University of Virginia Library

THE
ALHAMBRA BY MOONLIGHT.

I have given a picture of my apartment on my
first taking possession of it; a few evenings have
produced a thorough change in the scene and in
my feelings. The moon, which then was invisible,
has gradually gained upon the nights, and now
rolls in full splendour above the towers, pouring a
flood of tempered light into every court and hall.
The garden beneath my window is gently lighted
up; the orange and citron trees are tipped with silver;
the fountain sparkles in the moon beams, and
even the blush of the rose is faintly visible.

I have sat for hours at my window inhaling the
sweetness of the garden, and musing on the chequered
features of those whose history is dimly
shadowed out in the elegant memorials around.

Sometimes I have issued forth at midnight when
every thing was quiet, and have wandered over
the whole building. Who can do justice to a
moonlight night in such a climate, and in such a
place! The temperature of an Andalusian midnight,
in summer, is perfectly etherial. We seem
lifted up into a purer atmosphere; there is a serenity
of soul, a buoyancy of spirits, an elasticity
of frame that render mere existence enjoyment.
The effect of moonlight, too, on the Alhambra
has something like enchantment. Every rent and
chasm of time, every mouldering tint and weather
stain disappears; the marble resumes its original
whiteness; the long colonnades brighten in
the moon beams; the halls are illuminated with a
softened radiance, until the whole edifice reminds
one of the enchanted palace of an Arabian tale.

At such time I have ascended to the little pavilion,
called the Queen's Toilette, to enjoy its varied and
extensive prospect. To the right, the snowy summits
of the Sierra Nevada would gleam like silver
clouds against the darker firmament, and all the
outlines of the mountain would be softened, yet delicately
defined. My delight, however, would be
to lean over the parapet of the tocador, and gaze
down upon Granada, spread out like a map below

me: all buried in deep repose, and its white palaces
and convents sleeping as it were in the moonshine.

Sometimes I would hear the faint sounds of castanets
from some party of dancers lingering in the
Alameda; at other times I have heard the dubious
tones of a guitar, and the notes of a single voice
rising from some solitary street, and have pictured
to myself some youthful cavalier serenading his lady's
window; a gallant custom of former days, but
now sadly on the decline except in the remote
towns and villages of Spain.

Such are the scenes that have detained me for
many an hour loitering about the courts and balconies
of the castle, enjoying that mixture of reverie
and sensation which steal away existence in a
southern climate—and it has been almost morning
before I have retired to my bed, and been lulled
to sleep by the falling waters of the fountain of
Lindaraxa.