University of Virginia Library

THE LEGEND OF
THE ROSE OF THE ALHAMBRA;
OR,
THE PAGE AND THE GER-FALCON.

For some time after the surrender of
Granada by the Moors, that delightful
city was a frequent and favourite residence
of the Spanish sovereigns, until
they were frightened away by successive
shocks of earthquakes, which toppled
down various houses, and made the old
Moslem towers rock to their foundation.

Many many years then rolled away
during which Granada was rarely honoured
by a royal guest. The palaces
of the nobility remained silent and shut
up; and the Alhambra, like a slighted
beauty, sat in mournful desolation among
her neglected gardens. The tower of
Infantas, once the residence of the three
beautiful Moorish princesses, partook of
the general desolation, and the spider
spun her web athwart the gilded vault,
and bats and owls nestled in those chambers
that had been graced by the presence
of Zayda, Zorayda, and Zorahayda.
The neglect of this tower may
partly have been owing to some superstitious
notions of the neighbours. It was
rumoured that the spirit of the youthful
Zorahayda, who had perished in that
tower, was often seen by moonlight
seated beside the fountain in the hall, or
moaning about the battlements, and that
the notes of her silver lute would be
heard at midnight by wayfarers passing
along the glen.

At length the city of Granada was
once more welcomed by the royal presence.
All the world knows that Philip V.
was the first Bourbon that swayed the
Spanish sceptre. All the world knows
that he married, in second nuptials, Elizabetta
or Isabella (for they are the
same), the beautiful princess of Parma;
and all the world knows that by this
chain of contingencies a French prince
and an Italian princess were seated together
on the Spanish throne. For the reception
of this illustrious pair, the Alhambra
was repaired and fitted up with all
possible expedition. The arrival of the
court changed the whole aspect of the
lately deserted palace. The clangour of
drum and trumpet; the tramp of steed
about the avenues and outer court; the
glitter of arms and display of banners
about barbacan and battlement, recalled
the ancient and warlike glories of the
fortress. A softer spirit, however, reigned
within the royal palace. There was the
rustling of robes and the cautious tread
and murmuring voice of reverential courtiers
about the antechambers; a loitering
of pages and maids of honour about the
gardens, and the sound of music stealing
from open casements.

Among those who attended in the
train of the monarchs was a favourite
page of the queen, named Ruyz de Alarcon.
To say that he was a favourite
page of the queen was at once to speak
his eulogium; for every one in the suite
of the stately Elizabetta was chosen for
grace, and beauty, and accomplishments.
He was just turned of eighteen, light and
lithe of form, and graceful as a young
Antinous. To the queen he was all deference
and respect, yet he was at heart
a roguish stripling, petted and spoiled by
the ladies about the court, and experienced
in the ways of women far beyond
his years.

This loitering page was one morning
rambling about the groves of the Generalife,
which overlook the grounds of the
Alhambra. He had taken with him for
his amusement a favourite ger-falcon of
the queen. In the course of his rambles,

seeing a bird rising from a thicket, he
unhooded the hawk and let him fly. The
falcon towered high in the air, made a
swoop at his quarry, but missing it,
soared away regardless of the calls of
the page. The latter followed the truant
bird with his eye, in its capricious flight,
until he saw it alight upon the battlements
of a remote and lonely tower, in
the outer wall of the Alhambra, built on
the edge of a ravine that separated the
royal fortress from the grounds of the
Generalife. It was in fact the "Tower
of the Princesses."

The page descended into the ravine
and approached the tower, but it had no
entrance from the glen, and its lofty
height rendered any attempt to scale it
fruitless. Seeking one of the gates of
the fortress, therefore, he made a wide
circuit to that side of the tower facing
within the walls.

A small garden enclosed by a trelliswork
of reeds overhung with myrtle, lay
before the tower. Opening a wicket, the
page passed between beds of flowers and
thickets of roses to the door. It was
closed and bolted. A crevice in the door
gave him a peep into the interior. There
was a small Moorish hall with fretted
walls, light marble columns, and an alabaster
fountain surrounded with flowers.
In the centre hung a gilt cage, containing
a singing bird; beneath it, on a chair,
lay a tortoise-shell cat among reels of
silk and other articles of female labour,
and a guitar decorated with ribands
leaned against the fountain.

Ruyz de Alarcon was struck with
these traces of female taste and elegance
in a lonely, and, as he had supposed, deserted
tower. They reminded him of
the tales of enchanted halls current in
the Alhambra; and the tortoise-shell cat
might be some spell-bound princess.

