 | THE JOURNEY. The Alhambra |  |
THE JOURNEY.
In the spring of 1829, the author of this work,
whom curiosity had brought into Spain, made a
rambling expedition from Seville to Granada, in
company with a friend, a member of the Russian
embassy at Madrid. Accident had thrown us together
from distant regions of the globe, and a similarity
of taste led us to wander together among
the romantic mountains of Andalusia. Should
these pages meet his eye, wherever thrown by
the duties of his station, whether mingling in the
pageantry of courts or meditating on the truer
glories of nature, may they recal the scenes of
our adventurous companionship, and with them the
remembrance of one, in whom neither time nor
distance will obliterate the recollection of his gentleness
and worth.
And here, before setting forth, let me indulge
in a few previous remarks on Spanish scenery
and Spanish travelling. Many are apt to picture
decked out with all the luxuriant charms of
voluptuous Italy. On the contrary, though there
are exceptions in some of the maratime provinces,
yet, for the greater part, it is a stern, melancholy
country, with rugged mountains and long,
naked, sweeping plains, destitute of trees, and invariably
silent and lonesome, partaking of the savage
and solitary character of Africa. What adds to this
silence and loneliness, is the absence of singing
birds, a natural consequence of the want of groves
and hedges. The vulture and the eagle are seen
wheeling about the mountain cliffs and soaring over
the plains, and groups of shy bustards stalk about
the heaths, but the myriads of smaller birds, which
animate the whole face of other countries, are met
with in but few provinces of Spain, and in them
chiefly among the orchards and gardens which surround
the habitations of man.
In the exterior provinces, the traveller occasionally
traverses great tracts cultivated with grain as
far as the eye can reach, waving at times with verdure,
at other times naked and sun-burnt; but he
looks round in vain for the hand that has tilled the
soil; at length he perceives some village perched
on a steep hill, or rugged crag, with mouldering
battlements and ruined watch-tower; a strong-hold,
for the custom among the peasantry of congregating
together for mutual protection, is still kept up in
most parts of Spain, in consequence of the maraudings
of roving freebooters.
But though a great part of Spain is deficient in
the garniture of groves and forests, and the softer
charms of ornamental cultivation, yet its scenery
has something of a high and lofty character to compensate
the want. It partakes something of the
attributes of its people, and I think that I better
understand the proud, hardy, frugal and abstemious
Spaniard, his manly defiance of hardships, and contempt
of effeminate indulgences, since I have seen
the country he inhabits.
There is something, too, in the sternly simple
features of the Spanish landscape, that impresses
on the soul a feeling of sublimity. The immense
plains of the Castiles and La Mancha, extending as
far as the eye can reach, derive an interest from
their very nakedness and immensity, and have something
of the solemn grandeur of the ocean. In
ranging over these boundless wastes, the eye catches
sight, here and there, of a straggling herd of cattle
attended by a lonely herdsman, motionless as a statue,
with his long slender pike tapering up like a
slowly moving along the waste like a train of camels
in the desert, or a single herdsman, armed
with blunderbuss and stiletto, and prowling over
the plain. Thus, the country, the habits, the very
looks of the people, have something of the Arabian
character. The general insecurity of the country
is evinced in the universal use of weapons. The
herdsman in the field, the shepherd in the plain
has his musket and his knife. The wealthy villager
rarely ventures to the market-town without
his trabucho; and, perhaps, a servant on foot with
a blunderbuss on his shoulder; and the most petty
journey is undertaken with the preparations of a
warlike enterprise.
