The Alhambra a series of tales and sketches of the Moors and Spaniards |
THE LEGEND
OF
THE ROSE OF THE ALHAMBRA,
OR THE PAGE AND THE GER-FALCON. |
 | THE LEGEND
OF
THE ROSE OF THE ALHAMBRA,
OR THE PAGE AND THE GER-FALCON. The Alhambra |  |
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
beauty, sat in mournful desolation among her
neglected gardens. The tower of the 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 the 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
enlivened 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
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 place. 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 barbican 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 antichambers;
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 little of form, and
graceful as a young Antinous. To the queen, he
he was all deference and respect, yet he was at
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 over-look
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
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
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 that my aunt has charged me especially
to bar the door.”
“Against wicked cavaliers, doubtless; but I
am none of those, 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
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 warder 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 boddice and trim basquina 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
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, 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,
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 attempts 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
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
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
briar. 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
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 neice.
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 di mi!” cried she, “he is gone! he is
gone! and I shall never see him more.”
“Gone! who is gone! what youth is this 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 flew into the
tower. It was the queen's ger-falcon, and he
came in pursuit of it.”
“Ah, silly, girl! know that there are no
ger-falcons half so dangerous as these prankling
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
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
banks, 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 blossoms, and
balmy zephyr; the snows melted from the
mountains, until none remained, but on the lofty
summit of the Nevada, glistening through the
sultry summer air: still nothing was heard of the
forgetful page.
In the meantime, 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 lovelorn 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 the
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,
Zaida, 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 resolution and remained, 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 mayst 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 sprite 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
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
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 dewdrops 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, related all that had
a te timonial 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, spell-bound, 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 transcendant
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
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 music-mad, a different
mood prevailed at the court of Spain.
Philip V. as is well known, was a miserable hypochondriac,
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 upon 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
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
queen despatched missives 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 eclipse the glories of Versailles, the
far-famed minstrel was conducted into her presence.
The imperial Elizabetta gazed with surprize
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,”
spirit that possesses thy sovereign, thy fortune
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
in 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 woe-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
some angelic melody, or the 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 funereal 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; 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
sank upon the earth, and the next moment was
clasped to the bosom of Ruyz de Alarcon.
The nuptials of the happy couple were shortly
I hear the reader ask how did Ruyz de Alarcon
account for his long neglect? Oh,—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 whenever
they meet.
But how was the proud pragmatical old father
reconciled to the match?
Oh, his scruples were easily overruled 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
heart.
And what became of the enchanted lute?
Oh, that is the most curious matter of all, and
plainly proves the truth of all the 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
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!
| THE LEGEND
OF
THE ROSE OF THE ALHAMBRA,
OR THE PAGE AND THE GER-FALCON. The Alhambra | |