He knocked gently at the door. A
beautiful face peeped out from a little
window above, but was instantly withdrawn.
He waited, expecting that the
door would be opened, but he waited in
vain; no footstep was to be heard within
—all was silent. Had his senses deceived
him, or was this beautiful apparition
the fairy of the tower? He knocked
again, and more loudly. After a little
while the beaming face once more peeped
forth; it was that of a blooming damsel
of fifteen.

The page immediately doffed his plumed
bonnet, and entreated in the most courteous
accents to be permitted to ascend
the tower in pursuit of his falcon.

"I dare not open the door, señor," replied
the little damsel, blushing, "my
aunt has forbidden it."

"I do beseech you, fair maid—it is
the favourite falcon of the queen: I dare
not return to the palace without it."

"Are you then one of the cavaliers of
the court?"

"I am, fair maid; but I shall lose the
queen's favour and my place, if I lose
this hawk."

"Santa Maria! it is against you cavaliers
of the court my aunt has charged
me especially to bar the door."

"Against wicked cavaliers doubtless,
but I am none of these, but a simple
harmless page, who will be ruined and
undone if you deny me this small request."

The heart of the little damsel was
touched by the distress of the page. It
was a thousand pities he should be ruined
for the want of so trifling a boon. Surely
too he could not be one of those dangerous
beings whom her aunt had described
as a species of cannibal, ever on the
prowl to make prey of thoughtless damsels;
he was gentle and modest, and
stood so entreatingly with cap in hand,
and looked so charming.

The sly page saw that the garrison
began to waver, and redoubled his entreaties
in such moving terms, that it was
not in the nature of mortal maiden to
deny him; so the blushing little warden
of the tower descended and opened the
door with a trembling hand; and if the
page had been charmed by a mere
glimpse of her countenance from the
window, he was ravished by the full
length portrait now revealed to him.

Her Andalusian bodice and trim basquiña
set off the round but delicate symmetry
of her form, which was as yet
scarce verging into womanhood. Her
glossy hair was parted on her forehead,
with scrupulous exactness, and decorated
with a fresh-plucked rose, according to
the universal custom of the country. It
is true her complexion was tinged by the

ardour of a southern sun, but it served
to give richness to the mantling bloom of
her cheek, and to heighten the lustre of
her melting eyes.

Ruyz de Alarcon beheld all this with
a single glance, for it became him not to
tarry; he merely murmured his acknowledgments,
and then bounded lightly up
the spiral staircase in quest of his falcon.

He soon returned with the truant bird
upon his fist. The damsel, in the mean
time, had seated herself by the fountain
in the hall, and was winding silk; but in
her agitation she let fall the reel upon
the pavement. The page sprang and
picked it up, then dropping gracefully on
one knee presented it to her; but, seizing
the hand extended to receive it, imprinted
on it a kiss more fervent and devout than
he had ever imprinted on the fair hand
of his sovereign.

"Ave Maria, señor!" exclaimed the
damsel, blushing still deeper with confusion
and surprise, for never before had
she received such a salutation.

The modest page made a thousand
apologies, assuring her it was the way,
at court, of expressing the most profound
homage and respect.

Her anger, if anger she felt, was easily
pacified, but her agitation and embarrassment
continued, and she sat blushing
deeper and deeper, with her eyes cast
down upon her work, entangling the silk
which she attempted to wind.

The cunning page saw the confusion
in the opposite camp, and would fain
have profited by it, but the fine speeches
he would have uttered died upon his
lips; his attempt at gallantry were awkward
and ineffectual, and to his surprise,
the adroit page, who had figured with
such grace and effrontery among the
most knowing and experienced ladies of
the court, found himself awed and abashed
in the presence of a simple damsel of
fifteen.

In fact, the artless maiden, in her own
modesty and innocence, had guardians
more effectual than the bolts and bars
prescribed by her vigilant aunt. Still,
where is the female bosom proof against
the first whisperings of love? The little
damsel, with all her artlessness, instinctively
comprehended all that the faltering
tongue of the page failed to express,
and her heart was fluttered at beholding,
for the first time, a lover at her feet—
and such a lover!

The diffidence of the page, though
genuine, was short-lived, and he was recovering
his usual case and confidence,
when a shrill voice was heard at a distance.

"My aunt is returning from mass!"
cried the damsel in affright: "I pray
you, señor, depart."

"Not until you grant me that rose
from your hair as a remembrance."