The dangers of the road produce, also, a mode of
travelling, resembling, on a diminutive scale, the
caravans of the East. The arrieros or carriers,
congregate in troops, and set off in large and well-armed
trains on appointed days, while individual
travellers swell their number, and contribute to
their strength. In this primitive way is the commerce
of the country carried on. The muleteer
is the general medium of traffic, and the legitimate
wanderer of the land, traversing the Peninsula from
the Pyrenees and the Asturias, to the Alpuxarras,
He lives frugally and hardily; his alforjas
(or saddle-bags,) of coarse cloth, hold his scanty stock
of provisions; a leathern bottle hanging at his saddle-bow,
contains wine or water for a supply across
barren mountains, and thirsty plains; a mule cloth
spread upon the ground is his bed at night, and his
pack-saddle is his pillow. His low but clear-limbed
and sinewy form betokens strength; his complexion
is dark and sun-burnt; his eye resolute, but quiet
in its expression, except when kindled by sudden
emotion; his demeanour is frank, manly, and courteous,
and he never passes you without a grave salutation—“Dios
guarda à usted!”—“Vay usted
con Dios caballero!”—“God guard you!”—“God
be with you! cavalier!”
As these men have often their whole fortune at
stake upon the burden of their mules, they have
their weapons at hand, slung to their saddles, and
ready to be snatched down for desperate defence.
But their united numbers render them secure against
petty bands of marauders, and the solitary bandalero,
armed to the teeth, and mounted on his Andalusian
steed, hovers about them, like a pirate
about a merchant convoy, without daring to make
an assault.
The Spanish muleteer has an inexhaustible
his incessant way-faring. The airs are rude and
simple, consisting of but few inflexions. These he
chants forth with a loud voice, and long drawling
cadence, seated sideways on his mule, who seems
to listen with infinite gravity, and to keep time
with his paces, to the tune. The couplets thus
chanted are often old traditional romances about
the Moors; or some legend of a saint; or some love
ditty; or, what is still more frequent, some ballad
about a bold contrabandista, or hardy bandalero;
for the smuggler and the robber are poetical heroes
among the common people of Spain. Often the
song of the muleteer is composed at the instant,
and relates to some local scene, or some incident
of the journey. This talent of singing and improvising
is frequent in Spain, and is said to have been
inherited from the Moors. There is something
wildly pleasing in listening to these ditties among
the rude and lonely scenes they illustrate, accompanied
as they are, by the occasional jingle of the
mule-bell.
It has a most picturesque effect, also, to meet a
train of muleteers in some mountain pass. First
you hear the bells of the leading mules, breaking
with their simple melody the stillness of the airy
height; or, perhaps, the voice of the muleteer admonishing
chanting, at the full stretch of his lungs, some traditionary
ballad. At length you see the mules
slowly winding along the cragged defile, sometimes
descending precipitous cliffs, so as to present themselves
in full relief against the sky, sometimes
toiling up the deep arid chasms below you. As
they approach, you descry their gay decorations of
worsted tufts, tassels, and saddle-cloths; while, as
they pass by, the ever ready trabucho, slung behind
their packs and saddles, gives a hint of the
insecurity of the road.
The ancient kingdom of Granada into which we
are about to penetrate, is one of the most mountainous
regions of Spain. Vast sierras or chains
of mountains, destitute of shrub or tree, and mottled
with variegated marbles and granites, elevate
their sun-burnt summits against a deep blue sky,
yet in their rugged bosoms lie engulfed the most
verdant and fertile valley, where the desert and
the garden strive for mastery, and the very rock,
as it were, compelled to yield the fig, the orange,
and the citron, and to blossom with the myrtle and
the rose.
In the wild passes of these mountains, the sight
of walled towns and villages built like eagles' nests
among the cliffs, and surrounded by Moorish battlements,
lofty peaks, carry the mind back to the chivalrous
days of Christian and Moslem warfare, and to the
romantic struggle for the conquest of Granada. In
traversing their lofty Sierras, the traveller is often
obliged to alight and lead his horse up and down
the steep and jagged ascents and descents, resembling
the broken steps of a staircase. Sometimes
the road winds along dizzy precipices, without parapet
to guard him from the gulfs below, and then
will plunge down steep and dark and dangerous
declivities. Sometimes it struggles through rugged
barrancos, or ravines, worn by water torrents;
the obscure paths of the Contrabandista, while ever
and anon, the ominous cross, the memento of robbery
and murder, erected on a mound of stones at
some lonely part of the road, admonishes the traveller
that he is among the haunts of banditti; perhaps,
at that very moment, under the eye of some
lurking bandalero. Sometimes, in winding through
the narrow valleys, he is startled by a hoarse bellowing,
and beholds above him, on some green fold
of the mountain side, a herd of fierce Andalusian
bulls, destined for the combat of the arena. There
is something awful in the contemplation of these
terrific animals, clothed with tremendous strength,
and ranging their native pastures, in untamed wildness:
know no one but the solitary herdsman who attends
upon them, and even he at times dares not
venture to approach them. The low bellowings of
these bulls, and their menacing aspect as they look
down from their rocky height, give additional wildness
to the savage scenery around.
