 | THE COURT OF LIONS. The Alhambra |  |
THE COURT OF LIONS.
The peculiar charm of this old dreamy palace,
is its power of calling up vague reveries and picturings
of the past, and thus clothing naked realities
with the illusions of the memory and the imagination.
As I delight to walk in these “vain shadows,”
I am prone to seek those parts of the Alhambra
which are most favourable to this phantasmagoria
of the mind; and none are more so
than the Court of Lions and its surrounding halls.
Here the hand of time has fallen the lightest, and
the traces of Moorish elegance and splendour, exist
in almost their original brilliancy. Earthquakes
have shaken the foundations of this pile, and rent
its rudest towers, yet see—not one of those slender
columns has been displaced, not an arch of that
the fairy fretwork of these domes, apparently as
unsubstantial as the crystal fabrics of a morning's
frost, yet exist after the lapse of centuries, almost
as fresh as if from the hand of the Moslem artist.
I write in the midst of these mementos of the
past, in the fresh hour of early morning, in the
fated hall of the Abencerrages. The blood-stained
fountain, the legendary monument of their massacre,
is before me; the lofty jet almost casts its
dew upon my paper. How difficult to reconcile
the ancient tale of violence and blood, with the
gentle and peaceful scene around. Every thing
here appears calculated to inspire kind and happy
feelings, for every thing is delicate and beautiful.
The very light falls tenderly from above, through
the lantern of a dome tinted and wrought as if by
fairy hands. Through the ample and fretted arch
of the portal, I behold the Court of Lions, with
brilliant sunshine gleaming along its colonnades and
sparkling in its fountains. The lively swallow
dives into the court, and then surging upwards,
darts away twittering over the roof; the busy bee
toils humming among the flower beds, and painted
butterflies hover from plant to plant, and flutter
up, and sport with each other in the sunny
picture some pensive beauty of the harem, loitering
in these secluded haunts of oriental luxury.
He, however, who would behold this scene under
an aspect more in unison with its fortunes, let
him come when the shadows of evening temper
the brightness of the court and throw a gloom into
the surrounding halls,—then nothing can be more
serenely melancholy, or more in harmony with the
tale of departed grandeur.
At such times I am apt to seek the Hall of Justice,
whose deep shadowy arcades extend across
the upper end of the court. Here were performed,
in presence of Ferdinand and Isabella, and their
triumphant court, the pompous ceremonies of high
mass, on taking possession of the Alhambra. The
very cross is still to be seen upon the wall, where
the altar was erected, and where officiated the
grand cardinal of Spain, and others of the highest
religious dignitaries of the land.
I picture to myself the scene when this place
was filled with the conquering host, that mixture
of mitred prelate, and shorn monk, and steel-clad
knight, and silken courtier: when crosses and croziers,
and religious standards were mingled with
proud armorial ensigns and the banners of the
through these Moslem halls. I picture to myself
Columbus, the future discoverer of a world, taking
his modest stand in a remote corner, the humble
and neglected spectator of the pageant. I see in
imagination the Catholic sovereigns prostrating
themselves before the altar and pouring forth
thanks for their victory, while the vaults resound
with sacred minstrelsy and the deep-toned Te
Deum.
The transient illusion is over—the pageant melts
from the fancy—monarch, priest, and warrior return
into oblivion, with the poor moslems over whom
they exulted. The hall of their triumph is waste
and desolate. The bat flits about its twilight vaults,
and the owl hoots from the neighbouring tower of
Comares. The Court of the Lions has also its
share of supernatural legends. I have already
mentioned the belief in the murmuring of voices
and clanking of chains, made at night by the spirits
of the murdered Abencerrages. Mateo Ximenes,
a few evenings since, at one of the gatherings in
Dame Antonia's apartment, related a fact which
happened within the knowledge of his grandfather
the legendary tailor. There was an invalid soldier,
who had charge of the Alhambra, to show it
passing through the Court of Lions, he heard
footsteps in the Hall of the Abencerrages. Supposing
some loungers to be lingering there, he advanced
to attend upon them, when, to his astonishment,
he beheld four Moors richly dressed, with
gilded cuirasses and scimitars, and poniards glittering
with precious stones. They were walking to
and fro with solemn pace, but paused and beckoned
to him. The old soldier, however, took to
flight; and could never afterwards be prevailed
upon to enter the Alhambra. Thus it is that men
sometimes turn their backs upon fortune; for it is
the firm opinion of Mateo that the Moors intended
to reveal the place where their treasures lay buried.
A successor to the invalid soldier was more
knowing; he came to the Alhambra poor, but at
the end of a year went off to Malaga, bought
horses, set up a carriage, and still lives there, one
of the richest as well as oldest men of the place:
all which, Mateo sagely surmises, was in consequence
of his finding out the golden secret of these
phantom Moors.
