfist, and an attendant train of huntsmen.\n\nHis wife, Do\u00f1a Maria Palacin, was of a gentle and timid nature, little\nfitted to be the spouse of so hardy and adventurous a knight; and many a\ntear did the poor lady shed, when he sallied forth upon his daring\nenterprises, and many a prayer did she offer up for his safety.\n\nAs this doughty cavalier was one day hunting, he stationed himself in a\nthicket, on the borders of a green glade of the forest, and dispersed\nhis followers to rouse the game, and drive it toward his stand. He had\nnot been here long, when a cavalcade of Moors, of both sexes, came\nprankling over the forest-lawn. They were unarmed, and magnificently\ndressed in robes of tissue and embroidery, rich shawls of India,\nbracelets and anklets of gold, and jewels that sparkled in the sun.\n\nAt the head of this gay cavalcade rode a youthful cavalier, superior to\nthe rest in dignity and loftiness of demeanor, and in splendor of\nattire: beside him was a damsel, whose veil, blown aside by the breeze,\ndisplayed a face of surpassing beauty, and eyes cast down in maiden\nmodesty, yet beaming with tenderness and joy.\n\nDon Munio thanked his stars for sending him such a prize, and exulted at\nthe thought of bearing home to his wife the glittering spoils of these\ninfidels. Putting his hunting-horn to his lips, he gave a blast that\nrung through the forest. His huntsmen came running from all quarters,\nand the astonished Moors were surrounded and made captives.\n\nThe beautiful Moor wrung her hands in despair, and her female attendants\nuttered the most piercing cries. The young Moorish cavalier alone\nretained self-possession. He inquired the name of the Christian knight\nwho commanded this troop of horsemen. When told that it was Don Munio\nSancho de Hinojosa, his countenance lighted up. Approaching that\ncavalier, and kissing his hand, \u201cDon Munio Sancho,\u201d said he, \u201cI have\nheard of your fame as a true and valiant knight, terrible in arms, but\nschooled in the noble virtues of chivalry. Such do I trust to find you.\nIn me you behold Abadil, son of a Moorish alcayde. I am on the way to\ncelebrate my nuptials with this lady; chance has thrown us in your\npower, but I confide in your magnanimity. Take all our treasure and\njewels; demand what ransom you think proper for our persons, but suffer\nus not to be insulted nor dishonored.\u201d\n\nWhen the good knight heard this appeal, and beheld the beauty of the\nyouthful pair, his heart was touched with tenderness and courtesy. \u201cGod\nforbid,\u201d said he, \u201cthat I should disturb such happy nuptials. My\nprisoners in troth shall ye be for fifteen days, and immured within my\ncastle, where I claim, as conqueror, the right of celebrating your\nespousals.\u201d\n\nSo saying, he dispatched one of his fleetest horsemen in advance, to\nnotify Do\u00f1a Maria Palacin of the coming of this bridal party; while he\nand his huntsmen escorted the cavalcade, not as captors, but as a guard\nof honor. As they drew near to the castle, the banners were hung out,\nand the trumpets sounded from the battlements; and on their nearer\napproach, the drawbridge was lowered, and Do\u00f1a Maria came forth to meet\nthem, attended by her ladies and knights, her pages and her minstrels.\nShe took the young bride, Allifra, in her arms, kissed her with the\ntenderness of a sister, and conducted her into the castle. In the mean\ntime, Don Munio sent forth missives in every direction, and had viands\nand dainties of all kinds collected from the country round; and the\nwedding of the Moorish lovers was celebrated with all possible state and\nfestivity. For fifteen days the castle was given up to joy and revelry.\nThere were tiltings and jousts at the ring, and bull-fights, and\nbanquets, and dances to the sound of minstrelsy. When the fifteen days\nwere at an end, he made the bride and bridegroom magnificent presents,\nand conducted them and their attendants safely beyond the borders. Such,\nin old times, were the courtesy and generosity of a Spanish cavalier.\n\nSeveral years after this event, the king of Castile summoned his nobles\nto assist him in a campaign against the Moors. Don Munio Sancho was\namong the first to answer to the call, with seventy horsemen, all stanch\nand well-tried warriors. His wife, Do\u00f1a Maria, hung about his neck.\n\u201cAlas, my lord!\u201d exclaimed she, \u201chow often wilt thou tempt thy fate, and\nwhen will thy thirst for glory be appeased!\u201d\n\n\u201cOne battle more,\u201d replied Don Munio, \u201cone battle more, for the honor of\nCastile, and I here make a vow, that when this is over, I will lay by my\nsword, and repair with my cavaliers in pilgrimage to the sepulchre of\nour Lord at Jerusalem.\u201d The cavaliers all joined with him in the vow,\nand Do\u00f1a Maria felt in some degree soothed in spirit; still, she saw\nwith a heavy heart the departure of her husband, and watched his banner\nwith wistful eyes, until it disappeared among the trees of the forest.\n\nThe king of Castile led his army to the plains of Salmanara, where they\nencountered the Moorish host, near to Ucles. The battle was long and\nbloody; the Christians repeatedly wavered and were as often rallied by\nthe energy of their commanders. Don Munio was covered with wounds, but\nrefused to leave the field. The Christians at length gave way, and the\nking was hardly pressed, and in danger of being captured.\n\nDon Munio called upon his cavaliers to follow him to the rescue. \u201cNow is\nthe time,\u201d cried he, \u201cto prove your loyalty. Fall to, like brave men! We\nfight for the true faith, and if we lose our lives here, we gain a\nbetter life hereafter.\u201d\n\nRushing with his men between the king and his pursuers, they checked the\nlatter in their career, and gave time for their monarch to escape; but\nthey fell victims to their loyalty. They all fought to the last gasp.\nDon Munio was singled out by a powerful Moorish knight, but having been\nwounded in the right arm, he fought to disadvantage, and was slain. The\nbattle being over, the Moor paused to possess himself of the spoils of\nthis redoubtable Christian warrior. When he unlaced the helmet, however,\nand beheld the countenance of Don Munio, he gave a great cry and smote\nhis breast. \u201cWoe is me!\u201d cried he, \u201cI have slain my benefactor! The\nflower of knightly virtue! the most magnanimous of cavaliers!\u201d\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nWhile the battle had been raging on the plain of Salmanara, Do\u00f1a Maria\nPalacin remained in her castle, a prey to the keenest anxiety. Her eyes\nwere ever fixed on the road that led from the country of the Moors, and\noften she asked the watchman of the tower, \u201cWhat seest thou?\u201d\n\nOne evening, at the shadowy hour of twilight, the warden sounded his\nhorn. \u201cI see,\u201d cried he, \u201ca numerous train winding up the valley. There\nare mingled Moors and Christians. The banner of my lord is in the\nadvance. Joyful tidings!\u201d exclaimed the old seneschal; \u201cmy lord returns\nin triumph, and brings captives!\u201d Then the castle courts rang with\nshouts of joy; and the standard was displayed, and the trumpets were\nsounded, and the drawbridge was lowered, and Do\u00f1a Maria went forth with\nher ladies, and her knights, and her pages, and her minstrels, to\nwelcome her lord from the wars. But as the train drew nigh, she beheld a\nsumptuous bier, covered with black velvet, and on it lay a warrior, as\nif taking his repose: he lay in his armor, with his helmet on his head,\nand his sword in his hand, as one who had never been conquered, and\naround the bier were the escutcheons of the house of Hinojosa.