I have been betrayed unconsciously into a longer
disquisition than I had intended on the several features
of Spanish travelling; but there is a romance
about all the recollections of the Peninsula that is
dear to the imagination.
It was on the first of May that my companion
and myself set forth from Seville, on our route to
Granada. We had made all due preparations for
the nature of our journey, which lay through
mountainous regions where the roads are little better
than mere mule paths, and too frequently beset
by robbers. The most valuable part of our
luggage had been forwarded by the arrieros; we
retained merely clothing and necessaries for the
journey, and money for the expenses of the road,
with a sufficient surplus of the latter to satisfy the
expectations of robbers, should we be assailed, and to
save ourselves from the rough treatment that awaits
the too wary and empty handed traveller. A couple
of stout hired steeds were provided for ourselves,
the conveyance of a sturdy Biscayan lad of about
twenty years of age, who was to guide us through
the perplexed mazes of the mountain roads, to
take care of our horses, to act occasionally as our
valet, and at all times as our guard; for he had
a formidable trabucho, or carbine, to defend us
from rateros, or solitary footpads, about which
weapon he made much vain-glorious boast, though,
to the discredit of his generalship, I must say, that
it generally hung unloaded behind his saddle. He
was, however, a faithful, cheery, kind-hearted creature,
full of saws and proverbs as that miracle of
squires, the renowned Sancho himself, whose name
we bestowed upon him; and, like a true Spaniard,
though treated by us with companionable familiarity,
he never for a moment in his utmost hilarity,
outstripped the bounds of respectful decorum.
Thus equipped and attended, we set out on our
journey with a genuine disposition to be pleased:
with such a disposition, what a country is Spain for
a traveller, where the most miserable inn is as full
of adventure as an enchanted castle, and every
meal is in itself an achievement! Let others repine
at the lack of turnpike roads and sumptuous
hotels, and all the elaborate comforts of a country
cultivated into tameness and common-place, but
way-faring, the frank, hospitable, though
half wild manners, that give such a true game flavour
to romantic Spain!
Our first evening's entertainment had a relish of
the kind. We arrived after sunset at a little town
among the hills, after a fatiguing journey over a
wide houseless plain, where we had been repeatedly
drenched with showers. In the inn were
quartered a party of Miguelistas, who were patrolling
the country in pursuit of robbers. The appearance
of foreigners like ourselves was unusual
in this remote town. Mine host with two or three
old gossipping comrades in brown cloaks studied
our passports in a corner of the posada, while an
Alguazil took notes by the dim light of a lamp.
The passports were in foreign languages, and perplexed
them, but our Squire Sancho assisted them
in their studies, and magnified our importance with
the grandiloquence of a Spaniard. In the mean
time the magnificent distribution of a few cigars
had won the hearts of all around us. In a little
while the whole community seemed put in agitation
to make us welcome. The Corregidor himself
waited upon us, and a great rush-bottomed armed
chair was ostentatiously bolstered into our room by
our landlady, for the accommodation of that important
took supper with us: a surly, talking, laughing,
swaggering Andaluz, who had made a campaign in
South America, and recounted his exploits in love
and war with much pomp of phrase and vehemence
of gesticulation, and mysterious rolling of the eye.