She hastily untwisted the rose from
her raven locks. "Take it," cried she,
agitated and blushing, "but pray begone."

The page took the rose, and at the
same time covered with kisses the fair
hand that gave it. Then, placing the
flower in his bonnet, and taking the falcon
upon his fist, he bounded off through
the garden, bearing away with him the
heart of the gentle Jacinta.

When the vigilant aunt arrived at the
tower, she remarked the agitation of her
niece, and an air of confusion in the
hall; but a word of explanation sufficed.
"A ger-falcon had pursued his prey into
the hall."

"Mercy on us! to think of a falcon
flying into the tower. Did ever one hear
of so saucy a hawk! Why, the very
bird in the cage is not safe!"

The vigilant Fredegonda was one of
the most wary of ancient spinsters. She
had a becoming terror and distrust of
what she denominated the "opposite sex,"
which had gradually increased through
a long life of celibacy. Not that the
good lady had ever suffered from their
wiles, nature having set up a safeguard
in her face that forbade all trespass upon
her premises; but ladies who have least
cause to fear for themselves, are most
ready to keep a watch over their more
tempting neighbours.

The niece was the orphan of an officer
who had fallen in the wars. She had
been educated in a convent, and had recently
been transferred from her sacred
asylum to the immediate guardianship of
her aunt, under whose overshadowing
care she vegetated in obscurity, like an
opening rose blooming beneath a brier.
Nor indeed is this comparison entirely

accidental; for, to tell the truth, her
fresh and dawning beauty had caught
the public eye, even in her seclusion,
and, with that poetical turn common to
the people of Andalusia, the peasantry
of the neighbourhood had given her the
appellation of "the Rose of the Alhambra."

The wary aunt continued to keep a
faithful watch over her tempting little
niece as long as the court continued at
Granada, and flattered herself that her
vigilance had been successful. It is true,
the good lady was now and then discomposed
by the tinkling of guitars and
chanting of love ditties from the moonlit
groves beneath the tower; but she would
exhort her niece to shut her ears against
such idle minstrelsy, assuring her that it
was one of the arts of the opposite sex,
by which simple maids were often lured
to their undoing. Alas! what chance
with a simple maid has a dry lecture
against a moonlight serenade?

At length King Philip cut short his sojourn
at Granada, and suddenly departed
with all his train. The vigilant Fredegonda
watched the royal pageant as it
issued forth from the Gate of Justice and
descended the great avenue leading to
the city. When the last banner disappeared
from her sight, she returned exulting
to her tower, for all her cares were
over. To her surprise, a light Arabian
steed pawed the ground at the wicket-gate
of the garden:—to her horror, she
saw through the thickets of roses a youth,
in gaily embroidered dress, at the feet of
her niece. At the sound of her footsteps
he gave a tender adieu, bounded lightly
over the barrier of reeds and myrtles,
sprang upon his horse, and was out of
sight in an instant.

The tender Jacinta, in the agony of
her grief, lost all thought of her aunt's
displeasure. Throwing herself into her
arms, she broke forth into sobs and
tears.

"Ay de mi!" cried she; "he's gone!
—he's gone!—he's gone! and I shall
never see him more!"

"Gone!—who is gone?—what youth
is that I saw at your feet?"

"A queen's page, aunt, who came to
bid me farewell."

"A queen's page, child!" echoed the
vigilant Fredegonda, faintly; "and when
did you become acquainted with a queen's
page?"

"The morning that the ger-falcon
came into the tower. It was the queen's
ger-falcon, and he came in pursuit of it."

"Ah silly, silly girl! know that there
are no ger-falcons half so dangerous as
these young pranking pages, and it is
precisely such simple birds as thee that
they pounce upon."

The aunt was at first indignant at
learning, that in despite of her boasted
vigilance, a tender intercourse had been
carried on by the youthful lovers, almost
beneath her eye; but when she found
that her simple-hearted niece, though thus
exposed, without the protection of bolt or
bar, to all the machinations of the opposite
sex, had come forth unsinged from
the fiery ordeal, she consoled herself
with the persuasion that it was owing to
the chaste and cautious maxims in which
she had, as it were, steeped her to the
very lips.

While the aunt laid this soothing unction
to her pride, the niece treasured up
the oft-repeated vows of fidelity of the
page. But what is the love of restless,
roving man? A vagrant stream that
dallies for a time with each flower upon
its bank, then passes on, and leaves them
all in tears.