\n\nA number of Moorish cavaliers attended the bier, with emblems of\nmourning, and with dejected countenances; and their leader cast himself\nat the feet of Do\u00f1a Maria, and hid his face in his hands. She beheld in\nhim the gallant Abadil, whom she had once welcomed with his bride to her\ncastle; but who now came with the body of her lord, whom he had\nunknowingly slain in battle!\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe sepulchre erected in the cloisters of the convent of San Domingo,\nwas achieved at the expense of the Moor Abadil, as a feeble testimony of\nhis grief for the death of the good knight Don Munio, and his reverence\nfor his memory. The tender and faithful Do\u00f1a Maria soon followed her\nlord to the tomb. On one of the stones of a small arch, beside his\nsepulchre, is the following simple inscription: \u201c_Hic jacet Maria\nPalacin, uxor Munonis Sancij De Finojosa_\u201d;--Here lies Maria Palacin,\nwife of Munio Sancho de Hinojosa.\n\nThe legend of Don Munio Sancho does not conclude with his death. On the\nsame day on which the battle took place on the plain of Salmanara, a\nchaplain of the Holy Temple at Jerusalem, while standing at the outer\ngate, beheld a train of Christian cavaliers advancing, as if in\npilgrimage. The chaplain was a native of Spain, and as the pilgrims\napproached, he knew the foremost to be Don Munio Sancho de Hinojosa,\nwith whom he had been well acquainted in former times. Hastening to the\npatriarch, he told him of the honorable rank of the pilgrims at the\ngate. The patriarch, therefore, went forth with a grand procession of\npriests and monks, and received the pilgrims with all due honor. There\nwere seventy cavaliers, beside their leader,--all stark and lofty\nwarriors. They carried their helmets in their hands, and their faces\nwere deadly pale. They greeted no one, nor looked either to the right or\nto the left, but entered the chapel, and kneeling before the sepulchre\nof our Saviour, performed their orisons in silence. When they had\nconcluded, they rose as if to depart, and the patriarch and his\nattendants advanced to speak to them, but they were no more to be seen.\nEvery one marvelled what could be the meaning of this prodigy. The\npatriarch carefully noted down the day, and sent to Castile to learn\ntidings of Don Munio Sancho de Hinojosa. He received for reply, that on\nthe very day specified, that worthy knight, with seventy of his\nfollowers, had been slain in battle. These, therefore, must have been\nthe blessed spirits of those Christian warriors, come to fulfil their\nvow of pilgrimage to the Holy Sepulchre at Jerusalem. Such was Castilian\nfaith in the olden time, which kept its word, even beyond the grave.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nIf any one should doubt of the miraculous apparition of these phantom\nknights, let him consult the History of the Kings of Castile and Leon,\nby the learned and pious Fray Prudencio de Sandoval, bishop of Pamplona,\nwhere he will find it recorded in the History of King Don Alonzo VI., on\nthe hundred and second page. It is too precious a legend to be lightly\nabandoned to the doubter.\n\n\n\n\nPOETS AND POETRY OF MOSLEM ANDALUS\n\n\nDuring the latter part of my sojourn in the Alhambra I was more than\nonce visited by the Moor of Tetuan, with whom I took great pleasure in\nrambling through the halls and courts, and getting him to explain to me\nthe Arabic inscriptions. He endeavored to do so faithfully; but, though\nhe succeeded in giving me the thought, he despaired of imparting an idea\nof the grace and beauty of the language. The aroma of the poetry, said\nhe, is all lost in translation. Enough was imparted, however, to\nincrease the stock of my delightful associations with this extraordinary\npile. Perhaps there never was a monument more characteristic of an age\nand people than the Alhambra; a rugged fortress without, a voluptuous\npalace within; war frowning from its battlements; poetry breathing\nthroughout the fairy architecture of its halls. One is irresistibly\ntransported in imagination to those times when Moslem Spain was a region\nof light amid Christian, yet benighted Europe; externally a warrior\npower fighting for existence; internally a realm devoted to literature,\nscience, and the arts; where philosophy was cultivated with passion,\nthough wrought up into subtleties and refinements; and where the\nluxuries of sense were transcended by those of thought and imagination.\n\nArab poetry, we are told, arrived at its highest splendor under the\nOmmiades of Spain, who for a long time centred the power and splendor of\nthe western Caliphat at Cordova. Most of the sovereigns of that\nbrilliant line were themselves poets. One of the last of them was\nMahomed ben Abderahman. He led the life of a sybarite in the famous\npalace and gardens of Azahara, surrounding himself with all that could\nexcite the imagination and delight the senses. His palace was the resort\nof poets. His vizier, Ibn Zeydun, was called the Horace of Moslem Spain,\nfrom his exquisite verses, which were recited with enthusiasm even in\nthe saloons of the Eastern Caliphs. The vizier became passionately\nenamored of the princess Walada, daughter of Mahomed. She was the idol\nof her father\u2019s court, a poetess of the highest order, and renowned for\nbeauty as well as talent. If Ibn Zeydun was the Horace of Moslem Spain,\nshe was its Sappho. The princess became the subject of the vizier\u2019s most\nimpassioned verses; especially of a famous ris\u00e1leh or epistle addressed\nto her which the historian Ash-Shakandi declares has never been equalled\nfor tenderness and melancholy. Whether the poet was happy in his love,\nthe authors I have consulted do not say; but one intimates that the\nprincess was discreet as she was beautiful, and caused many a lover to\nsigh in vain. In fact, the reign of love and poetry in the delicious\nabode of Zahara, was soon brought to a close by a popular insurrection.\nMahomed with his family took refuge in the fortress of Ucles, near\nToledo, where he was treacherously poisoned by the Alcayde; and thus\nperished one of the last of the Ommiades.\n\nThe downfall of that brilliant dynasty, which had concentrated\neverything at Cordova, was favorable to the general literature of\nMorisco Spain.\n\n\u201cAfter the breaking of the necklace and the scattering of its pearls,\u201d\nsays Ash-Shakandi, \u201cthe kings of small states divided among themselves\nthe patrimony of the Beni Ommiah.\u201d\n\nThey vied with each other in filling their capitals with poets and\nlearned men, and rewarded them with boundless prodigality. Such were the\nMoorish kings of Seville of the illustrious line of the Beni Abbad,\n\u201cwith whom,\u201d says the same writer, \u201cresided fruit and palm-trees and\npomegranates; who became the centre of eloquence in prose and verse;\nevery day of whose reign was a solemn festivity; whose history abounds\nin generous actions and heroic deeds, that will last through surrounding\nages and live forever in the memory of man!\u201d\n\nNo place, however, profited more in point of civilization and refinement\nby the downfall of the Western Caliphat than Granada. It succeeded to\nCordova in splendor, while it surpassed it in romantic beauty of\nsituation. The amenity of its climate, where the ardent heats of a\nsouthern summer were tempered by breezes from snow-clad mountains; the\nvoluptuous repose of its valleys and the bosky luxuriance of its groves\nand gardens all awakened sensations of delight, and disposed the mind to\nlove and poetry. Hence the great number of amatory poets that flourished\nin Granada. Hence those amorous canticles breathing of love and war, and\nwreathing chivalrous grace round the stern exercise of arms. Those\nballads which still form the pride and delight of Spanish literature are\nbut the echoes of amatory and chivalric lays, which once delighted the\nMoslem courts of Andalus; and in which a modern historian of Granada\npretends to find the origin of the _rima Castellana_ and the type of the\n\u201cgay science\u201d of the troubadours.