He told us he had a list of all the robbers in the
country, and meant to ferret out every mother's son
of them; he offered us at the same time some of
his soldiers as an escort. “One is enough to protect
you, Signors, the robbers know me, and know my
men; the sight of one is enough to spread terror
through a whole sierra.” We thanked him for his
offer, but assured him, in his own strain, that with
the protection of our redoubtable Squire Sancho,
we were not afraid of all the ladrones of Andalusia.
While we were supping with our Andalusian
friend, we heard the notes of a guitar and the
click of castanets, and presently, a chorus of voices,
singing a popular air. In fact, mine host had gathered
together the amateur singers and musicians
and the rustic belles of the neighbourhood, and
on going forth, the court-yard of the inn presented
a scene of true Spanish festivity. We took our
seats with mine host and hostess and the commander
of the patrol, under the archway of the court.
shoemaker was the Orpheus of the place. He was
a pleasant looking fellow with huge black whiskers
and a roguish eye. His sleeves were rolled up to
his elbows; he touched the guitar with masterly
skill, and sang little amorous ditties with an expressive
leer at the women, with whom he was evidently
a favourite. He afterwards danced a fandango
with a buxom Andalusian damsel, to the great delight
of the spectators. But none of the females
present could compare with mine host's pretty
daughter Josefa, who had slipped away and made
her toilette for the occasion, and had adorned her
head with roses; and also distinguished herself in
a bolero with a handsome young dragoon. We
had ordered our host to let wine and refreshments
circulate freely among the company, yet, though
there was a motley assemblage of soldiers, muleteers
and villagers, no one exceeded the bounds of
sober enjoyment. The scene was a study for a
painter: the picturesque group of dancers; the
troopers in their half military dresses, the peasantry
wrapped in their brown cloaks, nor must I omit
to mention the old meagre Alguazil in a short black
cloak, who took no notice of any thing going on,
but sat in a corner diligently writing by the dim
in the days of Don Quixote.
I am not writing a regular narrative, and do
not pretend to give the varied events of several
days' rambling over hill and dale, and moor and
mountain. We travelled in true contrabandista
style, taking every thing, rough and smooth, as we
found it, and mingling with all classes and conditions
in a kind of vagabond companionship. It is
the true way to travel in Spain. Knowing the
scanty larders of the inns, and the naked tracts of
country the traveller has often to traverse, we had
taken care, on starting, to have the alforjas, or saddle-bags
of our Squire well stocked with cold provisions,
and his beta, or leathern bottle, which was
of portly dimensions, filled to the neck with choice
Valdepenas wine. As this was a munition for our
campaign more important than even his trabucho,
we exhorted him to have an eye to it, and I will
do him the justice to say that his namesake, the
trencher-loving Sancho himself, could not excel
him as a provident purveyor. Though the alforjas
and beta were repeatedly and vigorously assailed
throughout the journey, they appeared to have a
miraculous property of being never empty; for our
vigilant Squire took care to sack every thing that
supply our next day's luncheon.
What luxurious noontide repasts have we made
on the green sward by the side of a brook or fountain
under a shady tree, and then what delicious
siestas on our cloaks spread out on the herbage!
We paused one day at noon, for a repast of the
kind. It was in a pleasant little green meadow,
surrounded by hills covered with olive trees. Our
cloaks were spread on the grass under an elm tree,
by the side of a babbling rivulet: our horses were
tethered where they might crop the herbage, and
Sancho produced his alforjas with an air of triumph.
They contained the contributions of four days' journeying,
but had been signally enriched by the foraging
of the previous evening, in a plenteous inn
at Antequera. Our Squire drew forth the heterogeneous
contents one by one, and they seemed to
have no end. First came forth a shoulder of roasted
kid, very little the worse for wear, then an entire
partridge, then a great morsel of salted codfish
wrapped in paper, then the residue of a ham,
then the half of a pullet, together with several rolls
of bread and a rabble route of oranges, figs, raisins,
and walnuts. His beta also had been recruited
with some excellent wine of Malaga. At every
ludicrous surprise, throwing himself back on the
grass and shouting with laughter.