Days, weeks, months elapsed, and
nothing more was heard of the page.
The pomegranate ripened, the vine
yielded up its fruit, the autumnal rains
descended in torrents from the mountains;
the Sierra Nevada became covered
with a snowy mantle, and wintry blasts
howled through the halls of the Alhambra—still
he came not. The winter
passed away. Again the genial spring
burst forth with song and blossom and
balmy zephyr; the snows melted from
the mountains, until none remained but
on the lofty summit of Nevada, glistening
through the sultry summer air. Still
nothing was heard of the forgetful page.

In the mean time, the poor little Jacinta
grew pale and thoughtful. Her
former occupations and amusements were
abandoned, her silk lay entangled, her
guitar unstrung, her flowers were neglected,
the notes of her bird unheeded, and
her eyes, once so bright, were dimmed

with secret weeping. If any solitude
could be devised to foster the passion of
a love-lorn damsel, it would be such a
place as the Alhambra, where every
thing seems disposed to produce tender
and romantic reveries. It is a very paradise
for lovers: how hard then to be
alone in such a paradise—and not merely
alone, but forsaken!

"Alas, silly child!" would the staid
and immaculate Fredegonda say, when
she found her niece in one of her desponding
moods—"did I not warn thee
against the wiles and deceptions of these
men? What couldst thou expect, too,
from one of a haughty and aspiring
family—thou an orphan, the descendant
of a fallen and impoverished line? Be
assured, if the youth were true, his father,
who is one of the proudest nobles about
the court, would prohibit his union with
one so humble and portionless as thou.
Pluck up thy resolution, therefore, and
drive these idle notions from thy mind."

The words of the immaculate Fredegonda
only served to increase the melancholy
of her niece, but she sought to
indulge it in private. At a late hour one
midsummer night, after her aunt had
retired to rest, she remained alone in the
hall of the tower, seated beside the alabaster
fountain. It was here that the
faithless page had first knelt and kissed
her hand; it was here that he had often
vowed eternal fidelity. The poor little
damsel's heart was overladen with sad
and tender recollections, her tears began
to flow, and slowly fell drop by drop into
the fountain. By degrees the crystal
water became agitated, and—bubble—
bubble—bubble—boiled up and was tossed
about, until a female figure, richly clad
in Moorish robes, slowly rose to view.

Jacinta was so frightened that she fled
from the hall, and did not venture to
return. The next morning she related
what she had seen to her aunt, but the
good lady treated it as a fantasy of her
troubled mind, or supposed she had fallen
asleep and dreamt beside the fountain.
"Thou hast been thinking of the story
of the three Moorish princesses that once
inhabited this tower," continued she, "and
it has entered into thy dreams."

"What story, aunt? I know nothing
of it."

"Thou hast certainly heard of the
three princesses, Zayda, Zorayda, and
Zorahayda, who were confined in this
tower by the king their father, and agreed
to fly with three Christian cavaliers.
The two first accomplished their escape,
but the third failed in her resolution, and
it is said, died in this tower."

"I now recollect to have heard of it,"
said Jacinta, "and to have wept over the
fate of the gentle Zorahayda."

"Thou mayest well weep over her
fate," continued the aunt, "for the lover
of Zorahayda was thy ancestor. He
long bemoaned his Moorish love, but
time cured him of his grief, and he married
a Spanish lady, from whom thou art
descended."

Jacinta ruminated upon these words.
"That what I have seen is no fantasy
of the brain," said she to herself, "I am
confident. If indeed it be the spirit of
the gentle Zorahayda, which I have heard
lingers about this tower, of what should
I be afraid? I'll watch by the fountain
to-night—perhaps the visit will be repeated."

Towards midnight, when every thing
was quiet, she again took her seat in
the hall. As the bell in the distant
watchtower of the Alhambra struck the
midnight hour, the fountain was again
agitated; and—bubble—bubble—bubble
—it tossed about the waters until the
Moorish female again rose to view. She
was young and beautiful; her dress was
rich with jewels, and in her hand she
held a silver lute. Jacinta trembled and
was faint, but was reassured by the soft
and plaintive voice of the apparition, and
the sweet expression of her pale, melancholy
countenance.

"Daughter of mortality," said she,
"what aileth thee? Why do thy tears
trouble my fountain, and thy sighs and
plaints disturb the quiet watches of the
night?"

"I weep because of the faithlessness
of man, and I bemoan my solitary and
forsaken state."