[20]\n\nPoetry was cultivated in Granada by both sexes. \u201cHad Allah,\u201d says\nAsh-Shakandi, \u201cbestowed no other boon on Granada than that of making it\nthe birthplace of so many poetesses, that alone would be sufficient for\nits glory.\u201d\n\nAmong the most famous of these was Hafsah; renowned, says the old\nchronicler, for beauty, talents, nobility, and wealth. We have a mere\nrelic of her poetry in some verses, addressed to her lover, Ahmed,\nrecalling an evening passed together in the garden of Maumal.\n\n\u201cAllah has given us a happy night, such as he never vouchsafes to the\nwicked and the ignoble. We have beheld the cypresses of Maumal gently\nbowing their heads before the mountain breeze,--the sweet perfumed\nbreeze that smelt of gillyflowers; the dove murmured her love among the\ntrees; the sweet basil inclined its boughs to the limpid brook.\u201d\n\nThe garden of Maumal was famous among the Moors for its rivulets, its\nfountains, its flowers, and above all, its cypresses. It had its name\nfrom a vizier of Abdallah, grandson of Aben Habuz, and Sultan of\nGranada. Under the administration of this vizier many of the noblest\npublic works were executed. He constructed an aqueduct by which water\nwas brought from the mountains of Alfacar to irrigate the hills and\norchards north of the city. He planted a public walk with cypress-trees,\nand \u201cmade delicious gardens for the solace of the melancholy Moors.\u201d\n\u201cThe name of Maumal,\u201d says Alc\u00e1ntara, \u201cought to be preserved in Granada\nin letters of gold.\u201d Perhaps it is as well preserved by being associated\nwith the garden he planted; and by being mentioned in the verses of\nHafsah. How often does a casual word from a poet confer immortality!\n\nPerhaps the reader may be curious to learn something of the story of\nHafsah and her lover, thus connected with one of the beautiful\nlocalities of Granada. The following are all the particulars I have been\nable to rescue out of the darkness and oblivion which have settled upon\nthe brightest names and geniuses of Moslem Spain.\n\nAhmed and Hafsah flourished in the sixth century of the Hegira; the\ntwelfth of the Christian Era. Ahmed was the son of the Alcayde of Alcala\nla Real. His father designed him for public and military life, and would\nhave made him his lieutenant; but the youth was of a poetical\ntemperament, and preferred a life of lettered ease in the delightful\nabodes of Granada. Here he surrounded himself by objects of taste in the\narts, and by the works of the learned; he divided his time between study\nand social enjoyment. He was fond of the sports of the field, and kept\nhorses, hawks, and hounds. He devoted himself to literature, became\nrenowned for erudition, and his compositions in prose and verse were\nextolled for their beauty, and in the mouths of every one.\n\nOf a tender, susceptible heart, and extremely sensible to female charms,\nhe became the devoted lover of Hafsah. The passion was mutual, and for\nonce the course of true love appeared to run smooth. The lovers were\nboth young, equal in merit, fame, rank, and fortune, enamored of each\nother\u2019s genius as well as person, and inhabiting a region formed to be a\nrealm of love and poetry. A poetical intercourse was carried on between\nthem that formed the delight of Granada. They were continually\ninterchanging verses and epistles; \u201cthe poetry of which,\u201d says the\nArabian writer, Al Makkari, \u201cwas like the language of doves.\u201d\n\nIn the height of their happiness a change took place in the government\nof Granada. It was the time when the Almohades, a Berber tribe of Mount\nAtlas, had acquired the control of Moslem Spain, and removed the seat of\ngovernment from Cordova to Morocco. The Sultan Abdelmuman governed Spain\nthrough his Walis and Alcaydes; and his son, Sidi Abu Said, was made\nWali of Granada. He governed in his father\u2019s name with royal state and\nsplendor, and with despotic sway. Being a stranger in the country, and a\nMoor by birth, he sought to strengthen himself by drawing round him\npopular persons of the Arab race; and to this effect made Ahmed, who was\nthen in the zenith of his fame and popularity, his vizier. Ahmed would\nhave declined the post, but the Wali was peremptory. Its duties were\nirksome to him, and he spurned at its restraint. On a hawking-party,\nwith some of his gay companions, he gave way to his poetic vein,\nexulting in his breaking away from the thraldom of a despotic master\nlike a hawk from the jesses of the falconer, to follow the soaring\nimpulses of his soul.\n\nHis words were repeated to Sidi Abu Said. \u201cAhmed,\u201d said the informant,\n\u201cspurns at restraint and scoffs at thy authority.\u201d The poet was\ninstantly dismissed from office. The loss of an irksome post was no\ngrievance to one of his joyous temperament; but he soon discovered the\nreal cause of his removal. The Wali was his rival. He had seen and\nbecome enamored of Hafsah. What was worse, Hafsah was dazzled with the\nconquest she had made.\n\nFor a time Ahmed treated the matter with ridicule; and appealed to the\nprejudice existing between the Arab and Moorish races. Sidi Abu Said was\nof a dark olive complexion. \u201cHow canst thou endure that black man?\u201d said\nhe, scornfully. \u201cBy Allah, for twenty dinars I can buy thee a better\nthan he in the slave-market.\u201d\n\nThe scoff reached the ears of Sidi Abu Said and rankled in his heart.\n\nAt other times Ahmed gave way to grief and tenderness, recalling past\nscenes of happiness, reproaching Hafsah with her inconstancy, and\nwarning her in despairing accents that she would be the cause of his\ndeath. His words were unheeded. The idea of having the son of the Sultan\nfor a lover had captivated the imagination of the poetess.\n\nMaddened by jealousy and despair, Ahmed joined in a conspiracy against\nthe ruling dynasty. It was discovered, and the conspirators fled from\nGranada. Some escaped to a castle on the mountains, Ahmed took refuge in\nMalaga, where he concealed himself, intending to embark for Valencia. He\nwas discovered, loaded with chains, and thrown into a dungeon, to abide\nthe decision of Sidi Abu Said.\n\nHe was visited in prison by a nephew, who has left on record an account\nof the interview. The youth was moved to tears at seeing his illustrious\nrelative, late so prosperous and honored, fettered like a malefactor.\n\n\u201cWhy dost thou weep?\u201d said Ahmed. \u201cAre these tears shed for me? For me,\nwho have enjoyed all that the world could give? Weep not for me. I have\nhad my share of happiness; banqueted on the daintiest fare; quaffed out\nof crystal cups; slept on beds of down; been arrayed in the richest\nsilks and brocades; ridden the fleetest steeds; enjoyed the loves of the\nfairest maidens. Weep not for me. My present reverse is but the\ninevitable course of fate. I have committed acts which render pardon\nhopeless. I must await my punishment.\u201d\n\nHis presentiment was correct. The vengeance of Sidi Abu Said was only to\nbe satisfied by the blood of his rival, and the unfortunate Ahmed was\nbeheaded at Malaga, in the month Jumadi, in the year 559 of the Hegira\n(April, 1164). When the news was brought to the fickle-hearted Hafsah,\nshe was struck with sorrow and remorse, and put on mourning; recalling\nhis warning words, and reproaching herself with being the cause of his\ndeath.