Nothing pleased this simple-hearted varlet more
than to be compared, for his devotion to the trencher,
to the renowned squire of Don Quixote. He
was well versed in the history of the Don, and,
like most of the common people of Spain, he firmly
believed it to be a true history.
“All that, however, happened a long time ago,
Signor,” said he to me, one day, with an inquiring
look.
“A very long time,” was the reply.
“I dare say, more than a thousand years?”—
still looking dubiously.
“I dare say? not less.”
The squire was satisfied.
As we were making our repast above described,
and diverting ourselves with the simple drollery of
our squire, a solitary beggar approached us, who
had almost the look of a pilgrim. He was evidently
very old, with a gray beard, and supported himself
on a staff, yet age had not borne him down;
he was tall and erect, and had the wreck of a fine
form. He wore a round Andalusian hat, a sheep-skin
jacket, and leathern breeches, gaiters and
decent, his demeanour manly, and he addressed us
with that grave courtesy that is to be remarked in
the lowest Spaniard. We were in a favourable
mood for such a visiter, and in a freak of capricious
charity gave him some silver, a loaf of fine
wheaten bread, and a goblet of our choice wine of
Malaga. He received them thankfully, but without
any grovelling tribute of gratitude. Tasting
the wine, he held it up to the light, with a slight
beam of surprise in his eye; then quaffing it off at
a draught; “It is many years,” said he, “since I
have tasted such wine. It is a cordial to an old
man's heart.” Then looking at the beautiful
wheaten loaf; “Bendita sea tal pan!” (blessed be
such bread!) So saying, he put it in his wallet.
We urged him to eat it on the spot. “No, Signors,”
replied he, “the wine I had to drink, or
leave; but the bread I must take home to share
with my family.”
Our man Sancho sought our eye, and reading
permission there, gave the old man some of the
ample fragments of our repast; on condition, however,
that he should sit down and make a meal.
He accordingly took his seat at some little distance
from us, and began to eat, slowly, and with a sobriety
There was altogether a measured manner
and a quiet self-possession about the old man that
made me think he had seen better days; his language,
too, though simple, had occasionally something
picturesque and almost poetical in the phraseology.
I set him down for some broken down cavalier.
I was mistaken, it was nothing but the innate
courtesy of a Spaniard, and the poetical turn
of thought and language often to be found in the
lowest classes of this clear witted people. For fifty
years, he told us, he had been a shepherd, but now
he was out of employ, and destitute. “When I
was a young man,” said he, “nothing could harm or
trouble me. I was always well, always gay; but
now I am seventy-nine years of age, and a beggar,
and my heart begins to fail me.”
Still he was not a regular mendicant, it was not
until recently that want had driven him to this degradation,
and he gave a touching picture of the
struggle between hunger and pride, when abject
destitution first came upon him. He was returning
from Malaga, without money; he had not tasted
food for some time, and was crossing one of the
great plains of Spain, where there were but few
habitations. When almost dead with hunger, he
“Perdona usted per Dios hermano!” (excuse us, brother,
for God's sake!) was the reply;—the usual
mode in Spain of refusing a beggar. “I turned
away,” said he, “with shame greater than my
hunger, for my heart was yet too proud. I came
to a river with high banks and deep rapid current,
and felt tempted to throw myself in; what should
such an old worthless wretched man as I live for!”
But, when I was on the brink of the current, I
thought on the blessed Virgin, and turned away. I
travelled on until I saw a country-seat, at a little
distance from the road, and entered the outer gate of
the court-yard. The door was shut, but there were
two young signoras at a window. I approached,
and begged: “Perdona usted per Dios hermano!”
(excuse us, brother, for God's sake!) and the window
closed. I crept out of the court-yard; but
hunger overcame me, and my heart gave way. I
thought my hour was at hand. So I laid myself
down at the gate, commended myself to the holy
Virgin, and covered my head to die. In a little
while afterwards, the master of the house came
home. Seeing me lying at his gate, he uncovered
my head, had pity on my gray hairs, took me into
his house and gave me food. So, Signors, you see
of the Virgin.