"Take comfort; thy sorrows may yet
have an end. Thou beholdest a Moorish
princess, who, like thee, was unhappy in
her love. A Christian knight, thy ancestor,
won my heart, and would have
borne me to his native land and to the

bosom of his church. I was a convert
in my heart, but I lacked courage equal
to my faith, and lingered till too late.
For this the evil genii are permitted to
have power over me, and I remain enchanted
in this tower until some pure
Christian will deign to break the magic
spell. Wilt thou undertake the task?

"I will," replied the damsel trembling.

"Come hither then, and fear not; dip
thy hand in the fountain, sprinkle the
water over me, and baptize me after the
manner of thy faith; so shall the enchantment
be dispelled, and my troubled
spirit have repose."

The damsel advanced with faltering
steps, dipped her hand in the fountain,
collected water in the palm, and sprinkled
it over the pale face of the phantom.

The latter smiled with ineffable benignity.
She dropped her silver lute at
the feet of Jacinta, crossed her white arms
upon her bosom and melted from sight,
so that it seemed merely as if a shower
of dew drops had fallen into the fountain.

Jacinta retired from the hall filled with
awe and wonder. She scarcely closed
her eyes that night, but when she awoke
at daybreak out of a troubled slumber,
the whole appeared to her like a distempered
dream. On descending into the
hall, however, the truth of the vision was
established, for, beside the fountain, she
beheld the silver lute glittering in the
morning sunshine.

She hastened to her aunt, to relate all
that had befallen her, and called her to
behold the lute as a testimonial of the
reality of her story. If the good lady
had any lingering doubts, they were removed
when Jacinta touched the instrument,
for she drew forth such ravishing
tones as to thaw even the frigid bosom of
the immaculate Fredegonda, that region
of eternal winter, into a genial flow.
Nothing but supernatural melody could
have produced such an effect.

The extraordinary power of the lute
became every day more and more apparent.
The wayfarer passing by the
tower was detained, and, as it were,
spellbound, in breathless ecstasy. The
very birds gathered in the neighbouring
trees, and hushing their own strains,
listened in charmed silence.

Rumour soon spread the news abroad.
The inhabitants of Granada thronged to
the Alhambra to catch a few notes of the
transcendent music that floated about the
tower of Las Infantas.

The lovely little minstrel was at length
drawn forth from her retreat. The rich
and powerful of the land contended who
should entertain and do honour to her;
or rather, who should secure the charms
of her lute to draw fashionable throngs
to their saloons. Wherever she went
her vigilant aunt kept a dragon watch at
her elbow, awing the throngs of impassioned
admirers, who hung in raptures
on her strains. The report of her wonderful
powers spread from city to city.
Malaga, Seville, Cordova, all became
successively mad on the theme; nothing
was talked of throughout Andalusia but
the beautiful minstrel of the Alhambra.
How could it be otherwise among a
people so musical and gallant as the Andalusians,
when the lute was magical in
its powers, and the minstrel inspired by
love?

While all Andalusia was thus musicmad,
a different mood prevailed at the
court of Spain. Philip V., as is well
known, was a miserable hypochondriae,
and subject to all kinds of fancies. Sometimes
he would keep to his bed for weeks
together, groaning under imaginary complaints.
At other times he would insist
on abdicating his throne, to the great
annoyance of his royal spouse, who had
a strong relish for the splendours of a
court and the glories of a crown, and
guided the sceptre of her imbecile lord
with an expert and steady hand.

Nothing was found to be so efficacious
in dispelling the royal megrims as the
powers of music; the queen took care,
therefore, to have the best performers,
both vocal and instrumental, at hand,
and retained the famous Italian singer,
Farinelli, about the court as a kind of
royal physician.

At the moment we treat of, however,
a freak had come over the mind of this
sapient and illustrious Bourbon that surpassed
all former vagaries. After a long
spell of imaginary illness, which set all
the strains of Farinelli, and the consultations
of a whole orchestra of court
fiddlers at defiance, the monarch fairly,

in idea, gave up the ghost, and considered
himself absolutely dead.

This would have been harmless enough,
and even convenient both to his queen
and courtiers, had he been content to
remain in the quietude befitting a dead
man, but to their annoyance he insisted
upon having the funeral ceremonies performed
over him, and, to their inexpressible
perplexity, began to grow impatient
and to revile bitterly at them for negligence
and disrespect, in leaving him
unburied. What was to be done? To
disobey the king's positive commands
was monstrous in the eyes of the obsequious
courtiers of a punctilious court
—but to obey him and bury him alive,
would be downright regicide!