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nOf the after fortunes of Hafsah I have no further trace than that she\ndied in Morocco, in 1184, outliving both her lovers, for Sidi Abu Said\ndied in Morocco of the plague in 1175. A memorial of his residence in\nGranada remained in a palace which he built on the banks of the Xenil.\nThe garden of Maumal, the scene of the early lives of Ahmed and Hafsah,\nis no longer in existence. Its site may be found by the antiquary in\npoetical research.[21]\n\n\n\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 concurred 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\nexpedition. All his clothes had been arranged and packed in the\nneatest order, and above all she had worked a smart Andalusian\ntravelling-jacket, for him with her own hands. On the morning appointed\nfor his departure, a stout mule on which he was to perform the journey\nwas paraded at the portal of the Alhambra, and Tio Polo (Uncle Polo), an\nold invalid soldier, attended to caparison him. This veteran was one of\nthe curiosities of the place. He had a leathern lantern visage, tanned\nin the tropics, a long Roman nose, and a black beetle eye. I had\nfrequently observed him reading, apparently with intense interest, an\nold parchment-bound volume; sometimes he would be surrounded by a group\nof his brother invalids; some seated on the parapets, some lying on the\ngrass, listening with fixed attention, while he read slowly and\ndeliberately out of his favorite work, sometimes pausing to explain or\nexpound for the benefit of his less enlightened auditors.\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\nstirrups like shovels; the whole looking like a relic of the old armory\nof the Alhambra; then a fleecy sheep-skin was accommodated to the deep\nseat of the saddle; then a maleta, neatly packed by the hand of Dolores,\nwas buckled behind; then a manta was thrown over it to serve either as\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 trabucho, 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\nVivarrambla. A number of the lazzaroni of the fortress had gathered\nround, with some of the invalids, all looking on, all offering their\naid, and all giving advice, 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\nhim off in military style; then turning to Dolores, who stood admiring\nher cavalier as he trotted off, \u201cAh Dolorocita,\u201d exclaimed he, with a\nnod and a wink, \u201c_es muy guapo Manuelito in su Xaqueta_,\u201d (Ah Dolores,\nManuel is mighty fine in his jacket.) The little damsel blushed and\nlaughed, and ran into the house.\n\nDays elapsed without tidings from Manuel, though he had promised to\nwrite. The heart of Dolores began to misgive her. Had anything happened\nto him on the road? Had he failed in his examination? A circumstance\noccurred in her little household to add to her uneasiness and fill her\nmind with foreboding. It was almost equal to the escapado of her pigeon.\nHer tortoise-shell cat eloped at night and clambered to the tiled roof\nof the Alhambra. In the dead of the night there was a fearful\ncaterwauling; some grimalkin was uncivil to her; then there was a\nscramble; then a clapper-clawing; then both parties rolled off the roof\nand tumbled from a great height among the trees on the hill-side.\nNothing more was seen or heard of the fugitive, and poor Dolores\nconsidered it but the prelude to greater calamities.\n\nAt the end of ten days, however, Manuel returned in triumph, duly\nauthorized to kill or cure; and all Dolores\u2019 cares were over. There was\na general gathering in the evening of the humble friends and hangers-on\nof Dame Antonio to congratulate her and to pay their respects to _el\nSe\u00f1or Medico_, who, peradventure, at some future day, might have all\ntheir lives in his hands. One of the most important of these guests was\nold Tio Polo; and I gladly seized the occasion to prosecute my\nacquaintance with him. \u201cOh Se\u00f1or,\u201d cried Dolores, \u201cyou who are so eager\nto learn all the old histories of the Alhambra, Tio Polo knows more\nabout them than any one else about the place. More than Mateo Ximenes\nand his whole family put together.\u201d _Vaya_--_Vaya_--Tio Polo, tell the\nSe\u00f1or all those stories you told us one evening, about enchanted Moors,\nand the haunted bridge over the Darro, and the old stone pomegranates,\nthat have been there since the days of King Chico.\n\nIt was some time before the old invalid could be brought into a\nnarrative vein. He shook his head--they were all idle tales; not worthy\nof being told to a cavallero like myself. It was only by telling some\nstories of the kind myself I at last got him to open his budget. It was\na whimsical farrago, partly made up of what he had heard in the\nAlhambra, partly of what he had read in Padre Feyjoo. I will endeavor to\ngive the reader the substance of it, but I will not promise to give it\nin the very words of Tio Polo.\n\n\n\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\nfollowing story.\n\nThere was at one time a student of Salamanca, Don Vicente by name, of\nthat merry but mendicant class, who set out on the road to learning\nwithout a penny in pouch for the journey, and who, during college\nvacations, beg from town to town and village to village to raise funds\nto enable them to pursue their studies through the ensuing term. He was\nnow about to set forth on his wanderings; and being somewhat musical,\nslung on his back a guitar with which to amuse the villagers, and pay\nfor a meal or a night\u2019s lodgings.\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\nmixed metal, in which gold and silver appeared to be blended. The seal\nbore as a device two triangles crossing each other, so as to form a\nstar. This device is said to be a cabalistic sign, invented by King\nSolomon the Wise, and of mighty power in all cases of enchantment; but\nthe honest student, being neither sage nor conjurer, knew nothing of the\nmatter. He took the ring as a present from St. Cyprian in reward of his\nprayer; slipped it on his finger, made a bow to the cross, and strumming\nhis guitar, set off merrily 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,\nwhere-ever curiosity or caprice may conduct him. The country curates,\nwho, for the most part, have been mendicant students in their time, give\nhim shelter for the night, and a comfortable meal, and often enrich him\nwith several quartos, or halfpence in the morning. As he presents\nhimself from door to door in the streets of the cities, he meets with no\nharsh rebuff, no chilling contempt, for there is no disgrace attending\nhis mendicity, many of the most learned men in Spain having commenced\ntheir career in this manner; but if, like the student in question, he is\na good-looking varlet and a merry companion; and, above all, if he can\nplay the guitar, he is sure of a hearty welcome among the peasants, and\nsmiles and favors from their wives and daughters.\n\nIn this way, then, did our ragged and musical son of learning make his\nway over half the kingdom; with the fixed determination to visit the\nfamous city of Granada before his return. Sometimes he was gathered for\nthe night into the fold of some village pastor; sometimes he was\nsheltered under the humble but hospitable roof of the peasant. Seated at\nthe cottage-door with his guitar, he delighted the simple folk with his\nditties; or striking up a fandango or bolero, set the brown country lads\nand lasses dancing in the mellow twilight. In the morning he departed\nwith kind words from host and hostess, and kind looks and, peradventure,\na squeeze of the hand from the daughter.