 | The works of Washington Irving |  |
THE ALHAMBRA.
TO DAVID WILKIE, ESQ. R.A.
You may remember, that in the rambles
we once took together about some
of the old cities of Spain, particularly
Toledo and Seville, we remarked a strong
mixture of the Saracenic with the Gothic,
remaining from the time of the Moors;
and were more than once struck with
scenes and incidents in the streets, which
reminded us of passages in the "Arabian
Nights." You then urged me to write
something that should illustrate those
peculiarities, "something in the Haroun
Alraschid style," that should have a dash
of that Arabian spice which pervades
every thing in Spain. I call this to your
mind, to show you that you are, in some
degree, responsible for the present work,
in which I have given a few "Arabesque"
sketches from the life, and tales founded
on popular traditions, which were chiefly
struck off during a residence in one of
the most Moresco-Spanish places in the
Peninsula.
I inscribe these pages to you as a memorial
of the pleasant scenes we have
witnessed together in that land of adventure,
and as a testimonial of an esteem
for your worth which is only exceeded
by admiration of your talents.
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
recall the scenes of our adventurous companionship,
and with them the remembrance
of one, in whom neither time nor
distance will obliterate the remembrance
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 Spain to their
imaginations as a soft southern region,
decked out with all the luxuriant charms
of voluptuous Italy. On the contrary,
though there are exceptions in some of
the maritime provinces, yet, for the
greater part, it is a stern, melancholy
country, with rugged mountains, and
long sweeping plains, destitute of trees,
and indescribably 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 in Spain,
and gardens which surround the habitations
of men.
In the interior 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 sunburnt, but he
looks round in vain for the hand that has
tilled the soil. At length, he perceives
some village on a steep hill, or rugged
crag, with mouldering battlements and
ruined watchtower; a stronghold, in old
times, against civil war, or Moorish inroad;
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 of 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
lance into the air; or, beholds a long
train of mules 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
trabuco, and, perhaps, a servant on foot
with a blunderbuss on his shoulder; and
the most petty journey is undertaken
with the preparation 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 convoys, and set off in large and
well-armed trains on appointed days;
while additional 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 traverser of the land, crossing
the peninsula from the Pyrenees and the
Asturias to the Alpuxarras, the Serrania
de Ronda, and even to the gates of
Gibraltar. He lives frugally and hardily:
his alforjas 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 packsaddle is his pillow.
His low, but clean-limbed and sinewy
form betokens strength; his complexion
is dark and sunburnt; 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 guarde a usted!"
"Vaya 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 on their saddles, and ready to be
snatched out for desperate defence. But
their united numbers render them secure
against petty bands of marauders, and
the solitary bandolero, 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
with which to beguile his incessant wayfaring.
The airs are rude and simple,
consisting of but few inflexions. These
be 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's still more frequent, some ballad
about a bold contrabandista, or hardy
bandolero, 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 dilties
among the rude and lonely scenes
that 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 some tardy or
wandering animal, or 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 trabuco, slung behind the
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 sunburnt summits against a deep
blue sky; yet in their rugged bosoms lie
engulfed the most verdant and fertile
valleys, where the desert and the garden
strive for mastery, and the very rock is,
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,
or of ruined watchtowers perched on
lofty peaks, carries the mind back to the
chivalric days of Christian and Moslem
warfare, and to the romantic struggle for
the conquest of Granada. In traversing
these 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 straggles
through rugged barrancas, or ravines,
worn by winter torrents, the obscure path
of the contrabandista; while, ever and
anon, the ominous cross, the monument
of robbery and murder, erected on a
mound of stone 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 bandolero. 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, strangers almost to the face of
man: they know no one but the solitary
herdsman who attends upon them, and
even he at times dares not venture to approach
them. The low bellowing 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 general features of Spanish
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 mulepaths, 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,
and a third for our scanty luggage, and
for 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 the horses, to act occasionally as
our valet, and at all times as our guard;
for he had a formidable trabuco or carbine,
to defend us from rateros, or solitary
footpads, about which weapon he
made much vainglorious boasts, 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,
overstepped 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 commonplace;
but give me the rude mountain
scramble, the roving, hap-hazard
wayfaring, 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 a party of Miqueletes, 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
gossiping 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 arm-chair was ostentatiously
bolstered into our room by
our landlady, for the accommodation of
that important personage. The commander
of the patrol took supper with
us; a lively, talking, laughing Andaluz,
who had made a campaign in South
America, and recounted his exploits in
love and war with much pomp of phrase,
vehemence of gesticulation, and mysterious
rolling of the eye. He told us that
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,
Señores; 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 Drawcausir
friend, we heard the notes of a
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; the guitar passed from
hand to hand, but a jovial shoemaker was
the Orpheus of the place. He was a
pleasant-looking fellow, with huge black
whiskers; 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,
Pepita, who had slipped away and made
her toilette for the occasion, and had
covered her head with roses; and who
distinguished herself in a bolero with a
handsome young dragoon. We had ordered
our host to let wine and refreshment
circulate freely among the company,
yet though there was a motley
assembly 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 light of a
huge copper lamp, that might have figured
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 which 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 bota, or leathern bottle,
which was of portly dimensions, filled to
the neck with choice Valdepeñas wine.
As this was a munition for our campaign
more important than even his trabuco,
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
bota 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
remained from our evening repasts at the
inns, to 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 bubbling 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
these 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 rout of oranges,
figs, raisins, and walnuts. His bota
also had been recruited with some excellent
wine of Malaga. At every fresh
apparition from his larder, he would
enjoy our ludicrous surprise, throwing
himself back on the grass, and shouting
with laughter. Nothing pleased
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, señor?" 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 the 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 bowed him down; he was tall
and erect, and had the wreck of a fine
form. He wore a round Andalusian hat,
a sheepskin jacket, and leathern breeches,
gaiters and sandals. His dress, though
old and patched, was 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, "bendito 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,
señores," 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 and decorum
that would have become an hidalgo.
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 applied at the door of a venta or country
inn. "Perdone usted por 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
señoras at a window. I approached and
begged:—`Perdone usted por Dios, hermano!'
(Excuse us, brother, for God's
out of the court-yard, but hunger overcame
me, and my heart gave way: I
thought my hour 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,
señores, you see that one should always
put confidence in the protection of the
Virgin."
The old man was on his way to his
native place, Archidona, which was close
by, on 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 in the
mountains, 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 in the
margin of the rock to this day. And
see, señores, 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 undoubtedly a sandy ravine of the
mountain, which looked narrow and defined
at a distance, but became broad
and indistinct on an 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
castle by the Moorish king. His own
house was next to the foundations of the
castle. The curate and notary dreamed
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 pickaxes 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 running
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 I shall give,
is an evening at the little city of Loxa.
This was a famous belligerent frontier
post in the time of the Moors, and repulsed
Ferdinand from its walls. It was
the stronghold of old Ali Atar, the father-in-law
of Boabdil, when that fiery veteran
sallied forth with his son-in-law on their
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 and
handsome Andalusian widow, whose trim
basquina 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 handkerchief in
each pocket. He had breeches of the
same, with rows of buttons from the hips
to the knees; a pink silk handkerchief
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 calf to show his stocking; 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 one of those contrabandistas
that I have seen in the mountains
of La Ronda, and evidently had a good
understanding with the brother of mine
hostess; nay, if I mistake not, he was a
favoured 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 the
guitar. The horseman I have mentioned
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 sum 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
mustaches, 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 he surprised
six troopers who were asleep: he
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 peseta (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 her doll, calls it his Santa Teresa,
and says that when he draws it, "Tiembla
la tierra!"—the earth trembles!
I sat until a late hour listening to the
varied themes of this motley group, who
mingled together with the unreserve of a
Spanish posada. We had contrabandista
songs, stories of robbers, guerilla exploits,
and Moorish legends. The last were
from our handsome landlady, who gave
a poetical account of the Infiernos, or infernal
regions of Loxa—dark caverns, in
which subterranean streams and waterfalls
make a mysterious sound. The
common people say that there are money-coiners
shut up there from the time of the
Moors; and that the Moorish kings kept
their treasures in those caverns.
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 mid-day's repast, under a
grove of olive trees, on the borders of a
rivulet, with the old Moorish capital in
the distance, and animated 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 ringdoves from the
neighbouring olive trees. When the sultry
and after passing between hedges
of aloes and Indian figs, and through a
wilderness of gardens, arrived, about
sunset, 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 Kaaba, 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, 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 the Alhambra
gave us his 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 spellbound,
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.
GOVERNMENT OF THE ALHAMBRA.
The Alhambra is an ancient fortress
or castellated palace of the Moorish kings
of Granada, where they held dominion
over this their boasted terrestrial paradise,
and made their last stand for empire
in Spain. The palace occupies but
a portion of the fortress, the walls of
which, studded with towers, stretch irregularly
round the whole crest of a lofty
hill that overlooks the city, and forms a
spur of the Sierra Nevada, or snowy
mountain.
In the time of the Moors, the fortress
was capable of containing an army of
forty thousand men within its precincts,
and served occasionally as a stronghold
of the sovereigns against their rebellious
subjects. After the kingdom had passed
into the hands of the Christians, the
Alhambra continued a royal demesne,
and was occasionally inhabited by the
Castilian monarchs. The emperor Charles
V. began a sumptuous palace within its
walls, but was deterred from completing
it by repeated shocks of earthquakes.
The last royal residents were Philip V.,
and his beautiful queen, Elizabetta of
Parma, early in the eighteenth century.
Great preparations were made for their
reception. The palace and gardens were
placed in a state of repair, and a new
suite of apartments erected, and decorated
by artists brought from Italy. The sojourn
of the sovereigns was transient,
and after their departure the palace once
more became desolate. Still the place
was maintained with some military state.
The governor held it immediately from
the crown, its jurisdiction extended down
into the suburbs of the city, and was
independent of the Captain-General of
Granada. A considerable garrison was
kept up, the governor had his apartments
in the front of the old Moorish palace,
and never descended into Granada without
some military parade. The fortress
in fact was a little town of itself, having
several streets of houses within its walls,
together with a Franciscan convent and
a parochial church.
The desertion of the court, however,
was a fatal blow to the Alhambra. Its
beautiful halls became desolate, and some
of them fell to ruin; the gardens were
destroyed, and the fountains ceased to
play. By degrees the dwellings became
filled up with a loose and lawless population;
contrabandistas, who availed
themselves of its independent jurisdiction
to carry on a wide and daring course of
smuggling, and thieves and rogues of all
sorts, who made this their place of refuge
from whence they might depredate upon
Granada and its vicinity. The strong
arm of government at length interfered:
the whole community was thoroughly
sifted; none were suffered to remain but
such as were of honest character, and
had legitimate right to a residence; the
greater part of the houses were demolished,
and a mere hamlet left, with the
parochial church and the Franciscan
convent. During the recent troubles in
Spain, when Granada was in the hands
by their troops, and the palace was
occasionally inhabited by the French
commander. With that enlightened taste
which has ever distinguished the French
nation in their conquests, this monument
of Moorish elegance and grandeur was
rescued from the absolute ruin and desolation
that were overwhelming it. The
roofs were repaired, the saloons and galleries
protected from the wenther, the
gardens cultivated, the water-courses restored,
the fountains once more made to
throw up their sparkling showers; and
Spain may thank her invaders for having
preserved to her the most beautiful and
interesting of her historical monuments.
On the departure of the French they
blew up several towers of the outer wall,
and left the fortifications scarcely tenable.
Since that time the military importance
of the post is at an end. The garrison
is a handful of invalid soldiers, whose
principal duty is to guard some of the
outer towers, which serve occasionally
as a prison of state; and the governor,
abandoning the lofty hill of the Alhambra,
resides in the centre of Granada,
for the more convenient despatch of his
official duties. I cannot conclude this
brief notice of the state of the fortress
without bearing testimony to the honourable
exertions of its present commander,
Don Francisco de Serna, who
is tasking all the limited resources at his
command to put the palace in a state of
repair, and, by his judicious precautions,
has for some time arrested its too certain
decay. Had his predecessors discharged
the duties of their station with equal
fidelity, the Alhambra might yet have
remained in almost its pristine beauty:
were government to second him with
means equal to his zeal, this edifice
might still be preserved to adorn the
land, and to attract the curious and
enlightened of every clime for many
generations.
INTERIOR OF THE ALHAMBRA.
The Alhambra has been so often and
so minutely described by travellers, that
a mere sketch will, probably, be sufficient
for the reader to refresh his recollection;
I will give, therefore, a brief
account of our visit to it the morning
after our arrival in Granada.
Leaving our posada of La Espada, we
traversed the renowned square of the
Vivarrambla, once the scene of Moorish
jousts and tournaments, now a crowded
market-place. From thence we proceeded
along the Zacatin, the main street of
what, in the time of the Moors, was the
Great Bazaar, where the small shops
and narrow alleys still retain the oriental
character. Crossing an open place
in front of the palace of the captain-general,
we ascended a confined and
winding street, the name of which reminded
us of the chivalric days of Granada.
It is called the Calle, or street
of the Gomeres, from a Moorish family
famous in chronicle and song. This
street led up to a massive gateway of
Grecian architecture, built by Charles
V., forming the entrance to the domains
of the Alhambra.
At the gate were two or three ragged
and superannuated soldiers, dozing on a
stone bench, the successors of the Zegris
and the Abencerrages; while a tall meagre
varlet, whose rusty brown cloak was
evidently intended to conceal the ragged
state of his nether garments, was lounging
in the sunshine and gossiping with
an ancient sentinel on duty. He joined
us as we entered the gate, and offered
his services to show us the fortress.
I have a traveller's dislike to officious
ciceroni, and did not altogether like the
garb of the applicant.
"You are well acquainted with the
place, I presume?"
"Ninguno mas; pues, señor, soy hijo
de la Alhambra."—(Nobody better; in
fact, sir, I am a son of the Alhambra!)
The common Spaniards have certainly
a most poetical way of expressing themselves.
"A son of the Alhambra!" the
appellation caught me at once; the very
tattered garb of my new acquaintance
assumed a dignity in my eyes. It was
emblematic of the fortunes of the place
and befitted the progeny of a ruin.
I put some further questions to him,
and found that his title was legitimate.
His family had lived in the fortress from
time of the conquest. His name was
Mateo Ximenes. "Then, perhaps," said
I, "you may be a descendant from the
great Cardinal Ximenes?"—"Dios sabe!
God knows, Señor! It may be so. We
are the oldest family in the Alhambra,—
Cristianos Viejos, old Christians, without
any taint of Moor or Jew. I know we
belong to some great family or other, but
I forget whom. My father knows all
about it: he has the coat-of-arms hanging
up in his cottage, up in the fortress."
There is not any Spaniard, however
poor, but has some claim to high pedigree.
The first title of this ragged
worthy, however, had completely captivated
me, so I gladly accepted the services
of the "son of the Alhambra."
We now found ourselves in a deep narrow
ravine, filled with beautiful groves,
with a steep avenue, and various footpaths
winding through it, bordered with
stone seats, and ornamented with fountains.
To our left, we beheld the towers
of the Alhambra beetling above us; to
our right, on the opposite side of the
ravine, we were equally dominated by
rival towers on a rocky eminence.
These, we were told, were the Torres
Vermejos, or vermilion towers, so called
from their ruddy hue. No one knows
their origin. They are of a date much
anterior to the Alhambra: some suppose
them to have been built by the Romans;
others, by some wandering colony of
Phœnicians. Ascending the steep and
shady avenue, we arrived at the foot of
a huge square Moorish tower, forming a
kind of barbacan, through which passed
the main entrance to the fortress. Within
the barbacan was another group of veteran
invalids, one mounting guard at
the portal, while the rest, wrapped in
their tattered cloaks, slept on the stone
benches. This portal is called the Gate
of Justice, from the tribunal held within
its porch during the Moslem domination,
for the immediate trial of petty causes:
a custom common in the Oriental nations,
and occasionally alluded to in the
sacred Scriptures.
The great vestibule, or porch of the
gate, is formed by an immense Arabian
arch, of the horse-shoe form, which
springs to half the height of the tower.
On the keystone of this arch is engraven
a gigantic hand. Within the vestibule,
on the keystone of the portal, is sculptured,
in like manner, a gigantic key.
Those who pretend to some knowledge
of Mahometan symbols, affirm that the
hand is the emblem of doctrine, and the
key of faith; the latter, they add, was
emblazoned on the standard of the Moslems
when they subdued Andalusia, in
opposition to the Christian emblem of
the Cross. A different explanation, however,
was given by the legitimate son of
the Alhambra, and one more in unison
with the notions of the common people,
who attach something of mystery and
magic to every thing Moorish, and have
all kind of superstitions connected with
this old Moslem fortress.
According to Mateo, it was a tradition
handed down from the oldest inhabitants,
and which he had from his father and
grandfather, that the hand and key were
magical devices on which the fate of the
Alhambra depended. The Moorish king
who built it was a great magician, or, as
some believed, had sold himself to the
devil, and had laid the whole fortress
under a magic spell. By this means it
had remained standing for several hundred
years, in defiance of storms and
earthquakes, while almost all other buildings
of the Moors had fallen to ruin, and
disappeared. This spell, the tradition
went on to say, would last until the
hand on the outer arch should reach
down and grasp the key, when the whole
pile would tumble to pieces, and all the
treasures huried beneath it by the Moors
would be revealed.
Notwithstanding this ominous prediction,
we ventured to pass through the
spellbound gateway, feeling some little
assurance against magic art in the protection
of the Virgin, a statue of whom
we observed above the portal.
After passing through the barbacan,
we ascended a narrow lane, winding
between walls, and came on an open
esplanade within the fortress, called the
Plaza de los Algibes, or Place of the
Cisterns, from great reservoirs which undermine
it, cut in the living rock by the
Moors for the supply of the fortress.
Here, also, is a well of immense depth,
furnishing the purest and coldest of
taste of the Moors, who were
indefatigable in their exertions to obtain
that element in its crystal purity.
In front of this esplanade is the splendid
pile commenced by Charles V., intended,
it is said, to eclipse the residence of the
Moslem kings. With all its grandeur
and architectural merit, it appeared to us
like an arrogant intrusion, and, passing
by it, we entered a simple, unostentatious
portal, opening into the interior of the
Moorish palace.
The transition was almost magical: it
seemed as if we were at once transported
into other times and another realm, and
were treading the scenes of Arabian
story. We found ourselves in a great
court, paved with white marble, and decorated
at each end with light Moorish
peristyles: it is called the Court of the
Alberca. In the centre was an immense
basin or fish-pond, a hundred and thirty
feet in length by thirty in breadth, stocked
with gold-fish, and bordered by hedges
of roses. At the upper end of this court
rose the great Tower of Comares.
From the lower end we passed through
a Moorish archway into the renowned
Court of Lions. There is no part of the
edifice that gives us a more complete idea
of its original beauty and magnificence
than this, for none has suffered so little
from the ravages of time. In the centre
stands the fountain famous in song and
story. The alabaster basins still shed
their diamond drops; and the twelve
lions which support them, cast forth their
crystal streams as in the days of Boabdil.
The court is laid out in flower-beds, and
surrounded by light Arabian arcades of
open filagree-work, supported by slender
pillars of white marble. The architecture,
like that of all the other parts of
the palace, is characterized by elegance
rather than grandeur; bespeaking a delicate
and graceful taste, and a disposition
to indolent enjoyment. When one looks
upon the fairy tracery of the peristyles,
and the apparently fragile fretwork of the
walls, it is difficult to believe that so much
has survived the wear and tear of centuries,
the shocks of earthquakes, the
violence of war, and the quiet, though
no less baneful, pilferings of the tasteful
traveller: it is almost sufficient to excuse
the popular tradition, that the whole is
protected by a magic charm.
On one side of the court, a portal,
richly adorned, opens into a lofty hall,
paved with white marble, and called the
Hall of the Two Sisters. A cupola, or
lantern, admits a tempered light from
above, and a free circulation of air.
The lower part of the walls is encrusted
with beautiful Moorish tiles, on some of
which are emblazoned the escutcheons
of the Moorish monarchs: the upper part
is faced with the fine stucco-work invented
at Damascus, consisting of large
plates, cast in moulds, and artfully joined,
so as to have the appearance of having
been laboriously sculptured by the hand
into light relievos and fanciful arabesques,
intermingled with texts of the
Koran, and poetical inscriptions in Arabian
and Cufic characters. These decorations
of the walls and cupolas are
richly gilded, and the interstices pencilled
with lapis-lazuli, and other brilliant and
enduring colours. On each side of the
hall are recesses for ottomans and
couches. Above an inner porch is a
balcony, which communicated with the
women's apartment. The latticed `jalousies'
still remain, from whence the
dark-eyed beauties of the harem might
gaze unseen upon the entertainments of
the hall below.
It is impossible to contemplate this
once favourite abode of oriental manners,
without feeling the early associations of
Arabian romance, and almost expecting
to see the white arm of some mysterious
princess beckoning from the balcony, or
some dark eye sparkling through the
lattice. The abode of beauty is here, as
if it had been inhabited but yesterday;
but where are the Zoraydas and Lindaraxas!
On the opposite side of the Court of
Lions, is the Hall of the Abencerrages;
so called from the gallant cavaliers of
that illustrious line who were here perfidiously
massacred. There are some
who doubt the whole truth of this story;
but our humble attendant Mateo pointed
out the very wicket of the portal through
which they are said to have been introduced,
one by one, and the white marble
fountain in the centre of the hall, where
they were beheaded. He showed us also
traces of their blood, which, according
to popular belief, can never be
effaced. Finding we listened to him with
easy faith, he added, that there was often
heard at night, in the Court of Lions,
a low, confused sound, resembling the
murmuring of a multitude; with now
and then a faint tinkling, like the distant
clank of chains. These noises are probably
produced by the bubbling currents
and tinkling falls of water, conducted
under the pavement, through pipes and
channels, to supply the fountains; but,
according to the legend of the son of the
Alhambra, they are made by the spirits
of the murdered Abencerrages, who
nightly haunt the scene of their suffering,
and invoke the vengeance of Heaven on
their destroyer.
From the Court of Lions we retraced
our steps through the Court of the Alberca,
or Great Fish-pool; crossing
which, we proceeded to the Tower of
Comares, so called from the name of the
Arabian architect. It is of massive
strength and lofty height, domineering
over the rest of the edifice, and overhanging
the steep hill-side, which descends
abruptly to the banks of the
Darro. A Moorish archway admitted us
into a vast and lofty hall, which occupies
the interior of the tower, and was the
grand audience-chamber of the Moslem
monarchs, thence called the Hall of
Ambassadors. It still bears the traces
of past magnificence. The walls are
richly stuccoed and decorated with arabesques;
the vaulted ceiling of cedarwood,
almost lost in obscurity, from its
height, still gleams with rich gilding, and
the brilliant tints of the Arabian pencil.
On three sides of the saloon are deep
windows cut through the immense thickness
of the walls, the balconies of which
look down upon the verdant valley of the
Darro, the streets and convents of the
Albaycin, and command a prospect of
the distant Vega.
I might go on to describe minutely the
other delightful apartments of this side of
the palace; the Tocador, or toilet of the
queen, an open belvidere, on the summit
of a tower, where the Moorish sultanas
enjoyed the pure breezes from the mountain,
and the prospect of the surrounding
paradise; the secluded little patio, or
garden of Lindaraxa, with its alabaster
fountain, its thickets of roses and myrtles,
of citrons and oranges; the cool halls
and grottoes of the baths, where the
glare and heat of day are tempered into
a soft mysterious light, and a pervading
freshness. But I forbear to dwell minutely
on those scenes; my object is
merely to give the reader a general introduction
into an abode, where, if so
disposed, he may linger and loiter with
me through the remainder of this work,
gradually becoming familiar with all its
localities.
An abundant supply of water, brought
from the mountains by old Moorish aqueducts,
circulates throughout the palace,
supplying its baths and fishpools, sparkling
in jets within its halls, or murmuring
in channels along the marble pavements.
When it has paid its tribute to the royal
pile, and visited its gardens and pastures,
it flows down the long avenue leading to
the city, tinkling in rills, gushing in
fountains, and maintaining a perpetual
verdure in those groves that embower
and beautify the whole hill of the Alhambra.
Those only who have sojourned in the
ardent climates of the South, can appreciate
the delights of an abode, combining
the breezy coolness of the mountain,
with the freshness and verdure of the
valley.
While the city below pants with the
noontide heat, and the parched Vega
trembles to the eye, the delicate airs
from the Sierra Nevada play through
these lofty halls, bringing with them the
sweetness of the surrounding gardens.
Every thing invites to that indolent
repose, the bliss of southern climes; and
while the half-shut eye looks out from
shaded balconies upon the glittering landscape,
the ear is lulled by the rustling of
groves, and the murmur of running
streams.
THE TOWER OF COMARES.
The reader has had a sketch of the
interior of the Alhambra, and may be
desirous of a general idea of its vicinity.
sun has not gained sufficient power to
destroy the freshness of the night; we
will mount to the summit of the Tower
of Comares, and take a bird's-eye view
of Granada and its environs.
Come, then, worthy reader and comrade,
follow my steps into this vestibule,
ornamented with rich tracery, which
opens to the Hall of Ambassadors. We
will not enter the hall, however, but turn
to the left, to this small door, opening in
the wall. Have a care! here are steep
winding steps and but scanty light; yet
up this narrow, obscure, and winding
staircase, the proud monarchs of Granada
and their queens have often ascended
to the battlements of the tower,
to watch the approach of Christian
armies; or to gaze on the battles in the
Vegn. At length we are on the terraced
roof, and may take breath for a moment,
while we cast a general eye over the
splendid panorama of city and country;
of rocky mountain, verdant valley, and
fertile plain; of castle, cathedral, Moorish
towers, and Gothic domes, crumbling
ruins, and blooming groves.
Let us approach the battlements, and
cast our eyes immediately below. See,
on this side we have the whole plan of
the Alhambra laid open to us, and can
look down into its courts and gardens.
At the foot of the tower is the Court of
the Alberca, with its great tank or fish-pool,
bordered with flowers; and yonder
is the Court of Lions, with its famous
fountains, and its light Moorish arcades;
and in the centre of the pile is the little
garden of Lindaraxa, buried in the heart
of the building, with its roses and citrons,
and shrubbery of emerald green.
That belt of battlements, studded with
square towers, straggling round the whole
brow of the hill, is the outer boundary of
the fortress. Some of the towers, you
may perceive, are in ruins, and their
massive fragments are buried among
vines, fig-trees, and aloes.
Let us look on this northern side of
the tower. It is a giddy height; the
very foundations of the tower rise above
the groves of the steep hill-side. And
see! a long fissure in the massive walls,
shows that the tower has been rent by
some of the earthquakes, which from
time to time have thrown Granada into
consternation; and which, sooner or
later must reduce this crumbling pile to
a mere mass of ruin. The deep narrow
glen below us, which gradually widens as
it opens from the mountains, is the valley
of the Darro; you see the little river
winding its way under embowered terraces,
and among orchards and flower-gardens.
It is a stream famous in old
times for yielding gold, and its sands are
still sifted occasionally, in search of the
precious ore. Some of those white pavilions,
which here and there gleam from
among groves and vineyards, were rustic
retreats of the Moors, to enjoy the refreshment
of their gardens.
The airy palace, with its tall white
towers and long arcades, which breasts
yon mountain, among pompous groves
and hanging gardens, is the Generalife,
a summer palace of the Moorish kings,
to which they resorted during the sultry
months, to enjoy a still more breezy
region than that of the Alhambra. The
naked summit of the height above it,
where you behold some shapeless ruins,
is the Silla del Moro, or Seat of the
Moor; so called, from having been a
retreat of the unfortunate Boabdil, during
the time of an insurrection, where he
seated himself, and looked down mournfully
upon his rebellious city.
A murmuring sound of water now and
then rises from the valley. It is from
the aqueduct of yon Moorish mill, nearly
at the foot of the hill. The avenue of
trees beyond is the Alameda, along the
bank of the Darro, a favourite resort in
evenings, and a rendezvous of lovers in
the summer nights, when the guitar may
be heard at a late hour from the benches
along its walks. At present there are
but a few loitering monks to be seen
there, and a group of water-carriers
from the fountain of Avellanos.
You start! 'tis nothing but a hawk that
we have frightened from his nest. This
old tower is a complete breeding-place
for vagrant birds; the swallow and
martlet abound in every chink and cranny,
and circle about it the whole day
long; while at night, when all other
birds have gone to rest, the moping owl
comes out of its lurking-place, and utters
its boding cry from the battlements.
sweeps away below us, skimming over
the tops of the trees, and sailing up to
the ruins above the Generalife!
Let us leave this side of the tower,
and turn our eyes to the west. Here
you behold in the distance, a range of
mountains bounding the Vega, the ancient
barrier between Moslem Granada
and the land of the Christians. Among
their heights you may still discern warrior
towns, whose gray walls and battlements
seem of a piece with the rocks on
which they are built; while here and
there is a solitary atalaya, or watchtower,
mounted on some lofty point, and
looking down, as it were, from the sky,
into the valleys on either side. It was
down the defiles of these mountains, by
the pass of Lope, that the Christian armies
descended into the Vega. It was
round the base of yon gray and naked
mountain, almost insulated from the rest,
and stretching its bold rocky promontory
into the bosom of the plain, that the
invading squadrons would come bursting
into view, with flaunting banners, and
the clangour of drums and trumpets.
How changed is the scene! Instead of
the glittering line of mailed warriors, we
behold the patient train of the toilful
muleteer, slowly moving along the skirts
of the mountain. Behind that promontory
is the eventful bridge of Pinos, renowned
for many a bloody strife between
Moors and Christians; but still more
renowned as being the place where Columbus
was overtaken and called back
by the messenger of Queen Isabella, just
as he was departing in despair, to carry
his project of discovery to the court of
France.
Behold another place famous in the
history of the discoverer. Yon line of
walls and towers, gleaming in the morning
sun, in the very centre of the Vega,
in the city of Santa Fé, built by the
catholic sovereigns during the siege of
Granada, after a conflagration had destroyed
their camp. It was to these
walls that Columbus was called back by
the heroic queen; and within them the
treaty was concluded, that led to the
discovery of the western world.
Here, towards the south, the eye revels
on the luxuriant beauties of the Vega;
a blooming wilderness of grove and
garden, and teeming orchard, with the
Xenil winding through it in silver links,
and feeding innumerable rills, conducted
through ancient Moorish channels, which
maintain the landscape in perpetual verdure.
Here are the beloved bowers and
gardens and rural retreats, for which the
Moors fought with such desperate valour.
The very farm-houses and hovels
which are now inhabited by the boors,
retain traces of arabesques and other
tasteful decorations, which show them to
have been elegant residences in the days
of the Moslems.
Beyond the embowered region of the
Vega, you behold to the south a line of
arid hills, down which a long train of
mules is slowly moving. It was from
the summit of one of those hills that the
unfortunate Boabdil cast back his last
look upon Granada, and gave vent to
the agony of his soul. It is the spot
famous in song and story, "The last
sigh of the Moor."
Now raise your eyes to the snowy
summit of yon pile of mountains, shining
like a white summer cloud in the
blue sky. It is the Sierra Nevada, the
pride and delight of Granada; the source
of her cooling breezes and perpetual verdure,
of her gushing fountains and perennial
streams. It is this glorious pile
of mountains that gives to Granada that
combination of delights so rare in a
southern city; the fresh vegetation and
the temperate airs of a northern climate,
with the vivifying ardour of a tropical
sun, and the cloudless azure of a southern
sky. It is this aerial treasure of snow,
which, melting in proportion to the increase
of the summer heat, sends down
rivulets and streams through every glen
and gorge of the Alpuxarras, diffusing
emerald verdure and fertility throughout
a chain of happy and sequestered valleys.
Those mountains may well be called
the glory of Granada. They dominate
the whole extent of Andalusia, and may
be seen from its most distant parts. The
muleteer hails them, as he views their
frosty peaks from the sultry level of the
plain; and the Spanish mariner on the
deck of his bark, far, far off on the bosom
of the blue Mediterranean, watches
Granada, and chants, in low
voice, some old romance about the
Moors.
But enough—the sun is high above
the mountains, and is pouring his full
fervour upon our heads. Already the
terraced roof of the tower is hot beneath
our feet: let us abandon it, and descend
and refresh ourselves under the arcades
by the Fountain of the Lions.
REFLECTIONS
ON
THE MOSLEM DOMINATION IN
SPAIN.
One of my favourite resorts is the
balcony of the central window of the
Hall of Ambassadors, in the lofty tower
of Comares. I have just been seated
there, enjoying the close of a long brilliant
day. The sun, as he sank behind
the purple mountains of Alhama, sent a
stream of effulgence up the valley of the
Darro, that spread a melancholy pomp
over the ruddy towers of the Alhambra;
while the Vega, covered with a slight
sultry vapour that caught the setting
ray, seemed spread out in the distance
like a golden sea. Not a breath of air
disturbed the stillness of the hour, and
though the faint sound of music and
merriment now and then arose from the
gardens of the Darro, it but rendered
more impressive the monumental silence
of the pile which overshadowed me. It
was one of those hours and scenes in
which memory asserts an almost magical
power; and, like the evening sun beaming
on these mouldering towers, sends
back her retrospective rays to light up
the glories of the past.
As I sat watching the effect of the
declining day-light upon this Moorish
pile, I was led into a consideration of
the light, elegant, and voluptuous character,
prevalent throughout its internal
architecture; and to contrast it with the
grand but gloomy solemnity of the gothic
edifices, reared by the Spanish conquerors.
The very architecture thus bespeaks
the opposite and irreconcilable natures of
the two warlike people who so long battled
here for the mastery of the peninsula.
By degrees, I fell into a course of
musing upon the singular fortunes of the
Arabian or Moresco-Spaniards, whose
whole existence is as a tale that is told,
and certainly forms one of the most
anomalous, yet splendid episodes in history.
Potent and durable as was their
dominion, we scarcely know how to call
them. They are a nation, as it were,
without a legitimate country or a name.
A remote wave of the great Arabian
inundation, cast upon the shores of Europe,
they seemed to have all the impetus
of the first rush of the torrent.
Their career of conquest, from the rock
of Gibraltar to the cliffs of the Pyrenees,
was as rapid and brilliant as the Moslem
victories of Syria and Egypt. Nay, had
they not been checked on the plains of
Tours, all France, all Europe, might
have been overrun with the same facility
as the empires of the East, and the crescent
might at this day have glittered on
the fanes of Paris and of London.
Repelled within the limits of the Pyrenees,
the mixed hordes of Asia and
Africa, that formed this great eruption,
gave up the Moslem principle of conquest,
and sought to establish in Spain a
peaceful and permanent dominion. As
conquerors, their heroism was only
equalled by their moderation; and in
both, for a time, they excelled the nations
with whom they contended. Severed
from their native homes, they
loved the land given them as they supposed
by Allah, and strove to embellish
it with every thing that could administer
to the happiness of man. Laying the
foundations of their power in a system
of wise and equitable laws, diligently
cultivating the arts and sciences, and
promoting agriculture, manufactures, and
commerce, they gradually formed an
empire unrivalled for its prosperity by
any of the empires of Christendom; and
diligently drawing round them the
graces and refinements that marked the
Arabian empire in the East, at the time
of its greatest civilisation, they diffused
the light of Oriental knowledge through
the Western regions of benighted Europe.
The cities of Arabian Spain became
the resort of Christian artisans, to instruct
Universities of Toledo, Cordova, Seville,
and Granada, were sought by the pale
student from other lands, to acquaint
himself with the sciences of the Arabs,
and the treasured lore of antiquity; the
lovers of the gay sciences resorted to
Cordova and Granada, to imbibe the
poetry and music of the East; and the
steel-clad warriors of the north hastened
thither to accomplish themselves in the
graceful exercises and courteous usages
of chivalry.
If the Moslem monuments in Spain, if
the mosque of Cordova, the alcazar of
Seville, and the Alhambra of Granada,
still bear inscriptions fondly boasting of
the power and permanency of their domination,
can the boast be derided as
arrogant and vain? Generation after
generation, century after century, had
passed away, and still they maintained
possession of the land. A period had
clapsed longer than that which has passed
since England was subjugated by the
Norman Conqueror, and the descendants
of Musa and Taric might as little anticipate
being driven into exile across the
same straits, traversed by their triumphant
ancestors, as the descendants of
Rollo and William, and their veteran
peers, may dream of being driven back
to the shores of Normandy.
With all this, however, the Moslem
empire in Spain was but a brilliant exotic,
that took no permanent root in the
soil it embellished. Severed from all
their neighbours in the West, by impassable
barriers of faith and manners, and
separated by seas and deserts from their
kindred of the East, they were an isolated
people. Their whole existence was
a prolonged, though gallant and chivalric
struggle, for a foothold in a usurped
land.
They were the outposts and frontiers
of Islamism. The peninsula was the
great battle-ground where the Gothic
conquerors of the North, and the Moslem
conquerors of the East, met and strove
for mastery; and the fiery courage of
the Arab was at length subdued by the
obstinate and persevering valour of the
Goth.
Never was the annihilation of a people
more complete than that of the Moresco.
Spaniards. Where are they? Ask the
shores of Barbary and its desert places.
The exiled remnant of their once powerful
empire disappeared among the barbarians
of Africa, and ceased to be a
nation. They have not even left a distinct
name behind them, though for
nearly eight centuries they were a distinct
people. The home of their adoption
and of their occupation for ages,
refuses to acknowledge them, except as
invaders and usurpers. A few broken
monuments are all that remain to bear
witness to their power and dominion, as
solitary rocks left far in the interior,
bear testimony to the extent of some vast
inundation. Such is the Alhambra. A
Moslem pile, in the midst of a Christian
land; an Oriental palace amidst the
Gothic edifices of the West; an elegant
memento of a brave, intelligent, and
graceful people, who conquered, ruled,
and passed away.
THE HOUSEHOLD.
It is time that I give some idea of my
domestic arrangements in this singular
residence. The Royal Palace of the Alhambra
is entrusted to the care of a
good old maiden dame, called Doña Antonia
Molina; but who, according to
Spanish custom, goes by the more neighbourly
appellation of Tia Antonia (Aunt
Antonia). She maintains the Moorish
halls and gardens in order, and shows
them to strangers; in consideration of
which she is allowed all the perquisites
received from visiters, and all the produce
of the gardens, excepting, that she
is expected to pay an occasional tribute
of fruits and flowers to the governor.
Her residence is in a corner of the
palace; and her family consists of a
nephew and niece, the children of two
different brothers. The nephew, Manuel
Molina, is a young man of sterling worth,
and Spanish gravity. He has served in
the armies both in Spain and the West
Indies; but is now studying medicine, in
hopes of one day or other becoming
physician to the fortress, a post worth at
least a hundred and forty dollars a-year.
As to the niece, she is a plump little
Dolores; but who, from her bright looks
and cheerful disposition, merits a merrier
name. She is the declared heiress of all
her aunt's possessions, consisting of certain
ruinous tenements in the fortress,
yielding a revenue of about one hundred
and fifty dollars. I had not been long
in the Alhambra, before I discovered
that a quiet courtship was going on between
the discreet Manuel and his
bright-eyed cousin, and that nothing was
wanting to enable them to join their
hands and expectations, but that he
should receive his doctor's diploma, and
purchase a dispensation from the Pope,
on account of their consanguinity.
With the good dame Antonia I have
made a treaty, according to which, she
furnishes me with board and lodging;
while the merry-hearted little Dolores
keeps my apartment in order, and officiates
as handmaid at meal-times. I
have also at my command a tall, stuttering,
yellow-haired lad, named Pepe,
who works in the gardens, and would
fain have acted as valet; but, in this, he
was forestalled by Mateo Ximenes, "the
son of the Alhambra!" This alert and
officious wight has managed, somehow
or other, to stick by me ever since I first
encountered him at the outer gate of the
fortress, and to weave himself into all
my plans, until he has fairly appointed
and installed himself my valet, cicerone,
guide, guard, and historiographic squire;
and I have been obliged to improve the
state of his wardrobe, that he may not
disgrace his various functions; so that
he has cast his old brown mantle, as a
snake does his skin, and now appears
about the fortress with a smart Andalusian
hat and jacket, to his infinite satisfaction,
and the great astonishment of
his comrades. The chief fault of honest
Mateo is an over-anxiety to be useful.