In the midst of this fearful dilemma a
rumour reached the court, of the female
minstrel who was turning the brains of
all Andalusia. The queen despatched
missions in all haste to summon her to
St. Ildefonso, where the court at that time
resided.

Within a few days, as the queen, with
her maids of honour, was walking in
those stately gardens intended, with their
avenues and terraces and fountains, to
celipse the glories of Versailles, the far-famed
minstrel was conducted into her
presence. The imperial Elizabetta gazed
with surprise at the youthful and unpretending
appearance of the little being
that had set the world madding. She
was in her picturesque Andalusian dress,
her silver lute was in her hand, and she
stood with modest and downcast eyes,
but with a simplicity and freshness of
beauty that still bespoke her "the Rose
of the Alhambra."

As usual she was accompanied by the
ever vigilant Fredegonda, who gave the
whole history of her parentage and descent
to the inquiring queen. If the
stately Elizabetta had been interested by
the appearance of Jacinta, she was still
more pleased when she learnt that she
was of a meritorious though impoverished
line, and that her father had bravely
fallen in the service of the crown. "If
thy powers equal their renown," said
she, "and thou canst cast forth this evil
spirit that possesses thy sovereign, thy
fortunes shall henceforth be my care,
and honours and wealth attend thee."

Impatient to make trial of her skill,
she led the way at once to the apartment
of the moody monarch.

Jacinta followed with downcast eyes
through files of guards and crowds of
courtiers. They arrived at length at a
great chamber hung with black. The
windows were closed to exclude the light
of day: a number of yellow wax tapers
in silver sconces diffused a lugubrious
light, and dimly revealed the figures of
mutes in mourning dresses, and courtiers
who glided about with noiseless step and
wo-begone visage. On the midst of a
funeral bed or bier, his hands folded on
his breast, and the tip of his nose just
visible, lay extended this would-be-buried
monarch.

The queen entered the chamber in silence,
and pointing to a footstool in an
obscure corner, beckoned to Jacinta to
sit down and commence.

At first she touched her lute with a
faltering hand, but gathering confidence
and animation as she proceeded, drew
forth such soft aerial harmony, that all
present could scarce believe it mortal.
As to the monarch, who had already
considered himself in the world of spirits,
he set it down for some angelic melody
or music of the spheres. By degrees the
theme was varied, and the voice of the
minstrel accompanied the instrument.
She poured forth one of the legendary
ballads treating of the ancient glories of
the Alhambra and the achievements of
the Moors. Her whole soul entered into
the theme, for with the recollections of
the Alhambra was associated the story
of her love. The funeral chamber resounded
with the animating strain. It
entered into the gloomy heart of the
monarch. He raised his head and gazed
around: he sat up on his couch, his eye
began to kindle—at length, leaping upon
the floor, he called for sword and buckler.

The triumph of music, or rather of the
enchanted lute was complete; the demon
of melancholy was cast forth; and, as it
were, a dead man brought to life. The
windows of the apartment were thrown
open; and the glorious effulgence of
Spanish sunshine burst into the late lugubrious
chamber; all eyes sought the
lovely enchantress, but the lute had fallen
from her hand, she had sunk upon the

earth, and the next moment was clasped
to the bosom of Ruyz de Alcarcon.

The nuptials of the happy couple were
shortly after celebrated with great splendour;
but hold—I hear the reader ask,
how did Ruyz de Alarcon account for
his long neglect? O that was all owing
to the opposition of a proud pragmatical
old father; besides, young people, who
really like one another, soon come to an
amicable understanding, and bury all
past grievances when once they meet.

But how was the proud pragmatical
old father reconciled to the match?

O his scruples were easily overcome
by a word or two from the queen, especially
as dignities and rewards were
showered upon the blooming favourite of
royalty. Besides, the lute of Jacinta,
you know, possessed a magic power,
and could control the most stubborn
head and hardest breast.

And what came of the enchanted lute?

O that is the most curious matter of
all, and plainly proves the truth of
all this story. That lute remained for
some time in the family, but was purloined
and carried off, as was supposed,
by the great singer Farinelli, in pure
jealousy. At his death it passed into
other hands in Italy, who were ignorant
of its mystic powers, and melting down
the silver, transferred the strings to an
old Cremona fiddle. The strings still
retain something of their magic virtues.
A word in the reader's ear, but let it go
no further—that fiddle is now bewitching
the whole world—it is the fiddle of Paganini!