\n\nAt length he arrived at the great object of his musical vagabondizing,\nthe far-famed city of Granada, and hailed with wonder and delight its\nMoorish towers, its lovely Vega, and its snowy mountains glistening\nthrough a summer atmosphere. It is needless to say with what eager\ncuriosity he entered its gates and wandered through its streets, and\ngazed upon its Oriental monuments. Every female face peering through a\nwindow or beaming from a balcony was to him a Zorayda or a Zelinda, nor\ncould he meet a stately dame on the Alameda but he was ready to fancy\nher a Moorish princess, and to spread his student\u2019s robe beneath her\nfeet.\n\nHis musical talent, his happy humor, his youth and his good looks, won\nhim a universal welcome in spite of his ragged robes, and for several\ndays he led a gay life in the old Moorish capital and its environs. One\nof his occasional haunts was the fountain of Avellanos, in the valley of\nDarro. It is one of the popular resorts of Granada, and has been so\nsince the days of the Moors; and here the student had an opportunity of\npursuing his studies of female beauty; a branch of study to which he was\na little prone.\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\npassed along he would every now and then draw a maravedi out of his\npocket and bestow it on a beggar, with an air of signal beneficence.\n\u201cAh, the blessed father!\u201d would be the cry; \u201clong life to him, and may\nhe soon be a bishop!\u201d\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\npastors. Ah, such a damsel! Andalus from head to foot; from the rose in\nher hair, to the fairy shoe and lacework stocking; Andalus in every\nmovement; in every undulation of the body:--ripe, melting Andalus!--But\nthen so modest!--so shy!--ever, with downcast eyes, listening to the\nwords of the padre; or, if by chance she let flash a side-glance, it was\nsuddenly checked and her eyes once more cast to the ground.\n\nThe good padre looked benignantly on the company about the fountain, and\ntook his seat with some emphasis on a stone bench, while the handmaid\nhastened 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\u201cAh, the good pastor!\u201d whispered the student to himself; \u201cwhat a\nhappiness would it be to be gathered into his fold with such a pet-lamb\nfor a companion.\u201d\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\ncurates and country lasses. Never had he touched his guitar with such\nskill; never had he poured forth more soul-moving ditties, but he had no\nlonger a country curate or country lass to deal with. The worthy priest\nevidently did not relish music, and the modest damsel never raised her\neyes from the ground. They remained but a short time at the fountain;\nthe good padre hastened their return to Granada. The damsel gave the\nstudent one shy glance in retiring; but it plucked the heart out of his\nbosom!\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\nrising; his hour of taking a paseo for an appetite; his hours of eating;\nhis hour 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\u2019s 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\nhis supper. He blockaded the house by day, catching a glance of the\ndamsel now and then as she appeared at a casement; but these glances\nonly fed his flame without encouraging his hope. He serenaded her\nbalcony at night, and at one time was flattered by the appearance of\nsomething white at a window. Alas, it was only the night-cap of the\npadre.\n\nNever was lover more devoted; never damsel more shy: the poor student\nwas reduced to despair. At length arrived the eve of St. John, when the\nlower classes of Granada swarm into the country, dance away the\nafternoon, and pass midsummer\u2019s night on the banks of the Darro and the\nXenil. Happy are they who on this eventful night can wash their faces in\nthose waters just as the Cathedral bell tells midnight; for at that\nprecise moment they have a beautifying power. The student, having\nnothing to do, suffered himself to be carried away by the\nholiday-seeking throng until he found himself in the narrow valley of\nthe Darro, below the lofty hill and ruddy towers of the Alhambra. The\ndry bed of the river; the rocks which border it; the terraced gardens\nwhich overhang it were alive with variegated groups, dancing under the\nvines and fig-trees to the sound of the guitar and castanets.\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\nappropriately, every Jack his Jill; sighed at his own solitary state, a\nvictim to the black eye of the most unapproachable of damsels, and\nrepined at his ragged garb, which seemed to shut the gate of hope\nagainst him.\n\nBy degrees his attention was attracted to a neighbor 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 armor, with\nbuckler and lance, and stood immovable as a statue. What surprised the\nstudent was, that though thus strangely equipped, he was totally\nunnoticed by the passing throng, albeit that many almost brushed against\nhim.\n\n\u201cThis is a city of old time peculiarities,\u201d thought the student, \u201cand\ndoubtless this is one of them with which the inhabitants are too\nfamiliar to be surprised.\u201d His own curiosity, however, was awakened, and\nbeing of a social disposition, he accosted the soldier.\n\n\u201cA rare old suit of armor that which you wear, comrade. May I ask what\ncorps you belong to?\u201d\n\nThe soldier gasped out a reply from a pair of jaws which seemed to have\nrusted on their hinges.\n\n\u201cThe royal guard of Ferdinand and Isabella.\u201d\n\n\u201cSanta Maria! Why, it is three centuries since that corps was in\nservice.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd for three centuries have I been mounting guard. Now I trust my tour\nof duty draws to a close. Dost thou desire fortune?\u201d\n\nThe student held up his tattered cloak in reply.\n\n\u201cI understand thee. If thou hast faith and courage, follow me, and thy\nfortune is made.\u201d\n\n\u201cSoftly, 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.\u201d\n\nThe soldier turned on him a look of high displeasure. \u201cMy sword,\u201d said\nhe, \u201chas never been drawn but in the cause of the faith and the throne.\nI am a _Cristiano viejo_; trust in me and fear no evil.\u201d\n\nThe student followed him wondering. He observed that no one heeded their\nconversation, and that the soldier made his way through the various\ngroups of 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\nensuing day. The ravine was overshadowed by fig-trees, vines, and\nmyrtles, and the outer towers and walls of the fortress. It was dark and\nlonely, and the twilight-loving bats began to flit about. At length the\nsoldier halted at a remote and ruined tower, apparently intended to\nguard a Moorish aqueduct. He struck the foundation with the but-end of\nhis spear. A rumbling sound was heard, and the solid stones yawned\napart, leaving an opening as wide as a door.\n\n\u201cEnter in the name of the Holy Trinity,\u201d said the soldier, \u201cand fear\nnothing.\u201d The student\u2019s 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 of\nthe vault. \u201cBehold,\u201d said he, \u201cmy couch for three hundred years.\u201d The\nbewildered student tried to force a joke. \u201cBy the blessed St. Anthony,\u201d\nsaid he, \u201cbut you must have slept soundly, considering the hardness of\nyour couch.\u201d\n\n\u201cOn 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 royal\nguards of Ferdinand and Isabella; but was taken prisoner by the Moors in\none of their sorties, and confined a captive in this tower. When\npreparations 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\nhave I remained ever since, buried alive. Years and years have rolled\naway; earthquakes have shaken this hill; I have heard stone by stone of\nthe tower above tumbling to the ground, in the natural operation of\ntime; but the spell-bound walls of this vault set both time and\nearthquakes at defiance.