On entering the Court of the Lions, a few evenings
since, I was startled at beholding a turbaned
Moor quietly seated near the fountain. It seemed,
for a moment, as if one of the stories of Mateo Ximenes
of the Alhambra had broken the spell of centuries,
and become visible. It proved, however, to be a
mere ordinary mortal; a native of Tetuan in Barbary,
who had a shop in the Zacatin of Granada,
where he sold rhubarb, trinkets, and perfumes.
As he spoke Spanish fluently, I was enabled to hold
conversation with him, and found him shrewd and
intelligent. He told me that he came up the hill occasionally
in the summer, to pass a part of the day
in the Alhambra, which reminded him of the old
palaces in Barbary, which were built and adorned
in similar style, though with less magnificence.
As we walked about the palace, he pointed out
several of the Arabic inscriptions, as possessing
much poetic beauty.
“Ah! Señor,” said he, “when the Moors held
Granada, they were a gayer people than they are
now-a-days. They thought only of love, of music,
and of poetry. They made stanzas upon every occasion,
and set them all to music. He who could
make the best verses, and she who had the most
tuneful voice, might be sure of favour and preferment.
In those days, if any one asked for bread,
the reply was, `Make me a couplet;' and the poorest
beggar, if he begged in rhyme, would often be
rewarded with a piece of gold.”
“And is the popular feeling for poetry,” said I,
“entirely lost among you?”
“By no means, Señor; the people of Barbary,
even those of the lower classes still make couplets,
and good ones too, as in the old time, but talent is
not rewarded as it was then: the rich prefer the
jingle of their gold to the sound of poetry or
music.”
As he was talking, his eye caught one of the
inscriptions that foretold perpetuity to the power
and glory of the moslem monarchs, the masters of
the pile. He shook his head and shrugged his
shoulders as he interpreted it. “Such might have
been the case,” said he; “the moslems might still
have been reigning in the Alhambra, had not
Boabdil been a traitor, and given up his capitol to
the Christians. The Spanish monarchs would never
have been able to conquer it by open force.”
I endeavoured to vindicate the memory of the
unlucky Boabdil from this aspersion, and to show
that the dissensions which led to the downfal of the
Moorish throne, originated in the cruelty of his tiger-hearted
father; but the Moor would admit of
no palliation.
“Abul Hassan,” said he, “might have been
cruel, but he was brave, vigilant, and patriotic.
Had he been properly seconded, Granada would
his plans, crippled his power, sowed treason in his
palace, and dissension in his camp. May the curse
of God light upon him for his treachery.” With
these words the Moor left the Alhambra.
The indignation of my turbaned companion
agrees with an anecdote related by a friend, who,
in the course of a tour in Barbary, had an interview
with the pasha of Tetuan. The Moorish governor
was particular in his inquiries about the
soil, the climate and resources of Spain, and especially
concerning the favoured regions of Andalusia,
the delights of Granada and the remains of its
royal palace. The replies awakened all those
fond recollections, so deeply cherished by the
Moors, of the power and splendour of their ancient
empire in Spain. Turning to his moslem attendants,
the pasha stroked his beard, and broke forth
in passionate lamentations that such a sceptre
should have fallen from the sway of true believers.
He consoled himself, however, with the persuasion,
that the power and prosperity of the Spanish nation
were on the decline, that a time would come
when the Moors would reconquer their rightful
domains; and that the day was, perhaps, not far
distant when Mahommedan worship would again
be offered up in the mosque of Cordova, and a Mohammedan
Such is the general aspiration and belief among
the Moors of Barbary; who consider Spain, and
especially Andalusia, their rightful heritage, of
which they have been despoiled by treachery and
violence. These ideas are fostered and perpetuated
by the descendants of the exiled Moors of
Granada, scattered among the cities of Barbary.
Several of these reside in Tetuan, preserving their
ancient names, such as Paez, and Medina, and refraining
from intermarriage with any families who
cannot claim the same high origin. Their vaunted
lineage is regarded with a degree of popular deference
rarely shown in Mohammedan communities
to any hereditary distinction except in the royal
line.
These families, it is said, continue to sigh after the
terrestrial paradise of their ancestors, and to put up
prayers in their mosques on Fridays, imploring Allah
to hasten the time when Granada shall be restored
to the faithful; an event to which they look
forward as fondly and confidently as did the Christian
crusaders to the recovery of the Holy Sepulchre.
Nay, it is added, that some of them retain
the ancient maps and deeds of the estates and gardens
keys of the houses; holding them as evidences of
their hereditary claims, to be produced at the anticipated
day of restoration.
| THE COURT OF LIONS. The Alhambra | |