The old man was on his way to his native place
Archidona, which was close by the summit of a
steep and rugged mountain. He pointed to the
ruins of its old Moorish castle. That castle, he
said, was inhabited by a Moorish king at the time
of the wars of Granada. Queen Isabella invaded
it with a great army, but the king looked down
from his castle among the clouds, and laughed her
to scorn. Upon this, the Virgin appeared to the
queen, and guided her and her army up a mysterious
path of the mountain, which had never
before been known. When the Moor saw her
coming, he was astonished, and springing with his
horse from a precipice was dashed to pieces. The
marks of his horse's hoofs, said the old man, are to
be seen on the margin of the rock to this day. And
see, Signors, yonder is the road by which the
queen and her army mounted; you see it like a
riband up the mountain side; but the miracle is,
that, though it can be seen at a distance, when
you come near, it disappears. The ideal road to
which he pointed, was evidently a sandy ravine of
the mountain, which looked narrow and defined at
approach. As the old man's heart warmed with
wine and wassail, he went on to tell us a story of the
buried treasure left under the earth by the Moorish
king. His own house was next to the foundations
of the castle. The curate and notary dreamt
three times of the treasure, and went to work at
the place pointed out in their dreams. His own son-in-law
heard the sound of their pick-axes and
spades at night. What they found nobody knows;
they became suddenly rich, but kept their own secret.
Thus the old man had once been next door
to fortune, but was doomed never to get under the
same roof.
I have remarked that the stories of treasure buried
by the Moors, which prevail throughout Spain,
are most current among the poorest people. It is
thus kind nature consoles with shadows for the lack
of substantials. The thirsty man dreams of fountains
and roaring streams, the hungry man of ideal
banquets, and the poor man of heaps of hidden
gold; nothing certainly is more magnificent than
the imagination of a beggar.
The last travelling sketch which I shall give is
a curious scene at the little city of Loxa. This
was a famous belligerent frontier post, in the time
walls. It was the strong-hold of old Ali Atar, the
father-in-law of Boabdil, when that fiery veteran
sallied forth with his son-in-law, on that disastrous
inroad, that ended in the death of the chieftain,
and the capture of the monarch. Loxa is wildly
situated in a broken mountain pass, on the banks
of the Xenil, among rocks and groves, and meadows
and gardens. The people seem still to retain the
bold fiery spirit of the olden time. Our inn was
suited to the place. It was kept by a young, handsome,
Andalusian widow, whose trim busquina of
black silk fringed with bugles, set off the play of a
graceful form, and round pliant limbs. Her step
was firm and elastic, her dark eye was full of fire,
and the coquetry of her air, and varied ornaments
of her person showed that she was accustomed
to be admired.
She was well matched by a brother, nearly about
her own age; they were perfect models of the Andalusian
majo and maja. He was tall, vigorous, and
well formed, with a clear, olive complexion, a dark
beaming eye, and curling, chestnut whiskers, that
met under his chin. He was gallantly dressed in a
short green velvet jacket, fitted to his shape, profusely
decorated with silver buttons, with a white
of the same, with rows of buttons from the hips to
the knees; a pink silk handkerchief round his neck,
gathered through a ring, on the bosom of a neatly
plaited shirt; a sash round the waist to match; bottinas
or spatterdashes of the finest russet leather,
elegantly worked and open at the calves to show
his stockings, and russet shoes setting off a well
shaped foot.
As he was standing at the door, a horseman rode
up and entered into low and earnest conversation
with him. He was dressed in similar style, and almost
with equal finery. A man about thirty,
square built, with strong Roman features, handsome,
though slightly pitted with the small-pox,
with a free, bold and somewhat daring air. His
powerful black horse was decorated with tassels
and fanciful trappings, and a couple of broad-mouthed
blunderbusses hung behind the saddle. He
had the air of those contrabandistas that I have
seen in the mountains of Ronda, and, evidently, had
a good understanding with the brother of mine
hostess; nay, if I mistake not, he was a favourite
admirer of the widow. In fact, the whole inn, and
its inmates had something of a contrabandista aspect,
and the blunderbuss stood in a corner beside
passed his evening in the posada, and sang several
bold mountain romances with great spirit.