\n\n\u201cOnce 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\nhitherto mounted guard there in vain. I walk as in a cloud, concealed\nfrom mortal sight. You are the first to accost me for now three hundred\nyears. I behold the reason. I see on your finger the seal-ring of\nSolomon the Wise, which is proof against all enchantment. With you it\nremains to deliver me from this awful dungeon, or to leave me to keep\nguard here for another hundred years.\u201d\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,\nwho, according to the laws of nature, ought to have been quietly in his\ngrave for 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 his\nfriendship and good will to do everything in his power for his\ndeliverance.\n\n\u201cI trust to a motive more powerful than friendship,\u201d said the soldier.\n\nHe pointed to a ponderous iron coffer, secured by locks inscribed with\nArabic characters. \u201cThat coffer,\u201d said he, \u201ccontains 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.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut how am I to do it?\u201d\n\n\u201cThe aid of a Christian priest and a Christian maid is necessary. The\npriest to exorcise the powers of darkness; the damsel to touch this\nchest with the seal of Solomon. This must be done at night. But have a\ncare. This is solemn work, and not to be effected by the carnal-minded.\nThe priest must be a _Cristiano viejo_, a model of sanctity; and must\nmortify the flesh before he comes here, by a rigorous fast of\nfour-and-twenty hours: and as to the maiden, she must be above reproach,\nand proof against temptation. Linger not in finding such aid. In three\ndays my furlough is at an end; if not delivered before midnight of the\nthird, I shall have to mount guard for another century.\u201d\n\n\u201cFear not,\u201d said the student, \u201cI have in my eye the very priest and\ndamsel you describe; but how am I to regain admission to this tower?\u201d\n\n\u201cThe seal of Solomon will open the way for thee.\u201d\n\nThe student issued forth from the tower much more gayly 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.\nNo particulars are told of his negotiation, excepting that the zeal of\nthe worthy priest was easily kindled at the idea of rescuing an old\nsoldier of the faith and a strong box of King Chico from the very\nclutches of Satan; and then what alms might be dispensed, what churches\nbuilt, and how many poor 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\nthen might be believed, the ambassador began to find favor in her modest\neyes.\n\nThe greatest difficulty, however, was the fast to which the good padre\nhad to subject himself. Twice he attempted it, and twice the flesh was\ntoo strong for the spirit. It was only on the third day that he was\nenabled to withstand the temptations of the cupboard; but it was still a\nquestion whether 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 by\nthe light of a lantern, and bearing a basket with provisions for\nexorcising the demon of hunger so soon as the other demons should be\nlaid in 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\nsuch treasures of gold and jewels and precious stones as flashed upon\nthe eye!\n\n\u201cHere\u2019s cut and come again!\u201d cried the student, exultingly, as he\nproceeded to cram his pockets.\n\n\u201cFairly and softly,\u201d exclaimed the soldier. \u201cLet us get the coffer out\nentire, and then divide.\u201d\n\nThey accordingly went to work with might and main; but it was a\ndifficult task; the chest was enormously heavy, and had been embedded\nthere for centuries. While they were thus employed the good dominie drew\non one side and made a vigorous onslaught on the basket, by way of\nexorcising the demon of hunger which was raging in his entrails. In a\nlittle while a fat capon was devoured, and washed down by a deep\npotation of Val de pe\u00f1as; and, by way of grace after meat, he gave a\nkind-hearted kiss to the pet-lamb who waited on him. It was quietly done\nin a corner, but the tell-tale walls babbled it forth as if in triumph.\nNever was chaste salute more awful in its effects. At the sound the\nsoldier gave a great cry of despair; the coffer, which was half raised,\nfell back in its place and was locked once more. Priest, student, and\ndamsel found themselves outside of the tower, the wall of which closed\nwith a thundering jar. Alas! the good padre had broken his fast too\nsoon!\n\nWhen recovered from his surprise, the student would have re\u00ebntered 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;\nthe soldier was doomed to mount guard for another hundred years, and\nthere he and the treasure remain to this day--and all because the\nkind-hearted padre kissed his housemaid. \u201cAh father! father!\u201d said the\nstudent, shaking his head ruefully, as they returned down the ravine, \u201cI\nfear there was less of the saint than the sinner in that kiss!\u201d\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-months\u2019 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 mid-summer eve, beside the gigantic stone\npomegranate on the Bridge of the Darro; but remains invisible excepting\nto such lucky mortal as may possess the seal of Solomon.\n\n\n     NOTES TO THE ENCHANTED SOLDIER\n\n     Among the ancient superstitions of Spain, were those of the\n     existence of profound caverns in which the magic arts were taught,\n     either by the devil in person, or some sage devoted to his service.\n     One of the most famous of these caves was at Salamanca. Don\n     Francisco de Torreblanca makes mention of it in the first book of\n     his work on magic, C. 2, No. 4. The devil was said to play the part\n     of Oracle there; giving replies to those who repaired thither to\n     propound fateful questions, as in the celebrated cave of\n     Trophonius. Don Francisco, though he records this story, does not\n     put faith in it: he gives it however as certain, that a Sacristan,\n     named Clement Potosi, taught secretly the magic arts in that cave.\n     Padre Feyjoo, who inquired into the matter, reports it as a vulgar\n     belief, that the devil himself taught those arts there; admitting\n     only seven disciples at a time, one of whom, to be determined by\n     lot, was to be devoted to him body and soul forever. Among one of\n     these sets of students was a young man, son of the Marquis de\n     Villena, on whom, after having accomplished his studies, the lot\n     fell. He succeeded, however, in cheating the devil, leaving him his\n     shadow instead of his body.\n\n     Don Juan de Dios, Professor of Humanities in the University, in the\n     early part of the last century, gives the following version of the\n     story, extracted, as he says, from an ancient manuscript. It will\n     be perceived he has marred the supernatural part of the tale, and\n     ejected the devil from it altogether.\n\n     As to the fable of the Cave of San Cyprian, says he, all that we\n     have been able to verify is, that where the stone cross stands, in\n     the small square or place called by the name of the Seminary of\n     Carvajal, there was the parochial church of San Cyprian. A descent\n     of twenty steps led down to a subterranean Sacristy, spacious and\n     vaulted like a cave. Here a Sacristan once taught magic, judicial\n     astrology, geomancy, hydromancy, pyromancy, acromancy, chiromancy,\n     necromancy, &c.\n\n     The extract goes on to state that seven students engaged at a time\n     with the Sacristan, at a fixed stipend. Lots were cast among them\n     which one of their number should pay for the whole, with the\n     understanding that he on whom the lot fell, if he did not pay\n     promptly, should be detained in a chamber of the Sacristy until the\n     funds were forthcoming. This became thenceforth the usual practice.