Conscious of having foisted himself into
my employ, and that my simple and
quiet habits render his situation a sinecure,
he is at his wits' end to devise
modes of making himself important to
my welfare. I am, in a manner, the
victim of his officiousness; I cannot put
my foot over the threshold of the palace,
to stroll about the fortress, but he is at
my elbow, to explain every thing I see;
and if I venture to ramble among the
surrounding hills, he insists upon attending
me as a guard, though I vehemently
suspect he would be more apt to trust to
the length of his legs than the strength
of his arms, in case of an attack. After
all, however, the poor fellow is at times
an amusing companion; he is simpleminded,
and of infinite good humour,
with the loquacity and gossip of a village
barber, and knows all the smalltalk
of the place and its environs; but
what he chiefly values himself on, is his
stock of local information, having the
most marvellous stories to relate, of
every tower, and vault, and gateway of
the fortress, in all of which he places the
most implicit faith.
Most of these he has derived, according
to his own account, from his grandfather,
a little legendary tailor, who
lived to the age of nearly a hundred
years, during which he made but two
migrations beyond the precincts of the
fortress. His shop, for the greater part
of a century, was the resort of a knot of
venerable gossips, where they would
pass half the night talking about old
times, and the wonderful events and hidden
secrets of the place. The whole
living, moving, thinking, and acting, of
this historical little tailor, had thus been
bounded by the walls of the Alhambra;
within them he had been born, within
them he lived, breathed, and had his
being; within them he died, and was
buried. Fortunately for posterity, his
traditionary lore died not with him.
The authentic Mateo, when an urchin,
used to be an attentive listener to the
narratives of his grandfather, and of the
gossip group assembled round the shopboard;
and is thus possessed of a stock
of valuable knowledge concerning the
Alhambra, not to be found in the books,
and well worthy the attention of every
curious traveller.
Such are the personages that contribute
to my domestic comforts in the
Alhambra; and I question whether any
of the potentates, Moslem or Christian,
who have preceded me in the palace,
have been waited upon with greater
fidelity, or enjoyed a serener sway.
When I rise in the morning, Pepe, the
stuttering lad from the gardens, brings
which are afterwards arranged in vases,
by the skilful hand of Dolores, who
takes a female pride in the decorations
of my chamber. My meals are made
wherever caprice dictates; sometimes in
one of the Moorish halls, sometimes
under the arcades of the Court of Lions,
surrounded by flowers and fountains:
and when I walk out, I am conducted by
the assiduous Mateo, to the most romantic
retreats of the mountains, and delicious
haunts of the adjacent valleys, not
one of which but is the scene of some
wonderful tale.
Though fond of passing the greater
part of my day alone, yet I occasionally
repair in the evenings to the little domestic
circle of Doña Antonia. This
is generally held in an old Moorish
chamber, that serves for kitchen as
well as hall, a rude fireplace having
been made in one corner, the smoke
from which has discoloured the walls,
and almost obliterated the ancient arabesques.
A window, with a balcony overhanging
the valley of the Darro, lets in
the cool evening breeze; and here I
take my frugal supper of fruit and milk,
and mingle with the conversation of the
family. There is a natural talent or
mother wit, as it is called, about the
Spaniards, which renders them intellectual
and agreeable companions, whatever
may be their condition in life, or
however imperfect may have been their
education: add to this, they are never
vulgar; nature has endowed them with
an inherent dignity of spirit. The good
Tia Antonia is a woman of strong and
intelligent, though uncultivated mind;
and the bright-eyed Dolores, though she
has read but three or four books in the
whole course of her life, has an engaging
mixture of naïveté and good sense, and
often surprises me by the pungency
of her artless sallies. Sometimes the
nephew entertains us by reading some
old comedy of Calderon or Lope de
Vega, to which he is evidently prompted
by a desire to improve, as well as to
amuse his cousin Dolores; though, to
his great mortification, the little damsel
generally falls asleep before the first
act is completed. Sometimes Tia Antonia
has a little levee of humble friends
and dependents, the inhabitants of the
adjacent hamlet, or the wives of the invalid
soldiers. These look up to her
with great deference, as the custodian
of the palace, and pay their court to her
by bringing the news of the place, or
the rumours that may have straggled up
from Granada. In listening to these evening
gossipings I have picked up many
curious facts, illustrative of the manners
of the people and the peculiarities of the
neighbourhood. These are simple details
of simple pleasures; it is the nature
of the place alone that gives them interest
and importance. I tread haunted
ground, and am surrounded by romantic
associations. From earliest boyhood,
when, on the banks of the Hudson, I
first pored over the pages of an old
Spanish story about the wars of Granada,
that city has ever been a subject
of my waking dreams; and often have I
trod in fancy the romantic halls of the
Alhambra. Behold for once a daydream
realized; yet I can scarce credit
my senses, or believe that I do indeed
inhabit the palace of Boabdil, and look
down from its balconies upon chivalric
Granada. As I loiter through these
oriental chambers, and hear the murmur
of fountains and the song of the
nightingale; as I inhale the odour of the
rose, and feel the influence of the balmy
climate, I am almost tempted to fancy
myself in the paradise of Mahomet, and
that the plump little Dolores is one of
the bright-eyed houris, destined to administer
to the happiness of true believers.
THE TRUANT.
Since noting the foregoing pages, we
have had a scene of petty tribulation in
the Alhambra, which has thrown a cloud
over the sunny countenance of Dolores.
This little damsel has a female passion
for pets of all kinds, and from the superabundant
kindness of her disposition,
one of the ruined courts of the Alhambra
is thronged with her favourites. A
stately peacock and his hen seem to hold
regal sway here, over pompous turkeys,
of common cocks and hens. The great
delight of Dolores, however, has for
some time been centered in a youthful
pair of pigeons, who have lately entered
into the holy state of wedlock, and who
have even supplanted a tortoise-shell cat
and kittens in her affections.
As a tenement for them wherein to
commence housekeeping, she had fitted
up a small chamber adjacent to the
kitchen, the window of which looked into
one of the quiet Moorish courts. Here
they lived in happy ignorance of any
world beyond the court and its sunny
roofs. Never had they aspired to soar
above the battlements, or to mount to the
summit of the towers. Their virtuous
union was at length crowned by two
spotless and milk-white eggs, to the
great joy of their cherishing little mistress.
Nothing could be more praiseworthy
than the conduct of the young
married folks on this interesting occasion.
They took turns to sit upon the
nest until the eggs were hatched, and
while their callow progeny required
warmth and shelter; while one thus
stayed at home, the other foraged abroad
for food, and brought home abundant
supplies.
This scene of conjugal felicity has
suddenly met with a reverse. Early this
morning, as Dolores was feeding the
male pigeon, she took a fancy to give
him a peep at the great world. Opening
a window, therefore, which looks down
upon the valley of the Darro, she
launched him at once beyond the walls
of the Alhambra. For the first time of
his life the astonished bird had to try the
full vigour of his wings. He swept down
into the valley, and then rising upwards
with a surge, soared almost to the
clouds. Never before had he risen to
such a height, or experienced such delight
in flying; and, like a young spendthrift
just come to his estate, he seemed
giddy with excess of liberty, and with
the boundless field of action suddenly
opened to him. For the whole day he
has been circling about in capricious
flights, from tower to tower, from tree to
tree. Every attempt has been vain to
lure him back by scattering grain upon
the roofs; he seems to have lost all
thought of home, of his tender helpmate
and his callow young. To add to the
anxiety of Dolores, he has been joined
by two palomas ladrones, or robber
pigeons, whose instinct it is to entice
wandering pigeons to their own dovecotes.
The fugitive, like many other
thoughtless youths on their first launching
upon the world, seems quite fascinated
with these knowing, but graceless
companions, who have undertaken to
show him life, and introduce him to
society. He has been soaring with them
over all the roofs and steeples of Granada.
A thunderstorm has passed over
the city, but he has not sought his
home; night has closed in, and still he
comes not. To deepen the pathos of the
affair, the female pigeon, after remaining
several hours on the nest, without being
relieved, at length went forth to seek her
recreant mate; but stayed away so long
that the young ones perished for want of
the warmth and shelter of the parent
bosom. At a late hour in the evening,
word was brought to Dolores, that the
truant bird had been seen upon the
towers of the Generalife. Now it happens
that the administrador of that
ancient palace has likewise a dovecote,
among the inmates of which are said to
be two or three of these inveigling birds,
the terror of all neighbouring pigeon-fanciers.
Dolores immediately concluded,
that the two feathered sharpers who
had been seen with her fugitive, were
these bloods of the Generalife. A council
of war was forthwith held in the chamber
of Tia Antonia. The Generalife is
a distinct jurisdiction from the Alhambra,
and of course some punctilio, if not
jealousy, exists between their custodians.
It was determined, therefore, to send
Pepe, the stuttering lad of the gardens,
as ambassador to the administrador, requesting,
that if such fugitive should be
found in his dominions, he might be
given up as a subject of the Alhambra.
Pepe departed accordingly, on his diplomatic
expedition, through the moonlight
groves and avenues, but returned in an
hour with the afflicting intelligence that
no such bird was to be found in the dovecote
of the Generalife. The administrador,
however, pledged his sovereign
word that if such vagrant should appear
be arrested, and sent back prisoner
to his little black-eyed mistress.
Thus stands the melancholy affair,
which has occasioned much distress
throughout the palace, and has sent the
inconsolable Dolores to a sleepless pillow.
"Sorrow endureth for a night," says
the proverb, "but joy cometh in the
morning." The first object that met my
eyes, on leaving my room this morning,
was Dolores, with the truant pigeon in
her hands, and her eyes sparkling with
joy. He had appeared at an early hour
on the battlements, hovering shyly about
from roof to roof, but at length entered
the window, and surrendered himself
prisoner. He gained little credit, however,
by his return; for the ravenous
manner in which he devoured the food
set before him, showed that, like the
prodigal son, he had been driven home
by sheer famine. Dolores upbraided him
for his faithless conduct, calling him all
manner of vagrant names (though, woman
like, she fondled him at the same
time to her bosom, and covered him
with kisses.) I observed, however, that
she had taken care to clip his wings to
prevent all future soaring; a precaution,
which I mention for the benefit of all
those who have truant lovers or wandering
husbands. More than one valuable
moral might be drawn from the story of
Dolores and her pigeon.
THE AUTHOR'S CHAMBER.
On taking up my abode in the Alhambra,
one end of a suite of empty chambers
of modern architecture, intended for
the residence of the governor, was fitted
up for my reception. It was in front of
the palace, looking forth upon the esplanade;
the further end communicated with
a cluster of little chambers, partly Moorish,
partly modern, inhabited by Tia Antonia
and her family; these terminated in
a large room, which serves the good old
dame for parlour, kitchen, and hall of audience.
It had boasted of some splendour
in the time of the Moors, but a fireplace
had been built in one corner, the smoke
from which had discoloured the walls,
nearly obliterated the ornaments, and
spread a sombre tint on the whole.
From these gloomy apartments, a narrow
blind corridor and a dark winding
staircase, led down an angle of the
tower of Comares, groping along which,
and opening a small door at the bottom,
you were suddenly dazzled by emerging
into the brilliant antechamber of the
Hall of Ambassadors, with the fountain
of the court of the Alberca sparkling before
you.
I was dissatisfied with being lodged in
a modern and frontier apartment of the
palace, and longed to ensconce myself
in the very heart of the building.
As I was rambling one day about the
Moorish halls, I found, in a remote gallery,
a door which I had not before noticed,
communicating apparently with an
extensive apartment, locked up from the
public. Here then was a mystery; here
was the haunted wing of the castle. I
procured the key, however, without difficulty;
the door opened to a range of vacant
chambers of European architecture,
though built over a Moorish arcade,
along the little garden of Lindaraxa.
There were two lofty rooms, the ceilings
of which were of deep panel work of
cedar, richly and skilfully carved with
fruits and flowers, intermingled with
grotesque masks or faces, but broken in
many places. The walls had evidently,
in ancient times, been hung with damask,
but were now naked, and scrawled
over with the insignificant names of aspiring
travellers; the windows, which
were dismantled and open to wind and
weather, looked into the garden of Lindaraxa,
and the orange and citron trees
flung their branches into the chamber.
Beyond these rooms were two saloons,
less lofty, looking also into the garden.
In the compartments of the panelled
ceilings, were baskets of fruit and garlands
of flowers, painted by no mean
hand, and in tolerable preservation.
The walls had also been painted in fresco
in the Italian style, but the paintings
were nearly obliterated; the windows
were in the same shattered state as in
the other chambers. This fanciful suite
of rooms terminated in an open gallery
and along another side of the garden.
The whole apartment had a delicacy
and elegance in its decorations,
and there was something so choice and
sequestered in its situation, along this
retired little garden, that it awakened an
interest in its history. I found on inquiry,
that it was an apartment fitted up
by Italian artists in the early part of the
last century, at the time when Philip V.
and the beautiful Elizabeth of Parma
were expected at the Alhambra; and
was destined for the queen and the ladies
of her train. One of the loftiest chambers
had been her sleeping-room; and a
narrow staircase leading from it, though
now walled up, opened to the delightful
belvidere, originally a mirador of the
Moorish sultanas, but fitted up as a boudoir
for the fair Elizabeth, and which
still retains the name of the tocador, or
toilette, of the queen. The sleeping-room
I have mentioned, commanded
from one window a prospect of the Generalife
and its embowered terraces:
under another window played the alabaster
fountain of the garden of Lindaraxa.
That garden carried my thoughts
still further back to the period of another
reign of beauty: to the days of the
Moorish sultans.
"How beauteous is this garden!"
says an Arabic inscription, "where the
flowers of the earth vie with the stars of
heaven! What can compare with the
vase of yon alabaster fountain filled with
crystal water? Nothing but the moon
in her fulness, shining in the midst of an
unclouded sky!"
Centuries had elapsed, yet how much
of this scene of apparently fragile beauty
remained. The garden of Lindaraxa
was still adorned with flowers; the fountain
still presented its crystal mirror;
it is true, the alabaster had lost its whiteness,
and the basin beneath, overrun
with weeds, had become the nestling-place
of the lizard; but there was something
in the very decay, that enhanced
the interest of the scene, speaking as it
did, of that mutability which is the irrevocable
lot of man and all his works.
The desolation too of these chambers,
once the abode of the proud and elegant
Elizabetta, had a more touching charm
for me, than if I had beheld them in their
pristine splendour, glittering with the
pageantry of a court. I determined at
once to take up my quarters in this
apartment.
My determination excited great surprise
in the family, who could not imagine
any rational inducement for the
choice of so solitary, remote, and forlorn
an apartment. The good Tia Antonia
considered it highly dangerous; the
neighbourhood, she said, was infested by
vagrants; the caverns of the adjacent
hills swarmed with gipsies; the palace
was ruinous, and easy to be entered in
many parts; and the rumour of a stranger
quartered alone in one of the ruined
apartments, out of the hearing of the rest
of the inhabitants, might tempt unwelcome
visiters in the night, especially as
foreigners are always supposed to be
well stocked with money. Dolores represented
the frightful loneliness of the
place, nothing but bats and owls flitting
about; then there were a fox and a wild
cat that kept about the vaults and roamed
about at night.
I was not to be diverted from my
humour; so calling in the assistance of
a carpenter, and the ever officious Mateo
Ximenes, the doors and windows were
soon placed in a state of tolerable security.
With all these precautions, I must
confess, the first night I passed in these
quarters was inexpressibly dreary. I
was escorted by the whole family to my
chamber, and their taking leave of me,
and returning along the waste antechambers
and echoing galleries, reminded
me of those hobgoblin stories where
the hero is left to accomplish the adventure
of an enchanted house.
Even the thoughts of the fair Elizabetta,
and the beauties of her court, who
had once graced these chambers, now,
by a perversion of fancy, added to the
gloom. Here was the scene of their
transient gayety and loveliness; here
were the very traces of their elegance
and enjoyment; but what and where
were they?—Dust and ashes! tenants of
the tomb! phantoms of the memory!
A vague and indescribable awe was
creeping over me. I would fain have
ascribed it to the thoughts of robbers
awakened by the evening's conversation,
and absurd. In a word, the long-buried
impressions of the nursery were
reviving, and asserting their power over
my imagination. Every thing began to
be affected by the working of my mind.
The whispering of the wind among the
citron trees beneath my window, had
something sinister. I cast my eyes into
the garden of Lindaraxa; the groves
presented a gulf of shadows; the thickets,
indistinct and ghastly shapes. I was
glad to close the window, but my chamber
itself became infected. A bat had
found its way in, and flitted about my
head and athwart my solitary lamp;
the grotesque faces carved in the cedar
ceiling seemed to mope and mow at me.
Rousing myself, and half smiling at
this temporary weakness, I resolved to
brave it, and, taking lamp in hand, sallied
forth to make a tour of the ancient
palace. Notwithstanding every mental
exertion, the task was a severe one.
The rays of my lamp extended to but
a limited distance around me; I walked
as it were in a mere halo of light, and
all beyond was thick darkness. The
vaulted corridors were as caverns; the
vaults of the halls were lost in gloom;
what unseen foe might not be lurking
before or behind me! my own shadow
playing about the walls and the echoes
of my own footsteps disturbed me.
In this excited state, as I was traversing
the great Hall of Ambassadors, there
were added real sounds to these conjectural
fancies. Low moans, and indistinct
ejaculations seemed to rise, as it were,
beneath my feet; I paused and listened.
They then appeared to resound from
without the tower. Sometimes they resembled
the howlings of an animal, at
others they were stifled shrieks, mingled
with articulate ravings. The thrilling
effect of these sounds in that still hour
and singular place, destroyed all inclination
to continue my lonely perambulation.
I returned to my chamber with
more alacrity than I had sallied forth,
and drew my breath more freely when
once more within its walls, and the door
bolted behind me. When I awoke in
the morning with the sun shining in at
my window and lighting up every part
of the building with his cheerful and
truth-telling beams, I could scarcely recall
the shadows and fancies conjured
up by the gloom of the preceding night;
or believe that the scenes around me, so
naked and apparent, could have been
clothed with such imaginary horrors.
Still the dismal howlings and ejaculations
I had heard, were not ideal; but
they were soon accounted for by my
handmaid Dolores; being the ravings of
a poor maniac, a brother of her aunt,
who was subject to violent paroxysms,
during which he was confined in a
vaulted room beneath the Hall of Ambassadors.
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 night, 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 moonbeams, 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 fortunes
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 ethereal.
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
brighten in the moonbeams, the halls
are illuminated with a softened radiance,
until the whole edifice reminds one of
the enchanted palace of an Arabian tale.
At such a 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 castañets 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 were the scenes that have detained
me for many an hour loitering about the
courts and balconies of the castle, enjoying
that mixture of revery 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.
INHABITANTS OF THE ALHAMBRA.
I have often observed, that the more
proudly a mansion has been tenanted in
the day of its prosperity, the humbler
are its inhabitants in the day of its decline,
and that the palace of the king,
commonly ends in being the nestling-place
of the beggar.
The Alhambra is in a rapid state of
similar transition. Whenever a tower
falls to decay, it is seized upon by some
tatterdemallion family, who become joint
tenants, with the bats and owls, of its
gilded halls; and hang their rags, those
standards of poverty, out of the windows
and loopholes.
I have amused myself with remarking
some of the motley characters that have
thus usurped the ancient abode of royalty,
and who seem as if placed here to give a
farcical termination to the drama of human
pride. One of these even bears the
mockery of a regal title. It is a little old
woman named Maria Antonia Sabonea,
but who goes by the appellation of La
Reyna Coquina, or the Cockle-Queen.
She is small enough to be a fairy, and a
fairy she may be for aught I can find
out, for no one seems to know her origin.
Her habitation is in a kind of closet under
the outer staircase of the palace, and she
sits in the cool stone corridor, plying her
needle and singing from morning till
night, with a ready joke for every one
that passes; for though one of the poorest,
she is one of the merriest little women
breathing. Her great merit is a gift for
story-telling, having, I verily believe, as
many stories at her command, as the
inexhaustible Scheherezade of the Thousand
and One Nights. Some of these I
have heard her relate in the evening
tertulias of Dame Antonia, at which she
is occasionally a humble attendant.
That there must be some fairy gift
about this mysterious little old woman,
would appear from her extraordinary
luck, since, notwithstanding her being
very little, very ugly, and very poor,
she has had, according to her own account,
five husbands and a half, reckoning
as a half one, a young dragoon who
died during courtship. A rival personage
to this little fairy queen, is a portly old
fellow with a bottle nose, who goes about
in a rusty garb, with a cocked hat of oilskin
and a red cockade. He is one of
the legitimate sons of the Alhambra, and
has lived here all his life, filling various
offices, such as deputy alguazil, sexton
of the parochial church, and marker of
a fives' court established at the foot of
one of the towers. He is as poor as a
rat, but as proud as he is ragged, boasting
of his descent from the illustrious
house of Aguilar, from which sprang
Gonsalvo of Cordova, the grand captain.
Nay, he actually bears the name of
history of the conquest; though the
graceless wags of the fortress have given
him the title of et padre santo, or the
holy father, the usual appellation of the
Pope, which I had thought too sacred in
the eyes of true catholics to be thus
ludicrously applied. It is a whimsical
caprice of fortune to present, in the grotesque
person of this tatterdemalion, a
namesake and descendant of the proud
Alonso de Aguilar, the mirror of Andalusian
chivalry, leading an almost mendicant
existence about this once haughty
fortress, which his ancestor aided to reduce;
yet, such might have been the lot
of the descendants of Agamemnon and
Achilles, had they lingered about the
ruins of Troy!
Of this motley community, I find the
family of my gossiping squire, Mateo
Ximenes, to form, from their numbers at
least, a very important part. His boast
of being a son of the Alhambra, is not
unfounded. His family has inhabited
the fortress ever since the time of the
conquest, handing down an hereditary
poverty from father to son; not one of
them having ever been known to be
worth a maravedi. His father, by trade
a riband weaver, and who succeeded the
historical tailor at the head of the family,
is now near seventy years of age, and
lives in a hovel of reeds and plaster,
built by his own hands just above the
iron gate. The furniture consists of a
crazy bed, a table, and two or three
chairs; a wooden chest, containing his
clothes and the archives of his family;
that is to say, a few papers concerning
old lawsuits, which he cannot read; but
the pride of his hovel is a blazon of the
arms of the family, brilliantly coloured,
and suspended in a frame against the
wall; clearly demonstrating by its quarterings,
the various noble houses with
which this poverty-stricken brood claims
affinity.
As to Mateo himself, he has done his
utmost to perpetuate his line, having a
wife and a numerous progeny, who inhabit
an almost dismantled hovel in the
hamlet. How they manage to subsist,
He only who sees into all mysteries can
tell; the subsistence of a Spanish family
of the kind, is always a riddle to me;
yet they do subsist, and what is more,
appear to enjoy their existence. The
wife takes her holiday stroll in the Paseo
of Granada, with a child in her arms
and half a dozen at her heels; and the
eldest daughter, now verging into womanhood,
dresses her hair with flowers,
and dances gaily to the castañets.
Here are two classes of people to
whom life seems one long holiday, the
very rich, and the very poor; one because
they need do nothing, the other
because they have nothing to do; but
there are none who understand the art
of doing nothing and living upon nothing
better than the poor classes of Spain.
Climate does one half, and temperament
the rest. Give a Spaniard the shade in
summer, and the sun in winter; a little
bread, garlic, oil, and garbances, an
old brown cloak and a guitar, and let
the world roll on as it pleases. Talk of
poverty! with him it has no disgrace.
It sits upon him with a grandiose style,
like his ragged cloak. He is a hidalgo,
even when in rags.
The "sons of the Alhambra" are an
eminent illustration of this practical
philosophy. As the Moors imagined
that the celestial paradise hung over this
favoured spot, so I am inclined at times
to fancy, that a gleam of the golden age
still lingers about the ragged community.
They possess nothing, they do nothing,
they care for nothing. Yet, though apparently
idle all the week, they are as
observant of all holy days and saints'
days as the most laborious artisan.
They attend all fetes and dancings in
Granada and its vicinity, light bonfires
on the hills on St. John's eve, and have
lately danced away the moonlight nights
on the harvest home of a small field
within the precincts of the fortress, which
yielded a few bushels of wheat.
Before concluding these remarks, I
must mention one of the amusements of
the place which has particularly struck
me. I had repeatedly observed a long
lean fellow perched on the top of one of
the towers, manœuvring two or three
fishing-rods, as though he was angling
for the stars. I was for some time perplexed
by the evolutions of this aerial
fisherman, and my perplexity increased
on observing others employed in like
and bastions; it was not until I
consulted Mateo Ximenes, that I solved
the mystery.
It seems that the pure and airy situation
of this fortress has rendered it, like
the castle of Macbeth, a prolific breeding-place
for swallows and martlets, who
sport about its towers in myriads, with
the holiday glee of urchins just let loose
from school. To entrap these birds in
their giddy circlings, with hooks baited
with flies, is one of the favourite amusements
of the ragged "sons of the Alhambra,"
who, with the good-for-nothing
ingenuity of arrant idlers, have thus
invented the art of angling in the sky!
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 light and fragile colonnade
has given way, and all 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 roofs; 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 air. It
needs but a slight exertion of the fancy to
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 was performed, in presence
of Ferdinand and Isabella, and their
triumphant court, the pompous ceremonial
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
shaven monk, and steel-clad knight and
silken courtier; when crosses and crosiers,
and religious standards, were mingled
with proud armorial ensigns and the
banners of the haughty chiefs of Spain,
and flaunted in triumph 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
themselves before the altar, and pouring
forth thanks for their victory; while the
vaults resounded 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 vault, and the owl hoots from
the neighbouring tower of Comares.
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 superstitions of
the place were realized, and some ancient
inhabitant of the Alhambra had broken
the spell of centuries, and become visible.
He 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
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 olden 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 this 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 capital 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 downfall of the Moorish
throne, originated in the cruelty of his
tiger-hearted father; but the Moor would
admit of no palliation.
"Muley Hassan," said he, "might
have been cruel; but he was brave, vigilant,
and patriotic. Had he been properly
seconded, Granada would still have been
ours; but his son Boabdil thwarted 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
Pacha of Tetuan. The Moorish governor
was particular in his inquiries about the
soil, 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 pacha
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
when the Moors would conquer 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 Mahommedan
prince sit on his throne in the
Alhambra.
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 Mahommedan
communities to any hereditary distinction,
except in the royal line.
These families, it is said, continue to
sigh after the terrestial 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 of their ancestors at Granada,
and even the keys of the houses;
holding them as evidences of their hereditary
claims, to be produced at the anticipated
day of restoration.
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 to
strangers. As he was one evening, about
twilight, passing through the Court of
Lions, he heard footsteps in the Hall of
the Abencerrages. Supposing some visiters
to be lingering there, he advanced
to attend upon them, when to his astonishment
he beheld four Moors richly
dressed, with gilded cuirasses and cimeters,
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 houses,
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.
BOABDIL EL CHICO.
My conversation with the man in the
Court of Lions, set me to musing on the
singular fate of Boabdil. Never was surname
more applicable than that bestowed
upon him by his subjects, of "El Zogoybi,"
or "the unlucky." His misfortunes
began almost in his cradle. In his tender
youth, he was imprisoned and menaced
with death by an inhuman father, and
only escaped through a mother's stratagem;
in after years his life was embittered
and repeatedly endangered, by the
hostilities of a usurping uncle; his reign
was distracted by external invasions and
internal feuds: he was alternately the
foe, the prisoner, the friend, and always
the dupe of Ferdinand, until conquered
and dethroned by the mingled craft and
force of that perfidious monarch. An
exile from his native land, he took refuge
with one of the princes of Africa, and fell
obscurely in battle, fighting in the cause
of a stranger. His misfortunes ceased
not with his death. If Boabdil cherished
the historic page, how cruelly has he
been defrauded of his hopes! Who is
there that has turned the least attention
to the romantic history of the Moorish
domination in Spain, without kindling
with indignation at the alleged atrocities
of Boabdil? Who has not been touched
with the woes of his lovely and gentle
queen, subjected by him to a trial of life
and death, on a false charge of infidelity?
Who has not been shocked by his alleged
murder of his sister and her two children,
in a transport of passion? Who has not
felt his blood hoil, at the inhuman massacre
of the gallant Abencerrages, thirty-six
of whom, it is affirmed, he ordered to
be beheaded in the Court of Lions? All
these charges have been reiterated in various
forms; they have passed into ballads,
dramas, and romances, until they
have taken too thorough possession of
the public mind to be eradicated. There
is not a foreigner of education that visits
the Alhambra, but asks for the fountain
where the Abencerrages were beheaded;
and gazes with horror at the grated gallery
where the queen is said to have been
confined; not a peasant of the Vega or
the Sierra, but sings the story in rude
couplets, to the accompaniment of his
guitar, while his hearers learn to execrate
the very name of Boabdil.
Never, however, was name more foully
and unjustly slandered. I have examined
all the authentic chronicles and letters
written by Spanish authors, contemporary
with Boabdil; some of whom were
in the confidence of the catholic sovereigns,
and actually present in the camp
throughout the war. I have examined
all the Arabian authorities I could get access
to, through the medium of translation,
and can find nothing to justify these
dark and hateful accusations. The whole
of these tales may be traced to a work
commonly called "The Civil Wars of
Granada," containing a pretended history
of the feuds of the Zegris and Abencerrages,
during the last struggle of the
Moorish empire. This work appeared
originally in Spanish, and professed to
be translated from the Arabic by one
Gines Perez de Hila, an inhabitant of
Murcia. It has since passed into various
languages, and Florian has taken from it
much of the fable of his Gonsalvo of Cordova;
it has since, in a great measure,
usurped the authority of real history, and
is currently believed by the people, and
especially the peasantry, of Granada.
The whole of it, however, is a mass of
fiction, mingled with a few disfigured
truths, which give it an air of veracity.
It bears internal evidence of its falsity;
the manners and customs of the Moors
being extravagantly misrepresented in it,
and scenes depicted totally incompatible
with their habits and their faith, and
which never could have been recorded by
a Mahometan writer.
I confess there seems to me something
almost criminal in the wilful perversions
of this work: great latitude is undoubtedly
to be allowed to romantic fiction,
but there are limits which it must not
pass, and the names of the distinguished
dead, which belong to history, are no
more to be calumniated than those of
the illustrious living. One would have
thought, too, that the unfortunate Boabdil
had suffered for his justifiable hostility to
the Spaniards, by being stripped of his
kingdom, without having his name thus
wantonly traduced, and rendered a byword
and a theme of infamy in his native
land, and in the very mansion of his
fathers!
It is not intended hereby to affirm that
the transactions imputed to Boabdil, are
totally without historic foundation; but
as far as they can be traced, they appear
to have been the acts of his father, Aben
Hassan, who is represented, by both
Christian and Arabian chroniclers, as
being of a cruel and ferocious nature. It
was he who put to death the cavaliers of
the illustrious line of the Abencerrages,
upon suspicion of their being engaged in
a conspiracy to dispossess him of his
throne.
The story of the accusation of the
Queen of Boabdil, and of her confinement
in one of the towers, may also be
traced to an incident in the life of his
tiger-hearted father. Aben Hassan, in
his advanced age, married a beautiful
Christian captive of noble descent, who
took the Moorish appellation of Zorayda,
by whom he had two sons. She was of
an ambitions spirit, and anxious that her
children should succeed to the crown.
suspicious temper of the king; inflaming
him with jealousies of his children by his
other wives and concubines, whom she
accused of plotting against his throne
and life. Some of them were slain by
the ferocious father. Ayxa la Horra,
the virtuous mother of Boabdil, who had
once been his cherished favourite, became
likewise the object of his suspicion. He
confined her and her son in the tower
of Comares, and would have sacrificed
Boabdil to his fury, but that this tender
mother lowered him from the tower, in
the night, by means of the scarfs of herself
and her attendants, and thus enabled
him to escape to Guadix.
Such is the only shadow of a foundation
that I can find for the story of the
accused and captive queen; and in this
it appears that Boabdil was the persecuted,
instead of the persecutor.
Throughout the whole of his brief,
turbulent, and disastrous reign, Boabdil
gives evidence of a mild and amiable
character. He, in the first instance, won
the hearts of the people by his affable
and gracious manners; he was always
peaceable, and never inflicted any severity
of punishment upon those who occasionally
rebelled against him. He was
personally brave, but he wanted moral
courage; and, in times of difficulty and
perplexity, was wavering and irresolute.
This feebleness of spirit hastened his
downfall, while it deprived him of that
heroic grace which would have given a
grandeur and dignity to his fate, and rendered
him worthy of closing the splendid
drama of the Moslem domination in
Spain.
MEMENTOS OF BOABDIL.
While my mind was still warm with
the subject of the unfortunate Boabdil, I
set forth to trace the mementos connected
with his story, which yet exist in this
scene of his sovereignty and his misfortunes.
In the picture-gallery of the Palace
of the Generalife hangs his portrait.
The face is mild, handsome, and somewhat
melancholy, with a fair complexion
and yellow hair; if it be a true representation
of the man, he may have been
wavering and uncertain, but there is nothing
of cruelty or unkindness in his
aspect.
I next visited the dungeon where he
was confined in his youthful days, when
his cruel father meditated his destruction.
It is a vaulted room in the tower of Comares,
under the Hall of Ambassadors;
a similar room, separated by a narrow
passage, was the prison of his mother,
the virtuous Ayxa la Horra. The walls
are of prodigious thickness, and the
small windows secured by iron bars. A
narrow stone gallery, with a low parapet,
extends round three sides of the tower,
just below the windows, but at a considerable
height from the ground. From
this gallery, it is presumed, the queen
lowered her son with the scarfs of herself
and her female attendants, during the
darkness of night, to the hill side, at the
foot of which waited a domestic with a
fleet steed to bear the prince to the mountains.
As I paced this gallery, my imagination
pictured the anxious queen leaning
over the parapet, and listening, with the
throbbings of a mother's heart, to the
last echoes of the horse's hoof, as her
son scoured along the narrow valley of
the Darro.
My next search was for the gate by
which Boabdil departed from the Alhambra
when about to surrender his capital.
With the melancholy caprice of a broken
spirit, he requested of the catholic monarchs
that no one afterwards might be
permitted to pass through this gate. His
prayer, according to ancient chronicles,
was complied with, through the sympathy
of Isabella, and the gate walled up.
For some time I inquired in vain for such
a portal; at length my humble attendant,
Mateo, learned, among the old residents
of the fortress, that a ruinous gateway
still existed, by which, according to tradition,
the Moorish king had left the fortress,
but which had never been open
within the memory of the oldest inhabitant.
He conducted me to the spot. The
gateway is in the centre of what was
once an immense tower, called La Torre
de los Siete Suelos, or, the Tower of the
Seven Floors. It is a place famous, in
for being the scene of strange apparitions
and Moorish enchantments.
This once redoubtable tower is now a
mere wreck, having been blown up with
gunpowder by the French, when they
abaudoned the fortress. Great masses
of the wall lie scattered about, buried in
the luxuriant herbage, or overshadowed
by vines and fig trees. The arch of the
gateway, though rent by the shock, still
remains; but the last wish of poor Boabdil
has again, though unintentionally,
been fulfilled, for the portal has been
closed up by loose stones gathered from
the ruins, and remains impassable.
Following up the route of the Moslem
monarch, as it remains on record, I
crossed on horseback the hill of Los
Martyres, keeping along the garden of
the convent of the same name, and thence
down a rugged ravine, beset by thickets
of aloes and Indian figs, and lined by
caves and hovels swarming with gipsies.
It was the road taken by Boabdil to
avoid passing through the city. The
descent was so steep and broken, that I
was obliged to dismount and lead my
horse.
Emerging from the ravine, and passing
by the Puerta de los Molinos (the Gate of
the Mills), I issued forth upon the public
promenade called the Prado, and pursuing
the course of the Xenil, arrived at a
small Moorish mosque, now converted into
the chapel or hermitage of San Sebastian.
A tablet on the wall relates that on this
spot Boabdil surrendered the keys of
Granada to the Castilian sovereigns.
From thence I rode slowly across the
Vega to a village where the family and
household of the unhappy king awaited
him, for he had sent them forward on
the preceding night from the Alhambra,
that his mother and wife might not participate
in his personal humiliation, or he
exposed to the gaze of the conquerors.
Following on in the route of the melaneholy
band of royal exiles, I arrived
at the foot of a chain of barren and
dreary heights, forming the skirt of the
Alpuxarra mountains. From the summit
of one of these the unfortunate Boabdil
took his last look at Granada; it bears a
name expressive of his sorrows, la Cuesta
de las Lágrimas (the Hill of Tears).
Beyond it, a sandy road winds across a
rugged cheerless waste, doubly dismal to
the unhappy monarch, as it led to exile.
I spurred my horse to the summit of a
rock, where Boabdil uttered his last
sorrowful exclamation, as he turned his
eyes from taking their farewell gaze: it
is still denominated el último Suspiro del
Moro (the last Sigh of the Moor). Who
can wonder at his anguish at being expelled
from such a kingdom and such an
abode? With the Alhambra he seemed
to be yielding up all the honours of his
line, and all the glories and delights of
life.
It was here, too, that his affliction was
embittered by the reproach of his mother,
Ayxa, who had so often assisted him in
times of peril, and had vainly sought to
instil into him her own resolute spirit.
"You do well," said she, "to weep as a
woman over what you could not defend
as a man,"—a speech that savours more
of the pride of the princess than the
tenderness of the mother.
When this anecdote was related to
Charles V. by Bishop Guevara, the emperor
joined in the expression of scorn at
the weakness of the wavering Boabdil.
"Had I been he, or he been I," said the
haughty potentate, "I would rather have
made this Alhambra my sepulchre than
have lived without a kingdom in the
Alpuxarra."
How easy it is for those in power and
prosperity to preach heroism to the vanquished!
how little can they understand
that life itself may rise in value with the
unfortunate, when nought but life remains!
THE BALCONY.
In the Hall of Ambassadors, at the
central window, there is a balcony, of
which I have already made mention: it
projects like a cage from the face of the
tower, high in mid air above the tops of
the trees that grow on the steep hill-side.
It serves me as a kind of observatory,
where I often take my seat to consider,
not merely the heaven above, but the
earth beneath. Besides the magnificent
prospect which it commands of mountain,
scene of human life laid open to inspection
immediately below. At the foot of the
hill is an alameda, or public walk, which,
though not so fashionable as the more
modern and splendid paseo of the Xenil,
still boasts a varied and picturesque concourse.
Hither resort the small gentry
of the suburbs, together with priests and
friars, who walk for appetite and digestion,
majos and majas, the beaux and
belles of the lower classes, in their Andalusian
dresses, swaggering contrabandistas,
and sometimes half-muffled and
mysterious loungers of the higher ranks,
on some secret assignation.
It is a moving and motley picture of
Spanish life and character, which I delight
to study; and, as the naturalist has
his microscope to aid him in his investigations,
so I have a small pocket telescope
which brings the countenances of the
motley groups so close, as almost, at
times, to make me think I can divine
their conversation by the play and expression
of their features. I am thus, in
a manner, an invisible observer, and,
without quitting my solitude, can throw
myself in an instant into the midst of
society,—a rare advantage to one of
somewhat shy and quiet habits, and who,
like myself, is fond of observing the
drama of life without becoming an actor
in the scene.
There is a considerable suburb lying
below the Alhambra, filling the narrow
gorge of the valley, and extending up the
opposite hill of the Albaycin. Many of
the houses are built in the Moorish style,
round patios, or courts, cooled by fountains,
and open to the sky; and as the
inhabitants pass much of their time in
these courts, and on the terraced roofs
during the summer season, it follows that
many a glance at their domestic life may
be obtained by an aerial spectator like
myself, who can look down on them
from the clouds.
I enjoy, in some degree, the advantages
of the student in the famous old Spanish
story, who beheld all Madrid unroofed
for his inspection; and my gossiping
squire, Mateo Ximenes, officiates occasionally
as my Asmodeus, to give me
anecdotes of the different mansions and
their inhabitants.