As we were at supper, two poor Asturians put
in in distress, begging food and a night's lodging.
They had been waylaid by robbers, as they came
from a fair among the mountains, robbed of a horse,
which carried all their stock in trade, stripped of
their money and most of their apparel, beaten for
having offered resistance, and left almost naked in
the road. My companion, with a prompt generosity,
natural to him, ordered them a supper and a
bed, and gave them a supply of money to help them
forward towards their home.
As the evening advanced, the dramatis personæ
thickened. A large man, about sixty years of age,
of powerful frame, came strolling in, to gossip with
mine hostess. He was dressed in the ordinary
Andalusian costume, but had a huge sabre tucked
under his arm, wore large moustaches and had
something of a lofty swaggering air. Every one
seemed to regard him with great deference.
Our man, Sancho, whispered to us that he was
Don Ventura Rodriguez, the hero and champion
of Loxa, famous for his prowess and the strength
of his arm. In the time of the French invasion,
first secured their horses, then attacked them with
his sabre; killed some, and took the rest prisoners.
For this exploit, the king allows him a peceta, (the
fifth of a duro, or dollar,) per day, and has dignified
him with the title of Don.
I was amused to notice his swelling language
and demeanour. He was evidently a thorough
Andalusian, boastful as he was brave. His sabre
was always in his hand, or under his arm. He carries
it always about with him as a child does a
doll, calls it his Santa Teresa, and says, that when
he draws it, “tembla la tierra!” (the earth trembles!)
I sat until a late hour listening to the varied
themes of this motley groupe, who mingled together
with the unreserve of a Spanish posada. We
had contrabandista songs, stories of robbers, guerilla
exploits, and Moorish legends. The last one
from our handsome landlady, who gave a poetical
account of the infiernos, or infernal regions
of Loxa—dark caverns, in which subterraneous
streams and waterfalls make a mysterious sound.
The common people say they are money coiners,
shut up there from the time of the Moors, and that
Were it the purport of this work, I could fill its
pages with the incidents and scenes of our rambling
expedition, but other themes invite me. Journeying
in this manner, we at length emerged from
the mountains, and entered upon the beautiful
Vega of Granada. Here we took our last midday's
repast under a grove of olive trees, on the
borders of a rivulet, with the old Moorish capital
in the distance, dominated by the ruddy towers of
the Alhambra, while far above it the snowy summits
of the Sierra Nevada shone like silver. The
day was without a cloud, and the heat of the sun
tempered by cool breezes from the mountains; after
our repast, we spread our cloaks and took our
last siesta, lulled by the humming of bees among
the flowers, and the notes of the ring doves from
the neighbouring olive trees. When the sultry
hours were past, we resumed our journey, and after
passing between hedges of aloes and Indian
figs, and through a wilderness of gardens, arrived
about sun-set at the gates of Granada.
To the traveller imbued with a feeling for the
historical and poetical, the Alhambra of Granada is
as much an object of veneration as is the Caaba, or
sacred house of Mecca, to all true Moslem pilgrims.
How many legends and traditions, true and fabulous,
how many songs and romances, Spanish and Arabian,
of love and war and chivalry, are associated
with this romantic pile! The reader may judge,
therefore, of our delight, when, shortly after our arrival
in Granada, the governor of Alhambra gave us
permission to occupy his vacant apartments in the
Moorish palace. My companion was soon summoned
away by the duties of his station, but I remained
for several months spell-bound in the old
enchanted pile. The following papers are the result
of my reveries and researches, during that delicious
thraldom. If they have the power of imparting
any of the witching charms of the place to
the imagination of the reader, he will not repine
at lingering with me for a season in the legendary
halls of the Alhambra.
| THE JOURNEY. The Alhambra | |