\n\n     On one occasion the lot fell on Henry de Villena, son of the\n     marquis of the same name. He having perceived that there had been\n     trick and shuffling in the casting of the lot, and suspecting the\n     Sacristan to be cognizant thereof, refused to pay. He was forthwith\n     left in limbo. It so happened, that in a dark corner of the\n     Sacristy was a huge jar or earthen reservoir for water, which was\n     cracked and empty. In this the youth contrived to conceal himself.\n     The Sacristan returned at night with a servant, bringing lights and\n     a supper. Unlocking the door, they found no one in the vault, and a\n     book of magic lying open on the table. They retreated in dismay,\n     leaving the door open, by which Villena made his escape. The story\n     went about that through magic he had made himself invisible.--The\n     reader has now both versions of the story, and may make his choice.\n     I will only observe that the sages of the Alhambra incline to the\n     diabolical one.\n\n     This Henry de Villena flourished in the time of Juan II., King of\n     Castile, of whom he was uncle. He became famous for his knowledge\n     of the Natural Sciences; and hence, in that ignorant age was\n     stigmatized as a necromancer. Fernan Perez de Guzman, in his\n     account of distinguished men, gives him credit for great learning,\n     but says he devoted himself to the arts of divination, the\n     interpretation of dreams, of signs, and portents.\n\n     At the death of Villena, his library fell into the hands of the\n     King, who was warned that it contained books treating of magic, and\n     not proper to be read. King Juan ordered that they should be\n     transported in carts to the residence of a reverend prelate to be\n     examined. The prelate was less learned than devout. Some of the\n     books treated of mathematics, others of astronomy, with figures and\n     diagrams, and planetary signs; others of chemistry or alchemy, with\n     foreign and mystic words. All these were necromancy in the eyes of\n     the pious prelate, and the books were consigned to the flames, like\n     the library of Don Quixote.\n\n     THE SEAL OF SOLOMON.--The device consists of two equilateral\n     triangles, interlaced so as to form a star, and surrounded by a\n     circle. According to Arab tradition, when the Most High gave\n     Solomon the choice of blessings, and he chose wisdom, there came\n     from heaven a ring, on which this device was engraven. This mystic\n     talisman was the arcanum of his wisdom, felicity, and grandeur, by\n     this he governed and prospered. In consequence of a temporary lapse\n     from virtue he lost the ring in the sea, and was at once reduced to\n     the level of ordinary men. By penitence and prayer he made his\n     peace with the Deity, was permitted to find his ring again in the\n     belly of a fish, and thus recovered his celestial gifts. That he\n     might not utterly lose them again, he communicated to others the\n     secret of the marvellous ring.\n\n     This symbolical seal we are told was sacrilegiously used by the\n     Mahometan infidels; and before them by the Arabian idolaters, and\n     before them by the Hebrews, for \u201cdiabolical enterprises and\n     abominable superstitions.\u201d Those who wish to be more thoroughly\n     informed on the subject, will do well to consult the learned Father\n     Athanasius Kirker\u2019s treatise on the _Cabala Sarracenica_.\n\n            *       *       *       *       *\n\n     A word more to the curious reader. There are many persons in these\n     skeptical times who affect to deride everything connected with the\n     occult sciences, or black art; who have no faith in the efficacy of\n     conjurations, incantations, or divinations; and who stoutly contend\n     that such things never had existence. To such determined\n     unbelievers the testimony of past ages is as nothing; they require\n     the evidence of their own senses, and deny that such arts and\n     practices have prevailed in days of yore, simply because they meet\n     with no instance of them in the present day. They cannot perceive\n     that, as the world became versed in the natural sciences, the\n     supernatural became superfluous and fell into disuse; and that the\n     hardy inventions of art superseded the mysteries of man. Still, say\n     the enlightened few, those mystic powers exist, though in a latent\n     state, and untasked by the ingenuity of man. A talisman is still a\n     talisman, possessing all its indwelling and awful properties;\n     though it may have lain dormant for ages at the bottom of the sea,\n     or in the dusty cabinet of the antiquary.\n\n     The signet of Solomon the Wise, for instance, is well known to have\n     held potent control over genii, demons, and enchantments; now who\n     will positively assert that the same mystic signet, wherever it may\n     exist, does not at the present moment possess the same marvellous\n     virtues which distinguished it in the olden time? Let those who\n     doubt repair to Salamanca, delve into the cave of San Cyprian,\n     explore its hidden secrets, and decide. As to those who will not be\n     at the pains of such investigation, let them substitute faith for\n     incredulity, and receive with honest credence the foregoing legend.\n\n\n\n\nTHE AUTHOR\u2019S FAREWELL TO GRANADA\n\n\nMy serene and happy reign in the Alhambra was suddenly brought to a\nclose by letters which reached me, while indulging in Oriental luxury in\nthe cool 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 to\nbe 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 favorite 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,\nhad become singularly endeared to me; and the concern evinced by them at\nmy intended departure, convinced me that my kind feelings were\nreciprocated. Indeed, when at length the day arrived, I did not dare\nventure upon a leave-taking at the good Dame Antonia\u2019s; I saw the soft\nheart of little Dolores, at least, was brim full and ready for an\noverflow. So I bade a silent adieu to the palace and its inmates, and\ndescended into the city as if intending to return. There, however, the\ntartana and the guide were ready; so, after taking a noonday\u2019s repast\nwith my fellow-traveller at the Posada, I set out with him on our\njourney.\n\nHumble was the cortege and melancholy the departure of El Rey Chico the\nsecond! Manuel, the nephew of Tia Antonia, Mateo, my officious but now\ndisconsolate squire, and two or three old invalids of the Alhambra with\nwhom I had grown into gossiping companionship, had come down to see me\noff; 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\nhis departure. Thus then we set out, our long-legged guard striding\nahead, with his escopeta on his shoulder; Manuel and Mateo on each side\nof the 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. His\ndoctor\u2019s diploma had prepared the way for their union, and nothing more\nwas 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\npossible felicity on their union, and trusted that the abundant\naffections of the kind-hearted little Dolores would in time have more\nstable objects to occupy them than recreant cats and truant pigeons.