I prefer, however, to perform conjectural
histories for myself, and thus can
sit for hours weaving from casual incidents
and indications that pass under my
eye, the whole tissue of schemes, intrigues,
and occupations of certain of the
busy mortals below. There is scarce a
pretty face, or a striking figure, that I
daily see, about which I have not thus
gradually framed a dramatic story, though
some of my characters will occasionally
act in direct opposition to the part assigned
them, and disconcert my whole
drama. A few days since, as I was reconnoitring
with my glass the streets of
the Albaycin, I beheld the procession of
a novice about to take the veil; and
remarked several circumstances that excited
the strongest sympathy in the fate
of the youthful being thus about to be
consigned to a living tomb. I ascertained
to my satisfaction that she was beautiful;
and, by the paleness of her cheek, that
she was a victim, rather than a votary.
She was arrayed in bridal garments, and
decked with a chaplet of white flowers,
but her heart evidently revolted at this
mockery of a spiritual union, and yearned
after its earthly loves. A tall stern-looking
man walked near her in the procession;
it was evidently the tyrannical
father, who, from some bigoted or sordid
motive, had compelled this sacrifice.
Amidst the crowd was a dark handsome
youth, in Andalusian garb, who seemed
to fix on her an eye of agony. It was
doubtless the secret lover from whom she
was for ever to be separated. My indignation
rose as I noted the malignant
expression painted on the countenances
of the attendant monks and friars. The
procession arrived at the chapel of the
convent; the sun gleamed for the last
time upon the chaplet of the poor novice,
as she crossed the fatal threshold, and
disappeared within the building. The
throng poured in with cowl, and cross,
and minstrelsy; the lover paused for a
moment at the door. I could not divine
the tumult of his feelings; but he mastered
them, and entered. There was a
long interval—I pictured to myself the
scene passing within; the poor novice
despoiled of her transient finery, clothed
in the conventual garb, her bridal chaplet
taken from her brow, her beautiful head
her murmur the irrevocable vow. I saw
her extended on her bier; the death-pall
spread over her; the funeral service was
performed; I heard the deep tones of the
organ, and the plaintive requiem chanted
by the nuns; the father looked on with
a hard unfeeling countenance. The
lover—but no, my imagination refused
to paint the lover; there the picture remained
a blank.
After a time the throng again poured
forth, and dispersed various ways, to
enjoy the light of the sun, and mingle
with the stirring scenes of life; the
victim, however, remained behind. Almost
the last that came forth were the
father and the lover; they were in earnest
conversation. The latter was vehement
in his gesticulations; I expected some
violent termination to my drama; but an
angle of a building interfered and closed
the scene. My eye has since frequently
been turned to that convent with painful
interest. I remarked late at night a
light burning in a remote window of one
of its towers. "There," said I, "the
unhappy nun sits weeping in her cell,
while perhaps her lover paces the street
below in unavailing anguish."
The officious Mateo interrupted my
meditations and destroyed in an instant
the cobweb tissue of my fancy. With
his usual zeal he had gathered facts
concerning the scene, that had put my
fictions all to flight. The heroine of my
romance was neither young nor handsome;
she had no lover—she had entered
the convent of her own free will,
as a respectable asylum, and was one of
the most cheerful residents within its
walls.
It was some little while before I could
forgive the wrong done me by the nun
in being thus happy in her cell, in contradiction
to all the rules of romance; I
diverted my spleen, however, by watching,
for a day or two, the pretty coquetries
of a dark-eyed brunette, who, from the
covert of a balcony shrouded with flowering
shrubs and a silken awning, was
carrying on a mysterious correspondence,
with a handsome, dark, well-whiskered
cavalier, who was frequently in the street
beneath her window. Sometimes I saw
him at an early hour, stealing forth
wrapped to the eyes in a mantle. Sometimes
he loitered at a corner, in various
disguises, apparently waiting for a private
signal to slip into the house. Then there
was the tinkling of a guitar at night, and
a lantern shifted from place to place in
the balcony. I imagined another intrigue
like that of Almaviva, but was again
disconcerted in all my suppositions, by
being informed that the supposed lover
was the husband of the lady, and a noted
contrabandista; and that all his mysterious
signs and movements had doubtless
some smuggling scheme in view.
I occasionally amused myself with
noting from this balcony the gradual
changes that came over the scenes below,
according to the different stages of the
day.
Scarce has the gray dawn streaked the
sky, and the earliest cock crowed from
the cottages of the hill-side, when the
suburbs give sign of reviving animation;
for the fresh hours of dawning are precious
in the summer season in a sultry
climate. All are anxious to get the start
of the sun, in the business of the day.
The muleteer drives forth his loaded
train for the journey; the traveller slings
his carbine behind his saddle, and mounts
his steed at the gate of the hostel; the
brown peasant urges his loitering beasts,
laden with panniers of sunny fruit and
fresh dewy vegetables; for already the
thrifty housewives are hastening to the
market.
The sun is up and sparkles along the
valley, tipping the transparent foliage of
the groves. The matin bells resound
melodiously through the pure bright air,
announcing the hour of devotion. The
muleteer halts his burthened animals
before the chapel, thrusts his staff through
his belt behind, and enters with hat in
hand, smoothing his coal-black hair, to
hear a mass, and put up a prayer for a
prosperous wayfaring across the sierra.
And now steals forth on fairy foot the
gentle señora, in trim basquiña, with
restless fan in hand, and dark eye
flashing from beneath the gracefully
folded mantilla: she seeks some well-frequented
church to offer up her morning
orisons; but the nicely adjusted dress,
the dainty shoe, and cobweb stocking,
the raven tresses, exquisitely braided, the
them like a gem, show that earth divides
with Heaven the empire of her thoughts.
Keep an eye upon her, careful mother,
or virgin aunt, or vigilant duenna, whichever
you be, that walk behind.
As the morning advances, the din of
labour augments on every side; the
streets are thronged with man, and steed,
and beast of burthen, and there is a hum
and murmur, like the surges of the ocean.
As the sun ascends to his meridian, the
hum and bustle gradually decline; at the
height of noon there is a pause. The
panting city sinks into lassitude, and for
several hours there is a general repose.
The windows are closed, the curtains
drawn, the inhabitants retired into the
coolest recesses of their mansions; the
full-fed monk snores in his dormitory;
the brawny porter lies stretched on the
pavement beside his burthen; the peasant
and the labourer sleep beneath the trees
of the Alameda, lulled by the sultry
chirping of the locust. The streets are
deserted, except by the water-carrier,
who refreshes the ear by proclaiming
the merits of his sparkling beverage,
"colder than the mountain snow."
As the sun declines, there is again a
gradual reviving, and when the vesper
bell rings out his sinking knell, all nature
seems to rejoice that the tyrant of
the day has fallen. Now begins the
bustle of enjoyment, when the citizens
pour forth to breathe the evening air,
and revel away the brief twilight in the
walks and gardens of the Darro and the
Xenil.
As night closes, the capricious scene
assumes new features. Light after light
gradually twinkles forth; here a taper
from a balconied window; there a votive
lamp before the image of a saint. Thus,
by degrees, the city emerges from the
pervading gloom, and sparkles with scattered
lights, like the starry firmament.
Now break forth from court and garden,
and street and lane, the tinkling of innumerable
guitars, and the clicking of castañets;
blending, at this lofty height, in
a faint but general concert. Enjoy the
moment, is the creed of the gay and
amorous Andalusian, and at no time
does he practise it more zealously than
in the balmy nights of summer, wooing
his mistress with the dance, the love-ditty,
and the passionate serenade.
I was one evening seated in the balcony,
enjoying the light breeze that came
rustling along the side of the hill, among
the tree tops, when my humble historiographer
Mateo, who was at my elbow,
pointed out a spacious house, in an obscure
street of the Albaycin, about which
he related, as nearly as I can recollect,
the following anecdote.
THE ADVENTURE OF THE MASON.
"There was once upon a time a poor
mason, or bricklayer, in Granada, who
kept all the Saint's days and holidays,
and Saint Monday into the bargain, and
yet, with all his devotion, he grew poorer
and poorer, and could scarely earn bread
for his numerous family. One night he
was roused from his first sleep by a
knocking at his door. He opened it,
and beheld before him a tall, meagre,
cadaverous-looking priest.
" `Hark ye, honest friend!' said the
stranger; `I have observed that you are
a good Christian, and one to be trusted;
will you undertake a job this very
night?'
" `With all my heart, Señor Padre,
on condition that I am paid accordingly.'
" `That you shall be; but you must
suffer yourself to be blindfolded.'
"To this the mason made no objection;
so, being hoodwinked, he was led
by the priest through various rough lanes
and winding passages, until they stopped
before the portal of a house. The priest
then applied a key, turned a creaking
lock, and opened what sounded like a
ponderous door. They entered, the door
was closed and bolted, and the mason
was conducted through an echoing corridor,
and a spacious hall, to an interior
part of the building. Here the bandage
was removed from his eyes, and he found
himself in a patio, or court, dimly lighted
by a single lamp. In the centre was the
dry basin of an old Moorish fountain,
under which the priest requested him to
form a small vault, bricks and mortar
being at hand for the purpose. He accordingly
worked all night, but without
the priest put a piece of gold into his
hand, and having again blindfolded him,
conducted him back to his dwelling.
" `Are you willing,' said he, `to return
and complete your work?'
" `Gladly, Señor Padre, provided I
am so well paid.'
" `Well, then, to-morrow at midnight
I will call again.'
"He did so, and the vault was completed.
" `Now,' said the priest, `you must
help me to bring forth the bodies that
are to be buried in this vault.'
"The poor mason's hair rose on his
head at these words: he followed the
priest, with trembling steps, into a retired
chamber of the mansion, expecting
to behold some ghastly spectacle of death,
but was relieved on perceiving three or
four portly jars standing in one corner.
They were evidently full of money, and
it was with great labour that he and the
priest carried them forth and consigned
them to their tomb. The vault was then
closed, the pavement replaced, and all
traces of the work obliterated. The mason
was again hoodwinked and led forth
by a route different from that by which
he had come. After they had wandered
for a long time through a perplexed
maze of lanes and alleys, they halted.
The priest then put two pieces of gold
into his hand: `Wait here,' said he,
`until you hear the cathedral bell toll
for matins. If you presume to uncover
your eyes before that time, evil will befall
you:' so saying, he departed. The
mason waited faithfully, amusing himself
by weighing the gold pieces in his hand,
and clinking them against each other.
The moment the cathedral bell rang its
matin peal, he uncovered his eyes, and
found himself on the banks of the Xenil,
from whence he made the best of his way
home, and revelled with his family for a
whole fortnight on the profits of his two
nights' work; after which, he was as
poor as ever.
"He continued to work a little, and
pray a good deal, and keep Saints' days
and holidays, from year to year, while
his family grew up as gaunt and ragged
as a crew of gipsies. As he was seated
one evening at the door of his hovel, he
was accosted by a rich old curmudgeon,
who was noted for owning many houses,
and being a griping landlord. The man
of money eyed him for a moment from
beneath a pair of anxious shagged eyebrows.
" `I am told, friend, that you are very
poor.'
" `There is no denying the fact, señor
—it speaks for itself.'
" `I presume then, that you will be
glad of a job, and will work cheap.'
" `As cheap, my master, as any mason
in Granada.'
" `That's what I want. I have an old
house fallen into decay, that costs me
more money than it is worth to keep it
in repair, for nobody will live in it; so I
must contrive to patch it up and keep it
together at as small expense as possible.'
"The mason was accordingly conducted
to a large deserted house that
seemed going to ruin. Passing through
several empty halls and chambers, he
entered an inner court, where his eye
was caught by an old Moorish fountain.
He paused for a moment, for a dreaming
recollection of the place came over him.
" `Pray,' said he, `who occupied this
house formerly?'
" `A pest upon him!' cried the landlord,
`it was an old miserly priest, who
cared for nobody but himself. He was
said to be immensely rich, and, having
no relations, it was thought he would
leave all his treasures to the Church.
He died suddenly, and the priests and
friars thronged to take possession of his
wealth; but nothing could they find but
a few ducats in a leathern purse. The
worst luck has fallen on me, for, since
his death, the old fellow continues to
occupy my house without paying rent,
and there's no taking the law of a dead
man. The people pretend to hear the
clinking of gold all night in the chamber
where the old priest slept, as if he were
counting over his money, and sometimes
a groaning and moaning about the court.
Whether true or false, the stories have
brought a bad name on my house, and
not a tenant will remain in it.'
" `Enough,' said the mason sturdily:
`let me live in your house rent-free until
some better tenant present, and I will
engage to put it in repair, and to quiet
a good Christian and a poor man, and
am not to be daunted by the devil himself,
even though he should come in the
shape of a big bag of money!'
"The offer of the honest mason was
gladly accepted; he moved with his family
into the house, and fulfilled all his
engagements. By little and little he
restored it to its former state; the clinking
of gold was no more heard at night
in the chamber of the defunct priest, but
began to be heard by day in the pocket
of the living mason. In a word, he
increased rapidly in wealth, to the admiration
of all his neighbours, and became
one of the richest men in Granada: he
gave large sums to the Church, by way,
no doubt, of satisfying his conscience,
and never revealed the secret of the
vault until on his death-bed to his son
and heir."
A RAMBLE AMONG THE HILLS.
I frequently amuse myself towards
the close of the day, when the heat has
subsided, with taking long rambles about
the neighbouring hills and the deep umbrageous
valleys, accompanied by my
historiographic squire, Mateo, to whose
passion for gossiping I on such occasions
give the most unbounded license; and
there is scarce a rock, or ruin, or broken
fountain, or lonely glen, about which he
has not some marvellous story, or, above
all, some golden legend; for never was
poor devil so munificent in dispensing
hidden treasures.
A few evenings since, we look a long
stroll of the kind, in the course of which
Mateo was more than usually communicative.
It was towards sunset that we
sallied forth from the Great Gate of
Justice, and ascending an alley of trees,
Mateo paused under a clump of fig and
pomegranate trees, at the foot of a huge
ruined tower, called the Tower of the
Seven Floors (de los Sietes Suelos).
Here, pointing to a low archway in the
foundation of the tower, he informed me
of a monstrous sprite, or hobgoblin, said
to infest this tower ever since the time of
the Moors, and to guard the treasures of
a Moslem king. Sometimes it issues
forth in the dead of the night, and scours
the avenues of the Alhambra and the
streets of Granada, in the shape of a
headless horse, pursued by six dogs with
terrible yells and howlings.
"But have you ever met with it yourself,
Mateo, in any of your rambles?"
demanded I.
"No, señor, God be thanked! but my
grandfather, the tailor, knew several persons
that had seen it, for it went about
much oftener in his time than at present;
sometimes in one shape, sometimes in
another. Every body in Granada has
heard of the Bellado, for the old women
and the nurses frighten the children with
it when they cry. Some say it is the
spirit of a cruel Moorish king, who killed
his six sons and buried them in these
vaults, and that they hunt him at night
in revenge."
I forbear to dwell upon the marvellous
details given by the simple-minded Mateo
about this redoubtable phantom, which
has, in fact, been time out of mind a
favourite theme of nursery tales and
popular tradition in Granada, and of
which honourable mention is made by an
ancient and learned historian and topographer
of the place. I would only observe
that, through this tower was the
gateway by which the unfortunate Boabdil
issued forth to surrender his capital.
Leaving this eventful pile, we continued
our course, skirting the fruitful
orchards of the Generalife, in which two
or three nightingales were pouring forth
a rich strain of melody. Behind these
orchards we passed a number of Moorish
tanks, with a door cut into the rocky
bosom of the hill, but closed up. These
tanks, Mateo informed me, were favourite
bathing places of himself and his comrades
in boyhood, until frightened away
by a story of a hideous Moor, who used
to issue forth from the door in the rock
to entrap unwary bathers.
Leaving these haunted tanks behind
us, we pursued our ramble up a solitary
mule-path that wound among the hills,
and soon found ourselves amidst wild and
melancholy mountains, destitute of trees,
and here and there tinted with scanty
verdure. Every thing within sight was
severe and sterile, and it was scarcely
short distance behind us was the Generalife,
with its blooming orchards and
terraced gardens, and that we were in the
vicinity of delicious Granada, that city
of groves and fountains. But such is
the nature of Spain—wild and stern the
moment it escapes from cultivation; the
desert and the garden are ever side by
side.
The narrow defile up which we were
passing is called, according to Mateo, el
Barranco de la Tinaja, or, the ravine of
the jar, because a jar full of Moorish
gold was found here in old times. The
brain of poor Mateo is continually running
upon these golden legends.
"But what is the meaning of the cross
I see yonder upon a heap of stones, in
that narrow part of the ravine?"
"Oh, that's nothing—a muleteer was
murdered there some years since."
"So then, Mateo, you have robbers
and murderers even at the gates of the
Alhambra?"
"Not at present, señor; that was formerly,
when there used to be many loose
fellows about the fortress; but they've
all been weeded out. Not but that the
gipsies who live in caves in the hillsides,
just out of the fortress, are many
of them fit for any thing; but we have
had no murder about here for a long
time past. The man who murdered the
muleteer was hanged in the fortress."
Our path continued up the barranca,
with a bold, rugged height to our left,
called the Silla del Moro, or Chair of the
Moor, from the tradition already alluded
to, that the unfortunate Boabdil fled
thither during a popular insurrection,
and remained all day seated on the
rocky summit, looking mournfully down
on his factious city.
We at length arrived on the highest
part of the promontory above Granada,
called the Mountain of the Sun. The
evening was approaching; the setting
sun just gilded the loftiest heights. Here
and there a solitary shepherd might be
descried driving his flock down the declivities,
to be folded for the night; or a
muleteer and his lagging animals, threading
some mountain path, to arrive at the
city gates before nightfall.
Presently the deep tones of the cathedral
bell came swelling up the defiles,
proclaiming the hour of "oracion" or
prayer. The note was responded to
from the belfry of every church, and
from the sweet bells of the convents
among the mountains. The shepherd
paused on the fold of the hill, the muleteer
in the midst of the road, each took
off his hat and remained motionless for a
time, murmuring his evening prayer.
There is always something pleasingly
solemn in this custom, by which, at a
melodious signal, every human being
throughout the land unites at the same
moment in a tribute of thanks to God for
the mercies of the day. It spreads a
transient sanctity over the land, and the
sight of the sun sinking in all his glory,
adds not a little to the solemnity of the
scene.
In the present instance the effect was
heightened by the wild and lonely nature
of the place. We were on the naked
and broken summit of the haunted
Mountain of the Sun, where ruined tanks
and cisterns, and the mouldering foundations
of extensive buildings, spoke of
former populousness, but where all was
now silent and desolate.
As we were wandering among these
traces of old times, Mateo pointed out to
me a circular pit, that seemed to penetrate
deep into the bosom of the mountain.
It was evidently a deep well, dug
by the indefatigable Moors, to obtain
their favourite element in its greatest
purity. Mateo, however, had a different
story, and much more to his humour.
This was, according to tradition, an
entrance to the subterranean caverns of
the mountain, in which Boabdil and his
court lay bound in magic spell; and
from whence they sallied forth at night,
at allotted times, to revisit their ancient
abodes.
The deepening twilight, which, in this
climate, is of such short duration, admonished
us to leave this haunted ground.
As we descended the mountain defiles,
there was no longer herdsman or muleteer
to be seen, nor any thing to be heard
but our own footsteps and the lonely
chirping of the cricket. The shadows
of the valleys grew deeper and deeper,
until all was dark around us. The lofty
summit of the Sierra Nevada alone retained
snowy peaks glaring against the dark
blue firmament, and seeming close to us,
from the extreme purity of the atmosphere.
"How near the Sierra looks this evening!"
said Mateo; "it seems as if you
could touch it with your hand; and yet
it is many long leagues off." While he
was speaking, a star appeared over the
snowy summit of the mountain, the only
one yet visible in the heavens, and so
pure, so large, so bright and beautiful, as
to call forth ejaculations of delight from
honest Mateo.
"Que estrella hermosa! que elara y
limpia es!—No puede ser estrella mas
brillante!"
(What a beautiful star! how clear
and lucid—no star could be more brilliant!)
I have often remarked this sensibility
of the common people of Spain to the
charms of natural objects. The lustre
of a star, the beauty or fragrance of a
flower, the crystal purity of a fountain,
will inspire them with a kind of poetical
delight; and then, what euphonious
words their magnificent language affords,
with which to give utterance to
their transports!
"But what lights are those, Mateo,
which I see twinkling along the Sierra
Nevada, just below the snowy region,
and which might be taken for stars, only
that they are ruddy, and against the
dark side of the mountain?"
"Those, señor, are fires, made by the
men who gather snow and ice for the
supply of Granada. They go up every
afternoon with mules and asses, and take
turns, some to rest and warm themselves
by the fires, while others fill the panniers
with ice. They then set off down the
mountain, so as to reach the gates of
Granada before sunrise. That Sierra
Nevada, señor, is a lump of ice in the
middle of Andalusia, to keep it all cool
in summer."
It was now completely dark; we were
passing through the barranca, where
stood the cross of the murdered muleteer;
when I beheld a number of lights
moving at a distance, and apparently
advancing up the ravine. On nearer
approach, they proved to be torches
borne by a train of uncouth figures arrayed
in black: it would have been a
procession dreary enough at any time,
but was peculiarly so in this wild and
solitary place.
Mateo drew near, and told me in a
low voice, that it was a funeral train
bearing a corpse to the burying ground
among the hills.
As the procession passed by, the lugubrious
light of the torches falling on
the rugged features and funeral-weeds of
the attendants, had the most fantastic
effect, but was perfectly ghastly, as it
revealed the countenance of the corpse,
which, according to the Spanish custom,
was borne uncovered on an open bier. I
remained for some time gazing after the
dreary train as it wound up the dark
defile of the mountain. It put me in
mind of the old story of a procession of
demons bearing the body of a sinner up
the crater of Stromboli.
"Ah! señor," cried Mateo, "I could
tell you a story of a procession once
seen among these mountains, but then
you'd laugh at me, and say it was one
of the legacies of my grandfather the
tailor."
"By no means, Mateo. There is nothing
I relish more than a marvellous
tale."
"Well, señor, it is about one of those
very men we have been talking of, who
gather snow on the Sierra Nevada."
"You must know, that a great many
years since, in my grandfather's time,
there was an old fellow, Tio Nicolo by
name, who had filled the panniers of his
mule with snow and ice, and was returning
down the mountain. Being very
drowsy, he mounted upon the mule, and
soon falling asleep, went with his head
nodding and bobbing about from side to
side, while his surefooted old mule stepped
along the edge of the precipices, and
down steep and broken barrancas, just
as safe and steady as if it had been on
plain ground. At length, Tio Nicolo
awoke, and gazed about him, and rubbed
his eyes—and, in good truth, he had reason.
The moon shone almost as bright
as day, and he saw the city below him,
as plain as your hand, and shining with
its white buildings, like a silver platter
in the moonshine; but, Lord! señor, it
few hours before! Instead of the cathedral,
with its great dome and turrets,
and the churches with their spires, and
the convents with their piunacles, all
surmounted with the blessed cross, he
saw nothing but Moorish mosques, and
minarets, and cupolas, all topped off with
glittering crescents, such as you see on
the Barbary flags. Well, señor, as you
may suppose, Tio Nicolo was mightily
puzzled at all this, but while he was
gazing down upon the city, a great army
came marching up the mountain, winding
along the ravines, sometimes in the
moonshine, sometimes in the shade. As
it drew nigh, he saw that there were
horse and foot all in Moorish armour.
Tio Nicolo tried to scramble out of their
way, but his old mule stood stock still,
and refused to budge, trembling, at the
same time, like a leaf—for dumb beasts,
señor, are just as much frightened at
such things as human beings. Well,
señor, the hobgoblin army came marching
by; there were men that seemed to
blow trumpets, and others to beat drums
and strike cymbals, yet never a sound
did they make; they all moved on without
the least noise, just as I have seen
painted armies move across the stage in
the theatre of Granada, and all looked
as pale as death. At last, in the rear
of the army, between two black Moorish
horsemen, rode the Grand Inquisitor of
Granada, on a mule as white as snow.
Tio Nicolo wondered to see him in such
company, for the Inquisitor was famous
for his hatred of Moors, and, indeed, of
all kinds of Infidels, Jews, and heretics,
and used to hunt them out with fire and
scourge. However, Tio Nicolo felt himself
safe, now that there was a priest of
such sanctity at hand. So making the
sign of the cross, he called out for his
benediction, when, hombre! he received
a blow that sent him and his old mule
over the edge of a steep bank, down
which they rolled, head over heels, to
the bottom! Tio Nicolo did not come
to his senses until long after sunrise,
when he found himself at the bottom of
a deep ravine, his mule grazing beside
him, and the panniers of snow completely
melted. He crawled back to Granada,
sorely bruised and battered, but was glad
to find the city looking as usual, with
Christian churches and crosses. When
he told the story of his night's adventure,
every one laughed at him; some said he
had dreamed it all, as he dozed on his
mule; others thought it all a fabrication
of his own—but what was strange,
señor, and made people afterwards think
more seriously of the matter, was, that
the Grand Inquisitor died within the
year. I have often heard my grandfather,
the tailor, say that there was
more meant by that hobgoblin army
bearing off the resemblance of the priest,
than folks dared to surmise."
"Then you would insinuate, friend
Mateo, that there is a kind of Moorish
limbo, or purgatory, in the bowels of
these mountains, to which the padre inquisitor
was borne off."
"God forbid, señor! I know nothing
of the matter—I only relate what I heard
from my grandfather."
By the time Mateo had finished the
tale which I have more succinctly related,
and which was interlarded with
many comments, and spun out with
minute details, we reached the gate of
the Alhambra.
LOCAL TRADITIONS.
The common people of Spain have an
oriental passion for story-telling, and
are fond of the marvellous. They will
gather round the doors of their cottages
in summer evenings, or in the great
cavernous chimney corners of the ventas
in the winter, and listen with insatiable
delight to miraculous legends of saints,
perilous adventures of travellers, and
daring exploits of robbers and contrabandistas.
The wild and solitary character
of the country, the imperfect diffusion
of knowledge, the scarceness of
general topics of conversation, and the
romantic adventurous life that every one
leads in a land where travelling is yet
in its primitive state, all contribute to
cherish this love of oral narration, and to
produce a strong infusion of the extravagant
and incredible. There is no
theme, however, more prevalent and
popular than that of treasures buried
country. In traversing the wild sierras,
the scenes of ancient foray and exploit,
you cannot see a Moorish atalaya, or
watchtower, perched among the cliffs,
or beetling above its rock-built village,
but your muleteer, on being closely
questioned, will suspend the smoking of
his cigarillo to tell some tale of Moslem
gold buried beneath its foundations; nor
is there a ruined alcazar in a city but
has its golden tradition handed down
from generation to generation among the
poor people of the neighbourhood.
These, like most popular fictions, have
sprung from some scanty groundwork
of fact. During the wars between Moor
and Christian which distracted this
country for centuries, towns and castles
were liable frequently and suddenly to
change owners, and the inhabitants,
during sieges and assaults, were fain
to bury their money and jewels in the
earth, or hide them in vaults and wells,
as is often done at the present day in the
despotic and belligerent countries of the
east. At the time of the expulsion of
the Moors, also, many of them concealed
their most precious effects, hoping that
their exile would be but temporary, and
that they would be enabled to return and
retrieve their treasures at some future
day. It is certain that from time to
time hoards of gold and silver coin have
been accidentally dug up, after a lapse
of centuries, from among the ruins of
Moorish fortresses and habitations; and
it requires but a few facts of the kind to
give birth to a thousand fictions.
The stories thus originating have
generally something of an oriental tinge,
and are marked with that mixture of
the Arabic and the Gothic which seems
to me to characterize every thing in
Spain, and especially in its southern
provinces. The hidden wealth is always
laid under magic spell, and secured by
charm and talisman. Sometimes it is
guarded by uncouth monsters or fiery
dragons, sometimes by enchanted Moors,
who sit by it in armour, with drawn
swords, but motionless as statues, maintaining
a sleepless watch for ages.
The Alhambra, of course, from the
peculiar circumstances of its history,
is a stronghold for popular fictions of
the kind; and various relics dug up
from time to time, have contributed to
strengthen them. At one time an
earthen vessel was found containing
Moorish coins and the skeleton of a
cock, which, according to the opinion of
certain shrewd inspectors, must have
been buried alive. At another time a
vessel was dug up, containing a great
scarabæus or beetle of baked clay,
covered with Arabic inscriptions, which
was pronounced a prodigious amulet of
occult virtues. In this way the wits of
the ragged brood who inhabit the Alhambra
have been set wool-gathering,
until there is not a hall, or tower, or
vault, of the old fortress, that has not
been made the scene of some marvellous
tradition. Having, I trust, in the preceding
papers made the reader in some
degree familiar with the localities of the
Alhambra, I shall now launch out more
largely into the wonderful legends connected
with it, and which I have diligently
wrought into shape and form,
from various legendary scraps and hints
picked up in the course of my perambulations;
in the same manner that an antiquary
works out a regular historical
document from a few scattered letters of
an almost defaced inscription.
If any thing in these legends should
shock the faith of the over-scrupulous
reader, he must remember the nature of
the place, and make due allowances.
He must not expect here, the same laws
of probability that govern commonplace
scenes, and every-day life; he must
remember that he treads the halls of
an enchanted palace, and that all is
"haunted ground."
THE
HOUSE OF THE WEATHERCOCK.
On the brow of the lofty hill of the
Albayein, the highest part of the city of
Granada, stand the remains of what was
once a royal palace, founded shortly
after the conquest of Spain by the Arabs.
It is now converted into a manufactory,
and has fallen into such obscurity, that
it cost me much trouble to find it, notwithstanding
the sagacious, and all-knowing Mateo
Ximenes. This edifice still bears the
name by which it has been known for
centuries, namely, "La Casa del Gallo
de Viento," i. e., the House of the
Weathercock. It was so called from a
bronze figure of a warrior on horseback,
armed with shield and spear, erected on
one of its turrets, and turning with every
wind; bearing an Arabic motto, which,
translated into Spanish, was as follows:
Que asi se defiende el Andaluz.
The Andalusian his foe defies.
This Aben Habuz, according to Moorish
chronicles, was a captain in the invading
army of Taric, and was left by
him as Alcalde of Granada. He is
supposed to have intended this warlike
effigy as a perpetual memorial to the
Moslem inhabitants, that, surrounded as
they were by foes, their safety depended
upon being always on their guard, and
ready for the field.
Traditions, however, give a different
account of this Aben Habuz and his
palace, and affirm that his bronze horseman
was originally a talisman of great
virtue, though, in after ages, it lost its
magic properties, and degenerated into a
mere weathercock.
The following are the traditions alluded
to.
LEGEND OF
THE ARABIAN ASTROLOGER.
In old times, many hundred years
ago, there was a Moorish king, named
Aben Habuz, who reigned over the
kingdom of Granada. He was a retired
conqueror, that is to say, one who having
in his more youthful days led a life of
constant foray and depredation, now that
he had grown feeble and superannuated,
"languished for repose," and desired
nothing more than to live at peace with
all the world, to husband his laurels, and
to enjoy in quiet the possessions he had
wrested from his neighbours.
It so happened, however, that this
most reasonable and pacific old monarch
had young rivals to deal with;
princes full of his early passion for fame
and fighting, and who were disposed to
call him to account for the scores he
had run up with their fathers. Certain
distant districts of his own territories,
also, which during the days of his vigour
he had treated with a high hand, were
prone, now that he languished for repose,
to rise in rebellion and threaten to
invest him in his capital. Thus he had
foes on every side, and as Granada is
surrounded by wild and craggy mountains,
which hide the approach of an
enemy, the unfortunate Aben Habuz was
kept in a constant state of vigilance and
alarm, not knowing in what quarter hostilities
might break out.
It was in vain that he built watchtowers
on the mountains, and stationed
guards at every pass, with orders to
make fires by night and smoke by day,
on the approach of an enemy. His alert
foes, baffling every precaution, would
break out of some unthought of defile,
ravage his lands beneath his very nose,
and then make off with prisoners and
booty to the mountains. Was ever
peaceable and retired conqueror in a
more uncomfortable predicament?
While Aben Habuz was harassed by
these perplexities and molestations, an
ancient Arabian physician arrived at his
court. His gray beard descended to his
girdle, and he had every mark of extreme
age, yet he had travelled almost
the whole way from Egypt on foot, with
no other aid than a staff, marked with
hieroglyphics. His fame had preceded
him. His name was Ibrahim Ebn Abu
Ajeeb; he was said to have lived ever
since the days of Mahomet, and to be
the son of Abu Ajeeb, the last of the
companions of the Prophet. He had,
when a child, followed the conquering
army of Amru into Egypt, where he had
remained many years studying the dark
sciences, and particularly magic, among
the Egyptian priests.
It was, moreover, said, that he had
found out the secret of prolonging life,
by means of which he had arrived to the
great age of upwards of two centuries,
though, as he did not discover the secret
only perpetuate his gray hairs and
wrinkles.
This wonderful old man was honourably
entertained by the king; who, like
most superannuated monarchs, began to
take physicians into great favour. He
would have assigned him an apartment
in his palace, but the astrologer preferred
a cave on the side of the hill which
rises above the city of Granada, being
the same on which the Alhambra has
since been built. He caused the cave to
be enlarged so as form a spacious and
lofty hall, with a circular hole at the top,
through which, as through a well, he
could see the heavens and behold the
stars even at mid-day. The walls of
this hall were covered with Egyptian
hieroglyphics, with cabalistic symbols,
and with the figures of the stars in their
signs. This hall he furnished with
many implements, fabricated under his
directions by cunning artificers of Granada,
but the occult properties of which
were known only to himself.
In a little while the sage Ibrahim became
the bosom connsellor of the king,
who applied to him for advice in every
emergency. Aben Habuz was once inveighing
against the injustice of his
neighbours, and bewailing the restless
vigilance he had to observe, to guard
himself against their invasions; when
he had finished, the astrologer remained
silent for a moment, and then replied,
"Know, O king, that when I was in
Egypt I beheld a great marvel devised
by a pagan priestess of old. On a mountain,
above the city of Borsa, and overlooking
the great valley of the Nile, was
a figure of a ram, and above it a figure
of a cock, both of molten brass, and turning
upon a pivot. Whenever the country
was threatened with invasion, the ram
would turn in the direction of the enemy,
and the cock would crow; upon this the
inhabitants of the city knew of the danger,
and of the quarter from which it
was approaching, and could take timely
means to guard against it."
"God is great!" exclaimed the pacific
Aben Habuz, "what a treasure would
be such a ram to keep an eye upon these
mountains around me, and then such a
cock, to crow in time of danger! Allah
achbar! how securely I might sleep in
my palace with such sentinels on the
top!"
The astrologer waited until the ecstasies
of the king had subsided, and then
proceeded.
"After the victorious Amru (may he
rest in peace!) had finished his conquest
of Egypt, I remained among the ancient
priests of the land, studying the rites
and ceremonies of their idolatrous faith,
and seeking to make myself master of
the hidden knowledge for which they are
renowned. I was one day seated on the
banks of the Nile, conversing with an
ancient priest, when he pointed to the
mighty pyramids which rose like mountains
out of the neighbouring desert.
`All that we can teach thee,' said he, `is
nothing to the knowledge locked up in
those mighty piles. In the centre of the
central pyramid is a sepulchral chamber,
in which is enclosed the mummy of the
high priest who aided in rearing that
stupendous pile; and with him is buried
a wondrous book of knowledge, containing
all the secrets of magic and art.
This book was given to Adam after his
fall, and was handed down from generation
to generation to King Solomon the
wise, and by its aid he built the temple
of Jerusalem. How it came into the possession
of the builder of the pyramids,
is known to him alone who knows all
things.
"When I heard these words of the
Egyptian priest, my heart burned to get
possession of that book. I could command
the services of many of the soldiers
of our conquering army, and of a number
of the native Egyptians: with these
I set to work, and pierced the solid mass
of the pyramid, until, after great toil,
I came upon one of its interior and hidden
passages. Following this up, and
threading a fearful labyrinth, I penetrated
into the very heart of the pyramid,
even to the sepulchral chamber, where
the mummy of the high priest had lain
for ages. I broke through the outer
cases of the mummy, unfolded its many
wrappers and bandages, and, at length,
found the precious volume on its bosom.
I seized it with a trembling hand, and
groped my way out of the pyramid,
leaving the mummy in its dark and
day of resurrection and judgment."
"Son of Abu Ajeeb," exclaimed Aben
Habuz, "thou hast been a great traveller,
and seen marvellous things; but of
what avail to me is the secret of the
pyramid, and the volume of knowledge
of the wise Solomon?"
"This it is, O king! by the study of
that book I am instructed in all magic
arts, and can command the assistance of
genii to accomplish my plans. The mystery
of the Talisman of Borsa is therefore
familiar to me, and such a talisman
can I make; nay, one of greater virtues."
"O wise son of Abu Ajeeb," cried
Aben Habuz, "better were such a talisman
than all the watchtowers on the
hills, and sentinels upon the borders.
Give me such a safeguard, and the riches
of my treasury are at thy command."
The astrologer immediately set to
work to gratify the wishes of the monarch.
He caused a great tower to be
erected upon the top of the royal palace,
which stood on the brow of the hill of
the Albaycin. The tower was built of
stones brought from Egypt, and taken,
it is said, from one of the pyramids. In
the upper part of the tower was a circular
hall, with windows looking towards
every point of the compass, and before
each window was a table, on which was
arranged, as on a chess-board, a mimic
army of horse and foot, with the effigy
of the potentate that ruled in that direction,
all carved of wood. To each of
these there was a small lance, no bigger
than a bodkin, on which were engraved
certain Chaldaic characters. This hall
was kept constantly closed, by a gate of
brass, with a great lock of steel, the key
of which was in possession of the king.
On the top of the tower was a bronze
figure of a Moorish horseman, fixed on
a pivot, with a shield on one arm, and
his lance elevated perpendicularly. The
face of this horseman was towards the
city, as if keeping guard over it; but if
any foe were at hand, the figure would
turn in that direction, and would level
the lance as if for action.
When this talisman was finished,
Aben Habuz was all impatient to try its
virtues; and longed as ardently for an
invasion as he had ever sighed after repose.
His desire was soon gratified.
Tidings were brought early one morning
by the sentinel appointed to watch the
tower, that the face of the bronze horseman
was turned towards the mountains
of Elvira, and that his lance pointed directly
against the pass of Lope.
"Let the drums and trumpets sound
to arms, and all Granada be put on the
alert," said Aben Habuz.
"O king," said the astrologer, "let
not your city be disquieted, nor your
warriors called to arms; we need no aid
of force to deliver you from your enemies.
Dismiss your attendants, and let
us proceed alone to the secret hall of the
tower."
The ancient Aben Habuz mounted
the staircase of the tower, leaning on the
arm of the still more ancient Ibrahim
Ebn Abu Ajeeb. They unlocked the brazen
door, and entered. The window that
looked towards the pass of Lope was
open. "In this direction," said the astrologer,
"lies the danger; approach, O
king, and behold the mystery of the
table."
King Aben Habuz approached the
seeming chess-board, on which were arranged
the small wooden effigies, when,
to his surprise, he perceived that they
were all in motion. The horses pranced
and curveted, the warriors brandished
their weapons, and there was a faint
sound of drums and trumpets, and the
clang of arms, and neighing of steeds;
but all no louder, nor more distinct, than
the hum of the bee or the summer-fly,
in the drowsy ear of him who lies at
noontide in the shade.
"Behold, O king," said the astrologer,
"a proof that thy enemies are
even now in the field. They must be
advancing through yonder mountains,
by the passes of Lope. Would you produce
a panic and confusion amongst
them, and cause them to retreat without
loss of life, strike these effigies with the
but-end of this magic lance; but would
you cause bloody feud and carnage
among them, strike with the point."
A livid streak passed across the countenance
of the pacific Aben Habuz; he
seized the mimic lance with trembling
eagerness, and tottered towards the table,
exultation: "Son of Abu Ajeeb," exclaimed
he, "I think we will have a
little blood!"