\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\nwave me a last adieu. Manuel, it is true, had cheerful prospects to\nconsole him, but poor Mateo seemed perfectly cast down. It was to him a\ngrievous fall from the station of prime minister and historiographer, to\nhis old brown cloak and his starveling mystery of ribbon-weaving; and\nthe poor devil, notwithstanding his occasional officiousness, had,\nsomehow or other, acquired a stronger hold on my sympathies than I was\naware of. It would have really been a consolation in parting, could I\nhave anticipated the good fortune in store for him, and to which I had\ncontributed; for the importance I had appeared to give to his tales and\ngossip and local knowledge, and the frequent companionship in which I\nhad indulged him in the course of my strolls, had elevated his idea of\nhis own qualifications and opened a new career to him; and the son of\nthe Alhambra has since become its regular and well-paid cicerone;\ninsomuch that I am told he has never been obliged to resume the ragged\nold brown cloak in which I first found 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 \u201clast sigh of the Moor.\u201d\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\ntowers of the Alhambra. I could faintly discern the balconied window of\nthe Tower of Comares, where I had indulged in so many delightful\nreveries. The bosky groves and gardens about the city were richly\ngilded with the sunshine, the purple haze of a summer evening was\ngathering over the Vega; everything was lovely, but tenderly and sadly\nso, to my parting gaze.\n\n\u201cI will hasten from this prospect,\u201d thought I, \u201cbefore the sun is set. I\nwill carry away a recollection of it clothed in all its beauty.\u201d\n\nWith these thoughts I pursued my way among the mountains. A little\nfurther and Granada, the Vega, and the Alhambra were shut from my view;\nand thus ended one of the pleasantest dreams of a life, which the reader\nperhaps may think has been but too much made up of dreams.\n\n                                THE END\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n                              FOOTNOTES:\n\n [1] NOTE TO THE REVISED EDITION.--The Author feels at liberty\n to mention that his travelling companion was the Prince Dolgorouki, at\n present Russian minister at the Court of Persia.\n\n [2] 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 wide,\n formed by turning up its extremities. The cloth is then thrown over\n the saddle, and the pockets hang on each side like saddle-bags.\n It is an Arab invention. The bota is a leathern bag or bottle, of\n portly dimensions, with a narrow neck. It is also Oriental. Hence the\n scriptural caution, which perplexed me in my boyhood, not to put new\n wine into old bottles.\n\n [3] See Urquhart\u2019s _Pillars of Hercules_, B. III. C. 8.\n\n [4] Urquhart\u2019s _Pillars of Hercules_.\n\n [5] Et porque era muy rubio llamaban lo los Moros Abenalhamar, que\n quiere decir bermejo ... et porque los Moros le llamaban Benalhamar\n que quiere decir bermejo tomo los se\u00f1ales bermejos, segun que los\n ovieron despues los Reyes de Granada.--BLEDA, _Cronica de\n Alfonso XI._, P. I. C. 44.\n\n [6] \u201cY los moros que estaban en la villa y Castillo de Gibraltar\n despues que sopieron que el Rey Don Alonzo era muerto, ordenaron\n entresi que ninguno non fuesse osado de fazer ningun movimiento contra\n los Christianos, ni mover pelear contra ellos, estovieron todos quedos\n y dezian entre ellos qui aquel diamuriera un noble rey y Gran principe\n del mundo.\u201d\n\n [7] 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 los\n se\u00f1ores llegadas \u00e0 la persona real si casan en palacio, y siempre huvo\n su quarto destinado para esta ceremonia.\n\n One of the things in which the Moorish kings interfered was in the\n marriage of their nobles: hence it came that all the se\u00f1ors attached\n to the royal person were married in the palace; and there was always a\n chamber destined for the ceremony.--_Paseos por Granada_, Paseo XXI.\n\n [8] Alc\u00e1ntara, _Hist. Granad._, O. 3, p. 226, note.\n\n [9] Salazar y Castro, _Hist. Genealog. de la Casa de Lara_, lib. v. c.\n 12, cited by Alc\u00e1ntara in his _Hist. Granad._\n\n [10] Al Makkari, B. VIII. c. 7.\n\n [11] Alc\u00e1ntara, _Hist. Granad._, c. 17. See also Al Makkari, _Hist.\n Mohama. Dynasties_, B. VIII. c. 7, with the Commentaries of Don\n Pascual de Guyangos.\n\n [12] For authorities for these latter facts, see the Appendix to the\n author\u2019s revised edition of the _Conquest of Granada_.\n\n [13] Ay una puerta en la Alhambra por la qual salio Chico Rey de los\n Moros, quando si rindio prisionero al Rey de Espa\u00f1a D. Fernando, y\n le entreg\u00f3 la ciudad con el castillo. Pidio esta principe como por\n merced, y en memoria de tan importante conquista, al que quedasse\n siempre cerrada esta puerta. Consintio en allo el Rey Fernando, y des\n de aquel tiempo no solamente no se abrio la puerta sino tambien se\n construyo junto \u00e0 ella fuerte bastion.--MORERI\u2019S _Historical\n Dictionary_, Spanish Edition, Vol. I. p. 372.\n\n [14] The minor details of the surrender of Granada have been stated\n in different ways even by eye-witnesses. The author, in his revised\n edition of the _Conquest_, has endeavored to adjust them according to\n the latest and apparently best authorities.\n\n [15] See a more detailed account of the exploit in the chronicle of\n the _Conquest of Granada_.\n\n [16] Marmol, _Hist. Rebellion of the Moors._\n\n [17] Lest this should be deemed a mere stretch of fancy, the reader\n is referred to the following genealogy, derived by the historian\n Alc\u00e1ntara, from an Arabian manuscript, on parchment, in the\n archives of the Marquis of Corvera. It is a specimen of the curious\n affinities between Christians and Moslems, produced by capture and\n intermarriages, during the Moorish wars. From Aben Hud, the Moorish\n king, the conqueror of the Almohades, was descended in right line Cid\n Yahia Abraham Alnagar, prince of Almeria, who married a daughter of\n King Bermejo. They had three children, commonly called the Cetimerian\n Princes. 1st. _Jusef ben Alhamar_, who for a time usurped the throne\n of Granada. 2d. The Prince _Nasar_, who married the celebrated\n Lindaraxa. 3d. The _Princess Cetimerien_, who married Don Pedro\n Venegas captured by the Moors in his boyhood, a younger son of the\n _House of Luque_, of which house the old court was the present head.\n\n [18] The reader will recognize the sovereign connected with the\n fortunes of the Abencerrages. His story appears to be a little\n fictionized in the legend.\n\n [19] Torres. Hist. Ord. Alc\u00e1ntara. \u201cCron. Enrique III.\u201d por Pedro\n Lopez de Ayala.\n\n [20] Miguel Lafuente Alc\u00e1ntara.\n\n [21] The authorities for the foregoing: Alc\u00e1ntara, Hist. Granada;\n Al Makkari, Hist. Mohamed; Dynasties in Spain, B. ii. c. 3; Notes\n and illustrations of the same, by Gayangos, Vol. I. p. 440; Ibnu Al\n Kahttib, Biograph. Dic., cited by Gayangos; Conde, Hist. Dom. Arab.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nTypographical errors corrected by the etext transcriber:\n\nPerdon usted por Dios hermano=> Perd\u00f3n usted por Dios hermano {pg 22}\n\nGarcilasso de la Vega=> Garcilaso de la Vega {pg 170}\n\nde los si\u00e9te suelos=> de los siete suelos {pg 205}\n\nWhat wil become of us=> What will become of us {pg 219}\n\nthat the stongest bolts=> that the strongest bolts {pg 225}\n\nbasquina all trimmed with gold=> basqui\u00f1a all trimmed with gold {pg\n230}\n\none of the evening tertullias=> one of the evening tertulias {pg 262}\n\nwould ocasionally strut backwards=> would occasionally strut backwards\n{pg 282}\n\nthe Guadarama mountains=> the Guadarama mountains {pg 294}\n\nthere began to to be doubts=> there began to be doubts {pg 303}\n\n[8] Alcantara=> [8] Alc\u00e1ntara\n\n[9] Alcantara=> [9] Alc\u00e1ntara\n\n[11] Alcantara=> [11] Alc\u00e1ntara\n\n[17] derived by the historian Alcantara=> [17] derived by the\nhistorian Alcant\u00e1ra\n\n[20] Miguel Lafuente Alcantara.=> [20] Miguel Lafuente Alc\u00e1ntara.","title":"The Alhambra","tradition":"myth-cosmogony","translated_text":null,"word_count":120858}