So saying, he thrust the magic lance
into some of the pigmy effigies, and belaboured
others with the but-end, upon
which the former fell as dead upon the
board, and the rest, turning upon each
other, began, pellmell, a chance-medley
fight.
It was with difficulty the astrologer
could stay the hand of the most pacific
of monarchs, and prevent him from absolutely
exterminating his foes; at length
he prevailed upon him to leave the tower,
and to send out scouts to the mountains
by the pass of Lope.
They returned with the intelligence,
that a Christian army had advanced
through the heart of the Sierra, almost
within sight of Granada, where a dissension
had broken out among them; they
had turned their weapons against each
other, and after much slaughter had retreated
over the border.
Aben Habuz was transported with joy
on thus proving the efficacy of the talisman.
"At length," said he, I shall lead
a life of tranquillity, and have all my
enemies in my power. O wise son of
Abu Ajeeb, what can I bestow on thee
in reward for such a blessing?"
"The wants of an old man and a
philosopher, O king, are few and simple;
grant me but the means of fitting up my
cave as a suitable hermitage, and I am
content."
"How noble is the moderation of the
truly wise!" exclaimed Aben Habuz,
secretly pleased at the cheapness of the
recompense. He summoned his treasurer,
and bade him dispense whatever
sums might be required by Ibrahim to
complete and furnish his hermitage.
The astrologer now gave orders to
have various chambers hewn out of the
solid rock, so as to form ranges of apartments
connected with his astrological
hall; these he caused to be furnished
with luxurious ottomans and divans, and
the walls to be hung with the richest
silks of Damascus. "I am an old man,"
said he, "and can no longer rest my
bones on stone couches, and these damp
walls require covering."
He had baths too constructed, and
provided with all kinds of perfumes and
aromatic oils. "For a hath," said he,
"is necessary to counteract the rigidity
of age, and to restore freshness and suppleness
to the frame withered by study."
He caused the apartments to be hung
with innumerable silver and crystal
lamps, which he filled with a fragrant
oil, prepared according to a receipt discovered
by him in the tombs of Egypt.
This oil was perpetual in its nature,
and diffused a soft radiance like the tempered
light of day. "The light of the
sun," said he, "is too garish and violent
for the eyes of an old man, and the light
of the lamp is more congenial to the studies
of a philosopher."
The treasurer of King Aben Habuz
groaned at the sums daily demanded to
fit up this hermitage, and he carried his
complaints to the king. The royal
word, however, was given; Aben Habuz
shrugged his shoulders. "We must
have patience," said he, "this old man
has taken his idea of a philosophic retreat
from the interior of the pyramids,
and of the vast ruins of Egypt; but all
things have an end, and so will the furnishing
of his cavern."
The king was in the right, the hermitage
was at length complete, and
formed a sumptuous subterranean palace.
"I am now content," said Ibrahim
Ebn Abu Ajeeb to the treasurer, "I will
shut myself up in my cell, and devote
my time to study. I desire nothing more,
nothing except a trifling solace, to amuse
me at the intervals of mental labour."
"O wise Ibrahim, ask what thou wilt,
I am bound to furnish all that is necessary
for thy solitude."
"I would fain have then a few dancing
women," said the philosopher.
"Dancing women!" echoed the treasurer
with surprise.
"Dancing women," replied the sage
gravely; "a few will suffice, for I am
an old man, and a philosopher, of simple
habits, and easily satisfied. Let them,
however, be young, and fair to look
upon; for the sight of youth and beauty
is refreshing to old age."
While the philosopher, Ibrahim Ebn
Abu Ajeeb, passed his time thus sagely
in his hermitage, the pacific Aben Habuz
his tower. It was a glorious thing for
an old man, like himself, of quiet habits,
to have war made easy, and to be enabled
to amuse himself in his chamber
by brushing away whole armies like so
many swarms of flies.
For a time he rioted in the indulgence
of his humours, and even taunted and
insulted his neighbours, to induce them
to make incursions; but by degrees they
grew wary from repeated disasters, until
no one ventured to invade his territories.
For many months the bronze horseman
remained on the peace establishment with
his lance elevated in the air, and the
worthy old monarch began to repine at
the want of his accustomed sport, and to
grow peevish at his monotonous tranquillity.
At length, one day, the talismanic
horseman veered suddenly round, and
lowering his lance, made a dead point
towards the mountains of Guadix. Aben
Habuz hastened to his tower, but the
magic table in that direction remained
quiet; not a single warrior was in motion.
Perplexed at the circumstance, he
sent forth a troop of horse to scour the
mountains and reconnoitre. They returned
after three days' absence.
"We have searched every mountain
pass," said they, "but not a helm or
spear was stirring. All that we have found
in the course of our foray, was a Christian
damsel of surpassing beauty, sleeping
at noontide beside a fountain, whom
we have brought away captive."
"A damsel of surpassing beauty!"
exclaimed Aben Habuz, his eyes gleaming
with animation; "let her be conducted
into my presence."
The beautiful damsel was accordingly
conducted into his presence. She was
arrayed with all the luxury of ornament
that had prevailed among the Gothic
Spaniards at the time of the Arabian
conquest. Pearls of dazzling whiteness
were entwined with her raven tresses;
and jewels sparkled on her forehead,
rivalling the lustre of her eyes. Around
her neck was a golden chain, to which
was suspended a silver lyre, which hung
by her side.
The flashes of her dark refulgent eye
were like sparks of fire on the withered,
yet combustible, heart of Aben Habuz;
the swimming voluptuousness of her gait
made his senses reel. "Fairest of women,"
cried he, with rapture, "who and
what art thou!"
"The daughter of one of the Gothic
princes, who but lately ruled over this
land. The armies of my father have
been destroyed as if by magic, among
these mountains; he has been driven
into exile, and his daughter is a captive."
"Beware, O king!" whispered Ibrahim
Ebn Abu Ajeeb, "this may be one
of those Northern sorceresses of whom
we have heard, who assume the most
seductive forms to beguile the unwary.
Methinks I read witchcraft in her eye,
and sorcery in every movement. Doubtless
this is the enemy pointed out by the
talisman."
"Son of Abu Ajeeb," replied the king,
"thou art a wise man, I grant, a conjuror
for aught I know; but thou art little
versed in the ways of woman. In that
knowledge will I yield to no man; no,
not the wise Solomon himself, notwithstanding
the number of his wives
and concubines. As to this damsel, I
see no harm in her, she is fair to look
upon, and finds favour in my eyes."
"Hearken, O king!" replied the astrologer.
"I have given thee many victories
by means of my talisman, but
have never shared any of the spoil.
Give me then this stray captive, to solace
me in my solitude with her silver lyre.
If she be indeed a sorceress, I have
counter spells that set her charms at
defiance."
"What! more women!" cried Aben
Habuz. "Hast thou not already dancing
women enough to solace thee?"
"Dancing women have I, it is true,
but no singing women. I would fain
have a little minstrelsy to refresh my
mind when weary with the toils of
study."
"A truce with thy hermit cravings,"
said the king, impatiently. "This damsel
have I marked for my own. I see much
comfort in her; even such comfort as
David, the father of Solomon the wise,
found in the society of Abishag the
Shunamite."
Further solicitations and remonstrances
of the astrologer only provoked a more
they parted in high displeasure. The
sage shut himself up in his hermitage to
brood over his disappointment; ere he
departed, however, he gave the king one
more warning to beware of his dangerous
captive. But where is the old man in
love that will listen to council? Aben
Habuz resigned himself to the full sway
of his passion. His only study was how
to render himself amiable in the eyes of
the Gothic beauty. He had not youth
to recommend him, it is true, but then
he had riches; and when a lover is old,
he is generally generous. The Zacatin
of Granada was ransacked for the most
precious merchandise of the East; silks,
jewels, precious gems, exquisite perfumes,
all that Asia and Africa yielded of rich
and rare, were lavished upon the princess.
All kinds of spectacles and festivities
were devised for her entertainment;
minstrelsy, dancing, tournaments, bullfights;
Granada, for a time, was a scene
of perpetual pageant. The Gothic princess
regarded all this splendour with the
air of one accustomed to magnificence.
She received every thing as a homage
due to her rank, or rather to her beauty,
for beauty is more lofty in its exactions
even than rank. Nay, she seemed to
take a secret pleasure in exciting the
monarch to expenses that made his treasury
shrink; and then treating his extravagant
generosity as a mere matter of
course. With all his assiduity and munificence,
also, the venerable lover could
not flatter himself that he had made any
impression on her heart. She never
frowned on him, it is true, but then she
never smiled. Whenever he began to
plead his passion, she struck her silver
lyre. There was a mystic charm in the
sound. In an instant the monarch began
to nod; a drowsiness stole over him, and
he gradually sank into a sleep, from
which he awoke wonderfully refreshed,
but perfectly cooled, for the time, of his
passion. This was very baffling to his
suit; but then these slumbers were accompanied
by agreeable dreams, that
completely enthralled the senses of the
drowsy lover; so he continued to dream
on, while all Granada scoffed at his infatuation,
and groaned at the treasures
lavished for a song.
At length a danger burst on the head
of Aben Habuz, against which his talisman
yielded him no warning. An insurrection
broke out in his very capital;
his palace was surrounded by an armed
rabble, who menaced his life and the life
of his Christian paramour. A spark of
his ancient warlike spirit was awakened
in the breast of the monarch. At the
head of a handful of his guards he sallied
forth, put the rebels to flight, and crushed
the insurrection in the bud.
When quiet was again restored, he
sought the astrologer, who still remained
shut up in his hermitage, chewing the
bitter end of resentment.
Aben Habuz approached him with a
conciliatory tone. "O wise son of Abu
Ajeeb," said he, "well didst thou predict
dangers to me from this captive beauty:
tell me then, thou who art so quick at
foreseeing peril, what I should do to
avert it."
"Put from thee the infidel damsel who
is the cause."
"Sooner would I part with my kingdom,"
cried Aben Habuz.
"Thou art in danger of losing both,"
replied the astrologer.
"Be not harsh and angry, O most
profound of philosophers; consider the
double distress of a monarch and a lover,
and devise some means of protecting me
from the evils by which I am menaced.
I care not for grandeur, I care not for
power, I languish only for repose; would
that I had some quiet retreat where I
might take refuge from the world, and
all its cares, and pomps, and troubles,
and devote the remainder of my days to
tranquillity and love."
The astrologer regarded him for a
moment, from under his bushy eyebrows.
"And what wouldst thou give, if I
could provide thee such a retreat?"
"Thou shouldst name thy own reward,
and whatever it might be, if within
the scope of my power, as my soul liveth,
it should be thine."
"Thou hast heard, O king, of the
Garden of Irem, one of the prodigies of
Arabia the Happy."
"I have heard of that garden; it is
recorded in the Koran, even in the chapter
entitled `The Dawn of Day.' I have,
of it by pilgrims who had been to
Mecca; but I consider them wild fables,
such as travellers are wont to tell who
have visited remote countries."
"Discredit not, O king, the tales of
travellers," rejoined the astrologer gravely,
"for they contain precious rarities of
knowledge brought from the ends of the
earth. As to the Palace and Garden of
Irem, what is generally told of them is
true; I have seen them with mine own
eyes—listen to my adventure; for it has
a bearing upon the object of your request.
"In my younger days, when a mere
Arab of the desert, I tended my father's
camels. In traversing the Desert of
Aden, one of them strayed from the
rest, and was lost. I searched after it
for several days, but in vain, until wearied
and faint, I laid myself down one
noontide, and slept under a palm tree by
the side of a scanty well. When I
awoke, I found myself at the gate of a
city. I entered, and beheld noble streets,
and squares, and market-places; but all
were silent and without an inhabitant. I
wandered on until I came to a sumptuous
palace with a garden, adorned with fountains
and fish-ponds, and groves and
flowers, and orchards laden with delicious
fruit; but still no one was to be
seen. Upon which, appalled at this loneliness,
I hastened to depart; and, after
issuing forth at the gate of the city, I
turned to look upon the place, but it was
no longer to be seen, nothing but the
silent desert extended before my eyes.
"In the neighbourhood I met with an
aged dervise, learned in the traditions
and secrets of the land, and related to
him what had befallen me. `This,' said
he, `is the far-famed Garden of Irem, one
of the wonders of the desert. It only
appears at times to some wanderer like
thyself, gladdening him with the sight of
towers and palaces, and garden walls
overhung with richly laden fruit trees,
and then vanishes, leaving nothing but a
lonely desert. And this is the story of
it. In old times, when this country was
inhabited by the Addites, King Sheddad,
the son of Ad, the great grandson of
Noah, founded here a splendid city.
When it was finished, and he saw its
grandeur, his heart was puffed up with
pride and arrogance, and he determined
to build a royal palace, with gardens
that should rival all that was related in
the Koran of the celestial paradise. But
the curse of Heaven fell upon him for
his presumption. He and his subjects
were swept from the earth, and his
splendid city, and palace, and gardens,
were laid under a perpetual spell, that
hides them from the human sight, excepting
that they are seen at intervals,
by way of keeping his sin in perpetual
remembrance.'
"This story, O king, and the wonders
I had seen, ever dwelt in my mind; and
in after years, when I had been in
Egypt, and was possessed of the book
of knowledge of Solomon the wise, I
determined to return and revisit the Garden
of Irem. I did so, and found it
revealed to my instructed sight. I took
possession of the palace of Sheddad, and
passed several days in his mock paradise.
The genii who watch over the
place, were obedient to my magic power,
and revealed to me the spells by which
the whole garden had been, as it were,
conjured into existence, and by which it
was rendered invisible. Such a palace
and garden, O king, can I make for
thee, even here, on the mountain above
the city. Do I not know all the secret
spells? and am I not in possession of
the book of knowledge of Solomon the
wise?"
"O wise son of Abu Ajeeb!" exclaimed
Aben Habuz, trembling with
eagerness, "thou art a traveller indeed,
and hast seen and learnt marvellous
things! Contrive me such a paradise,
and ask any reward, even to the half of
my kingdom."
"Alas!" replied the other, "thou
knowest I am an old man, and a philosopher,
and easily satisfied; all the reward
I ask is the first beast of burden, with its
load, that shall enter the magic portal of
the palace."
The monarch gladly agreed to so
moderate a stipulation, and the astrologer
began his work. On the summit of the
hill, immediately above his subterranean
hermitage, he caused a great gateway or
barbacan to be erected, opening through
the centre of a strong tower.
There was an outer vestibule or porch,
with a lofty arch, and within it a portal
secured by massive gates. On the keystone
of the portal the astrologer, with
his own hand, wrought the figure of a
huge key; and on the keystone of the
outer arch of the vestibule, which was
loftier than that of the portal, he carved
a gigantic hand. These were potent
talismans, over which he repeated many
sentences in an unknown tongue.
When this gateway was finished, he
shut himself up for two days in his astrological
hall, engaged in secret incantations;
on the third he ascended the hill,
and passed the whole day on its summit.
At a late hour of the night he came
down, and presented himself before Aben
Habuz. "At length, O king," said he,
"my labour is accomplished. On the
summit of the hill stands one of the most
delectable palaces that ever the head of
man devised, or the heart of man desired.
It contains sumptuous halls and galleries,
delicious gardens, cool fountains, and fragrant
baths: in a word, the whole mountain
is converted into a paradise. Like
the Garden of Irem, it is protected by a
mighty charm, which hides it from the
view and search of mortals, excepting
such as possess the secret of its talismans."
"Enough!" cried Aben Habuz joyfully,
"to-morrow morning with the first
light we will ascend and take possession."
The happy monarch slept but little that
night. Scarcely had the rays of the sun
begun to play about the snowy summit of
the Sierra Nevada, when he mounted his
steed, and, accompanied only by a few
chosen attendants, ascended a steep and
narrow road leading up the hill. Beside
him, on a white palfrey, rode the Gothic
princess, her whole dress sparkling with
jewels, while round her neck was suspended
her silver lyre. The astrologer
walked on the other side of the king,
assisting his steps with his hieroglyphic
staff, for he never mounted steed of any
kind.
Aben Habuz looked to see the towers
of the palace brightening above him, and
the embowered terraces of its gardens
stretching along the heights; but as yet
nothing of the kind was to be descried.
"That is the mystery and safeguard of
the place," said the astrologer, "nothing
can be discerned until you have passed
the spellbound gateway, and been put in
possession of the place."
As they approached the gateway, the
astrologer paused, and pointed out to the
king the mystic hand and key carved
upon the portal and the arch. "These,"
said he, "are the talismans which guard
the entrance to this paradise. Until
yonder hand shall reach down and seize
that key, neither mortal power nor magic
artifice can prevail against the lord of this
mountain."
While Aben Habuz was gazing with
open mouth, and silent wonder, at these
mystic talismans, the palfrey of the
princess proceeded, and bore her in at
the portal, to the very centre of the barbacan.
"Behold," cried the astrologer, "my
promised reward; the first animal with
its burthen that should enter the magic
gateway."
Aben Habuz smiled at what he considered
a pleasantry of the ancient man;
but when he found him to be in earnest,
his gray beard trembled with indignation.
"Son of Abu Ajeeb," said he, sternly,
"what equivocation is this? Thou
knowest the meaning of my promise:
the first beast of burthen, with its load,
that should enter this portal. Take the
strongest mule in my stables, load it with
the most precious things of my treasury,
and it is thine; but dare not to raise thy
thoughts to her who is the delight of my
heart."
"What need I of wealth," cried the
astrologer, scornfully; "have I not the
book of knowledge of Solomon the wise,
and through it the command of the secret
treasures of the earth? The princess is
mine by right; thy royal word is pledged;
I claim her as my own."
The princess looked down haughtily
from her palfrey, and a light smile of scorn
curled her rosy lip at this dispute between
two graybeards for the possession of
youth and beauty. The wrath of the
monarch got the better of his discretion.
"Base son of the desert," cried he, "thou
may'st be master of many arts, but know
me for thy master, and presume not to
juggle with thy king."
"My master!" echoed the astrologer,
"my king! The monarch of a mole-hill
to claim sway over him who possesses
the talismans of Solomon! Farewell,
Aben Habuz; reign over thy petty kingdom,
and revel in thy paradise of fools;
for me, I will laugh at thee in my philosophic
retirement."
So saying, he seized the bridle of the
palfrey, smote the earth with his staff,
and sank with the Gothic princess through
the centre of the barbacan. The earth
closed over them, and no trace remained
of the opening by which they had descended.
Aben Habuz was struck dumb for a
time with astonishment. Recovering
himself, he ordered a thousand workmen
to dig, with pickaxe and spade, into the
ground where the astrologer had disappeared.
They digged and digged, but in
vain; the flinty bosom of the hill resisted
their implements; or if they did penetrate
a little way, the earth filled in again as
fast as they threw it out. Aben Habuz
sought the mouth of the cavern at the
foot of the hill, leading to the subterranean
palace of the astrologer: but it
was no where to be found. Where once
had been an entrance, was now a solid
surface of primeval rock. With the disappearance
of Ibrahim Ebn Abu Ajeeb,
ceased the benefit of his talismans. The
bronze horseman remained fixed, with his
face towards the hill, and his spear pointed
to the spot where the astrologer had
descended, as if there still lurked the
deadliest foe of Aben Habuz.
From time to time the sound of music,
and the tones of a female voice, could be
faintly heard from the bosom of the hill;
and a peasant one day brought word to
the king, that in the preceding night he
had found a fissure in the rock, by which
he had crept in until he looked down into
a subterranean hall, in which sat the
astrologer, on a magnificent divan, slumbering
and nodding to the silver lyre of
the princess, which seemed to hold a
magic sway over his senses.
Aben Habuz sought the fissure in the
rock, but it was again closed. He renewed
the attempt to unearth his rival,
but all in vain. The spell of the hand
and key was too potent to be counteracted
by human power. As to the
summit of the mountain, the site of the
promised palace and garden, it remained
a naked waste; either the boasted elysium
was hidden from sight by enchantment,
or was a mere fable of the astrologer.
The world charitably supposed the latter,
and some used to call the place, "The
King's Folly;" while others named it,
"The Fool's Paradise."
To add to the chagrin of Aben Habuz,
the neighbours whom he had defied and
taunted, and cut up at his leisure while
master of the talismanic horseman, finding
him no longer protected by magic
spell, made inroads into his territories
from all sides, and the remainder of the
life of the most pacific of monarchs, was
a tissue of turmoils.
At length Aben Habuz died, and was
buried. Ages have since rolled away.
The Alhambra has been built on the
eventful mountain, and in some measure
realizes the fabled delights of the Garden
of Irem. The spellbound gateway still
exists entire, protected no doubt by the
mystic hand and key, and now forms the
Gate of Justice, the grand entrance to the
fortress. Under that gateway, it is said,
the old astrologer remains in his subterranean
hall, nodding on his divan, lulled
by the silver lyre of the princess.
The old invalid sentinels who mount
guard at the gate, hear the strains occasionally
in the summer nights; and yielding
to their soporific power, doze quietly
at their posts. Nay, so drowsy an influence
pervades the place, that even those
who watch by day may generally be
seen nodding on the stone benches of the
barbacan, or sleeping under the neighbouring
trees; so that in fact it is the
drowsiest military post in all Christendom.
All this, say the ancient legends,
will endure from age to age. The princess
will remain captive to the astrologer,
and the astrologer bound up in magic
slumber by the princess, until the last
day, unless the mystic hand shall grasp
the fated key, and dispel the whole charm
of this enchanted mountain.
THE TOWER OF LAS INFANTAS.
In an evening's stroll up a narrow
glen, overshadowed by fig trees, pomegranates,
lands of the fortress from those of the
Generalife, I was struck with the romantic
appearance of a Moorish tower in
the outer wall of the Alhambra, that rose
high above the tree-tops, and caught the
ruddy rays of the setting sun. A solitary
window at a great height commanded
a view of the glen; and as I was
regarding it, a young female looked out,
with her head adorned with flowers.
She was evidently superior to the usual
class of people that inhabit the old towers
of the fortress; and this sudden and picturesque
glimpse of her reminded me of
the descriptions of captive beauties in
fairy tales. These fanciful associations
of my mind were increased on being informed
by my attendant Mateo, that this
was the tower of the Princesses (La
Torre de las Infantas); so called, from
having been, according to tradition, the
residence of the daughters of the Moorish
kings. I have since visited the tower. It
is not generally shown to strangers,
though well worthy attention, for the interior
is equal, for beauty of architecture
and delicacy of ornament, to any part of
the palace. The elegance of the central
hall, with its marble fountain, its lofty
arches, and richly fretted dome; arabesques
and stucco work of the small but
well-proportioned chamber, though injured
by time and neglect, all accord with
the story of its being anciently the abode
of royal beauty.
The little old fairy queen who lives
under the staircase of the Alhambra and
frequents the evening tertulias of Dame
Antonia, tells some fanciful traditions
about three Moorish princesses, who were
once shut up in this tower by their father,
a tyrant king of Granada, and were only
permitted to ride out at night about the
hills, when no one was permitted to come
in their way, under pain of death. They
still, according to her account, may be
seen occasionally when the moon is in
the full, riding in lonely places along the
mountain side, on palfreys richly caparisoned
and sparkling with jewels, but they
vanish on being spoken to.
But before I relate any thing further
respecting these princesses, the reader
may be anxious to know something about
the fair inhabitant of the tower, with her
head dressed with flowers, who looked
out from the lofty window. She proved
to be the newly married spouse of the
worthy adjutant of invalids; who, though
well stricken in years, had had the
courage to take to his bosom a young
and buxom Andalusian damsel. May
the good old cavalier be happy in his
choice, and find the Tower of the Princesses
a more secure residence for female
beauty, than it seems to have proved in
the time of the Moslems, if we may believe
the following legend!
LEGEND
OF THE
THREE BEAUTIFUL PRINCESSES.
In old times there reigned a Moorish
king in Granada, whose name was Mohamed,
to which his subjects added the
appellation of El Haygari, or "The
Left-handed." Some say he was so
called on account of his being really
more expert with his sinister than his
dexter hand; others, because he was
prone to take every thing by the wrong
end, or, in other words, to mar wherever
he meddled. Certain it is, either through
misfortune or mismanagement, he was
continually in trouble: thrice was he
driven from his throne, and, on one occasion,
barely escaped to Africa with his
life, in the disguise of a fisherman. Still
he was as brave as he was blundering;
and though left-handed, wielded his cimeter
to such purpose, that he each time
re-established himself upon his throne by
dint of hard fighting. Instead, however,
of learning wisdom from adversity, he
hardened his neck, and stiffened his left
arm in wilfulness. The evils of a public
nature which he thus brought upon himself
and his kingdom, may be learned by
those who will delve into the Arabian
annals of Granada; the present legend
deals but with his domestic policy.
As this Mohamed was one day riding
forth with a train of his courtiers, by the
foot of the mountain of Elvira, he met a
band of horsemen returning from a foray
into the land of the Christians. They
were conducting a long string of mules
both sexes, among whom the monarch
was struck with the appearance of a
beautiful damsel, richly attired, who sat
weeping on a low palfrey, and heeded
not the consoling words of a duenna who
rode beside her.
The monarch was struck with her
beauty, and, on inquiring of the captain
of the troop, found that she was the
daughter of the alcayde of a frontier fortress,
that had been surprised and sacked
in the course of the foray. Mohamed
claimed her as his royal share of the
booty, and had her conveyed to his
harem in the Alhambra. There every
thing was devised to soothe her melancholy;
and the monarch, more and more
enamoured, sought to make her his queen.
The Spanish maid at first repulsed his
addresses—he was an infidel—he was
the open foe of her country—what was
worse, he was stricken in years!
The monarch, finding his assiduities
of no avail, determined to enlist in his
favour the duenna, who had been captured
with the lady. She was an Andalusian
by birth, whose Christian name is
forgotten, being mentioned in Moorish
legends by no other appellation than that
of the discreet Kadiga—and discreet in
truth she was, as her whole history
makes evident. No sooner had the
Moorish king held a little private conversation
with her, than she saw at once
the cogency of his reasoning, and undertook
his cause with her young mistress.
"Go to, now!" cried she, "what is
there in all this to weep and wail about?
Is it not better to be mistress of this beautiful
palace, with all its gardens and fountains,
than to be shut up within your
father's old frontier tower? As to this
Mohamed being an infidel, what is that
to the purpose? You marry him, not his
religion: and if he is waxing a little old,
the sooner will you be a widow, and mistress
of yourself; at any rate, you are in
his power, and must either be a queen or
a slave. When in the hands of a robber,
it is better to sell one's merchandise for a
fair price, than to have it taken by main
force."
The arguments of the discreet Kadiga
prevailed. The Spanish lady dried her
tears, and became the spouse of Mohamed
the Left-handed; she even conformed, in
appearance, to the faith of her royal husband;
and her discreet duenna immediately
became a zealous convert to the
Moslem doctrines; it was then the latter
received the Arabian name of Kadiga,
and was permitted to remain in the confidential
employ of her mistress.
In due process of time the Moorish
king was made the proud and happy
father of three lovely daughters, all born
at a birth: he could have wished they
had been sons, but consoled himself with
the idea that three daughters at a birth
were pretty well for a man somewhat
stricken in years, and left-handed!
As usual with all Moslem monarchs,
he summoned his astrologers on this
happy event. They cast the nativities
of the three princesses, and shook their
heads. "Daughters, O king!" said they,
"are always precarious property; but
these will most need your watchfulness
when they arrive at a marriageable age;
at that time gather them under your
wings, and trust them to no other guardianship."
Mohamed the Left-handed was acknowledged
to be a wise king by his
courtiers, and was certainly so considered
by himself. The prediction of the
astrologers caused him but little disquiet,
trusting to his ingenuity to guard his
daughters and outwit the Fates.
The threefold birth was the last matrimonial
trophy of the monarch; his queen
bore him no more children, and died
within a few years, bequeathing her infant
daughters to his love, and to the fidelity
of the discreet Kadiga.
Many years had yet to elapse before
the princesses would arrive at that period
of danger—the marriageable age: "It is
good, however, to be cautious in time,"
said the shrewd monarch; so he determined
to have them reared in the royal
castle of Salobreña. This was a sumptuous
palace, incrusted, as it were, in a
powerful Moorish fortress, on the summit
of a hill that overlooks the Mediterranean
sea. It was a royal retreat, in which the
Moslem monarchs shut up such of their
relations as might endanger their safety,
allowing them all kinds of luxuries and
amusements, in the midst of which they
passed their lives in voluptuous indolence.
Here the princesses remained, immured
from the world, but surrounded
by enjoyments, and attended by female
slaves who anticipated their wishes.
They had delightful gardens for their
recreation, filled with the rarest fruits
and flowers, with aromatic groves and
perfumed baths. On three sides the
castle looked down upon a rich valley,
enamelled with all kinds of culture, and
bounded by the lofty Alpuxarra mountains;
on the other side it overlooked the
broad sunny sea.
In this delicious abode, in a propitious
climate, and under a cloudless sky, the
three princesses grew up into wondrous
beauty; but, though all reared alike,
they gave early tokens of diversity of
character. Their names were Zayda,
Zorayda, and Zorahayda; and such was
their order of seniority, for there had
been precisely three minutes between
their births.
Zayda, the eldest, was of an intrepid
spirit, and took the lead of her sisters in
every thing, as she had done in entering
first into the world. She was curious and
inquisitive, and fond of getting at the
bottom of things.
Zorayda had a great feeling for beauty,
which was the reason, no doubt, of
her delighting to regard her own image
in a mirror or a fountain, and of her
fondness for flowers, and jewels, and
other tasteful ornaments.
As to Zorahayda, the youngest, she
was soft and timid, and extremely sensitive,
with a vast deal of disposable tenderness,
as was evident from her number
of pet flowers, and pet birds, and pet animals,
all of which she cherished with the
fondest care. Her amusements, too, were
of a gentle nature, and mixed up with
musing and revery. She would sit for
hours in a balcony, gazing on the sparkling
stars of a summer's night; or on the
sea when lit up by the moon; and at
such times, the song of a fisherman,
faintly heard from the beach, or the
notes of a Moorish flute from some gliding
bark, sufficed to elevate her feelings
into ecstasy. The least uproar of the
elements, however, filled her with dismay;
and a clap of thunder was enough
to throw her into a swoon.
Years rolled on smoothly and serenely;
the discreet Kadiga, to whom the
princesses were confided, was faithful to
her trust, and attended them with unremitting
care.
The castle of Salobreña, as has been
said, was built upon a hill on the seacoast.
One of the exterior walls straggled
down the profile of the hill until it
reached a jutting rock, overhanging the
sea, with a narrow sandy beach at its
foot, laved by the rippling billows. A
small watchtower on this rock had been
fitted up as a pavilion, with latticed windows
to admit the sea-breeze. Here the
princesses used to pass the sultry hours
of mid-day.
The curious Zayda was one day seated
at one of the windows of the pavilion, as
her sisters, reclining on ottomans, were
taking the siesta, or noontide slumber.
Her attention had been attracted to a
galley which came coasting along with
measured strokes of the oar. As it drew
near, she observed that it was filled with
armed men. The galley anchored at the
foot of the tower: a number of Moorish
soldiers landed on the narrow heach,
conducting several Christian prisoners.
The curious Zayda awakened her sisters,
and all three peeped cautiously through
the close jalousies of the lattice, which
screened them from sight. Among the
prisoners were three Spanish cavaliers,
richly dressed. They were in the flower
of youth, and of noble presence; and the
lofty manner in which they carried themselves,
though loaded with chains and
surrounded with enemies, bespoke the
grandeur of their souls. The princesses
gazed with intense and breathless interest.
Cooped up as they had been in this
castle among female attendants, seeing
nothing of the male sex but black slaves,
or the rude fishermen of the sea-coast,
it is not to be wondered at, that the appearance
of three gallant cavaliers in the
pride of youth and manly beauty, should
produce some commotion in their bosom.
"Did ever nobler being tread the earth
than that eavalier in crimson?" cried
Zayda, the eldest of the sisters. "See
how proudly he bears himself, as though
all around him were his slaves!"
"But notice that one in blue!" exclaimed
Zorayda. "What grace! what
elegance! what spirit!"
The gentle Zorahayda said nothing,
but she secretly gave preference to the
cavalier in green.
The princesses remained gazing until
the prisoners were out of sight; then
heaving long-drawn sighs, they turned
round, looked at each other for a moment,
and sat down, musing and pensive,
on their ottomans.
The discreet Kadiga found them in
this situation; they related to her what
they had seen, and even the withered
heart of the duenna was warmed. "Poor
youths!" exclaimed she, "I'll warrant
their captivity makes many a fair and
highborn lady's heart ache in their native
land! Ah! my children, you have
little idea of the life these cavaliers lead
in their own country. Such prankling
at tournaments! such devotion to the
ladies! such courting and serenading!"
The curiosity of Zayda was fully
aroused; she was insatiable in her inquiries,
and drew from the duenna the
most animated pictures of the scenes of
her youthful days and native land. The
beautiful Zorayda bridled up, and slyly
regarded herself in a mirror, when the
theme turned upon the charms of the
Spanish ladies; while Zorahayda suppressed
a struggling sigh at the mention
of moonlight serenades.
Every day the curious Zayda renewed
her inquiries, and every day the sage
duenna repeated her stories, which were
listened to with profound interest, though
with frequent sighs, by her gentle auditors.
The discreet old woman at length
awakened to the mischief she might be
doing. She had been accustomed to
think of the princesses only as children;
but they had imperceptibly ripened beneath
her eye, and now bloomed before
her three lovely damsels of the marriageable
age. It is time, thought the
duenna, to give notice to the king.
Mohamed the Left-handed was seated
one morning on a divan in one of the
cool halls of the Alhambra, when a slave
arrived from the fortress of Salobreña,
with a message from the sage Kadiga,
congratulating him on the anniversary of
his daughters' birthday. The slave at
the same time presented a delicate little
basket decorated with flowers, within
which, on a couch of vine and fig-leaves,
lay a peach, an apricot, and a nectarine,
with their bloom and down and dewy
sweetness upon them, and all in the early
stage of tempting ripeness. The monarch
was versed in the oriental language of
fruits and flowers, and readily divined
the meaning of this emblematical offering.
"So," said he, "the critical period
pointed out by the astrologers is arrived;
my daughters are at a marriageable age.
What is to be done? They are shut up
from the eyes of men; they are under
the eyes of the discreet Kadiga—all very
good,—but still they are not under my
own eye, as was prescribed by the astrologers:
I must gather them under my
wing, and trust to no other guardianship."
So saying, he ordered that a tower of
the Alhambra should be prepared for
their reception, and departed at the head
of his guards for the fortress of Salobreña,
to conduct them home in person.
About three years had elapsed since
Mohamed had beheld his daughters, and
he could scarcely credit his eyes at the
wonderful change which that small space
of time had made in their appearance.
During the interval, they had passed
that wondrous boundary line in female
life which separates the crude, uninformed,
and thoughtless girl from the blooming,
blushing, meditative woman. It is
like passing from the flat, bleak, uninteresting
plains of La Mancha to the
voluptuous valleys and swelling hills of
Andalusia.
Zayda was tall and finely formed,
with a lofty demeanour and a penetrating
eye. She entered with a stately and
decided step, and made a profound reverence
to Mohamed, treating him more
as her sovereign than her father. Zorayda
was of the middle height, with an
alluring look and swimming gait, and a
sparkling beauty, heightened by the assistance
of the toilette. She approached
her father with a smile, kissed his hand,
and saluted him with several stanzas
from a popular Arabian poet, with which
the monarch was delighted. Zorahayda
was shy and timid, smaller than her sisters,
and with a beauty of that tender
beseeching kind which looks for fondness
and protection. She was little fitted
dazzle like the second, but was rather
formed to creep to the bosom of manly
affection, to nestle within it, and be content.
She drew near her father with a
timid, and almost faltering step, and
would have taken his hand to kiss, but
on looking up into his face, and seeing it
beaming with a paternal smile, the tenderness
of her nature broke forth, and
she threw herself upon his neck.
Mohamed the Left-handed surveyed
his blooming daughters with mingled
pride and perplexity; for while he exulted
in their charms, he bethought himself
of the prediction of the astrologers.
"Three daughters! three daughters!"
muttered he repeatedly to himself, "and
all of a marriageable age! Here's tempting
Hesperian fruit, that requires a dragon
watch!"
He prepared for his return to Granada
by sending heralds before him, commanding
every one to keep out of the
road by which he was to pass, and that
all doors and windows should be closed
at the approach of the princesses. This
done, he set forth, escorted by a troop of
black horsemen of hideous aspect, and
clad in shining armour.
The princesses rode beside the king,
closely veiled, on beautiful white palfreys,
with velvet caparisons, embroidered
with gold, and sweeping the ground;
the bits and stirrups were of gold, and the
silken bridles adorned with pearls and
precious stones. The palfreys were
covered with little silver bells, that made
the most musical tinkling as they ambled
gently along. Wo to the unlucky
wight, however, who lingered in the
way when he heard the tinkling of these
bells!—the guards were ordered to cut
him down without mercy.
The cavalcade was drawing near to
Granada, when it overtook on the banks
of the river Xenil, a small body of
Moorish soldiers with a convoy of prisoners.
It was too late for the soldiers
to get out of the way, so they threw
themselves on their faces on the earth,
ordering their captives to do the like.
Among the prisoners were the three
identical cavaliers whom the princesses
had seen from the pavilion. They either
did not understand, or were too haughty
to obey the order, and remained standing
and gazing upon the cavalcade as it approached.
The ire of the monarch was kindled
at this flagrant defiance of his orders.
Drawing his cimeter, and pressing forward,
he was about to deal a left-handed
blow that would have been fatal to at
least one of the gazers, when the princesses
crowded round him, and implored
mercy for the prisoners; even the timid
Zorahayda forgot her shyness, and became
eloquent in their behalf. Mohamed
paused, with uplifted cimeter, when the
captain of the guard threw himself at
his feet. "Let not your majesty," said
he, "do a deed that may cause great
scandal throughout the kingdom. These
are three brave and noble Spanish
knights, who have been taken in battle,
fighting like lions; they are of high
birth, and may bring great ransoms."—
"Enough!" said the king; "I will
spare their lives, but punish their audacity—let
them be taken to the Vermilion
Towers and put to hard labour."
Mohamed was making one of his usual
left-handed blunders. In the tumult and
agitation of this blustering scene, the
veils of the three princesses had been
thrown back, and the radiance of their
beauty revealed; and in prolonging the
parley, the king had given that beauty
time to have its full effect. In those days
people fell in love much more suddenly
than at present, as all ancient stories
make manifest: it is not a matter of
wonder, therefore, that the hearts of the
three cavaliers were completely captured;
especially as gratitude was added
to their admiration; it is a little singular,
however, though no less certain, that
each of them was enraptured with a
several beauty. As to the princesses,
they were more than ever struck with
the noble demeanour of the captives, and
cherished in their breasts all that they
had heard of their valour and noble
lineage.
The cavalcade resumed its march;
the three princesses rode pensively along
on their tinkling palfreys, now and then
stealing a glance behind in search of the
Christian captives, and the latter were
conducted to their allotted prison in the
Vermilion Towers.
The residence provided for the princesses
was one of the most dainty that
fancy could devise. It was in a tower
somewhat apart from the main palace of
the Alhambra, though connected with it
by the main wall that encircled the whole
summit of the hill. On one side it looked
into the interior of the fortress, and had,
at its foot, a small garden filled with the
rarest flowers. On the other side it overlooked
a deep embowered ravine that
separated the grounds of the Alhambra
from those of the Generalife. The interior
of the tower was divided into small
fairty apartments, beautifully ornamented
in the light Arabian style, surrounding
a lofty hall, the vaulted roof of which
rose almost to the summit of the tower.
The walls and ceiling of the hall were
adorned with arabesques and fretwork,
sparkling with gold and with brilliant
pencilling. In the centre of the marble
pavement was an alabaster fountain, set
round with aromatic shrubs and flowers,
and throwing up a jet of water that
cooled the whole edifice and had a
lulling sound. Round the hall were suspended
cages of gold and silver wire,
containing singing-birds of the finest
plumage or sweetest note.
The princesses had been represented
as always cheerful when in the Castle of
Salobreña; the king had expected to
see them enraptured with the Alhambra.
To his surprise, however, they began to
pine, and grow melancholy, and dissatisfied
with every thing around them. The
flowers yielded them no fragrance, the
song of the nightingale disturbed their
night's rest, and they were out of all patience
with the alabaster fountain with
its eternal drop-drop and splash-splash,
from morning till night, and from night
till morning.
The king, who was somewhat of a
testy, tyrannical disposition, took this at
first in high dudgeon; but he reflected
that his daughters had arrived at an age
when the female mind expands and its
desires augment. "They are no longer
children," said he to himself, "they
are women grown, and require suitable
objects to interest them." He put in
requisition, therefore, all the dress-makers,
and the jewellers, and the artificers
in gold and silver throughout the
Zacatin of Granada, and the princesses
were overwhelmed with robes of silk,
and of tissue, and of brocade, and cashmere
shawls, and necklaces of pearls
and diamonds, and rings, and bracelets,
and anklets, and all manner of precious
things.
All, however, was of no avail; the
princesses continued pale and languid in
the midst of their finery, and looked like
three blighted rose-buds, drooping from
one stalk. The king was at his wits'
end. He had in general a laudable confidence
in his own judgment, and never
took advice. The whims and caprices
of three marriageable damsels, however,
are sufficient, said he, to puzzle the
shrewdest head. So for once in his life
he called in the aid of counsel.
The person to whom he applied was
the experienced duenna.
"Kadiga," said the king, "I know
you to be one of the most discreet
women in the whole world, as well as
one of the most trustworthy; for these
reasons I have always continued you
about the persons of my daughters.
Fathers cannot be too wary in whom they
repose such confidence; I now wish you
to find out the secret malady that is
preying upon the princesses, and to
devise some means of restoring them to
health and cheerfulness."
Kadiga promised implicit obedience.
In fact she knew more of the malady of
the princesses than they did themselves.
Shutting herself up with them, however,
she endeavoured to insinuate herself into
their confidence.
"My dear children, what is the reason
you are so dismal and downcast in so
beautiful a place, where you have every
thing that heart can wish?"
The princesses looked vacantly round
the apartment, and sighed.
"What more, then, would you have?
Shall I get you the wonderful parrot that
talks all languages and is the delight of
Granada?"
"Odious!" exclaimed the Princess
Zada. "A horrid, screaming bird, that
chatters words without ideas: one must
be without brains to tolerate such a pest."
"Shall I send for a monkey from the
rock of Gibraltar, to divert you with his
antics?"
"A monkey! faugh!" cried Zorayda;
"the detestable mimic of man. I hate
the nauseous animal."
"What say you to the famous black
singer Casem, from the royal harem in
Morocco? They say he has a voice as
fine as a woman's."
"I am terrified at the sight of these
black slaves," said the delicate Zorahayda;
"besides, I have lost all relish
for music."
"Ah! my child, you would not say
so," replied the old woman, slyly, "had
you heard the music I heard last evening,
from the three Spanish cavaliers, whom
we met on our journey. But, bless me,
children! what is the matter that you
blush so, and are in such a flutter?"
"Nothing, nothing, good mother; pray
proceed."
"Well; as I was passing by the Vermilion
Towers last evening, I saw the
three cavaliers resting after their day's
labour. One was playing on the guitar,
so gracefully, and the others sung by
turns; and they did it in such style, that
the very guards seemed like statues, or
men enchanted. Allah forgive me! I
could not help being moved at hearing
the songs of my native country. And
then to see three such noble and handsome
youths in chains and slavery!"
Here the kind-hearted old woman
could not restrain her tears.
"Perhaps, mother, you could manage
to procure us a sight of the cavaliers,"
said Zayda.
"I think," said Zorayda, "a little
music would be quite reviving."
The timid Zorahayda said nothing,
but threw her arms round the neck of
Kadiga.
"Mercy on me!" exclaimed the discreet
old woman: "what are you talking
of, my children? Your father would be
the death of us all if he heard of such a
thing. To be sure, these cavaliers are evidently
well-bred and highminded youths;
but what of that? they are the enemies
of our faith, and you must not even think
of them but with abhorrence."
There is an admirable intrepidity in
the female will, particularly when about
the marriageable age, which is not to be
deterred by dangers and prohibitions.
The princesses hung round their old
duenna, and coaxed, and entreated, and
declared that a refusal would break their
hearts.
What could she do? She was certainly
the most discreet old woman in
the whole world, and one of the most
faithful servants to the king; but was
she to see three beautiful princesses
break their hearts for the mere tinkling
of a guitar? Besides, though she had
been so long among the Moors, and
changed her faith in imitation of her
mistress, like a trusty follower, yet she
was a Spaniard born, and had the lingerings
of Christianity in her heart. So
she set about to contrive how the wish of
the princesses might be gratified.
The Christian captives, confined in the
Vermilion Towers, were under the charge
of a big-whiskered, broad-shouldered renegado,
called Hussein Baba, who was
reputed to have a most itching palm.
She went to him privately, and slipping
a broad piece of gold into his hand,
"Hussein Baba," said she, "my mistresses,
the three princesses, who are
shut up in the tower, and in sad want of
amusement, have heard of the musical
talents of the three Spanish cavaliers,
and are desirous of hearing a specimen
of their skill. I am sure you are too
kindhearted, to refuse them so innocent
a gratification."
"What! and to have my head set
grinning over the gate of my own tower!
for that would be the reward, if the king
should discover it."
"No danger of any thing of the kind;
the affair may be managed so that the
whim of the princesses may be gratified,
and their father be never the wiser.
You know the deep ravine outside of the
walls that passes immediately below the
tower. Put the three Christians to work
there, and at the intervals of their labour
let them play and sing, as if for their
own recreation. In this way the princesses
will be able to hear them from the
windows of the tower, and you may be
sure of their paying well for your compliance."
As the good old woman concluded her
harangue, she kindly pressed the rough
hand of the renegado, and left within it
another piece of gold.
Her eloquence was irresistible. The
put to work in the ravine. During the
noontide heat, when their fellow-labourers
were sleeping in the shade, and the guard
nodding drowsily at his post, they seated
themselves among the herbage at the
foot of the tower, and sang a Spanish
roundelay to the accompaniment of the
guitar.
The glen was deep, the tower was
high, but their voices rose distinctly in
the stillness of the summer noon. The
princesses listened from their balcony;
they had been taught the Spanish language
by their duenna, and were moved
by the tenderness of the song. The
discreet Kadiga, on the contrary, was
terribly shocked. "Allah preserve us!"
cried she, "they are singing a love-ditty,
adressed to yourselves. Did ever mortal
hear of such audacity? I will run to
the slave-master, and have them soundly
bastinadoed."
"What! bastinado such gallant cavaliers,
and for singing so charmingly!"
The three beautiful princesses were filled
with horror at the idea. With all her
virtuous indignation, the good old woman
was of a placable nature, and easily appeased.
Besides, the music seemed to
have a beneficial effect upon her young
mistresses. A rosy bloom had already
come to their cheeks, and their eyes
began to sparkle. She made no further
objection, therefore, to the amorous ditty
of the cavaliers.
When it was finished, the princesses
remained for a time: at length Zorayda
took up a lute, and with a sweet, though
faint and trembling voice, warbled a little
Arabian air, the burden of which was,
"The rose is concealed among her leaves,
but she listens with delight to the song of
the nightingale."
From this time forward the cavaliers
worked almost daily in the ravine. The
considerate Hussein Baba became more
and more indulgent, and daily more
prone to sleep at his post. For some
time a vague intercourse was kept up by
popular songs and romances, which, in
some measure, responded to each other,
and breathed the feelings of the parties.
By degrees, the princesses showed themselves
at the balcony, when they could
do so without being perceived by the
guards. They conversed with the cavaliers,
also, by means of flowers, with
the symbolical language of which they
were mutually acquainted: the difficulties
of their intercourse added to its charms,
and strengthened the passion they had so
singularly conceived; for love delights
to struggle with difficulties, and thrives
the most hardily on the scantiest soil.
The change effected in the looks and
spirits of the princesses by this secret
intercourse, surprised and gratified the
left-handed king; but no one was more
elated than the discret Kadiga, who
considered it all owing to her able management.
At length there was an interruption in
this telegraphic correspondence: for several
days the cavaliers ceased to make
their appearance in the glen. The three
beautiful princesses looked out from the
tower in vain. In vain they stretched
their swanlike necks from the balcony;
in vain they sang like captive nightingales
in their cage: nothing was to be seen of
their Christian lovers; not a note responded
from the groves. The discreet
Kadiga sallied forth in quest of intelligence,
and soon returned with a face
full of trouble. "Ah, my children!"
cried she, "I saw what all this would
come to, but you would have your way;
you may now hang up your lutes on the
willows. The Spanish cavaliers are now
ransomed by their families; they are
down in Granada, and preparing to
return to their native country."
The three beautiful princesses were in
despair at the tidings. The fair Zayda
was indignant at the slight put upon
them, in thus being deserted without a
parting word. Zorayda wrung her hands
and cried, and looked in the glass, and
wiped away her tears and cried afresh.
The gentle Zorahayda leaned over the
balcony and wept in silence, and her
tears fell drop by drop among the flowers
of the bank where the faithless cavaliers
had so often been seated.
The discreet Kadiga did all in her
power to soothe their sorrow. "Take
comfort, my children," said she, "this
is nothing when you are used to it.
This is the way of the world. Ah!
when you are as old as I am, you will
know how to value these men. I'll
among the Spanish beauties of Cordova
and Seville, and will soon be serenading
under their balconies, and thinking no
more of the Moorish beauties in the Alhambra.
Take comfort, therefore, my
children, and drive them from your
hearts."
The comforting words of the discreet
Kadiga only redoubled the distress of the
three princesses, and for two days they
continued inconsolable. On the morning
of the third, the good old woman entered
their apartment, all ruffling with
indignation.
"Who would have believed such insolence
in mortal man!" exclaimed she,
as soon as she could find words to express
herself; "but I am rightly served for
having connived at this deception of your
worthy father. Never talk more to me
of your Spanish cavaliers."
"Why, what has happened, good Kadiga?"
exclaimed the princesses in breathless
anxiety.
"What has happened?—treason has
happened; or what is almost as bad,
treason has been proposed, and to me,
the most faithful of subjects, the trustiest
of duennas! Yes, my children, the
Spanish cavaliers have dared to tamper
with me, that I should persuade you to
fly with them to Cordova, and to become
their wives!"
Here the excellent old woman covered
her face with her hands, and gave way
to a violent burst of grief and indignation.
The three beautiful princesses turned
pale and red, red and pale, and trembled,
and looked down, and cast shy looks at
each other, but said nothing. Meantime
the old woman sat rocking backward and
forward in violent agitation, and now and
then breaking out into exclamations,—
"That ever I should live to be so insulted!—I,
the most faithful of servants!"
At length the eldest princess, who had
most spirit, and always took the lead,
approached her, and laying her hand
upon her shoulder, "Well, mother," said
she, "supposing we were willing to fly
with these Christian cavaliers—is such a
thing possible?"
The good old woman paused suddenly
in her grief, and looking up, "Possible!"
echoed she: "to be sure it is possible.
Have not the cavaliers already bribed
Hussein Baba, the renegado captain of
the guard, and arranged the whole plan?
But, then, to think of deceiving your
father! your father, who has placed such
confidence in me!" Here the worthy
woman gave way to a fresh burst of
grief, and began again to rock backward
and forward, and to wring her hands.
"But our father has never placed any
confidence in us," said the eldest princess,
"but has trusted to bolts and bars, and
treated us as captives."
"Why, that is true enough," replied
the old woman, again pausing in her
grief; "he has indeed treated you most
unreasonably, keeping you shut up here,
to waste your bloom in a moping old
tower, like roses left to wither in a flower-jar.
But, then, to fly from your native
land!"
"And is not the land we fly to the
native land of our mother, where we shall
live in freedom? And shall we not each
have a youthful husband in exchange
for a severe old father?"
"Why, that again is all very true;
and your father, I must confess, is rather
tyrannical: but, what then," relapsing
into her grief, "would you leave me behind
to bear the brunt of his vengeance?"
"By no means, my good Kadiga;
cannot you fly with us?"
"Very true, my child; and to tell the
truth, when I talked the matter over with
Hussein Baba, he promised to take care
of me if I would accompany you in your
flight: but, then, bethink you, my children,
are you willing to renounce the
faith of your father?"
"The Christian faith was the original
faith of our mother," said the eldest
princess; "I am ready to embrace it,
and so, I am sure, are my sisters."
"Right again!" exclaimed the old
woman, brightening up; "it was the
original faith of your mother, and bitterly
did she lament, on her death-bed,
that she had renounced it. I promised
her then to take care of your souls, and
I rejoice to see that they are now in a
fair way to be saved. Yes, my children,
I too was born a Christian, and have remained
a Christian in my heart, and am
resolved to return to the faith. I have
talked on the subject with Hussein Baba,
from a place not far from my native
town. He is equally anxious to see his
own country, and to be reconciled to the
Church; and the cavaliers have promised,
that if we are disposed to become
man and wife, on returning to our native
land, they will provide for us handsomely."
In a word, it appeared that this
extremely discreet and provident old
woman had consulted with the cavaliers
and the renegado, and had concerted
the whole plan of escape. The eldest
princess immediately assented to it: and
her example, as usual, determined the
conduct of her sisters. It is true, the
youngest hesitated, for she was gentle
and timid of soul, and there was a struggle
in her bosom between filial feeling
and youthful passion: the latter, however,
as usual, gained the victory, and
with silent tears, and stifled sighs, she
prepared herself for flight.
The rugged hill, on which the Alhambra
is built, was, in old times, perforated
with subterranean passages, cut
through the rock, and leading from the
fortress to various parts of the city, and
to distant sally-ports on the banks of the
Darro and the Xenil. They had been
constructed at different times by the
Moorish kings, as means of escape from
sudden insurrections, or of secretly issuing
forth on private enterprises. Many
of them are now entirely lost, while
others remain, partly choked up with
rubbish, and partly walled up; monuments
of the jealous precautions and
warlike stratagems of the Moorish government.
By one of these passages,
Hussein Baba had undertaken to conduct
the Princesses to a sally-port beyond
the walls of the city, where the
cavaliers were to be ready with fleet
steeds, to bear the whole party over the
borders.
The appointed night arrived: the
tower of the princesses had been locked
up as usual, and the Alhambra was
buried in deep sleep. Towards midnight,
the discreet Kadiga listened from
the balcony of a window that looked
into the garden. Hussein Baba, the
renegado, was already below, and gave
the appointed signal. The duenna fastened
the end of a ladder of ropes to the
balcony, lowered it into the garden, and
descended. The two eldest princesses
followed her with beating hearts; but
when it came to the turn of the youngest
princess, Zorahayda, she hesitated, and
trembled. Several times she ventured a
delicate little foot upon the ladder, and
as often drew it back, while her poor
little heart fluttered more and more the
longer she delayed. She cast a wistful
look back into the silken chamber; she
had lived in it, to be sure like a bird in
a cage; but within it she was secure:
who could tell what dangers might beset
her, should she flutter forth into the wide
world! Now she bethought her of her
gallant Christian lover, and her little
foot was instantly upon the ladder; and
anon she thought of her father, and
shrank back. But fruitless is the attempt
to describe the conflict in the
bosom of one so young and tender, and
loving, but so timid and so ignorant of
the world.
In vain her sisters implored, the duenna
scolded, and the renegado blasphemed
beneath the balcony; the gentle
little Moorish maid stood doubting and
wavering on the verge of elopement;
tempted by the sweetness of the sin, but
terrified at its perils.
Every moment increased the danger
of discovery. A distant tramp was
heard. "The patrols are walking the
rounds," cried the renegado; "if we
linger, we perish. Princess, descend
instantly, or we leave you."
Zorahayda was for a moment in fearful
agitation; then loosening the ladder
of ropes, with desperate resolution, she
flung it from the balcony.
"It is decided!" cried she, "flight is
now out of my power! Allah guide and
bless ye, my dear sisters!"
The two eldest princesses were shocked
at the thoughts of leaving her behind,
and would fain have lingered, but the
patrol was advancing; the renegado was
furious, and they were hurried away
to the subterraneous passage. They
groped their way through a fearful labyrinth,
cut through the heart of the mountain,
and succeeded in reaching, undiscovered,
an iron gate that opened outside
of the walls. The Spanish cavaliers
as Moorish soldiers of the guard, commanded
by the renegado.
The lover of Zorahayda was frantic,
when he learnt that she had refused to
leave the tower; but there was no time
to waste in lamentations. The two
princesses were placed behind their
lovers, the discreet Kadiga mounted behind
the renegado, and all set off at a
round pace in the direction of the pass
of Lope, which leads through the mountains
towards Cordova.
They had not proceeded far when
they heard the noise of drums and
trumpets from the battlements of the
Alhambra.
"Our flight is discovered," said the
renegado.
"We have fleet steeds, the night is
dark, and we may distance all pursuit,"
replied the cavaliers.
They put spurs to their horses, and
scoured across the Vega. They attained
to the foot of the mountain of Elvira,
which stretches like a promontory into
the plain. The renegado paused and
listened. "As yet," said he, "there is
no one on our traces, we shall make
good our escape to the mountains."
While he spoke, a pale fire sprang up
in a light blaze on the top of the watchtower
of the Alhambra.
"Confusion!" cried the renegado,
"that fire will put all the guards of the
passes on the alert. Away! away!
Spur like mad,—there is no time to be
lost."
Away they dashed—the clattering of
their horses' hoofs echoed from rock to
rock, as they swept along the road that
skirts the rocky mountain of Elvira.
As they galloped on, they beheld that
the pale fire of the Alhambra was
answered in every direction; light after
light blazed on the atalayas, or watchtowers
of the mountains.
"Forward! forward!" cried the renegado,
with many an oath, "to the
bridge,—to the bridge, before the alarm
has reached there!"
They doubled the promontory of the
mountains, and arrived in sight of the
famous Puente del Pinos, that crosses a
rushing stream often dyed with Christian
and Moslem blood. To their confusion,
the tower on the bridge blazed with
lights and glittered with armed men,
The renegado pulled up his steed, rose
in his stirrups and looked about him for
a moment; then beckoning to the cavaliers,
he struck off from the road,
skirted the river for some distance, and
dashed into its waters. The cavaliers
called upon the princesses to cling to
them, and did the same. They were
borne for some distance down the rapid
current, the surges roared round them,
but the beautiful princesses clung to their
Christian knights, and never uttered a
complaint. The cavaliers attained the
opposite bank in safety, and were conducted
by the renegado, by rude and unfrequented
paths, and wild barraneas,
through the heart of the mountains, so
as to avoid all the regular passes. In a
word, they succeeded in reaching the
ancient city of Cordova; where their
restoration to their country and friends
was celebrated with great rejoicings, for
they were of the noblest families. The
beautiful princesses were forthwith received
into the bosom of the Church,
and, after being in all due form made
regular Christians, were rendered happy
wives.
In our hurry to make good the escape
of the princesses across the river, and
up the mountains, we forgot to mention
the fate of the discreet Kadiga. She
had clung like a cat to Hussein Baba in
the scamper across the Vega, screaming
at every bound, and drawing many an
oath from the whiskered renegado; but
when he prepared to plunge his steed
into the river, her terror knew no
bounds. "Grasp me not so tightly,"
cried Hussein Baba, "hold on my belt
and fear nothing." She held firmly
with both hands by the leathern belt
that girded the broad-backed renegado;
but when he halted with the cavaliers
to take breath on the mountain summit,
the duenna was no longer to be seen.
"What has become of Kadiga?" cried
the princesses in alarm.
"Allah alone knows!" replied the
renegado, "my belt came loose when in
the midst of the river, and Kadiga was
swept with it down the stream. The
will of Allah be done! but it was an embroidered
belt, and of great price."
There was no time to waste in idle
regrets; yet bitterly did the princesses
bewail the loss of their discreet counsellor.
That excellent old woman, however,
did not lose more than half of her
nine lives in the stream; a fisherman,
who was drawing his nets some distance
down the stream, brought her to land,
and was not a little astonished at his
miraculous draught. What further became
of the discreet Kadiga, the legend
does not mention; certain it is that she
evinced her discretion in never venturing
within the reach of Mohamed the Left-handed.
Almost as little is known of the conduct
of that sagacious monarch when he
discovered the escape of his daughters,
and the deceit practised upon him by
the most faithful of servants. It was
the only instance in which he had called
in the aid of counsel, and he was never
afterwards known to be guilty of a similar
weakness. He took good care, however,
to guard his remaining daughter,
who had no disposition to elope: it is
thought, indeed, that she secretly repented
having remained behind: now and
then she was seen leaning on the battlements
of the tower, and looking mournfully
towards the mountains in the direction
of Cordova, and sometimes the notes
of her lute were heard accompanying
plaintive ditties, in which she was said to
lament the loss of her sisters and her
lover, and to bewail her solitary life.
She died young, and, according to popular
rumour, was buried in a vault beneath
the tower, and her untimely fate
has given rise to more than one traditionary
fable.
VISITERS TO THE ALHAMBRA.
It is now nearly three months since I
took up my abode in the Alhambra,
during which time the progress of the
season has wrought many changes.
When I first arrived every thing was
in the freshness of May; the foliage of
the trees was still tender and transparent;
the pomegranate had not yet shed
its brilliant crimson blossoms; the
orchards of the Xenil and the Darro
were in full bloom; the rocks were hung
with wild flowers, and Granada seemed
completely surrounded by a wilderness
of roses, among which innumerable
nightingales sang, not merely in the
night, but all day long.
The advance of summer has withered
the rose and silenced the nightingale,
and the distant country begins to look
parched and sunburnt; though a perennial
verdure reigns immediately round
the city, and in the deep narrow valleys
at the foot of the snow-capped mountains.
The Alhambra possesses retreats graduated
to the heat of the weather, among
which the most peculiar is the almost subterranean
apartment of the baths. This
still retains its ancient Oriental character,
though stamped with the touching traces
of decline. At the entrance, opening
into a small court formerly adorned with
flowers, is a hall, moderate in size, but
light and graceful in architecture. It is
overlooked by a small gallery supported
by marble pillars and Moresco arches.
An alabaster fountain in the centre of the
pavement still throws up a jet of water to
cool the place. On each side are deep
alcoves with raised platforms, where the
bathers, after their ablutions, reclined on
luxurious cushions, soothed to voluptuous
repose by the fragrance of the perfumed
air and the notes of soft music from the
gallery. Beyond this hall are the interior
chambers, still more private and retired,
where no light is admitted but
through small apertures in the vaulted
ceilings. Here was the sanctum sanctorum
of female privacy, where the beauties
of the harem indulged in the luxury
of the baths. A soft mysterious light
reigns through the place, the broken
baths are still there, and traces of ancient
elegance. The prevailing silence and
obscurity have made this a favourite
resort of bats, who nestle during the day
in the dark nooks and corners, and on
being disturbed, flit mysteriously about
the twilight chambers, heightening, in an
indescribable degree, their air of desertion
and decay.
In this cool and elegant, though dilapidated
retreat, which has the freshness
passed the sultry hours of the day,
emerging towards sunset; and bathing,
or rather swimming, at night in the great
reservoir of the main court. In this way
I have been enabled in a measure to
counteract the relaxing and enervating
influence of the climate.
My dream of absolute sovereignty,
however, is at an end. I was roused
from it lately by the report of fire-arms,
which reverberated among the towers as
if the castle had been taken by surprise.
On sallying forth, I found an old cavalier
with a number of domestics, in possession
of the Hall of Ambassadors. He was an
ancient count who had come up from his
palace in Granada to pass a short time
in the Alhambra for the benefit of purer
air; and who, being a veteran and inveterate
sportsman, was endeavouring to
get an appetite for his breakfast by shooting
at swallows from the balconies. It
was a harmless amusement, for though,
by the alertness of his attendants in loading
his pieces, he was enabled to keep up
a brisk fire, I could not accuse him of
the death of a single swallow. Nay,
the birds themselves seemed to enjoy
the sport, and to deride his want of skill,
skimming in circles close to the balconies
and twittering as they darted by.
The arrival of this old gentleman has
in some manner changed the aspect of
affairs, but has likewise afforded matter
for agreeable speculation. We have
tacitly shared the empire between us,
like the last kings of Granada, excepting
that we maintain a most amicable alliance.
He reigns absolute over the Court
of the Lions and its adjacent halls, while
I maintain peaceful possession of the
regions of the baths and the little garden
of Lindaraxa. We take our meals together
under the arcades of the court,
where the fountains cool the air, and
bubbling rills run along the channels of
the marble pavement.
In the evening a domestic circle gathers
about the worthy old cavalier. The
countess comes up from the city, with a
favourite daughter about sixteen years of
age. Then there are the official dependents
of the count, his chaplain, lawyer,
his secretary, his steward, and other officers
and agents of his extensive possessions.
Thus he holds a kind of domestic
court, where every person seeks to contribute
to his amusement without sacrificing
his own pleasure or self-respect.
In fact, whatever may be said of Spanish
pride, it certainly does not enter into
social or domestic life. Among no people
are the relations between kindred more
cordial, or between superior and dependent
more frank and genial; in these
respects there still remains, in the provincial
life of Spain, much of the vaunted
simplicity of the olden times.
The most interesting member of this
family group, however, is the daughter of
the count, the charming though almost
infantile little Carmen. Her form has
not yet attained its maturity, but has
already the exquisite symmetry and
pliant grace so prevalent in this country.
Her blue eyes, fair complexion, and
light hair, are unusual in Andalusia, and
give a mildness and gentleness to her
demeanour, in contrast to the usual fire
of Spanish beauty, but in perfect unison
with the guileless and confiding innocence
of her manners. She has, however,
all the innate aptness and versatility
of her fascinating countrywomen,
and sings, dances, and plays the guitar,
and other instruments, to admiration.
A few days after taking up his residence
in the Alhambra, the count gave
a domestic fête on his Saint's day, assembling
round him the members of his
family and household, while several old
servants came from his distant possessions
to pay their reverence to him, and
partake of the good cheer. This patriarchal
spirit, which characterized the Spanish
nobility in the days of their opulence,
has declined with their fortunes; but
some who, like the count, still retain
their ancient family possessions, keep up
a little of the ancient system and have
their estates overrun and almost eaten up
by generations of idle retainers. According
to this magnificent old Spanish
system, in which the national pride and
generosity bore equal parts, a superannuated
servant was never turned off,
but became a charge for the rest of his
days; nay, his children and his children's
children, and often their relatives,
to the right and left, became gradually
entailed upon the family. Hence the
which have such an air of empty ostentation
from the greatness of their size
compared with the mediocrity and scantiness
of their furniture, were absolutely
required in the golden days of Spain, by
the patriarchal habits of their possessors.
They were little better than vast barracks
for the hereditary generations of
hangers on, that battened at the expense
of a Spanish noble. The worthy old
count, who has estates in various parts
of the kingdom, assures me that some of
them barely feed the hordes of dependents
nestled upon them; who consider themselves
entitled to be maintained upon the
place rent-free, because their forefathers
have been so for generations.
The domestic fête of the count broke
in upon the usual still life of the Alhambra;
music and laughter resounded
through its late silent halls; there were
groups of the guests amusing themselves
about the galleries and gardens, and
officious servants from town hurrying
through the courts, bearing viands to the
ancient kitchen, which was again alive
with the tread of cooks and scullions, and
blazed with unwonted fires.
The feast, for a Spanish set dinner is
literally a feast, was laid in the beautiful
Moresco hall called "La Sala de los dos
Hermanas" (the saloon of the two sisters),
the table groaned with abundance, and a
joyous conviviality prevailed round the
board; for though the Spaniards are
generally an abstemious people, they are
complete revellers at a banquet. For
my own part, there was something peculiarly
interesting in thus sitting at a feast
in the royal halls of the Alhambra, given
by the representative of one of its most
renowned conquerors; for the venerable
count, though unwarlike himself, is the
lineal descendant and representative of
the "Great Captain," the illustrious Gonsalvo
of Cordova, whose sword he guards
in the archives of his palace at Granada.
The banquet ended, the company adjourned
to the Hall of Ambassadors.
Here every one contributed to the general
amusement by exerting some peculiar
talent; singing, improvising, telling wonderful
tales, or dancing to that all-pervading
talisman of Spanish pleasure, the
guitar.
The life and charm of the whole
assemblage, however, was the gifted
little Carmen. She took her part in two
or three scenes from Spanish comedies,
exhibiting a charming dramatic talent;
she gave imitations of the popular Italian
singers with singular and whimsical felicity,
and a rare quality of voice; she
imitated the dialects, dances and ballads
of the gipsies and the neighbouring
peasantry, but did every thing with a
facility, a neatness, a grace, and an all-pervading
prettiness, that were perfectly
fascinating.
The great charm of her performances,
however, was their being free from all
pretension, or ambition of display. She
seemed unconscious of the extent of her
own talents, and in fact is accustomed
only to exert them casually, like a child,
for the amusement of the domestic circle.
Her observation and tact must be remarkably
quick, for her life is passed in
the bosom of her family, and she can
only have had casual and transient
glances at the various characters and
traits, brought out impromptu in moments
of domestic hilarity like the one in
question. It is pleasing to see the fondness
and admiration with which every
one of the household regard her; she is
never spoken of, even by the domestics,
by any other appellation than that of La
Niña, "the child," an appellation which
thus applied has something peculiarly
kind and endearing in the Spanish language.
Never shall I think of the Alhambra
without remembering the lovely little
Carmen sporting in happy and innocent
girlhood in its marble halls, dancing to
the sound of the Moorish castañets, or
mingling the silver warbling of her voice
with the music of the fountains.
On this festive occasion several curious
and amusing legends and traditions were
told; many of which have escaped my
memory; but out of those that most struck
me, I will endeavour to shape forth some
entertainment for the reader.
LEGEND OF
PRINCE AHMED AL KAMEL;
OR,
THE PILGRIM OF LOVE.
There was once a Moorish king of
Granada, who had but one son, whom he
named Ahmed, to which his courtiers
added the surname of Al Kamel or the
perfect, from the indubitable signs of
super-excellence which they perceived in
him in his very infancy. The astrologers
countenanced them in their foresight,
predicting every thing in his favour
that could make a perfect prince and a
prosperous sovereign. One cloud only
rested upon his destiny, and even that
was of a roseate hue. He would be of
an amorous temperament, and run great
perils from the tender passion. If, however,
he could be kept from the allurements
of love, until of mature age, these
dangers would be averted, and his life
thereafter be one uninterrupted course of
felicity.
To prevent all danger of the kind, the
king wisely determined to rear the prince
in a seclusion where he should never see
a female face, nor hear even the name of
love. For this purpose he built a beautiful
palace on the brow of the hill above
the Alhambra, in the midst of delightful
gardens, but surrounded by lofty walls,
being, in fact, the same palace known at
the present day by the name of the
Generalife. In this palace the youthful
prince was shut up, and entrusted to the
guardianship and instruction of Eben
Bonabben, one of the wisest and dryest
of Arabian sages, who had passed the
greatest part of his life in Egypt studying
hieroglyphics, and making researches
among the tombs and pyramids, and
who saw more charms in an Egyptian
mummy, than in the most tempting of
living beauties. The sage was ordered
to instruct the prince in all kinds of
knowledge but one—he was to be kept
utterly ignorant of love. "Use every
precaution for the purpose you may
think proper," said the king, "but
remember, O Eben Bonabben, if my son
learns aught of that forbidden knowledge
while under your care, your head shall
answer for it." A withered smile came
over the dry visage of the wise Bonabben
at the menace. "Let your majesty's
heart be as easy about your son, as
mine is about my head: am I a man
likely to give lessons in the idle passion?"
Under the vigilant care of the philosopher,
the prince grew up, in the seclusion
of the palace and its gardens. He
had black slaves to attend upon him,—
hideous mutes, who knew nothing of
love, or, if they did, had not words to
communicate it. His mental endowments
were the peculiar care of Eben
Bonabben, who sought to initiate him
into the abstruse lore of Egypt; but in
this the prince made little progress, and
it was soon evident that he had no turn
for philosophy.
He was, however, amazingly ductile
for a youthful prince, ready to follow
any advice, and always guided by the
last counsellor. He suppressed his
yawns, and listened patiently to the long
and learned discourses of Eben Bonabben,
from which he imbibed a smattering
of various kinds of knowledge, and
thus happily attained his twentieth year,
a miracle of princely wisdom—but totally
ignorant of love.
About this time, however, a change
came over the conduct of the prince.
He completely abandoned his studies,
and took to strolling about the gardens,
and musing by the side of the fountains.
He had been taught a little music among
his various accomplishments; it now engrossed
a great part of his time, and a
turn for poetry became apparent. The
sage Eben Bonabben took the alarm,
and endeavoured to work these idle
humours out of him by a severe course
of algebra—but the prince turned from
it with distaste. "I cannot endure algebra,"
said he; "it is an abomination
to me. I want something that speaks
more to the heart."
The sage Eben Bonabben shook his
dry head at the words. "Here is an
end to philosophy," thought he. "The
prince has discovered he has a heart!"
He now kept anxious watch upon his
pupil, and saw that the latent tenderness
of his nature was in activity, and only
wanted an object. He wandered about
the gardens of the Generalife in an intoxication
not the cause. Sometimes he would sit
plunged in a delicious revery; then he
would seize his lute and draw from it the
most touching notes, and then throw it
aside, and break forth into sighs and
ejaculations.
By degrees this loving disposition
began to extend to inanimate objects; he
had his favourite flowers, which he cherished
with tender assiduity; then he became
attached to various trees, and
there was one in particular of a graceful
form and drooping foliage, on which he
lavished his amorous devotion, carving
his name on its bark, hanging garlands
on its branches, and singing couplets in
its praise, to the accompaniment of his
lute.
The sage Eben Bonabben was alarmed
at this excited state of his pupil. He
saw him on the very brink of forbidden
knowledge—the least hint might reveal
to him the fatal secret. Trembling for
the safety of the prince and the security
of his own head, he hastened to draw
him from the seductions of the garden,
and shut him up in the highest tower of
the Generalife. It contained beautiful
apartments, and commanded an almost
boundless prospect, but was elevated far
above that atmosphere of sweets, and
those witching bowers so dangerous to
the feelings of the too susceptible Ahmed.
What was to be done, however, to
reconcile him to this restraint, and to
beguile the tedious hours? He had exhausted
almost all kinds of agreeable
knowledge; and algebra was not to be
mentioned. Fortunately Eben Bonabben
had been instructed, when in Egypt, in
the language of birds, by a Jewish Rabbin,
who had received it in lineal transmission
from Solomon the wise, who had
been taught it by the Queen of Sheba.
At the very mention of such a study,
the eyes of the prince sparkled with animation,
and he applied himself to it with
such avidity, that he soon became as
great an adept as his master.
The tower of the Generalife was no
longer a solitude; he had companions at
hand with whom he could converse.
The first acquaintance he formed was
with a hawk, who built his nest in a
crevice of the lofty battlements, from
whence he soared far and wide in quest
of prey. The prince, however, found
little to like or esteem in him. He was
a mere pirate of the air, swaggering and
boastful, whose talk was all about rapine
and courage and desperate exploits.
His next acquainance was an owl, a
mighty wise-looking bird, with a huge
head and staring eyes, who sat blinking
and goggling all day in a hole in the
wall, but roamed forth at night. He had
great pretensions to wisdom, talked something
of astrology and the moon, and
hinted at the dark sciences; but he was
grievously given to metaphysics, and the
prince found his prosings even more
ponderous than those of the sage Eben
Bonabben.
Then there was a bat, that hung all
day by his heels in the dark corner of
a vault, but sallied out in a slip-shod
style at twilight. He, however, had but
twilight ideas on all subjects, derided
things of which he had taken but an imperfect
view, and seemed to take delight
in nothing.
Besides these there was a swallow,
with whom the prince was at first much
taken. He was a smart talker, but restless,
bustling, and for ever on the wing;
seldom remaining long enough for any
continued conversation. He turned out
in the end to be a mere smatterer, who
did but skim over the surface of things,
pretending to know every thing, but
knowing nothing thoroughly.
These were the only feathered associates
with whom the prince had any
opportunity of exercising his newly-acquired
language; the tower was too high
for any other birds to frequent it. He
soon grew weary of his new acquaintances,
whose conversation spoke so
little to the head, and nothing to the
heart; and gradually relapsed into his
loneliness. A winter passed away,
spring opened with all its bloom and
verdure and breathing sweetness, and
the happy time arrived for birds to pair
and build their nests. Suddenly, as it
were, a universal burst of song and
melody broke forth from the groves and
gardens of the Generalife, and reached
the prince in the solitude of his tower.
From every side he heard the same universal
theme—love—love—love—chanted
of note and tone. The prince listened
in silence and perplexity. "What
can be this love," thought he, "of which
the world seems so full, and of which I
know nothing!" He applied for information
to his friend the hawk. The ruffian
bird answered in a tone of scorn: "you
must apply," said he, "to the vulgar
peaceable birds of earth who are made
for the prey of us princes of the air.
My trade is war, and fighting my delight.
In a word, I am a warrior, and
know nothing of this thing called love."
The prince turned from him with disgust,
and sought the owl in his retreat.
"This is a bird," said he "of peaceful
habits, and may be able to solve my
question." So he asked the owl to tell
him what was this love about which all
the birds in the groves below were singing.
Upon this, the owl put on a look of
offended dignity. "My nights," said
he, "are taken up in study and research,
and my days in ruminating in
my cell upon all that I have learnt. As
to these singing birds of whom you talk,
I never listen to them—I despise them
and their themes. Allah be praised,
I cannot sing; I am a philosopher, and
know nothing of this thing called love."
The prince now repaired to the vault,
where his friend the bat was hanging by
the heels, and propounded the same
question. The bat wrinkled up his nose
into a most snappish expression. "Why
do you disturb me in my morning's nap
with such an idle question?" said he
peevishly. "I only fly by twilight,
when all birds are asleep, and never
trouble myself with their concerns. I
am neither bird nor beast, and I thank
heaven for it. I have found out the
villany of the whole of them, and hate
them one and all. In a word, I am a
misanthrope—and know nothing of this
thing called love."
As a last resort, the prince now sought
the swallow, and stopped him just as he
was circling about the summit of the
tower. The swallow, as usual, was in
a prodigious hurry, and had scarce time
to make a reply. "Upon my word,"
said he, "I have so much public business
to attend to, and so many pursuits
to follow, that I have had no time to
think on the subject. I have every day
a thousand visits to pay; a thousand
affairs of importance to examine into,
that leave me not a moment of leisure
for these little sing-song matters. In a
word, I am a citizen of the world—I
know nothing of this thing called love."
So saying the swallow dived into the
valley, and was out of sight in a moment.
The prince remained disappointed and
perplexed, but with his curiosity still
more piqued by the difficulty of gratifying
it. While in this mood, his ancient
guardian entered the tower. The prince
advanced eagerly to meet him. "O
sage Eben Bonabben," cried he, "thou
hast revealed to me much of the wisdom
of the earth; but there is one thing of
which I remain in utter ignorance, and
would fain be informed."
"My prince has but to make the
inquiry, and every thing within the
limited range of his servant's intellect is
at his command."
"Tell me, O most profound of sages,
what is the nature of this thing called
love?"
The sage Eben Bonabben was struck
as with a thunderbolt. He trembled and
turned pale, and felt as if his head sat
but loosely on his shoulders.
"What could suggest such a question
to my prince—where could he have
learnt so idle a word?"
The prince led him to the window of
the tower. "Listen, O Eben Bonabben,"
said he. The sage listened. The nightingale
sat in a thicket below the tower,
singing to his paramour the rose; from
every blossomed spray and tufted grove
arose a strain of melody; and love—love
—love—was still the unvarying strain.
"Allah achbar! God is great!" exclaimed
the wise Bonabben. "Who
shall pretend to keep this secret from the
heart of man, when even the birds of the
air conspire to betray it?"
Then turning to Ahmed—"O my
prince," cried he, "shut thine ears to
these seductive strains. Close thy mind
against this dangerous knowledge. Know
that this love is the cause of half the ills
of wretched mortality. It is this which
produces bitterness and strife between
treacherous murder and desolating war.
Care and sorrow, weary days and sleepless
nights, are its attendants. It withers
the bloom and blights the joys of youth,
and brings on the ills and griefs of premature
old age. Allah preserve thee,
my prince, in total ignorance of this
thing called love!"
The sage Eben Bonabben hastily retired,
leaving the prince plunged in still
deeper perplexity. It was in vain he attempted
to dismiss the subject from his
mind; it still continued uppermost in his
thoughts, and tenzed and exhausted him
with vain conjectures. Surely, said he
to himself, as he listened to the tuneful
strains of the birds, there is no sorrow
in those notes; every thing seems tenderness
and joy. If love be the cause of
such wretchedness and strife, why are
not these birds drooping in solitude, or
tearing each other in pieces, instead of
fluttering cheerfully about the groves,
or sporting with each other among
flowers?
He lay one morning on his couch
meditating on this inexplicable matter.
The window of his chamber was open to
admit the soft morning breeze which
came laden with the perfume of orange
blossoms from the valley of the Darro.
The voice of the nightingale was faintly
heard, still chanting the wonted theme.
As the prince was listening and sighing,
there was a sudden rushing noise in the
air; a beautiful dove, pursued by a hawk,
darted in at the window, and fell panting
on the floor; while the pursuer, balked
of his prey, soared off to the mountains.
The prince took up the gasping bird,
smoothed its feathers and nestled it in his
bosom. When he had soothed it by his
caresses, he put it in a golden cage, and
offered it with his own hands, the
whitest and finest of wheat and the
purest of water. The bird, however, refused
food, and sat drooping and pining,
and uttering piteous moans.
"What aileth thee?" said Ahmed.
"Hast thou not every thing thy heart
can wish?"
"Alas, no!" replied the dove; "am I
not separated from the partner of my
heart, and that too in the happy springtime,
the very season of love!"
"Of love!" echoed Ahmed; "I pray
thee, my pretty bird, canst thou then tell
me what is love?"
"Too well can I, my prince. It is
the torment of one, the felicity of two,
the strife and enmity of three. It is a
charm which draws two beings together,
and unites them by delicious sympathies,
making it happiness to be with each
other, but misery to be apart. Is there
no being to whom you are drawn by these
ties of tender affection?"
"I like my old teacher Eben Bonabben
better than any other being; but he is
often tedious and I occasionally feel myself
happier without his society."
"That is not the sympathy I mean.
I speak of love, the great mystery and
principle of life; the intoxicating revel
of youth; the sober delight of age.
Look forth, my prince, and behold how at
this blest season all nature is full of love.
Every created being has its mate; the
most insignificant bird sings to its paramour;
the very beetle woos its lady-beetle
in the dust, and you butterflies
which you see fluttering high above the
tower and toying in the air, are happy in
each other's loves. Alas, my prince!
hast thou spent so many of the precious
days of youth without knowing any
thing of love? Is there no gentle being
of another sex—no beautiful princess or
lovely damsel who has ensnared your
heart, and filled your bosom with a soft
tumult of pleasing pains and tender
wishes?"
"I begin to understand," said the
prince, sighing; "such a tumult I have
more than once experienced without
knowing the cause; and where should I
seek for an object, such as you describe,
in this dismal solitude?"
A little further conversation ensued,
and the first amatory lesson of the prince
was complete.
"Alas!" said he, "if love be indeed
such a delight and its interruption such a
misery, Allah forbid that I should mar
the joy of any of its votaries." He
opened the cage, took out the dove, and
having fondly kissed it, carried it to the
window. "Go, happy bird," said he,
"rejoice with the partner of thy heart in
the days of youth and springtime. Why
should I make thee a fellow-prisoner in
enter?"
The dove flapped its wings in rapture,
gave one vault in the air, and then
swooped downward on whistling wings to
the blooming bowers of the Darro.
The prince followed him with his eyes,
and then gave way to bitter repining.
The singing of the birds, which once
delighted him, now added to his bitterness.
Love! love! love! Alas, poor
youth! he now understood the strain.
His eyes flashed fire when next he beheld
the sage Bonabben. "Why hast
thou kept me in this abject ignorance?"
cried he. "Why has the great mystery
and principle of life been withheld from
me, in which I find the meanest insect is
so learned? Behold all nature is in a
revel of delight. Every created being
rejoices with its mate. This—this is the
love about which I have sought instruction.
Why am I alone debarred its
enjoyment? Why has so much of my
youth been wasted without a knowledge
of its raptures?"
The sage Bonabben saw that all further
reserve was useless; for the prince
had acquired the dangerous and forhidden
knowledge. He revealed to him, therefore,
the predictions of the astrologers,
and the precautions that had been taken
in his education to avert the threatened
evils. "And now, my prince," added
he, "my life is in your hands. Let the
king your father discover that you have
learned the passion of love while under
my guardianship, and my head must
answer for it."
The prince was as reasonable as most
young men of his age, and easily listened
to the remonstrances of his tutor, since
nothing pleaded against them. Besides,
he really was attached to the sage Bonabben,
and being as yet but theoretically
acquainted with the passion of love, be
consented to confine the knowledge of it
to his own bosom, rather than endanger
the head of the philosopher.
His discretion was doomed, however,
to be put to still further proofs. A few
mornings afterwards, as he was ruminating
on the battlements of the tower,
the dove which had been released by him
came hovering in the air, and alighted
fearlessly upon his shoulder.
The prince foudled it to his heart.
"Happy bird," said he, "who can fly,
as it were, with the wings of the morning
to the uttermost parts of the earth.
Where hast thou been since we parted?"
"In a far country, my prince, from
whence I bring you tidings in reward for
my liberty. In the wild compass of my
flight, which extends over plain and
mountain, as I was soaring in the air, I
beheld below me a delightful garden,
with all kinds of fruits and flowers. It
was in a green meadow, on the banks of
a wandering stream; and in the centre
of the garden was a stately palace. I
alighted in one of the bowers to repose
after my weary flight. On the green
bank below me was a youthful princess,
in the very sweetness and bloom of her
years. She was surrounded by female attendants,
young like herself, who decked
her with garlands and coronets of flowers;
but no flower of field or garden
could compare with her for loveliness.
Here, however, she bloomed in secret,
for the garden was surrounded by high
walls, and no mortal man was permitted
to enter. When I beheld this beauteous
maid, thus young and innocent and unspotted
by the world, I thought, here is
the being formed by heaven to inspire my
prince with love."
The description was a spark of fire to
the combustible heart of Ahmed: all the
latent amorousness of his temperament
had at once found an object, and he conceived
an immeasurable passion for the
princess. He wrote a letter, couched in
the most impassioned language, breathing
his fervent devotion, but bewailing the
unhappy thraldom of his person, which
prevented him from seeking her out and
throwing himself at her feet. He added
couplets of the most tender and moving
eloquence, for he was a poet by nature
and inspired by love. He addressed his
letter—"To the unknown beauty, from
the captive Prince Ahmed;" then perfuming
it with musk and roses, he gave
it to the dove.
"Away, trustiest of messengers!" said
he. "Fly over mountain and valley and
river and plain; rest not in bower nor set
foot on earth, until thou hast given this
letter to the mistress of my heart."
The dove soared high in air, and
undeviating direction. The prince followed
him with his eye until he was a
mere speck on a cloud, and gradually
disappeared behind a mountain.
Day after day he watched for the
return of the messenger of love, but he
watched in vain. He began to accuse
him of forgetfulness, when towards sunset
one evening the faithful bird fluttered
into his apartment, and falling at his feet,
expired. The arrow of some wanton
archer had pierced his breast, yet he had
struggled with the lingering of life to
execute his mission. As the prince bent
with grief over this gentle martyr to
fidelity, he beheld a chain of pearls
round his neck, attached to which, beneath
his wing, was a small enamelled
picture. It represented a lovely princess
in the very flower of her years. It was
doubtless the unknown beauty of the
garden; but who and where was she—
how had she received his letter, and was
this picture sent as a token of her
approval of his passion? Unfortunately
the death of the faithful dove left every
thing in mystery and doubt.
The prince gazed on the picture till his
eyes swam with tears. He pressed it to
his lips and to his heart, he sat for hours
contemplating it almost in an agony of
tenderness. "Beautiful image!" said he,
"alas, thou art but an image! Yet thy
dewy eyes beam tenderly upon me; those
rosy lips look as though they would speak
encouragement: vain fancies! Have
they not looked the same on some more
happy rival? But where in this wide
world shall I hope to find the original?
Who knows what mountains, what realms
may separate us—what adverse chances
may intervene? Perhaps now, even
now, lovers may be crowding around her,
while I sit here a prisoner in a tower,
wasting my time in adoration of a painted
shadow."
The resolution of Prince Ahmed was
taken. "I will fly from this palace,"
said he, "which has become an odious
prison, and, a pilgrim of love, will seek
this unknown princess throughout the
world." To escape from the tower in
the day, when every one was awake,
might be a difficult matter; but at night
the palace was slightly guarded; for no
one apprehended any attempt of the kind
from the prince who had always been so
passive in his captivity. How was he to
guide himself, however, in his darkling
flight, being ignorant of the country?
He bethought him of the owl, who was
accustomed to roam at night, and must
know every by-lane and secret pass.
Seeking him in his hermitage, he questioned
him touching his knowledge of the
land. Upon this the owl put on a mighty
self-important look. "You must know,
O prince," said he, "that we owls are of
a very ancient and extensive family,
though rather fallen to decay, and possess
ruinous castles and palaces in all
parts of Spain. There is scarcely a
tower of the mountains, or a fortress of
the plains, or an old citadel of a city, but
has some brother, or uncle, or cousin
quartered in it; and in going the rounds
to visit my numerous kindred, I have
pryed into every nook and corner, and
made myself acquainted with every secret
of the land." The prince was overjoyed
to find the owl so deeply versed in topography,
and now informed him, in confidence,
of his tender passion and his intended
elopement, urging him to be his
companion and counsellor.
"Go to!" said the owl with a look of
displeasure, "am I a bird to engage in a
love affair? I whose whole time is devoted
to meditation and the moon?"
"Be not offended, most solemn owl,"
replied the prince; "abstract thyself for
a time from meditation and the moon, and
aid me in my flight, and thou shalt have
whatever heart can wish."
"I have that already," said the owl:
"a few mice are sufficient for my frugal
table, and this hole in the wall is spacious
enough for my studies: and what more
does a philosopher like myself desire?"
"Bethink thee, most wise owl, that
while moping in thy cell and gazing at
the moon, all thy talents are lost to the
world. I shall one day be a sovereign
prince, and may advance thee to some
post of honour and dignity."
The owl though a philosopher and
above the ordinary wants of life, was
not above ambition; so he was finally
prevailed on to elope with the prince,
and be his guide and Mentor in his pilgrimage.
The plans of a lover are promptly executed.
The prince collected all his
jewels, and concealed them about his
person as travelling funds. That very
night he lowered himself by his scarf
from a balcony of the tower, clambered
over the outer walls of the Generalife,
and, guided by the owl, made good his
escape before morning to the mountains.
He now held a council with his Mentor
as to his future course.
"Might I advise," said the owl, "I
would recommend you to repair to Seville.
You must know, that many years
since I was on a visit to an uncle, an
owl of great dignity and power, who
lived in a ruined wing of the alcazar of
that place. In my hoverings at night
over the city I frequently remarked a
light burning in a lonely tower. At
length I alighted on the battlements,
and found it to proceed from the lamp
of an Arabian magician: he was surrounded
by his magic books, and on his
shoulder was perched his familiar, an
ancient raven, who had come with him
from Egypt. I am acquainted with that
raven, and owe to him a great part of
the knowledge I possess. The magician
is since dead, but the raven still inhabits
the tower, for these birds are of wonderful
long life. I would advise you, O
prince, to seek that raven, for he is a
soothsayer and a conjurer, and deals in
the black art, for which all ravens,
and especially those of Egypt, are renowned."
The prince was struck with the wisdom
of this advice, and accordingly bent
his course towards Seville. He travelled
only in the night, to accommodate
his companion, and lay by during the
day in some dark cavern or mouldering
watchtower, for the owl knew every
hiding-hole of the kind, and had a most
antiquarian taste for ruins.
At length one morning at daybreak
they reached the city of Seville, where
the owl, who hated the glare and bustle
of crowded streets, halted without the
gate and took up his quarters in a hollow
tree.
The prince entered the gate and readily
found the magic tower, which rose
above the houses of the city, as a palm-tree
rises above the shrubs of the desert;
it was in fact the same tower that is
standing at the present day, and known
as the Giralda, the famous Moorish
tower of Seville.
The prince ascended by a great winding
staircase to the summit of the tower,
where he found the cabalistic raven, an
old, mysterious, grayheaded bird, ragged
in feather, with a film over one eye
that gave him the glare of a spectre.
He was perched on one leg, with his
head turned on one side, poring with his
remaining eye on a diagram described
on the pavement.
The prince approached him with the
awe and reverence naturally inspired
by his venerable appearance and supernatural
wisdom. "Pardon me, most
ancient and darkly wise raven," exclaimed
he, "if for a moment I interrupt
those studies which are the wonder
of the world. You behold before you a
votary of love, who would fain seek your
counsel how to obtain the object of his
passion."
"In other words," said the raven,
with a significant look, "you seek to try
my skill in palmistry. Come, show me
your hand, and let me decipher the
mysterious lines of fortune."
"Excuse me," said the prince, "I
come not to pry into the decrees of fate,
which are hidden by Allah from the eyes
of mortals; I am a pilgrim of love, and
seek but to find a clue to the object of
my pilgrimage."
"And can you be at any loss for an
object in amorous Andalusia?" said the
old raven, leering upon him with his
single eye; "above all, can you be at a
loss in wanton Seville, where blackeyed
damsels dance the zambra under every
orange grove!"
The prince blushed, and was somewhat
shocked at hearing an old bird,
with one foot in the grave, talk thus
loosely. "Believe me," said he gravely,
"I am on none such light and vagrant
errand as thou dost insinuate. The
blackeyed damsels of Andalusia who
dance among the orange groves of
the Guadalquivir are as nought to me.
I seek one unknown but immaculate
beauty, the original of this picture; and
I beseech thee, most potent raven, if it
be within the scope of thy knowledge or
she may be found."
The grayheaded raven was rebuked
by the gravity of the prince.
"What know I," replied he drily, "of
youth and beauty? my visits are to the
old and withered, not the fresh and fair:
the harbinger of fate am I; who croak
bodings of death from the chimney-top,
and flap my wings at the sick man's
window. You must seek elsewhere for
tidings of your unknown beauty."
"And where can I seek, if not among
the sons of wisdom, versed in the book
of destiny? A royal prince am I, fated
by the stars, and sent on a mysterious
enterprise on which may hang the destiny
of empires."
When the raven heard that it was a
matter of vast moment in which the
stars took interest, he changed his tone
and manner, and listened with profound
attention to the story of the prince.
When it was concluded, he replied,
"Touching this princess I can give thee
no information of myself, for my flight is
not among gardens, or around ladies
bowers: but hie thee to Cordova, seek
the palm-tree of the great Abderahman,
which stands in the court of the principal
mosque: at the foot of it thou wilt
find a great traveller who has visited all
countries and courts, and been a favourite
with queens and princesses. He will
give thee tidings of the object of thy
search."
"Many thanks for this precious information,"
said the prince. "Farewell,
most venerable conjuror."
"Farewell, pilgrim of love," said the
raven drily, and again felt to pondering
on the diagram.
The prince sallied forth from Seville,
sought his fellow-traveller the owl, who
was still dozing in the hollow tree, and
set off for Cordova.
He approached it along hanging gardens,
and orange and citron groves,
overlooking the fair valley of the Guadalquivir.
When arrived at its gates,
the owl fiew up to a dark hole in the
wall, and the prince proceeded in quest
of the palm tree planted in days of yore
by the great Abderahman. It stood in
the midst of the great court of the
mosque, towering from amidst orange
and cypress trees. Dervises and faquirs
were seated in groups under the cloisters
of the court, and many of the faithful
were performing their ablutions at the
fountains before entering the mosque.
At the foot of the palm tree was a
crowd listening to the words of one who
appeared to be talking with great volubility.
"This," said the prince to himself,
"must be the great traveller who
is to give me tidings of the unknown
princess." He mingled in the crowd,
but was astonished to perceive that they
were all listening to a parrot, who with
his bright green coat, pragmatical eye,
and consequential topknot, had the air
of a bird on excellent terms with himself.
"How is this," said the prince to one
of the bystanders, "that so many grave
persons can be delighted with the garrulity
of a chattering bird?"
"You know not whom you speak of,"
said the other; "this parrot is a descendant
of the famous parrot of Persia,
renowned for his story-telling talent,
He has all the learning of the East at
the tip of his tongue, and can quote
poetry as fast as he can talk. He has
visited various foreign courts, and where
he has been considered an oracle of
erudition. He has been a universal favourite
also with the fair sex, who have
a vast admiration for cradite parrots that
can quote poetry."
"Enough," said the prince, "I will
have some private talk with this distinguished
traveller."
He sought a private interview, and
expounded the nature of his errand. He
had scarcely mentioned it, when the
parrot burst into a fit of dry rickety
laughter that absolutely brought tears in
his eyes. "Excuse my merriment,"
said he, "but the mere mention of love
always sets me laughing."
The prince was shocked at this ill-timed
merriment. "Is not love," said
he, "the great mystery of nature, the
secret principle of life, the universal
bond of sympathy?"
"A fig's end!" cried the parrot, interrupting
him; "pr'ythee where hast
thou learnt this sentimental jargon! trust
me, love is quite out of vogue; one never
hears of it in the company of wits and
people of refinement."
The prince sighed as he recalled the
different language of his friend the dove.
But this parrot, thought he, has lived
about the court, he affects the wit and
the fine gentleman, he knows nothing of
the thing called love. Unwilling to provoke
any more ridicule of the sentiment
which filled his heart, he now directed
his inquiries to the immediate purport of
his visit.
"Tell me," said he, "most accomplished
parrot, thou who hast every
where been admitted to the most secret
bowers of beauty, hast thou in the course
of thy travels met with the original of
this portrait!"
The parrot took the picture in his
claw, turned his head from side to side,
and examined it curiously with either
eye. "Upon my honour," said he, "a
very pretty face; very pretty: but then
one sees so many pretty women in one's
travels that one can hardly—but hold—
bless me! now I look at it again—sure
enough this is the Princess Aldegonda:
how could I forget one that is so prodigious
a favourite with me?"
"The Princess Aldegonda!" echoed
the prince, "and where is she to be
found?"
"Softly, softly," said the parrot,
"easier to be found than gained. She is
the only daughter of the Christian king
who reigns at Toledo, and is shut up
from the world until her seventeenth
birthday, on account of some prediction
of those meddlesome fellows the astrologers.
You'll not get a sight of her—no
mortal man can see her. I was admitted
to her presence to entertain her, and
I assure you, on the word of a parrot
who has seen the world, I have conversed
with much sillier princesses in
my time."
"A word in confidence, my dear parrot,"
said the prince. "I am heir to a
kingdom, and shall one day sit upon a
throne. I see that you are a bird of
parts, and understand the world. Help
me to gain possession of this princess,
and I will advance you to some distinguished
place about court."
"With all my heart," said the parrot;
"but let it be a sinecure if possible, for
we wits have a great dislike to labour."
Arrangements were promptly made;
the prince sallied forth from Cordova
through the same gate by which he had
entered; called the owl down from the
hole in the wall, introduced him to his
new travelling companion as a brother
savant, and away they set off on their
journey.
They travelled much more slowly
than accorded with the impatience of the
prince, but the parrot was accustomed
to high life, and did not like to be disturbed
early in the morning. The owl
on the other hand was for sleeping at
mid-day, and lost a great deal of time by
his long siestas. His antiquarian taste
also was in the way; for he insisted on
pausing and inspecting every ruin, and
had long legendary tales to tell about
every old tower and castle in the
country. The prince had supposed that
he and the parrot, being both birds of
learning, would delight in each other's
society, but never had he been more
mistaken. They were eternally bickering.
The one was a wit, the other a
philosopher. The parrot quoted poetry,
was critical on new readings, and eloquent
on small points of erudition; the
owl treated all such knowledge as
trifling, and relished nothing but metaphysics.
Then the parrot would sing
songs and repeat bon mots and crack
jokes upon his solemn neighbour, and
laugh outrageously at his own wit; all
which proceedings the owl considered as
a grievous invasion of his dignity, and
would scowl and sulk and swell, and be
silent for a whole day together.
The prince heeded not the wranglings
of his companions, being wrapped up in
the dreams of his own fancy, and the
contemplation of the portrait of the beautiful
princess. In this way they journeyed
through the stern passes of the
Sierra Morena, across the sunburnt plains
of La Mancha and Castile, and along the
banks of the "Golden Tagus," which
winds its wizard mazes over one half of
Spain and Portugal. At length they
came in sight of a strong city with walls
and towers built on a rocky promontory
round the foot of which the Tagus circled
with brawling violence.
"Behold," exclaimed the owl, "the
ancient and renowned city of Toledo; a
city famous for its antiquities. Behold
with time and clothed with legendary
grandeur, in which so many of my ancestors
have meditated."
"Pish!" cried the parrot, interrupting
his solemn antiquarian rapture, "what
have we to do with antiquities, and legends,
and your ancestry? Behold what
is more to the purpose—behold the abode
of youth and beauty—behold at length,
O prince, the abode of your long-sought
princess."
The prince looked in the direction
indicated by the parrot, and beheld, in a
delightful green meadow on the banks of
the Tagus, a stately palace rising from
amidst the bowers of a delicious garden.
It was just such a place as had been described
by the dove as the residence of
the original of the picture. He gazed at
it with a throbbing heart; "Perhaps at
this moment," thought he, "the beautiful
princess is sporting beneath those shady
bowers, or pacing with delicate step those
stately terraces, or reposing beneath those
lofty roofs!" As he looked more narrowly,
he perceived that the walls of the
garden were of great height, so as to
defy access, while numbers of armed
guards patrolled around them.
The prince turned to the parrot. "O
most accomplished of birds," said he,
"thou hast the gift of human speech.
Hie thee to you garden; seek the idol of
my soul, and tell her that Prince Ahmed,
a pilgrim of love, and guided by the
stars, has arrived in quest of her on the
flowery banks of the Tagus."
The parrot, proud of his embassy,
flew away to the garden; mounted above
its lofty walls, and after soaring for a
time over the lawns and groves, alighted
on the balcony of a pavilion that overhung
the river. Here, looking in at the
casement, he beheld the princess reclining
on a couch, with her eyes fixed
on a paper, while tears gently stole after
each other down her pallid check.
Pluming his wings for a moment, adjusting
his bright green coat, and elevating
his top-knot, the parrot perched
himself beside her with a gallant air:
then assuming a tenderness of tone,
"Dry thy tears, most beautiful of princesses,"
said he, "I come to bring solace
to thy heart."
The princess was startled on hearing a
voice, but turning and seeing nothing but
a little green-coated bird bobbing and
bowing before her; "Alas! what solace
canst thou yield," said she, "seeing thou
art but a parrot!"
The parrot was nettled at the question.
"I have consoled many beautiful ladies
in my time," said he; "but let that pass.
At present I come ambassador from a
royal prince. Know that Ahmed, the
Prince of Granada, has arrived in quest
of thee, and is encamped even now on
the flowery banks of the Tagus."
The eyes of the beautiful princess
sparkled at these words even brighter
than the diamonds in her coronet. "O
sweetest of parrots," cried she, "joyful
indeed are thy tidings, for I was faint and
weary, and sick almost unto death with
doubt of the constancy of Ahmed. Hie
thee back, and tell him that the words of
his letter are engraven in my heart, and
his poetry has been food to my soul.
Tell him, however, that he must prepare
to prove his love by force of arms; to-morrow
is my seventeenth birth-day,
when the king my father holds a great
tournament; several princes are to enter
the lists, and my hand is to be the prize
of the victor."
The parrot again took wing, and rustling
through the groves, flew back to
where the prince awaited his return.
The rapture of Ahmed on finding the
original of his adored portrait, and finding
her kind and true, can only be conceived
by those favoured mortals who
have had the good fortune to realize daydreams
and turn a shadow into substance:
still there was one thing that alloyed his
transport—this impending tournament.
In fact, the banks of the Tagus were
already glittering with arms, and resounding
with trumpets of the various
knights, who, with proud retinues, were
prancing on towards Toledo to attend the
ceremonial. The same star that had
controlled the destiny of the prince, had
governed that of the princess, and until
her seventeenth birth-day she had been
shut up from the world, to guard her
from the tender passion. The fame of
her charms, however, had been enhanced
rather than obscured by this seclusion.
Several powerful princes had contended
was a king of wondrous shrewdness, to
avoid making enemies by showing partiality,
had referred them to the arbitrement
of arms. Among the rival candidates
were several renowned for strength
and prowess. What a predicament for
the unfortunate Ahmed, unprovided as
he was with weapons, and unskilled in
the exercises of chivalry! "Luckless
prince that I am!" said he, "to have
been brought up in seclusion under the
eye of a philosopher! Of what avail are
algebra and philosophy in affairs of love?
Alas, Ehen Bonabben! why hast thou
neglected to instruct me in the management
of arms?" Upon this the owl
broke silence, preluding his harangue
with a pious ejaculation, for he was a
devout Mussulman.
"Allah achbar! God is great!" exclaimed
he, "in his hands are all secret
things—he alone governs the destiny of
princes! Know, O prince, that this land
is full of mysteries, hidden from all but
those who, like myself, can grope after
knowledge in the dark. Know that in
the neighbouring mountains there is a
cave, and in that cave there is an iron
table, and on that table there lies a suit
of magic armour, and beside that table
there stands a spellbound steed, which
have been shut up there for many generations."
The prince stared with wonder, while
the owl, blinking his huge round eyes,
and erecting his horns, proceeded:
"Many years since, I accompanied
my father to these parts on a tour of his
estates, and we sojourned in that cave;
and thus became I acquainted with the
mystery. It is a tradition in our family
which I have heard from my grandfather,
when I was yet but a very little owlet,
that this armour belonged to a Moorish
magician, who took refuge in this cavern
when Toledo was captured by the Christians,
and died here, leaving his steed
and weapons under a mystic spell, never
to be used but by a Moslem, and by him
only from sunrise to mid-day. In that
interval, whoever uses them will overthrow
every opponent."
"Enough: let us seek this cave!" exclaimed
Ahmed.
Guided by his legendary Mentor, the
prince found the cavern, which was in
one of the wildest recesses of those
rocky cliffs which rise around Toledo;
none but the mousing eye of an owl or an
antiquary could have discovered the entrance
to it. A sepulchral lamp of everlasting
oil shed a solemn light through
the place. On an iron table in the centre
of the cavern lay the magic armour,
against it leaned the lance, and beside it
stood an Arabian steed, caparisoned for
the field, but motionless as a statue. The
armour was bright and unsullied as it
had gleamed in days of old; the steed in
as good condition as if just from the pasture;
and when Ahmed laid his hand
upon his neck, he pawed the ground and
gave a loud neigh of joy that shook the
walls of the cavern. Thus amply provided
with "horse to ride and weapon to
wear," the prince determined to defy the
field in the impending tourney.
The eventful morning arrived. The
lists for the combat were prepared in the
vega, or plain, just below the cliff-built
walls of Toledo, where stages and galleries
were erected for the spectators,
covered with rich tapestry, and sheltered
from the sun by silken awnings. All the
beauties of the land were assembled in
those galleries, while below them pranced
plumed knights with their pages and
esquires, among whom figured conspicuously
the princes who were to contend
in the tourney. All the beauties of the
land, however, were eclipsed when the
Princess Aldegonda appeared in the royal
pavilion, and for the first time broke
forth upon the gaze of an admiring
world. A murmur of wonder ran through
the crowd at her transcendent loveliness;
and the princes who were candidates for
her hand, merely on the faith of her reported
charms, now felt tenfold ardour for
the conflict.
The princess, however, had a troubled
look. The colour came and went from
her cheek, and her eye wandered with a
restless and unsatisfied expression over
the plumed throng of knights. The
trumpets were about sounding for the
encounter, when the herald announced
the arrival of a stranger knight; and
Ahmed rode into the field. A steel
helmet studded with gems rose above his
turban; his cuirass was embossed with
workmanship of Fez, and flamed with
precious stones. A round shield was at
his shoulder, and in his hand he bore the
lance of charmed virtue. The caparison
of his Arabian steed was richly embroidered
and swept the ground, and the
proud animal pranced and snuffed the air,
and neighed with joy at once more beholding
the array of arms. The lofty
and graceful demeanour of the prince
struck every eye, and when his appellation
was announced, "The Pilgrim of
Love," an universal flutter and agitation
prevailed among the fair dames in the
galleries.
When Ahmed presented himself at the
lists, however, they were closed against
him; none but princes, he was told, were
admitied to the contest. He declared his
name and rank. "Still worse!"—he
was a Moslem, and could not engage in a
tourney where the hand of a Christian
princess was the prize.
The rival princes surrounded him with
haughty and menacing aspects; and one
of insolent demeanour and herculean
frame sneered at his light and youthful
form, and scoffed at his amorous appellation.
The ire of the prince was roused.
He defied his rival to the encounter.
They took distance, wheeled, and
charged; and at the first touch of the
magic lance, the brawny scoffer was
titled from his saddle. Here the prince
would have paused, but, alas! he had to
deal with a demoniac horse and armour
—once in action nothing could control
them. The Arabian steed charged into
the thickest of the throng; the lance overturned
every thing that presented; the
gentle prince was carried pell-mell about
the field, strewing it with high and low,
gentle and simple, and grieving at his
own involuntary exploits. The king
stormed and raged at this outrage on his
subjects and his guests. He ordered out
all his guards—they were unhorsed as
fast as they came up. The king threw
off his robes, grasped buckler and lance,
and rode forth to awe the stranger with
the presence of majesty itself. Alas!
majesty fared no better than the vulgar
—the steed and lance were no respecters
of persons; to the dismay of Ahmed, he
was borne full tilt against the king, and
in a moment the royal heels were in the
air, and the crown was rolling in the
dust.
At this moment the sun reached the
meridian; the magic spell resumed its
power; the Arabian steed scoured across
the plain, leaped the barrier, plunged
into the Tagus, swam its raging current,
bore the prince breathless and amazed
to the cavern, and resumed his station
like a statue, beside the iron table. The
prince dismounted right gladly, and replaced
the armour, to abide further decrees
of fate. Then seating himself in
the cavern, he ruminated on the desperate
state to which this demoniac steed
and armour had reduced him. Never
should he dare to show his face at Toledo
after inflicting such disgrace upon
its chivalry, and such an outrage on its
king. What too would the princess
think of so rude and riotous an achievement?
Full of anxiety, he sent forth his
winged messengers to gather tidings.
The parrot resorted to all the public
places and crowded resorts of the city,
and soon returned with a world of gossip.
All Toledo was in consternation. The
princess had been borne off senseless to
the palace; the tournament had ended in
confusion; every one was talking of the
sudden apparition, prodigious exploits,
and strange disappearance of the Moslem
knight. Some pronounced him a
Moorish magician; others thought him a
demon who had assumed a human shape,
while others related traditions of enchanted
warriors hidden in the caves of
the mountains, and thought it might be
one of these who had made a sudden
irruption from his den. All agreed that
no mere ordinary mortal could have
wrought such wonders, or unhorsed
such accomplished and stalwart Christian
warriors.
The owl flew forth at night and hovered
about the dusky city, perching
on the roofs and chimneys. He then
wheeled his flight up to the royal palace,
which stood on the rocky summit of
Toledo, and went prowling about its
terraces and battlements, eaves-dropping
at every cranny, and glaring in with
his big goggling eyes at every window
where there was a light, so as to throw
two or three maids of honour into fits.
peer above the mountains that he returned
from his mousing expedition, and
related to the prince what he had seen.
"As I was prying about one of the
loftiest towers of the palace," said he,
"I beheld through a casement a beautiful
princess. She was reclining on a couch
with attendants and physicians around
her, but she would none of their ministry
and relief. When they retired I beheld
her draw forth a letter from her
bosom, and read and kiss it, and give
way to loud lamentations; at which,
philosopher as I am, I could not but be
greatly moved."
The tender heart of Ahmed was distressed
at these tidings. "Too true
were thy words, O sage Eben Bonabben,"
cried he; "care and sorrow and
sleepless nights are the lot of lovers.
Allah preserve the princess from the
blighting influence of this thing called
love!"
Further intelligence from Toledo corroborated
the report of the owl. The
city was a prey to uneasiness and alarm.
The princess was conveyed to the highest
tower of the palace, every avenue to
which was strongly guarded. In the
mean time a devouring melancholy had
seized upon her, of which no one could
divine the cause—she refused food and
turned a deaf ear to every consolation.
The most skilful physicians had essayed
their art in vain; it was thought some
magic spell had been practised upon her,
and the king made proclamation, declaring
that whoever should effect her
cure should receive the richest jewel in
the royal treasury.
When the owl, who was dozing in a
corner, heard of this proclamation, he
rolled his large eyes, and looked more
mysterious than ever.
"Allah achbar!" exclaimed he, "happy
the man that shall effect that cure, should
he but know what to choose from the
royal treasury."
"What mean you, most reverend
owl?" said Ahmed.
"Hearken, O prince, to what I shall
relate. We owls, you must know, are
a learned body, and much given to dark
and dusty research. During my late
prowling at night about the domes and
turrets of Toledo, I discovered a college
of antiquarian owls, who hold their
meeting in a great vaulted tower where
the royal treasury is deposited. Here
they were discussing the forms and inscriptions
and designs of ancient gems
and jewels, and of golden and silver vessels,
heaped up in the treasury, the
fashion of every country and age; but
mostly they were interested about certain
relics and talismans that have
remained in the treasury since the time
of Roderick the Goth. Among these
was a box of sandal wood secured by
hands of steel of Oriental workmanship,
and inscribed with mystic characters
known only to the learned few. This
box and its inseription had occupied the
college for several sessions, and had
caused much long and grave dispute.
At the time of my visit a very ancient
owl, who had recently arrived from
Egypt, was seated on the lid of the box
lecturing upon the inscription, and he
proved from it that the coffer contained
the silken carpet of the throne of Solomon
the wise; which doubtless had been
brought to Toledo by the Jews who took
refuge there after the downfall of Jerusalem."
When the owl had concluded his antiquarian
harangue, the prince remained
for a time absorbed in thought. "I have
heard," said he, "from the sage Eben
Bonabben, of the wonderful properties of
that talisman, which disappeared at the
fall of Jerusalem, and was supposed to
be lost to mankind. Doubtless it remains
a sealed mystery to the Christians
of Toledo. If I can get possession of
that carpet my fortune is secure."
The next day the prince laid aside his
rich attire, and arrayed himself in the
simple garb of an Arab of the desert.
He dyed his complexion to a tawny hue,
and no one could have recognised in him
the splendid warrior who had caused
such admiration and dismay at the tournament.
With staff in hand and scrip
by his side and a small pastoral reed, he
repaired to Toledo, and presenting himself
at the gate of the royal palace, announced
himself as a candidate for the
reward offered for the cure of the princess.
The guards would have driven
him away with blows. "What can a
said they, "in a case where the most
learned of the land have failed?" The
king, however, overheard the tumult,
and ordered the Arab to be brought into
his presence.
"Most potent king," said Ahmed,
"you behold before you a Bedouin Arab,
the greater part of whose life has been
passed in the solitudes of the desert.
These solitudes, it is well known, are
the haunts of demons and evil spirits,
who beset us poor shepherds in our
lonely watchings, enter into and possess
our flocks and herds, and sometimes
render even the patient camel furious;
against these our counter-charm is
music; and we have legendary airs
handed down from generation to generation,
that we chant and pipe, to cast
forth these evil spirits. I am of a gifted
line, and possess this power in its fullest
force. If it be any evil influence of the
kind that holds a spell over thy
daughter, I pledge my head to free her
from its sway."
The king, who was a man of understanding,
and knew the wonderful secrets
possessed by the Arabs, was inspired
with hope by the confident language
of the prince. He conducted him immediately
to the lofty tower, secured
by several doors, in the summit of which
was the chamber of the princess.
The windows opened upon a terrace
with balustrades, commanding a view
over Toledo and all the surrounding
country. The windows were darkened,
for the princess lay within, a prey to
a devouring grief that refused all alleviation.
The prince seated himself on the terrace,
and performed several wild Arabian
airs on his pastoral pipe, which he
had learnt from his attendants in the
Generalife at Granada. The princess
continued insensible, and the doctors
who were present shook their heads and
smiled with incredulity and contempt:
at length the prince laid aside the reed
and, to a simple melody, chanted the
amatory verses of the letter which had
declared his passion.
The princess recognised the strain—a
fluttering joy stole to her heart: she
raised her head and listened; tears
rushed to her eyes and streamed down
her checks; her bosom rose and fell
with a tumult of emotions. She would
have asked for the minstrel to be brought
into her presence, but maiden coyness
held her silent. The king read her
wishes, and at his command Ahmed
was conducted into the chamber. The
lovers were discreet; they but exchanged
glances, yet those glances spoke volumes.
Never was triumph of music
more complete. The rose had returned
to the soft check of the princess, the
freshness to her lip, and the dewy light
to her languishing eyes.
All the physicians present stared at
each other with astonishment. The
king regarded the Arab minstrel with
admiration mixed with awe. "Wonderful
youth!" exclaimed he, "thou shalt
henceforth be the first physician of my
court, and no other prescription will I
take but thy melody. For the present
receive thy reward, the most precious
jewel in my treasury."
"O king," replied Ahmed, "I care
not for silver or gold or precious stones.
One relic hast thou in thy treasury,
handed down from the Moslems who
once owned Toledo—a box of sandal
wood containing a silken carpet: give
me that box, and I am content."
All present were surprised at the
moderation of the Arab; and still more
when the box of sandal wood was
brought and the carpet drawn forth. It
was of fine green silk, covered with
Hebrew and Chaldaic characters. The
court physicians looked at each other,
and shrugged their shoulders, and
smiled at the simplicity of this new practitioner,
who could be content with so
paltry a fee.
"This carpet," said the prince, "once
covered the throne of Solomon the wise;
it is worthy of being placed beneath the
feet of beauty."
So saying, he spread it on the terrace
beneath an ottoman that had been
brought forth for the princess; then
seating himself at her feet—
"Who," said he, "shall counteract
what is written in the book of fate? Behold
the prediction of the astrologers
verified. Know, O king, that your
daughter and I have long loved each
of Love!"
These words were scarcely from his
lips, when the carpet rose in the air,
bearing off the prince and princess.
The king and the physicians gazed after
it with open mouths and straining eyes,
until it became a little speck on the
white bosom of a cloud, and then disappeared
in the blue vault of heaven.
The king in a rage summoned his
treasurer. "How is this," said he,
"that thou hast suffered an infidel to
get possession of such a talisman?"
"Alas, sir, we knew not its nature,
nor could we decipher the inscription of
the box. If it be indeed the carpet of
the throne of the wise Solomon, it is
possessed of magic power, and can
transport its owner from place to place
through the air."
The king assembled a mighty army,
and set off for Granada in pursuit of the
fugitives. His march was long and
toilsome. Encamping in the Vega, he
sent a herald to demand restitution of
his daughter. The king himself came
forth with all his court to meet him. In
the king he beheld the real minstrel, for
Ahmed had succeeded to the throne on
the death of his father, and the beautiful
Aldegonda was his sultana.
The Christian king was easily pacified
when he found that his daughter was
suffered to continue in her faith; not that
he was particularly pious; but religion is
always a point of pride and etiquette with
princes. Instead of bloody battles, there
was a succession of feasts and rejoicings,
after which the king returned well pleased
to Toledo, and the youthful couple continued
to reign as happily as wisely in
the Alhambra.
It is proper to add, that the owl and
the parrot had severally followed the
prince by easy stages to Granada; the
former travelling by night, and stopping
at the various hereditary possessions of
his family, the latter figuring in gay
circles of every town and city on his
route.
Ahmed gratefully requited the services
which they had rendered on his pilgrimage.
He appointed the owl his prime
minister, the parrot his master of ceremonies.
It is needless to say that never
was a realm more sagely administered,
or a court conducted with more exact
punctilio.
LEGEND OF THE MOOR'S LEGACY.
Just within the fortress of the Alhambra,
in front of the royal palace, is a
broad open esplanade, called the Place
or Square of the Cisterns (la Plaza de
los Algibes), so called from being undermined
by reservoirs of water, hidden
from sight, and which have existed from
the time of the Moors. At one corner
of this esplanade is a Moorish well, cut
through the living rock to a great depth,
the water of which is cold as ice and
clear as crystal. The wells made by
the Moors are always in repute, for it
is well known what pains they took
to penetrate to the purest and sweetest
springs and fountains. The one of
which we now speak is famous throughout
Granada, insomuch that the water-carriers,
some bearing great water-jars
on their shoulders, others driving asses
before them laden with earthen vessels,
are ascending and descending the steep
woody avenues of the Alhambra, from
early dawn until a late hour of the night.
Fountains and wells, ever since the
scriptural days, have been noted gossiping
places in hot climates; and at the
well in question there is a kind of perpetual
club kept up during the livelong
day, by the invalids, old women, and
other curious do-nothing folk of the fortress,
who sit here on the stone benches,
under an awning spread over the well to
shelter the toll-gatherer from the sun,
and dawdle over the gossip of the fortress,
and question every water-carrier
that arrives about the news of the city,
and make long comments on every thing
they hear and see. Not an hour of the
day but loitering housewives and idle
maid-servants may be seen, lingering
with pitcher on head or in hand, to hear
the last of the endless tattle of these worthies.
Among the water-carriers who once
resorted to this well, there was a sturdy,
named Pedro Gil, but called Peregil for
shortness. Being a water-carrier, he
was a Gallego, or native of Gallicia, of
course. Nature seems to have formed
races of men, as she has of animals, for
different kinds of drudgery. In France
the shoe-blacks are all Savoyards, the
porters of hotels all Swiss, and in the
days of hoops and hair-powder in England,
no man could give the regular
swing to a sedan chair but a bog-trotting
Irishman. So in Spain, the carriers of
water and bearers of burdens are all
sturdy little natives of Gallicia. No man
says, "Get me a porter," but, "Call a
Gallego."
To return from this digression, Peregil
the Gallego had begun business with
merely a great earthen jar which he
carried upon his shoulder; by degrees he
rose in the world, and was enabled to
purchase an assistant of a correspondent
class of animals, being a stout shaggy-haired
donkey. On each side of this his
long-cared aide-de-camp, in a kind of
pannier, were slung his water-jars, covered
with fig-leaves to protect them from
the sun. There was not a more industrious
water-carrier in all Granada, nor
one more merry withal. The streets
rang with his cheerful voice as he trudged
after his donkey, singing forth the usual
summer note that resounds through the
Spanish town; "Quien quiere agua—
agua mas fria que la nieve?"—"who
wants water—water colder than snow?
Who wants water from the well of the
Alhambra, cold as ice and clear as
crystal?" When he served a customer
with a sparkling glass, it was always
with a pleasant word that caused a smile;
and if, perchance, it was a comely dame
or dimpling damsel, it was always with a
sly leer and a compliment to her beauty
that was irresistible. Thus Peregil the
Gallego was noted throughout all Granada
for being one of the civilest, pleasantest,
and happiest of mortals. Yet it
is not he who sings loudest and jokes
most that has the lightest heart. Under
all this air of merriment, honest Peregil
had his cares and trouble. He had a
large family of ragged children to support,
who were hungry and clamorous as
a nest of young swallows, and beset him
with their outcries for food whenever he
came home of an evening. He had a
helpmate too, who was any thing but a
help to him. She had been a village
beauty before marriage, noted for her
skill at dancing the bolero and rattling
the castañets; and she still retained her
early propensities, spending the hard
earnings of honest Peregil in frippery,
and laying the very donkey under requisition
for junketing parties into the
country on Sundays, and Saint's days,
and those innumerable holidays which
are rather more numerous in Spain than
the days of the week. With all this she
was a little of a slattern, something more
of a lie-a-bed, and, above all, a gossip of
the first water; neglecting house, household,
and every thing else, to loiter slipshod
in the houses of her gossip neighbours.
He, however, who tempers the wind to
the shorn lamb, accommodates the yoke
of matrimony to the submissive neck.
Peregil bore all the heavy dispensations
of wife and children with as meck a
spirit as his donkey bore the water-jars;
and, however, he might shake his ears in
private, never ventured to question the
household virtues of his slattern spouse.
He loved his children too even as an
owl loves its owlets, seeing in them his
own image multiplied and perpetuated;
for they were a sturdy, long-backed,
bandy-legged little brood. The great
pleasure of honest Peregil was, whenever
he could afford himself a scanty holiday,
and had a handful of maravedies to spare,
to take the whole litter forth with him,
some in his arms, some tugging at his
skirts, and some truding at his heels,
and to treat them to a gambol among the
orchards of the Vega, while his wife was
dancing with her holiday friends in the
Angosturas of the Darro.
It was a late hour one summer night,
and most of the water-carriers had desisted
from their toils. The day had
been uncommonly sultry; the night was
one of those delicious moonlights, which
tempt the inhabitants of those southern
climes to indemnify themselves for the
heat and inaction of the day, by lingering
in the open air and enjoying its
tempered sweetness until after midnight.
Customers for water were, therefore,
painstaking little father, thought of his
hungry children. "One more journey
to the well," said he to himself, "to earn
a Sunday's puchero for the little ones."
So saying, he trudged manfully up the
steep avenue of the Alhambra, singing
as he went, and now and then bestowing
a hearty thwack with a cudgel on the
flanks of his donkey, either by way of
cadence to the song, or refreshment to
the animal; for dry blows serve in lieu
of provender in Spain for all beasts of
burden.
When arrived at the well, he found it
deserted by every one except a solitary
stranger in Moorish garb, seated on the
stone bench in the moonlight. Peregil
paused at first and regarded him with
surprise, not unmixed with awe, but the
Moor feebly beckoned him to approach.
"I am faint and ill," said he; "aid me
to return to the city, and I will pay thee
double what thou couldst gain by thy jars
of water."
The honest heart of the little water-carrier
was touched with compassion at
the appeal of the stranger. "God forbid,"
said he, "that I should ask fee or reward
for doing a common act of humanity."
He accordingly helped the Moor on his
donkey, and set off slowly for Granada,
the poor Moslem being so weak that it
was necessary to hold him on the animal
to keep him from falling to the earth.
When they entered the city, the water-carrier
demanded whither he should conduct
him. "Alas!" said the Moor
faintly, "I have neither home nor habitation,
I am a stranger in the land.
Suffer me to lay my head this night beneath
thy roof, and thou shalt be amply
repaid."
Honest Peregil thus saw himself unexpectedly
saddled with an infidel guest,
but he was too humane to refuse a night's
shelter to a fellow-being in so forlorn a
plight, so he conducted the Moor to his
dwelling. The children, who had sallied
forth open-mouthed as usual on hearing
the tramp of the donkey, ran back with
affright, when they beheld the turbaned
stranger, and hid themselves behind their
mother. The latter stepped forth intrepidly,
like a ruffling hen before her brood
when a vagrant dog approaches.
"What infidel companion," cried she,
"is this you have brought home at this
late hour, to draw upon us the eyes of
the Inquisition?"
"Be quiet, wife," replied the Gallego,
"here is a poor sick stranger, without
friend or home; wouldst thou turn him
forth to perish in the street?"
The wife would still have remonstrated,
for although she lived in a hovel, she
was a furious stickler for the credit of
her house: the little water-carrier, however,
for once was stiff-necked, and refused
to bend beneath the yoke. He
assisted the poor Moslem to alight, and
spread a mat and a sheepskin for him
on the ground, in the coolest part of the
house; being the only kind of bed that
his poverty afforded.
In a little while the Moor was seized
with violent convulsions, which defied all
the ministering skill of the simple water-carrier.
The eye of the poor patient
acknowledged his kindness. During an
interval of his fits he called him to his
side, and addressing him in a low voice,
"My end," said he, "I fear is at hand.
If I die I bequeath you this box as a reward
for your charity:" so saying, he
opened his albornoz, or cloak, and showed
a small box of sandal wood, strapped
round his body. "God grant, my friend,"
replied the worthy little Gallego, "that
you may live many years to enjoy your
treasure, whatever it may be." The
Moor shook his head; he laid his hand
upon the box, and would have said something
more concerning it, but his convulsions
returned with increased violence,
and in a little while he expired.
The water-carrier's wife was now as
one distracted. "This comes," said she,
"of your foolish good nature, always
running into scrapes to oblige others.
What will become of us when this corpse
is found in our house? We shall be sent
to prison as murderers; and if we escape
with our lives, shall be ruined by notaries
and alguazils."
Poor Peregil was in equal tribulation,
and almost repented himself of having
done a good deed. At length a thought
struck him. "It is not yet day," said
he; "I can convey the dead body out of
the city, and bury it in the sands on the
banks of the Xenil. No one saw the
know any thing of his death."
So said, so done. The wife aided
him; they rolled the body of the unfortunate
Moslem in the mat on which he
had expired, laid it across the ass, and
Peregil set out with it for the banks of
the river.
As ill luck would have it, there lived
opposite to the water-carrier a barber
named Pedrillo Pedrugo, one of the most
prying, tattling, and mischief-making of
his gossip tribe. He was a weasel-faced,
spider-legged varlet, supple and insinuating;
the famous barber of Seville could
not surpass him for his universal knowledge
of the affairs of others, and he had
no more power of retention than a sieve.
It was said that he slept with but one
eye at a time, and kept one ear uncovered,
so that, even in his sleep, he
might see and hear all that was going
on. Certain it is, he was a sort of
scandalous chronicle for the quid-nuncs
of Granada, and had more customers
than all the rest of his fraternity.
This meddlesome barber heard Peregil
arrive at an unusual hour at night, and
the exclamations of his wife and children.
His head was instantly popped out of a
little window which served him as a
look-out, and he saw his neighbour assist
a man in Moorish garb into his
dwelling. This was so strange an occurrence,
that Pedrillo Pedrugo slept not
a wink that night. Every five minutes
he was at his loop-hole, watching the
lights that gleamed through the chinks
of his neighbour's door, and before daylight
he beheld Peregil sally forth with
his donkey unusually laden.
The inquisitive barber was in a fidget;
he slipped on his clothes, and, stealing
forth silently, followed the water-carrier
at a distance, until he saw him dig a
hole in the sandy bank of the Xenil, and
bury something that had the appearance
of a dead body.
The barber hied him home, and
fidgeted about his shop, setting every
thing upside down, until sunrise. He
then took a basin under his arm, and
sallied forth to the house of his daily
customer the alcalde.
The alcalde was just risen. Pedrillo
Pedrugo seated him in a chair, threw a
napkin round his neck, put a basin of
hot water under his chin, and began to
mollify his beard with his fingers.
"Strange doings!" said Pedrugo, who
played barber and newsmonger at the
same time—"Strange doings! Robbery,
and murder, and burial, all in one
night!"
"Hey!—how!—what is that you
say?" cried the alcalde.
"I say," replied the barber, rubbing a
piece of soap over the nose and mouth of
the dignitary, for a Spanish barber disdains
to employ a brush—"I say that
Peregil the Gallego has robbed and murdered
a Moorish Mussulman, and buried
him, this blessed night. Maldita sea la
noche—accursed be the night for the
same!"
"But how do you know all this?" demanded
the alcalde.
"Be patient, señor, and you shall
hear all about it," replied Pedrillo,
taking him by the nose and sliding a
razor over his cheek. He then recounted
all that he had seen, going
through both operations at the same
time, shaving his beard, washing his
chin, and wiping him dry with a dirty
napkin, while he was robbing, murdering,
and burying the Moslem.
Now it so happened that this alcalde
was one of the most overbearing, and at
the same time most griping and corrupt
curmudgeons in all Granada. It could
not be denied, however, that he set a
high value upon justice, for he sold it at
its weight in gold. He presumed the
case in point to be one of murder and
robbery; doubtless there must be rich
spoil; how was it to be secured into the
legitimate hands of the law? for as to
merely entrapping the delinquent—that
would be feeding the gallows; but entrapping
the booty—that would be enriching
the judge, and such, according
to his creed, was the great end of justice.
So thinking, he summoned to his presence
his trustiest alguazil—a gaunt,
hungry-looking varlet, clad according to
the custom of his order, in the ancient
Spanish garb, a broad black beaver
turned up at the sides; a quaint ruff; a
small black cloak dangling from his
shoulders; rusty black under-clothes
that set off his spare wiry frame, while
wand, the dreaded insignia of his office.
Such was the legal blood-hound of the
ancient Spanish breed, that he put upon
the traces of the unlucky water-carrier,
and such was his speed and certainty,
that he was upon the haunches of poor
Peregil before he had returned to his
dwelling, and brought both him and his
donkey before the dispenser of justice.
The alcalde bent upon him one of his
most terrific frowns. "Hark ye, culprit!"
roared he, in a voice that made
the knees of the little Gallego smite together—"hark
ye, culprit! there is no
need of denying thy guilt, every thing is
known to me. A gallows is the proper
reward for the crime thou hast committed,
but I am merciful, and readily listen
to reason. The man that has been
murdered in thy house was a Moor, an
infidel, the enemy of our faith. It was
doubtless in a fit of religious zeal that
thou hast slain him. I will be indulgent,
therefore; render up the property of
which thou hast robbed him, and we will
bush the matter up."
The poor water-carrier called upon all
the saints to witness his innocence; alas!
not one of them appeared; and if they
had, the alcalde would have disbelieved
the whole calendar. The water-carrier
related the whole story of the dying
Moor with the straight-forward simplicity
of truth, but it was all in vain.
"Wilt thou persist in saying," demanded
the judge, "that this Moslem had neither
gold nor jewels, which were the object
of thy cupidity?"
"As I hope to be saved, your worship,"
replied the water-carrier, "he had
nothing but a small box of sandal wood,
which he bequeathed to me in reward
for my services."
"A box of sandal wood! a box of
sandal wood!" exclaimed the alcalde,
his eyes sparkling at the idea of precious
jewels. "And where is this box? where
have you concealed it?"
"An' it please your grace," replied
the water-carrier, "it is in one of the
panniers of my mule, and heartily at the
service of your worship."
He had hardly spoken the words,
when the keen alguazil darted off and
re-appeared in an instant with the mysterious
box of sandal wood. The alcalde
opened it with an eager and trembling
hand; all pressed forward to gaze upon
the treasures it was expected to contain;
when, to their disappointment, nothing
appeared within, but a parchment scroll,
covered with Arabic characters, and an
end of a waxen taper.
When there is nothing to be gained by
the conviction of a prisoner, justice even
in Spain, is apt to be impartial. The
alcalde having recovered from his disappointment,
and found that there was
really no booty in the case, now listened
dispassionately to the explanation of the
water-carrier, which was corroborated
by the testimony of his wife. Being
convinced, therefore, of his innocence,
he discharged him from arrest; nay
more, he permitted him to carry off the
Moor's legacy, the box of sandal wood
and its contents, as the well-merited reward
of his humanity; but he retained
his donkey in payment of costs and
charges.
Behold the unfortunate little Gallego
reduced once more to the necessity of
being his own water-carrier, and trudging
up to the well of the Alhambra with
a great earthen jar upon his shoulder.
As he toiled up the hill in the heat of
a summer noon, his usual good humour
forsook him. "Dog of an alcalde!"
would he cry, "to rob a poor man of
his means of subsistence, of the best
friend he had in the world!" And then
at the remembrance of the beloved companion
of his labours, all the kindness of
his nature would break forth. "Ah
donkey of my heart!" would he exclaim,
resting his burden on a stone, and wiping
the sweat from his brow—"Ah donkey
of my heart! I warrant me thou thinkest
of thy old master! I warrant me thou
missest the water-jars—poor beast!"
To add to his afflictions, his wife received
him, on his return home, with
whimperings and repinings; she had
clearly the vantage ground of him,
having warned him not to commit the
egregious act of hospitality that had
brought on him all these misfortunes;
and, like a knowing woman, she took
every occasion to throw her superior sagacity
in his teeth. If ever her children
lacked food, or needed a new garment,
your father—he is heir to King Chico
of the Alhambra: ask him to help you
out of the Moor's strong box."
Was ever poor mortal so soundly
punished for having done a good action?
The unlucky Peregil was grieved in
flesh and spirit, but still he bore meekly
with the railings of his spouse. At
length, one evening, when, after a hot
day's toil, she taunted him in the usual
manner, he lost all patience. He did
not venture to retort upon her, but his
eye rested upon the box of sandal wood,
which lay on a shelf with lid half open,
as if laughing in mockery at his vexation.
Seizing it up, he dashed it with
indignation to the floor:—"Unlucky
was the day that I ever set eyes on
thee," he cried, "or sheltered thy master
beneath my roof!"
As the box struck the floor, the lid
flew wide open, and the parchment scroll
rolled forth. Peregil sat regarding the
scroll for some time in moody silence.
At length rallying his ideas—"Who
knows," thought he, "but this writing
may be of some importance, as the Moor
seems to have guarded it with such
care?" Picking it up, therefore, he put it
in his bosom, and the next morning, as
he was crying water through the streets,
he stopped at the shop of a Moor, a
native of Tangiers, who sold trinkets
and perfumery in the Zacatin, and asked
him to explain the contents.
The Moor read the scroll attentively,
then stroked his beard and smiled.
"This manuscript," said he, "is a form
of incantation for the recovery of hidden
treasure, that is under the power of enchantment.
It is said to have such
virtue, that the strongest bolts and bars,
nay, the adamantine rock itself, will
yield before it!"
"Bah!" cried the little Gallego, "what
is all that to me? I am no enchanter,
and know nothing of buried treasure."
So saying, he shouldered his water-jar,
left the scroll in the hands of the Moor,
and trudged forward on his daily rounds.
That evening, however, as he rested
himself about twilight at the well of the
Alhambra, he found a number of gossips
assembled at the place, and their conversation,
as is not unusual in that
shadowy hour, turned upon old tales
and traditions of a supernatural nature.
Being all poor as rats, they dwelt with
peculiar fondness upon the popular
theme of enchanted riches left by the
Moors in various parts of the Alhambra.
Above all, they concurred in the belief
that there were great treasures buried
deep in the earth under the tower of the
seven floors.
These stories made an unusual impression
on the mind of honest Peregil,
and they sank deeper and deeper into
his thoughts as he returned alone down
the darkling avenues. "If, after all,
there should be treasure hid beneath that
tower—and if the scroll I left with the
Moor should enable me to get at it!"
In the sudden ecstasy of the thought he
had well nigh let fall his water-jar.
That night he tumbled and tossed, and
could scarcely get a wink of sleep for
the thoughts that were bewildering his
brain. Bright and early, he repaired to
the shop of the Moor, and told him all
that was passing in his mind. "You
can read Arabic," said he; "suppose we
go together to the tower, and try the
effect of the charm; if it fails we are no
worse off than before, but if it succeeds
we will share equally all the treasure
we may discover."
"Hold," replied the Moslem; "this
writing is not sufficient of itself; it must
be read at midnight, by the light of a
taper singularly compounded and prepared,
the ingredients of which are not
within my reach. Without such taper
the scroll is of no avail."
"Say no more!" cried the little Gallego,
"I have such a taper at hand, and
will bring it here in a moment." So
saying, he hastened home, and soon returned
with the end of a yellow wax
taper that he had found in the box of
sandal wood.
The Moor felt it and smelt to it.
"Here are rare and costly perfumes,"
said he, "combined with this yellow
wax. This is the kind of taper specified
in the scroll. While this burns, the
strongest walls and most secret caverns
will remain open. Wo to him, however,
who lingers within until it be extinguished.
He will remain enchanted
with the treasure."
It was now agreed between them to
try the charm that very night. At a late
hour, therefore, when nothing was stirring
but bats and owls, they ascended
the woody hill of the Alhambra, and approached
that awful tower, shrouded by
trees and rendered formidable by so
many traditionary tales. By the light
of a lanthorn, they groped their way
through bushes, and over fallen stones,
to the door of a vault bencath the tower.
With fear and trembling they descended
a flight of steps cut into the rock. It led
to an empty chamber, damp and drear,
from which another flight of steps led to
a deeper vault. In this way they descended
four several flights, leading into
as many vaults, one below the other, but
the floor of the fourth was solid; and
though, according to tradition, there remained
three vaults still below, it was
said to be impossible to penetrate further,
the residue being shut up by strong enchantment.
The air of this vault was
damp and chilly, and had an earthy
smell, and the light scarce cast forth
any rays. They paused here for a time
in breathless suspense, until they faintly
heard the clock of the watchtower strike
midnight; upon this they lit the waxen
taper, which diffused an odour of myrrh,
frankincense, and storax.
The Moor began to read in a hurried
voice. He had scarce finished when
there was a noise of subterraneous
thunder. The earth shook, and the floor
yawning open, disclosed a flight of steps.
Trembling with awe they descended,
and by the light of the lanthorn found
themselves in another vault, covered
with Arabic inscriptions. In the centre
stood a great chest, secured with seven
bands of steel, at each end of which sat
an enchanted Moor in armour, but motionless
as a statue, being controlled by
the power of the incantation. Before
the chest were several jars filled with
gold and silver and precious stones. In
the largest of these they thrust their
arms up to the elbow, and at every dip
hauled forth handfuls of broad yellow
pieces of Moorish gold, or bracelets and
ornaments of the same precious metal,
while occasionally a necklace of Oriental
pearls would stick to their fingers. Still
they trembled and breathed short while
cramming their pockets with the spoils;
and cast many a fearful glance at the
two enchanted Moors, who sat grim and
motionless, glaring upon them with unwinking
eyes. At length, struck with a
sudden panic at some fancied noise, they
both rushed up the staircase, tumbled
one over another into the upper apartment,
overturned and extinguished the
waxen taper, and the pavement again
closed with a thundering sound.
Filled with dismay, they did not pause
until they had groped their way out of
the tower, and beheld the stars shining
through the trees. Then seating themselves
upon the grass, they divided the
spoil, determined to content themselves
for the present with the mere skimming
of the jars, but to return on some future
night and drain them to the bottom. To
make sure of each other's good faith,
also, they divided the talismans between
them, one retaining the scroll and the
other the taper; this done, they set off
with light hearts and well-lined pockets
for Granada.
As they wended their way down the
hill, the shrewd Moor whispered a word
of counsel in the ear of the simple little
water-carrier.
"Friend Peregil," said he, "all this
affair must be kept a profound secret
until we have secured the treasure and
conveyed it out of harm's way. If a
whisper of it gets to the ear of the alcalde
we are undone!"
"Certainly," replied the Gallego,
"nothing can be more true."
"Friend Peregil," said the Moor,
"you are a discreet man, and I make
no doubt can keep a secret: but you
have a wife."
"She shall not know a word of it,"
replied the little water-carrier sturdily.
"Enough," said the Moor, "I depend
upon thy discretion and thy promise."
Never was promise more positive and
sincere; but, alas! what man can keep
a secret from his wife? Certainly not
such a one as Peregil the water-carrier,
who was one of the most loving and
tractable of husbands. On his return
home, he found his wife moping in a
corner. "Mighty well," cried she as he
entered, "you've come at last; after
rambling about until this hour of the
home another Moor as a housemate."
Then bursting into tears, she began to
wring her hands and smite her breast:
"Unhappy woman that I am!" exclaimed
she, "what will become of me! My
house stripped and plundered by lawyers
and alguazils; my husband a do-no-good,
that no longer brings home bread for
his family, but goes rambling about day
and night, with infidel Moors! O my
children! my children! what will become
of us? we shall all have to beg in
the streets!"
Honest Peregil was so moved by the
distress of his spouse, that he could not
help whimpering also. His heart was
as full as his pocket, and not to be restrained.
Thrusting his hand into the
latter, he hauled forth three or four broad
gold pieces, and slipped them into her
bosom. The poor woman stared with
astonishment, and could not understand
the meaning of this golden shower. Before
she could recover her surprise, the
little Gallego drew forth a chain of gold
and dangled it before her, capering with
exultation, his mouth distended from ear
to ear.
"Holy Virgin protect us!" exclaimed
the wife. "What hast thou been doing,
Peregil? surely thou hast not been committing
murder and robbery!"
The idea scarce entered the brain of
the poor woman, when it became a certainty
with her. She saw a prison and
a gallows in the distance, and a little
bandy-legged Gallego hanging pendant
from it; and, overcome by the horrors
conjured up by her imagination, fell into
violent hysterics.
What could the poor man do? He
had no other means of pacifying his
wife and dispelling the phantoms of her
fancy, than by relating the whole story
of his good fortune. This, however, he
did not do until he had exacted from her
the most solemn promise to keep it a
profound secret from every living being.
To describe her joy would be impossible.
She flung her arms round the
neck of her husband, and almost strangled
him with her caresses. "Now,
wife," exclaimed the little man with
honest exultation, "what say you now
to the Moor's legacy? Henceforth never
abuse me for helping a fellow-creature
in distress."
The honest little Gallego retired to his
sheepskin mat, and slept as soundly as
if on a bed of down. Not so his wife;
she emptied the whole contents of his
pockets upon the mat, and sat all night
counting gold pieces of Arabic coin, trying
on necklaces and ear-rings, and fancying
the figure she should one day
make when permitted to enjoy her
riches.
On the following morning, the honest
Gallego took a broad golden coin, and
repaired with it to a jeweller's shop in
the Zacatin to offer it for sale, pretending
to have found it among the ruins of
the Alhambra. The jeweller saw that
it had an Arabic inscription, and was
of the purest gold; he offered however,
but a third of its value, with which
the water-carrier was perfectly content.
Peregil now bought new clothes for his
little flock, and all kinds of toys, together
with ample provisions for a hearty meal,
and, returning to his dwelling, set all his
children dancing around him, while he
capered in the midst, the happiest of
fathers.
The wife of the water-carrier kept her
promise of secrecy with surprising strictness.
For a whole day and a half she
went about with a look of mystery and
a heart swelling almost to bursting, yet
she held her peace, though surrounded
by her gossips. It is true, she could not
help giving herself a few airs, apologized
for her ragged dress, and talked of ordering
a new basquiña all trimmed with
gold lace and bugles, and a new lace
mantilla. She threw out hints of her
husband's intention of leaving off his
trade of water-carrying, as it did not altogether
agree with his health. In fact
she thought they should all retire to the
country for the summer, that the children
might have the benefit of the mountain
air, for there was no living in the city in
this sultry season.
The neighbours stared at each other,
and thought the poor woman had lost
her wits; and her airs and graces and
elegant pretensions were the theme of
universal scoffing and merriment among
her friends, the moment her back was
turned.
If she restrained herself abroad, however,
she indemnified herself at home,
and putting a string of rich Oriental
pearls round her neck, Moorish bracelets
on her arms, and an aigrette of diamonds
on her head, sailed backwards and forwards
in her slattern rags about the
room, now and then stopping to admire
herself in a piece of broken mirror. Nay,
in the impulse of her simple vanity, she
could not resist, on one occasion, showing
herself at the window, to enjoy the
effect of her finery on the passers by.
As the fates would have it, Pedrillo
Pedrugo, the meddlesome barber, was at
this moment sitting idly in his shop on
the opposite side of the street, when his
ever-watchful eye caught the sparkle of
a diamond. In an instant he was at
his loop-hole, reconnoitring the slattern
spouse of the water-carrier, decorated
with the splendour of an eastern bride.
No sooner had he taken an accurate inventory
of her ornaments, than he posted
off with all speed to the alcalde. In a
little while the hungry alguazil was
again on the scent, and before the day
was over the unfortunate Peregil was
again dragged into the presence of the
judge.
"How is this, villain!" cried the alcalde
in a furious voice. "You told me
that the infidel who died in your house
left nothing behind but an empty coffer,
and now I hear of your wife flaunting in
her rags decked out with pearls, and
diamonds. Wretch that thou art! prepare
to render up the spoils of thy miserable
victim, and to swing on the gallows
that is already tired of waiting for
thee."
The terrified water-carrier fell on his
knees and made a full relation of the
marvellous manner in which he had
gained his wealth. The alcalde, the alguazil,
and the inquisitive barber, listened
with greedy ears to this Arabian
tale of enchanted treasure. The alguazil
was despatched to bring the Moor
who had assisted in the incantation.
The Moslem entered half frightened out
of his wits at finding himself in the
hands of the harpies of the law. When
he beheld the water-carrier standing
with sheepish looks and downcast countenance,
he comprehended the whole
matter. "Miserable animal," said he,
as he passed near him, "did I not warn
thee against babbling to thy wife?"
The story of the Moor coincided exactly
with that of his colleague; but the
alcalde affected to be slow of belief, and
threw out menaces of imprisonment and
rigorous investigation.
"Softly, good Señor Alcalde," said
the Mussulman, who by this time had
recovered his usual shrewdness and self-possession.
"Let us not mar Fortune's
favours in the scramble for them. Nobody
knows any thing of this matter but
ourselves—let us keep the secret. There
is wealth enough in the cave to enrich
us all. Promise a fair division, and all
shall be produced—refuse, and the cave
shall remain for ever closed."
The alcalde consulted apart with the
alguazil. The latter was an old fox in
his profession. "Promise any thing,"
said he, "until you get possession of the
treasure. You may then seize upon the
whole, and if he and his accomplice
dare to murmur, threaten them with the
fagot and the stake as infidels and sorcerers."
The alcalde relished the advice.
Smoothing his brow and turning to the
Moor, "This is a strange story," said
he, "and may be true, but I must have
ocular proof of it. This very night you
must repeat the incantation in my presence.
If there be really such treasure,
we will share it amicably between us,
and say nothing further of the matter; if
ye have deceived me, expect no mercy at
my hands. In the mean time you must
remain in custody."
The Moor and the water-carrier cheerfully
agreed to these conditions, satisfied
that the event would prove the truth of
their words.
Towards midnight the alcalde sallied
forth secretly, attended by the alguazil
and the meddlesome barber, all strongly
armed. They conducted the Moor and
the water-carrier as prisoners, and were
provided with the stout donkey of the
latter to bear off the expected treasure.
They arrived at the tower without being
observed; and tying the donkey to a fig
tree, descended into the fourth vault of
the tower.
The scroll was produced, and the
Moor read the form of incantation.
The earth trembled as before, and the
pavement opened with a thundering
sound, disclosing the narrow flight of
steps. The alcalde, the alguazil, and
the barber were struck aghast, and could
not summon courage to descend. The
Moor and the water-carrier entered the
lower vault, and found the two Moors
seated as before, silent and motionless.
They removed two of the great jars, filled
with golden coin and precious stones.
The water-carrier bore them up one by
one upon his shoulders, but though a
strong-backed little man, and accustomed
to carry burdens, he staggered beneath
their weight, and found when slung on
each side of his donkey, they were as
much as the animal could bear.
"Let us be content for the present,"
said the Moor, "here is as much treasure
as we can carry off without being perceived,
and enough to make us all wealthy
to our heart's desire."
"Is there more treasure remaining
behind?" demanded the alcalde.
"The greatest prize of all," said the
Moor, "a huge coffer bound with hands
of steel, and filled with pearls and precious
stones."
"Let us have up the coffer by all
means," cried the grasping alcalde.
"I will descend for no more," said
the Moor doggedly; "enough is enough
for a reasonable man—more is superfluous."
"And I," said the water-carrier, "will
bring up no further burden to break the
back of my poor donkey."
Finding commands, threats, and entreaties
equally vain, the alcalde turned
to his two adherents. "Aid me," said
he, "to bring up the coffer, and its contents
shall be divided between us." So
saying he descended the steps, followed
with trembling reluctance by the alguazil
and the barber.
No sooner did the Moor behold them
fairly earthed than he extinguished the
yellow taper; the pavement closed with
its usual crash, and the three worthies
remained buried in its womb.
He then hastened up the different
flights of steps, nor stopped until in the
open air. The little water-carrier followed
him as fast as his short legs would
permit.
"What hast thou done?" cried Peregil,
as soon as he could recover breath. "The
alcalde and the other two are shut up in
the vault."
"It is the will of Allah!" said the Moor
devoutly.
"And will you not release them?" demanded
the Gallego.
"Allah forbid!" replied the Moor,
smoothing his beard. "It is written in
the book of fate that they shall remain
enchanted until some future adventurer
arrive to break the charm. The will of
God be done!" So saying, he hurled
the end of the waxen taper far among the
gloomy thickets of the glen.
There was now no remedy, so the
Moor and the water-carrier proceeded
with the richly laden donkey towards
the city, nor could honest Peregil refrain
from hugging and kissing his long-eared
fellow-labourer, thus restored to him
from the clutches of the law; and in fact,
it is doubtful which gave the simple-hearted
little man most joy at the moment,
the gaining of the treasure, or the recovery
of the donkey.
The two partners in good luck divided
their spoil amicably and fairly, except
that the Moor, who had a little taste for
trinketry, made out to get into his heap
most of the pearls and precious stones and
other baubles, but then he always gave
the water-carrier in lien magnificent
jewels of massy gold, of five times the
size, with which the latter was heartily
content. They took care not to linger
within reach of accidents, but made off
to enjoy their wealth undisturbed in other
countries. The Moor returned to Africa,
to his native city of Tetuan, and the
Gallego, with his wife, his children, and
his donkey, made the best of his way to
Portugal. Here, under the admonition
and tuition of his wife, he became a personage
of some consequence, for she
made the worthy little man array his
long body and short legs in doublet and
hose, with a feather in his hat and a
sword by his side; and laying aside his
familiar appellation of Peregil, assumed
the more sonorous title of Don Pedro
Gil: his progeny grew up a thriving and
merry-hearted, though short and bandy-legged
belaced and betasselled from her
head to her heels, with glittering rings on
every finger, became a model of slattern
fashion and finery.
As to the alcalde and his adjuncts,
they remained shut up under the great
tower of the seven floors, and there they
remain spellbound at the present day.
Whenever there shall be a lack in Spain
of pimping barbers, sharking alguazils,
and corrupt alealdes, they may be sought
after; but if they have to wait until such
time for their deliverance, there is danger
of their enchantment enduring until
doomsday.
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,
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
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
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
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
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,
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
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!
THE VETERAN.
Among the curious acquaintances I
have made in my rambles about the fortrees,
is a brave and battered old colonel
of Invalids, who is nestled like a hawk
in one of the Moorish towers. His history,
which he is fond of telling, is a
tissue of those adventures, mishaps, and
vicissitudes that render the life of almost
every Spaniard of note as varied and
whimsical as the pages of Gil Blas.
He was in America at twelve years of
age, and reckons among the most signal
and fortunate events of his life, his having
seen General Washington. Since then
he has taken a part in all the wars of his
country; he can speak experimentally of
most of the prisons and dungeons of the
Peninsula; has been lamed of one leg,
crippled in his hands, and so cut up and
carbonadoed, that he is a kind of walking
monument of the troubles of Spain,
on which there is a scar for every battle
and broil, as every year was notched
upon the tree of Robinson Crusoe. The
greatest misfortune of the brave old cavalier,
however, appears to have been his
having commanded at Malaga during a
time of peril and confusion, and been
made a general by the inhabitants, to
protect them from the invasion of the
French. This has entailed upon him a
number of just claims upon government,
that I fear will employ him until his
dying day in writing and printing petitions
and memorials, to the great disquiet
of his mind, exhaustion of his purse, and
penance of his friends; not one of whom
can visit him without having to listen to
a mortal document of half an hour in
length, and to carry away half a dozen
pamphlets in his pocket. This, however,
is the case throughout Spain: every
where you meet with some worthy wight
brooding in a corner and nursing up
some pet grievance and cherished wrong.
Besides, a Spaniard who has a lawsuit,
or a claim upon government, may be
considered as furnished with employment
for the remainder of his life.
I visited the veteran in his quarters, in
the upper part of the Torre del Vino, or
Wine Tower. His room was small but
snug, and commanded a beautiful view
of the Vega. It was arranged with a
soldier's precision. Three muskets and
a brace of pistols, all bright and shining,
were suspended against the wall with a
sabre and a cane, hanging side by side,
and above them, two cocked hats, one
for parade, and one for ordinary use. A
small shelf, containing some half dozen
books, formed his library, one of which,
a little old mouldy volume of philosophical
maxims, was his favourite reading.
This he thumbed and pondered
over day by day: applying every maxim
to his own particular case, provided it
had a little tinge of wholesome bitterness,
Yet he is social and kind-hearted, and
provided he can be diverted from his
wrongs and his philosophy, is an entertaining
companion. I like these old
weatherbeaten sons of fortune, and enjoy
their rough campaigning anecdotes.
In the course of my visit to the one in
question, I learnt some curious facts
about an old military commander of the
fortress, who seems to have resembled
him in some respects, and to have had
similar fortunes in the wars. These particulars
have been augmented by inquiries
among some of the old inhabitants of the
place, particularly the father of Mateo
Ximenes, of whose traditional stories the
worthy I am about to introduce to the
reader, is a favourite hero.
THE
GOVERNOR AND THE NOTARY.
In former times there ruled as governor
of the Alhambra, a doughty old
cavalier, who, from having lost one arm
in the wars, was commonly known by
the name of el Gobernador Manco, or
"the one-armed governor." He in fact
prided himself upon being an old soldier,
wore his mustachios curled up to his
eyes, a pair of campaigning boots, and a
Toledo as long as a spit, with his pocket
handkerchief in the basket hilt.
He was, moreover, exceedingly proud
and punctilious, and tenacious of all his
privileges and dignities. Under his sway
the immunities of the Alhambra, as a
royal residence and domain, were rigidly
exacted. No one was permitted to enter
the fortress with fire-arms, or even with
a sword or staff, unless he were of a
certain rank; and every horseman was
obliged to dismount at the gate, and lead
his horse by the bridle. Now as the hill
of the Alhambra rises from the very
midst of the city of Granada, being, as it
were, an excrescence of the capital, it
must at all times be somewhat irksome
to the captain-general, who commands
the province, to have thus an imperium
in imperio, a petty independent post in
the very centre of his domains. It was
rendered the more galling in the present
instance, from the irritable jealousy of
the old governor, that took fire on the
least question of authority and jurisdiction,
and from the loose vagrant character
of the people that had gradually
nestled themselves within the fortress, as
in a sanctuary, and from thence carried
on a system of roguery and depredation
at the expense of the honest inhabitants
of the city.
Thus there was a perpetual feud and
heart-burning between the captain-general
and the governor, the more virulent
on the part of the latter, inasmuch as the
smallest of two neighbouring potentates
is always the most captious about dignity.
The stately palace of the captain-general
stood in the Plaza Nueva, immediately
at the foot of the hill of the
Alhambra, and here was always a bustle
and parade of guards, and domestics,
and city functionaries. A beetling bastion
of the fortress overlooked the palace
and public square in front of it; and on
this bastion the old governor would occasionally
strut backwards and forwards,
with his Toledo girded by his side, keeping
a wary eye down upon his rival, like
a hawk reconnoitring his quarry from
his nest in a dry tree.
Whenever he descended into the city
it was in grand parade, on horseback
surrounded by his guards, or in his state
coach, an ancient and unwieldy Spanish
edifice of carved timber and gilt leather,
drawn by eight mules, with running footmen,
out-riders and lackeys, on which
occasions he flattered himself he impressed
every beholder with awe and admiration
as vicegerent of the king, though the
wits of Granada, particularly those who
loitered about the palace of the captain-general,
were apt to sneer at his petty
parade, and in allusion to the vagrant
character of his subjects, to greet him
with the appellation of "the king of the
beggars." One of the most fruitful
sources of dispute between these two
doughty rivals, was the right claimed by
the governor to have all things passed
free of duty through the city, that were
intended for the use of himself or his
garrison. By degrees this privilege had
given rise to extensive smuggling. A nest
of contrabandistas took up their abode
caves in its vicinity, and drove a
thriving business under the connivance
of the soldiers of the garrison.
The vigilance of the captain-general
was aroused. He consulted his legal
adviser and factotum, a shrewd meddlesome
escribano, or notary, who rejoiced
in an opportunity of perplexing the old
potentate of the Alhambra, and involving
him in a maze of legal subtilties. He advised
the captain-general to insist upon
the right of examining every convoy
passing through the gates of his city,
and he penned a long letter for him in
vindication of his right. Governor Manco
was a straight-forward cut-and-thrust old
soldier, who hated an escribano worse
than the devil, and this one in particular
worse than all other escribanos. "What!"
said he, curling up his mustachios fiercely,
"does the captain-general set his man
of the pen to practise confusions upon
me? I'll let him see that an old soldier is
not to be baffled by schoolcraft."
He seized his pen and scrawled a short
letter in a crabbed hand, in which, without
deigning to enter into argument, he
insisted on the right of transit free of
search, and denounced vengeance on any
custom-house officer who should lay his
unhallowed hand on any convoy protected
by the flag of the Alhambra.
While this question was agitated between
the two pragmatical potentates, it so happened
that a mule laden with supplies for
the fortress arrived one day at the gate
of Xenil, by which it was to traverse a
suburb of the city on its way to the
Alhambra. The convoy was headed by
a testy old corporal, who had long served
under the governor, and was a man after
his own heart; as rusty and staunch as
an old Toledo blade. As they approached
the gate of the city, the corporal
placed the banner of the Alhambra on
the pack-saddle of the mule, and, drawing
himself up to a perfect perpendicular,
advanced with his head dressed to the
front, but with the wary sideglance of a
our passing through hostile ground, ready
for a snap or a snarl.
"Who goes there?" said the sentinel
at the gate.
"Soldier of the Alhambra," said the
corporal, without turning his head.
"What have you in charge?"
"Provisions for the garrison."
"Proceed."
The corporal marched straight forward,
followed by the convoy, but had
not advanced many paces before a posse
of custom-house officers rushed out of a
small toll-house.
"Hallo there!" cried the leader.
"Muleteer, halt, and open those packages."
The corporal wheeled round, and drew
himself up in battle array. "Respect
the flag of the Alhambra," said he;
"these things are for the governor."
"A figo for the governor, and a figo
for his flag. Muleteer, halt, I say."
"Stop the convoy at your peril!" cried
the corporal, cocking his musket; "Muleteer,
proceed."
The muleteer gave his beast a hearty
thwack; the custom-house officer sprang
forward and seized the halter; whereupon
the corporal levelled his piece and shot
him dead.
The street was immediately in an uproar.
The old corporal was seized, and after
undergoing sundry kicks and cuffs and
cudgellings, which are generally given
impromptu by the mob in Spain, as a
foretaste of the after penalties of the
law, he was loaded with irons, and conducted
to the city prison; while his comrades
were permitted to proceed with the
convoy, after it had been well rummaged,
to the Alhambra.
The old governor was in a towering
passion when he heard of this insult to
his flag and capture of his corporal.
For a time he stormed about the Moorish
halls, and vapoured about the bastions,
and looked down fire and sword
upon the palace of the captain-general.
Having vented the first ebullition of his
wrath, he despatched a message demanding
the surrender of the corporal, as to
him alone belonged the right of sitting in
judgment on the offences of those under
his command. The captain-general,
aided by the pen of the delighted escribano,
replied at great length, arguing
that as the offence had been committed
within the walls of his city, and against
one of his civil officers, it was clearly
within his proper jurisdiction. The
demand; the captain-general gave a
sur-rejoinder of still greater length and
legal acumen; the governor became
hotter and more peremptory in his demands,
and the captain-general cooler
and more copious in his replies; until
the old lion-hearted soldier absolutely
roared with fury at being thus entangled
in the meshes of legal controversy.
While the subtle escribano was thus
amusing himself at the expense of the
governor, he was conducting the trial of
the corporal, who, mewed up in a narrow
dungeon of the prison, had merely a small
grated window at which to show his iron-bound
visage and receive the consolations
of his friends.
A mountain of written testimony was
diligently heaped up, according to Spanish
form, by the indefatigable escribano; the
corporal was completely overwhelmed by
it. He was convicted of murder and
sentenced to be hanged.
It was in vain the governor sent down
remonstrance and menace from the Alhambra.
The fatal day was at hand,
and the corporal was put in capilla, that
is to say, in the chapel of the prison, as
is always done with culprits the day
before execution, that they may meditate
on their approaching end and repent
them of their sins.
Seeing things drawing to an extremity,
the old governor determined to attend to
the affair in person. For this purpose he
ordered out his carriage of state, and,
surrounded by his guards, rumbled down
the avenue of the Alhambra into the city.
Driving to the house of the escribano, he
summoned him to the portal.
The eye of the old governor gleamed
like a coal at beholding the smirking
man of the law advancing with an air of
exultation.
"What is this I hear," cried he, "that
you are about to put to death one of my
soldiers?"
"All according to law—all in strict
form of justice," said the self-sufficient
escribano, chuckling and rubbing his
hands. "I can show your excellency
the written testimony in the case."
"Fetch it hither," said the governor.
The escribano bustled into his office, delighted
with having another opportunity
of displaying his ingenuity at the expense
of the hard-headed veteran.
He returned with a satchel full of
papers, and began to read a long deposition
with professional volubility. By
this time a crowd had collected, listening
with outstretched necks and gaping
mouths.
"Pr'ythee, man, get into the carriage,
out of this pestilent throng, that I may
the better hear thee," said the governor.
The escribano entered the carriage,
when, in a twinkling, the door was
closed, the coachman smacked his whip
—mules, carriage, guards and all dashed
off at a thundering rate, leaving the
crowd in gaping wonderment; nor did
the governor pause until he had lodged
his prey in one of the strongest dungeons
of the Alhambra.
He then sent down a flag of truce in
military style, proposing a cartel or
exchange of prisoners—the corporal for
the notary. The pride of the captain-general
was piqued; he returned a contemptuous
refusal, and forthwith caused
a gallows, tall and strong, to be erected
in the centre of the Plaza Nueva for the
execution of the corporal.
"Oho! is that the game?" said Governor
Manco. He gave orders, and immediately
a gibbet was reared on the verge
of the great beetling bastion that overlooked
the Plaza. "Now," said he, in a
message to the captain-general, "hang
my soldier when you please; but at the
same time that he is swung off in the
square, look up to see your escribano
dangling against the sky."
The captain-general was inflexible;
troops were paraded in the square; the
drums beat, the bell tolled. An immense
multitude of amateurs had collected to
behold the execution. On the other hand,
the governor paraded his garrison on the
bastion, and tolled the funeral-dirge of
the notary from the Torre de la Campana,
or Tower of the Bell.
The notary's wife pressed through the
crowd with a whole progeny of little
embryo escribanos at her heels, and
throwing herself at the feet of the captain-general,
implored him not to sacrifice
the life of her husband and the welfare
of her numerous little ones, to a point of
pride; "for you know the old governor
will put his threat in execution, if you
hang the soldier."
The captain-general was overpowered
by her tears and lamentations, and the
clamours of her callow brood. The
corporal was sent up to the Alhambra,
under a guard, in his gallows' garb, like
a hooded friar, but with head crect and a
face of iron. The escribano was demanded
in exchange, according to the
cartel. The once bustling and self-sufficient
man of the law was drawn forth
from his dungeon more dead than alive.
All his flippancy and conceit had evaporated;
his hair, it is said, had nearly
turned gray with affright, and he had a
downcast, dogged look, as if he still felt
the halter round his neck.
The old governor stuck his one arm
a-kimbo, and for a moment surveyed
him with an iron smile. "Henceforth,
my friend," said he, "moderate your
zeal in hurrying others to the gallows;
be not too certain of your safety, even
though you should have the law on your
side; and above all, take care how you
play off your school-craft another time
upon an old soldier."
GOVERNOR MANCO AND THE
SOLDIER.
When Governor Manco, or "the one-armed,"
kept up a show of military state
in the Alhambra, he became nettled at
the reproaches continually cast upon his
fortress, of being a nestling-place of
rogues and contrabandistas. On a sudden,
the old potentate determined on
reform, and setting vigorously to work,
ejected whole nests of vagabonds out of
the fortress and the gipsy caves with
which the surrounding hills are honeycombed.
He sent out soldiers, also, to
patrol the avenues and footpaths, with
orders to take up all suspicious persons.
One bright summer morning, a patrol,
consisting of the testy old corporal who
had distinguished himself in the affair of
the notary, a trumpeter and two privates,
was seated under the garden wall of the
Generalife, beside the road which leads
down from the Mountain of the Sun,
when they heard the tramp of a horse,
and a male voice singing in rough, though
not unmusical tones, an old Castilian campaigning
song.
Presently they beheld a sturdy, sunburnt
fellow, clad in the ragged garb of
a foot soldier, leading a powerful Arabian
horse, caparisoned in the ancient Moresco
fashion.
Astonished at the sight of a strange
soldier descending steed in hand, from
that solitary mountain, the corporal
stepped forth and challenged him.
"Who goes there?"
"A friend."
"Who and what are you?"
"A poor soldier just from the wars,
with a cracked crown and empty purse
for a reward."
By this time they were enabled to view
him more narrowly. He had a black
patch across his forehead, which, with a
grizzled beard, added to a certain dare-devil
cast of countenance, while a slight
squint threw into the whole an occasional
gleam of roguish good humour.
Having answered the question of the
patrol, the soldier seemed to consider
himself entitled to make others in return.
"May I ask," said he, "what city is that
which I see at the foot of the hill?"
"What city!" cried the trumpeter;
"come, that's too bad. Here's a fellow
lurking about the Mountain of the Sun,
and demands the name of the great city
of Granada!"
"Granada! Madre di Dios! can it
be possible?"
"Perhaps not!" rejoined the trumpeter;
"and perhaps you have no idea
that younder are the towers of the Alhambra."
"Son of a trumpet," replied the
stranger, "do not trifle with me; if this
be indeed the Alhambra, I have some
strange matters to reveal to the governor."
"You will have an opportunity," said
the corporal, "for we mean to take you
before him." By this time the trumpeter
had seized the bridle of the steed, the two
privates had each secured an arm of the
soldier, the corporal put himself in front,
gave the word, "Forward—march!" and
away they marched for the Alhambra.
The sight of a ragged foot soldier and
a fine Arabian horse, brought in captive
by the patrol, attracted the attention of
all the idlers of the fortress, and of those
gossip groups that generally assemble
about wells and fountains at early dawn.
The wheel of the cistern paused in its
rotations, and the slip-shod servant-maid
stood gaping, with pitcher in hand, as the
corporal passed by with his prize. A
motley train gradually gathered in the
rear of the escort.
Knowing nods and winks and conjectures
passed from one to another. "It
is a deserter," said one; "A contrabandista,"
said another; "A bandalero," said
a third;—until it was affirmed that a captain
of a desperate band of robbers had
been captured by the prowess of the corporal
and his patrol. "Well, well," said
the old crones, one to another, "captain
or not, let him get out of the grasp of old
Governor Manco if he can, though he is
but one-handed."
Governor Manco was seated in one of
the inner halls of the Alhambra, taking
his morning's cup of chocolate in company
with his confessor, a fat Franciscan
friar, from the neighbouring convent. A
demure, dark-eyed damself of Malaga,
the daughter of his housekeeper, was
attending upon him. The world hinted
that the damsel who, with all her demureness,
was a sly buxom baggage,
had found out a soft spot in the iron
heart of the old governor, and held complete
control over him. But let that pass
—the domestic affairs of these mighty
potentates of the earth should not be too
narrowly scrutinized.
When word was brought that a suspicious
stranger had been taken lurking
about the fortress, and was actually in
the outer court, in durance of the corporal,
waiting the pleasure of his excellency,
the pride and stateliness of
office swelled the bosom of the governor-Giving
back his chocolate cup into the
hands of the demure damsel, he called
for his basket-hilted sword, girded it to
his side, twirled up his mustachios, took
his seat in a large high-backed chair,
assumed a bitter and forbidding aspect,
and ordered the prisoner into his presence.
The soldier was brought in, still
closely pinioned by his captors, and
guarded by the corporal. He maintained,
however, a resolute self-confident air,
and returned the sharp, scrutinizing look
of the governor with an easy squint,
which by no means pleased the punctilious
old potentate.
"Well, culprit," said the governor,
after he had regarded him for a moment
in silence, "what have you to say for
yourself—who are you?"
"A soldier, just from the wars, who
has brought away nothing but scars and
bruises."
"A soldier—humph—a foot soldier by
your garb. I understand you have a
fine Arabian horse. I presume you
brought him too from the wars, beside
your scars and bruises."
"May it please your excellency, I
have something strange to tell about that
horse. Indeed I have one of the most
wonderful things to relate. Something
too that concerns the security of this
fortress, indeed of all Granada. But it
is a matter to be imparted only to your
private ear, or in the presence of such
only as are in your confidence."
The governor considered for a moment,
and then directed the corporal and
his men to withdraw, but to post themselves
outside of the door, and be ready
at a call. "This holy friar," said he,
"is my confessor, you may say any
thing in his presence—and this damsel,"
nodding towards the handmaid, who had
loitered with an air of great curiosity,
"this damsel is of great secrecy and
discretion, and to be trusted with any
thing."
The soldier gave a glance between a
squint and a leer at the demure handmaid.
"I am perfectly willing," said
he, "that the damsel should remain."
When all the rest had withdrawn, the
soldier commenced his story. He was a
fluent, smooth-tongued varlet, and had a
command of language above his apparent
rank.
"May it please your excellency," said
he, "I am, as I before observed, a soldier,
and have seen some hard service,
but my term of enlistment being expired,
I was discharged, not long since, from
the army at Valladolid, and set out on
foot for my native village in Andalusia.
Yesterday evening the sun went down
Old Castile."
"Hold," cried the governor, "what is
this you say? Old Castile is some two
or three hundred miles from this."
"Even so," replied the soldier coolly,
"I told your excellency I had strange
things to relate; but not more strange
than true; as your excellency will find,
if you will deign me a patient hearing."
"Proceed, culprit!" said the governor,
twirling up his mustachios.
"As the sun went down," continued
the soldier, "I cast my eyes about in
search of some quarters for the night,
but far as my sight could reach, there
were no signs of habitation. I saw that
I should have to make my bed on the
naked plain, with my knapsack for a
pillow; but your excellency is an old
soldier, and knows that to one who has
been in the wars, such a night's lodging
is no great hardship."
The governor nodded assent, as he
drew his pocket-handkerchief out of the
basket-hilt, to drive away a fly that buzzed
about his nose.
"Well, to make a long story short,"
continued the soldier, "I trudged forward
for several miles until I came to a
bridge over a deep ravine, through which
ran a little thread of water, almost dried
up by the summer heat. At one end of
the bridge was a Moorish tower, the
upper end all in ruins, but a vault in the
foundation quite entire. Here, thinks I,
is a good place to make a halt; so I
went down to the stream, took a hearty
drink, for the water was pure and sweet,
and I was parched with thirst; then,
opening my wallet, I took out an onion
and a few crusts, which were all my
provisions, and seating myself on a stone
on the margin of the stream, began to
make my supper; intending afterwards
to quarter myself for the night in the
vault of the tower; and capital quarters
they would have been for a campaigner
just from the wars, as your excellency,
who is an old soldier, may suppose."
"I have put up gladly with worse in
my time," said the governor, returning
his pocket-handkerchief into the hilt of
his sword.
"While I was quietly crunching my
crust," pursued, the soldier, "I heard
something stir within the vault; I listened—it
was the tramp of a horse. By
and by, a man came forth from a door in
the foundation of the tower, close by the
water's edge, leading a powerful horse
by the bridle. I could not well make
out what he was by starlight. It had a
suspicious look to be lurking among the
ruins of a tower, in that wild solitary
place. He might be a mere wayfarer,
like myself; he might be a contrabandista;
he might be a bandalero! what of
that? thank heaven and my poverty, I
had nothing to lose; so I sat still and
crunched my crusts.
"He led his horse to the water, close
by where I was sitting, so that I had a
fair opportunity of reconnoitring him.
To my surprise he was dressed in a
Moorish garb, with a cuirass of steel,
and a polished skullcap, that I distinguished
by the reflection of the stars
upon it. His horse, too, was harnessed
in the Moresco fashion, with great shovel
stirrups. He led him, as I said, to the
side of the stream, into which the animal
plunged his head almost to the eyes, and
drank until I thought he would have
burst.
" `Comrade,' said I, `your steed drinks
well; it's a good sign when a horse
plunges his muzzle bravely into the
water.'
" `He may well drink,' said the
stranger, speaking with a Moorish accent,
`it is a good year since he had his
last draught.'
" `By Santiago,' said I, `that beats
even the camels that I have seen in
Africa. But come, you seem to be something
of a soldier, will you sit down and
take part of a soldier's fare?' In fact I
felt the want of a companion in this lonely
place, and was willing to put up with an
infidel. Besides, as your excellency well
knows, a soldier is never very particular
about the faith of his company, and soldiers
of all countries are comrades on
peaceable ground."
The governor again nodded assent.
"Well, as I was saying, I invited him
to share my supper, such as it was, for I
could do no less in common hospitality.
`I have no time to pause for meat or
drink,' said he, `I have a long journey
to make before morning.'
" `In which direction,' said I.
" `Andalusia,' said he.
" `Exactly my route,' said I, `so, as
you won't stop and eat with me, perhaps
you will let me mount and ride with you.
I see your horse is of a powerful frame,
I'll warrant he'll carry double.'
" `Agreed,' said the trooper; and it
would not have been civil and soldier-like
to refuse, especially as I had offered
to share my supper with him. So up he
mounted, and up I mounted behind him.
" `Hold fast,' said he, `my steed goes
like the wind.'
" `Never fear me,' said I, and so off
we set.
"From a walk the horse soon passed
to a trot, from a trot to a gallop, and
from a gallop to a harum-scarum scamper.
It seemed as if rocks, trees, houses,
every thing, flew hurry-scurry behind us.
" `What town is this?' said I.
" `Segovia,' said he; and before the
word was out of his mouth, the towers of
Segovia were out of sight. We swept up
the Guadarama mountains, and down by
the Escurial; and we skirted the walls of
Madrid, and we scoured away across the
plains of La Mancha. In this way we
went up hill and down dale, by towers
and cities, all buried in deep sleep, and
across mountains, and plains, and rivers,
just glimmering in the starlight.
"To make a long story short, and not
to fatigue your excellency, the trooper
suddenly pulled up on the side of a mountain.
`Here we are,' said he, `at the
end of our journey.' I looked about, but
could see no signs of habitation; nothing
but the mouth of a cavern. While I
looked I saw multitudes of people in
Moorish dresses, some on horseback,
some on foot, arriving as if borne by the
wind from all points of the compass, and
hurrying into the mouth of the cavern,
like bees into a hive. Before I could ask
a question, the trooper struck his long
Moorish spurs into the horse's flanks
and dashed in with the throng. We
passed along a steep winding way, that
descended into the very bowels of the
mountain. As we pushed on, a light
began to glimmer up, by little and little,
like the first glimmerings of day, but
what caused it I could not discern. It
grew stronger and stronger, and enabled
me to see every thing around. I now
noticed, as we passed along, great caverns,
opening to the right and left, like
halls in an arsenal. In some there were
shields, and helmets, and cuirasses, and
lances, and cimeters, hanging against
the wall; in others there were great
heaps of warlike munitions, and camp
equipage lying upon the ground.
"It would have done your excellency's
heart good, being an old soldier, to have
seen such grand provision for war. Then,
in other caverns, there were long rows
of horsemen armed to the teeth, with
lances raised and banners unfurled all
ready for the field; but they all sat motionless
in their saddles like so many
statues. In other halls were warriors
sleeping on the ground beside their horses,
and foot soldiers in groups ready to fall
into the ranks. All were in old-fashioned
Moorish dresses and armour.
"Well, your excellency, to cut a long
story short, we at length entered an immense
cavern, or I may say palace, of
grotto work, the walls of which seemed
to be veined with gold and silver, and to
sparkle with diamonds and sapphires and
all kinds of precious stones. At the upper
end sat a Moorish king on a golden
throne, with his nobles on each side, and
a guard of African blacks with drawn
cimeters. All the crowd that continued
to flock in, and amounted to thousands
and thousands, passed one by one before
his throne, each paying homage as he
passed. Some of the multitude were
dressed in magnificent robes, without
stain or blemish, and sparkling with
jewels; others in burnished and enamelled
armour; while others were in
mouldered and mildewed garments, and
in armour all battered and dented and
covered with rust.
"I had hitherto held my tongue, for
your excellency well knows, it is not for
a soldier to ask many questions when on
duty, but I could keep silent no longer.
" `Pr'ythee, comrade,' said I, `what is
the meaning of all this?'
" `This,' said the trooper, `is a great
and fearful mystery. Know, O Christian,
that you see before you the court
and army of Boabdil, the last king of
Granada.'
" `What is this you tell me?' cried I.
the land hundreds of years agone, and
all died in Africa.'
" `So it is recorded in your lying
chronicles,' replied the Moor, `but know
that Boabdil and the warriors who made
the last struggle for Granada were all
shut up in the mountain by powerful enchantment.
As for the king and army
that marched forth from Granada at the
time of the surrender, they were a mere
phantom train of spirits and demons, permitted
to assume those shapes to deceive
the Christian sovereigns. And furthermore
let me tell you, friend, that all
Spain is a country under the power of
enchantment. There is not a mountain
cave, not a lonely watchtower in the
plains, nor ruined castle on the hills, but
has some spellbound warriors sleeping
from age to age within its vaults, until
the sins are expiated for which Allah
permitted the dominion to pass for a time
out of the hands of the faithful. Once
every year, on the eve of St. John, they
are released from enchantment, from
sunset to sunrise, and permitted to repair
here to pay homage to their sovereign!
and the crowds which you behold swarming
into the cavern are Moslem warriors
from their haunts in all parts of Spain.
For my own part, you saw the ruined
tower of the bridge in Old Castile, where
I have now wintered and summered for
many hundred years, and where I must
be back again by daybreak. As to the
battalions of horse and foot which you
behold drawn up in array in the neighbouring
caverns, they are spellbound
warriors of Granada. It is written in
the book of fate, that when the enchantment
is broken, Boabdil will descend
from the mountain at the head of this
army, resume his throne in the Alhambra
and his sway of Granada, and gathering
together the enchanted warriors from all
parts of Spain, will reconquer the Peninsula
and restore it to Moslem rule.'
" `And when shall this happen?'
said I.
" `Allah alone knows: we had hoped
the day of deliverance was at hand; but
there reigns at present a vigilant governor
in the Alhambra, a staunch old soldier,
well known as Governor Manco. While
such a warrior bolds command of the
very outpost, and stands ready to check
the irruption from the mountain, I fear
Boabdil and his soldiery must be content
to rest upon their arms.' "
Here the governor raised himself somewhat
perpendicularly, adjusted his sword,
and twirled up his mustachios.
"To make a long story short, and not
to fatigue your excellency, the trooper,
having given me this account, dismounted
from his steed.
" `Tarry here,' said he, `and guard
my steed while I go and bow the knce to
Boabdil.' So saying, he strode away
among the throng that pressed forward
to the throne.
" `What's to be done?' thought I,
when thus left to myself; `shall I wait
here until this infidel returns to whisk
me off on his goblin steed, the Lord
knows where; or shall I make the most
of my time and beat a retreat from this
hobgoblin community?' A soldier's mind
is soon made up, as your excellency well
knows. As to the horse, he belonged to
an avowed enemy of the faith and the
realm, and was a fair prize according to
the rules of war. So hoisting myself
from the crupper into the saddle, I turned
the reins, struck the Moorish stirrups into
the sides of the steed, and put him to
make the best of his way out of the
passage by which he had entered. As
we scoured by the halls where the Moslem
horsemen sat in motionless battalions,
I thought I heard the clang of armour
and a hollow murmur of voices. I gave
the steed another taste of the stirrups,
and doubled my speed. There was now
a sound behind me like a rushing blast;
I heard the clatter of a thousand hoofs;
a countless throng overtook me. I was
borne along in the press, and hurled
forth from the mouth of the cavern, while
thousands of shadowy forms were swept
off in every direction by the four winds
of heaven.
"In the whirl and confusion of the
scene I was thrown senseless to the
earth. When I came to myself I was
lying on the brow of a hill with the Arabian
steed standing beside me; for, in
falling, my arm had slipt within the
bridle, which, I presume, prevented his
whisking off to Old Castile.
"Your excellency may easily judge of
hedges of aloes and Indian figs and other
proofs of a southern climate, and to see
a great city below me, with towers, and
palaces, and a grand cathedral.
"I descended the hill cautiously, leading
my steed, for I was afraid to mount
him again, lest he should play me some
slippery trick. As I descended I met
with your patrol, who let me into the
secret that it was Granada that lay before
me; and that I was actually under the
walls of the Alhambra, the fortress of
the redoubted Governor Manco, the terror
of all enchanted Moslems. When I
heard this, I determined at once to seek
your excellency, to inform you of all that
I had seen, and to warn you of the perils
that surround and undermine you, that
you may take measures in time to guard
your fortress, and the kingdom itself,
from this intestine army that lurks in the
very bowels of the land."
"And prythee, friend, you who are a
veteran campaigner, and have seen so
much service," said the governor, "how
would you advise me to proceed, in order
to prevent this evil?"
"It is not for a humble private of the
ranks," said the soldier modestly, "to
pretend to instruct a commander of your
excellency's sagacity; but it appears to
me that your excellency might cause all
the caves and entrances into the mountain
to be walled up with solid mason
work, so that Boabdil and his army might
be completely corked up in their subterranean
habitation. If the good father
too," added the soldier, reverently bowing
to the friar, and devoutly crossing
himself, "would consecrate the barricadoes
with his blessing, and put up a fefw
crosses and relics and images of saints, I
think they might withstand all the power
of infidel enchantments."
"They doubtless would be of great
avail," said the friar.
The governor now placed his arm
a-kimbo with his hand resting on the hilt
of his toledo, fixed his eye upon the
soldier, and gently wagging his head
from one side to the other,
"So, friend," said he, "then you really
suppose I am to be gulled with this cock-and-bull
story about enchanted mountains
and enchanted Moors? Hark ye, culprit!
—not another word. An old soldier you
may be, but you'll find you have an older
soldier to deal with, and one not easily
out-generalled. Ho! guards there! put
this fellow in irons."
The demure handmaid would have put
in a word in favour of the prisoner, but
the governor silenced her with a look.
As they were pinioning the soldier, one
of the guards felt something of bulk in
his pocket, and drawing it forth, found a
long leathern purse that appeared to be
well filled. Holding it by one corner,
he turned out the contents upon the table
before the governor, and never did freebooter's
bag make more gorgeous delivery.
Out tumbled rings and jewels,
and rosaries of pearls, and sparkling
diamond crosses, and a profusion of ancient
golden coin, some of which fell
jingling to the floor, and rolled away to
the uttermost part of the chamber.
For a time the functions of justice
were suspended; there was a universal
scramble after the glittering fugitives.
The governor alone, who was imbued
with true Spanish pride, maintained his
stately decorum, though his eye betrayed
a little anxiety until the last coin and
jewel was restored to the sack.
The friar was not so calm; his whole
face glowed like a furnace, and his eyes
twinkled and flashed at sight of the rosaries
and crosses.
"Sacrilegious wretch that thou art!"
exclaimed he; "what church or sanctuary
hast thou been plundering of these
sacred relics?"
"Neither one nor the other, holy
father. If they he sacrilegious spoils,
they must have been taken in times long
past, by the infidel trooper I have mentioned.
I was just going to tell his excellency
when he interrupted me, that on
taking possession of the trooper's horse,
I unhooked a leathern sack which hung
at the saddlebow, and which I presume
contained the plunder of his campaignings
in days of old, when the Moors overran
the country."
"Mighty well; at present you will
make up your mind to take up your
quarters in a chamber of the Vermilion
Towers, which, though not under a magic
spell, will hold you as safe as any cave
of your enchanted Moors."
"Your excellency will do as you think
proper," said the prisoner, coolly. "I
shall be thankful to your excellency for
any accommodation in the fortress. A
soldier who has been in the wars, as your
excellency well knows, is not particular
about his lodgings: provided I have a
snug dungeon and regular rations, I shall
manage to make myself comfortable. I
would only entreat that while your excellency
is so careful about me, you would
have an eye to your fortress, and think
on the hint I dropped about stopping up
the entrances to the mountain."
Here ended the scene. The prisoner
was conducted to a strong dungeon in
the Vermilion Towers, the Arabian steed
was led to his excellency's stable, and
the trooper's sack was deposited in his
excellency's strong box. To the latter,
it is true, the friar made some demur,
questioning whether the sacred relics,
which were evidently sacrilegious spoils,
should not be placed in custody of the
church; but as the governor was peremptory
on the subject, and was absolute
lord in the Alhambra, the friar discreetly
dropped the discussion, but determined to
convey intelligence of the fact to the
church dignitaries in Granada.
To explain these prompt and rigid
measures on the part of old Governor
Manco, it is proper to observe, that about
this time the Alpuxarra mountains in the
neighbourhood of Granada were terribly
infested by a gang of robbers, under the
command of a daring chief, named Manuel
Borasco, who were accustomed to
prowl about the country, and even to
enter the city in various disguises, to gain
intelligence of the departure of convoys
of merchandise, or travellers with well-lined
purses, whom they took care to
waylay in distant and solitary passes of
their road. These repeated and daring
outrages had awakened the attention of
government, and the commanders of the
various posts had received instructions
to be on the alert and to take up all suspicious
stragglers. Governor Manco was
particularly zealous in consequence of
the various stigmas that had been cast
upon his fortress, and he now doubted
not that he had entrapped some formidable
desperado of this gang.
In the mean time the story took wind,
and became the talk, not merely of the
fortress, but of the whole city of Granada.
It was said that the noted robber,
Manuel Borasco, the terror of the Alpuxarras,
had fallen into the clutches of
old Governor Manco, and been cooped
up by him in a dungeon of the Vermilion
Towers; and every one who had been
robbed by him flocked to recognise the
marauder. The Vermilion Towers, as
is well known, stand apart from the Alhambra
on a sister hill, separated from
the main avenue. There were no outer
walls, but a sentinel patrolled before the
tower. The window of the chamber in
which the soldier was confined, was
strongly grated, and looked upon a small
esplanade. Here the good folks of
Granada repaired to gaze at him, as
they would at a laughing hyena, grinning
through the cage of a menagerie.
Nobody, however, recognised him for
Manuel Borasco, for that terrible robber
was noted for a ferocious physiognomy,
and had by no means the good-humoured
squint of the prisoner. Visiters came
not merely from the city, but from all
parts of the country; but nobody knew
him, and there began to be doubts in the
minds of the common people whether
there might not be some truth in his
story. That Boabdil and his army were
shut up in the mountain, was an old tradition
which many of the ancient inhabitants
had heard from their fathers. Numbers
went up to the Mountain of the Sun,
or rather of St. Elena, in search of the
cave mentioned by the soldier; and saw
and peeped into the deep dark pit, descending,
no one knows how far, into the
mountain, and which remains there to
this day—the fabled entrance to the subterranean
abode of Boabdil.
By degrees the soldier became popular
with the common people. A freebooter
of the mountains is by no means the
opprobrious character in Spain that a
robber is in any other country: on the
contrary, he is a kind of chivalrous
personage in the eyes of the lower
classes. There is always a disposition,
also, to cavil at the conduct of those in
command, and many began to murmur
at the high-handed measures of old
Governor Manco, and to look upon the
prisoner in the light of a martyr.
The soldier, moreover, was a merry,
waggish fellow, that had a joke for every
one who came near his window, and a
soft speech for every female. He had
procured an old guitar, also, and would
sit by his window, and sing ballads and
love ditties, to the delight of the women
of the neighbourhood, who would assemble
on the esplanade in the evenings and
dance boleros to his music. Having
trimmed off his rough beard, his sunburnt
face found favour in the eyes of
the fair, and the demure handmaid of the
governor declared that his squint was
perfectly irresistible. This kind-hearted
damsel had from the first evinced a deep
sympathy in his fortunes, and having in
vain tried to mollify the governor, had
set to work privately to mitigate the
rigour of his dispensations. Every day
she brought the prisoner some crumbs
of comfort which had fallen from the
governor's table, or been abstracted from
his larder, together with, now and then,
a consoling bottle of choice Val de Peñas,
or rich Malaga.
While this petty treason was going on,
in the very centre of the old governor's
citadel, a storm of open war was brewing
up among his external foes. The circumstance
of a bag of gold and jewels
having been found upon the person of the
supposed robber, had been reported, with
many exaggerations, in Granada. A
question of territorial jurisdiction was
immediately started by the governor's
inveterate rival, the captain-general. He
insisted that the prisoner had been captured
without the precincts of the Alhambra,
and within the rules of his authority.
He demanded his body, therefore, and
the spolia opima taken with him. Due
information having been carried likewise
by the friar to the grand inquisitor of the
crosses and rosaries, and other relics
contained in the bag, he claimed the culprit
as having been guilty of sacrilege,
and insisted that his plunder was due to
the church, and his body to the next
auto da fé. The feuds ran high, the
governor was furious, and swore, rather
than surrender his captive, he would
hang him up within the Alhambra, as a
spy caught within the purlieus of the
fortress.
The captain-general threatened to send
a body of soldiers to transfer the prisoner
from the Vermilion Towers to the city.
The grand inquisitor was equally bent
upon despatching a number of the familiars
of the Holy Office. Word was
brought late at night to the governor of
these machinations. "Let them come,"
said he, "they'll find me beforehand
with them; he must rise bright and early
who would take in an old soldier." He
accordingly issued orders to have the
prisoner removed at daybreak, to the
donjon-keep within the walls of the Alhambra.
"And d'ye hear child?" said
he to his demure handmaid, "tap at my
door, and wake me before cock-crowing,
that I may see to the matter myself."
The day dawned, the cock crowed, but
nobody tapped at the door of the governor.
The sun rose high above the mountain
tops, and glittered in at his casement,
ere the governor was wakened from his
morning dreams by his veteran corporal,
who stood before him with terror stamped
upon his iron visage.
"He's off! he's gone!" cried the corporal,
gasping for breath.
"Who's off—who's gone?"
"The soldier, the robber—the devil,
for aught I know; his dungeon is empty,
but the door locked; no one knows how
he has escaped out of it."
"Who saw him last?"
"Your handmaid; she brought him
his supper."
"Let her be called instantly."
Here was new matter of confusion.
The chamber of the demure damsel was
likewise empty, her bed had not been
slept in: she had doubtless gone off with
the culprit, as she had appeared, for some
days past, to have frequent conversations
with him.
This was wounding the old governor
in a tender part, but he had scarce time
to wince at it, when new misfortunes
broke upon his view. On going into his
cabinet he found his strong box open, the
leather purse of the trooper abstracted,
and with it, a couple of corpulent bags
of doubloons.
But how and which way had the fugitives
escaped? An old peasant who
lived in a cottage by the roadside, leading
up into the Sierra, declared that he
had heard the tramp of a powerful steed
mountains. He had looked out at his
casement, and could just distinguish a
horseman, with a female seated before
him.
"Search the stables!" cried Governor
Manco. The stables were searched; all
the horses were in their stalls, excepting
the Arabian steed. In his place was a
stout cudgel tied to the manger, and on
it a label bearing these words, "A gift
to Governor Manco, from an Old Soldier."
LEGEND
OF THE
TWO DISCREET STATUES.
There lived once in a waste apartment
of the Alhambra, a merry little
fellow named Lope Sanchez, who worked
in the gardens, and was as brisk and
blithe as a grasshopper, singing all day
long. He was the life and soul of the
fortress; when his work was over, he
would sit on one of the stone benches of
the esplanade and strum his guitar, and
sing long ditties about the Cid, and
Bernard del Carpio, and Fernando del
Pulgar, and other Spanish heroes, for
the amusement of the old soldiers of the
fortress, or would strike up a merrier
tune, and set the girls dancing boleros
and fandangos.
Like most little men, Lope Sanchez
had a strapping buxom dame for a wife,
who could almost have put him in her
pocket; but he lacked the usual poor
man's lot—instead of ten children he
had but one. This was a little black-eyed
girl about twelve years of age,
named Sanchica, who was as merry as
himself, and the delight of his heart. She
played about him as he worked in the
gardens, danced to his guitar as he sat
in the shade, and ran as wild as a young
fawn about the groves and alleys and
ruined halls of the Alhambra.
It was now the eve of the blessed St.
John, and the holiday loving gossips of
the Alhambra, men, women, and children,
went up at night to the Mountain
of the Sun, which rises above the Generalife,
to keep their midsummer vigil on
its level summit. It was a bright moonlight
night, and all the mountains were
gray and silvery, and the city, with its
domes and spires, lay in shadows below,
and the Vega was like a fairy land, with
haunted streams gleaming among its
dusky groves. On the highest part of
the mountain they lit up a bonfire, according
to an old custom of the country
handed down from the Moors. The
inhabitants of the surrounding country
were keeping a similar vigil, and bonfires,
here and there in the Vega, and
along the folds of the mountains, blazed
up palely in the moonlight.
The evening was gayly passed in
dancing to the guitar of Lope Sanchez,
who was never so joyous as when on a
holiday revel of the kind. While the
dance was going on, the little Sanchica
with some of her playmates sported
among the ruins of an old Moorish fort
that crowns the mountain, when in
gathering pebbles in the fosse, she found
a small hand curiously carved of jet, the
fingers closed, and the thumb firmly
clasped upon them. Overjoyed with her
good fortune, she ran to her mother with
her prize. It immediately became a subject
of sage speculation, and was eyed by
some with superstitious distrust. "Throw
it away," said one; "it's Moorish—depend
upon it there's mischief and witchcraft
in it." "By no means," said
another; "you may sell it for something
to the jewellers of the Zacatin."
In the midst of this discussion an old
tawny soldier drew near, who had served
in Africa, and was as swarthy as a Moor.
He examined the hand with a knowing
look. "I have seen things of this kind,"
said he, "among the Moors of Barbary.
It is a great virtue to guard against the
evil eye, and all kinds of spells and
enchantments. I give you joy, friend
Lope, this bodes good luck to your
child."
Upon hearing this, the wife of Lope
Sanchez tied the little hand of jet to a
riband, and hung it round the neck of
her daughter.
The sight of this talisman called up
all the favourite superstitions about the
Moors. The dance was neglected, and
they sat in groups on the ground, telling
old legendary tales handed down from
turned upon the wonders of the very
mountain upon which they were seated,
which is a famous hobgoblin region.
One ancient crone gave a long account
of the subterranean palace in the bowels
of that mountain, where Boabdil and all
his Moslem court are said to remain
enchanted. "Among yonder ruins,"
said she, pointing to some crumbling
walls and mounds of earth on a distant
part of the mountain, "there is a deep
black pit that goes down into the very
heart of the mountain. For all the
money in Granada I would not look
down into it. Once upon a time a poor
man of the Alhambra, who tended goats
upon this mountain, scrambled down into
that pit after a kid that had fallen in. He
came out again all wild and staring, and
told such things of what he had seen, that
every one thought his brain was turned.
He raved for a day or two about the
hobgoblin Moors that had pursued him
in the cavern, and could hardly be persuaded
to drive his goats up again to the
mountain. He did so at last, but, poor
man, he never came down again. The
neighbours found his goats browsing
about the Moorish ruins, and his hat and
mantle lying near the mouth of the pit,
but he was never more heard of."
The little Sanchica listened with breathless
attention to this story. She was of a
curious nature, and felt immediately a
great hankering to peep into this dangerous
pit. Stealing away from her companions,
she sought the distant ruins, and
after groping for some time among them,
came to a small hollow, or basin, near
the brow of the mountain, where it swept
steeply down into the valley of the Darro.
In the centre of this basin yawned the
mouth of the pit. Sanchica ventured to
the verge and peeped in. All was black
as pitch, and gave an idea of immeasuraable
depth. Her blood ran cold; she
drew back, then peeped again, then
would have run away, then took another
peep—the very horror of the thing was
delightful to her. At length she rolled a
large stone and pushed it over the brink.
For some time it fell in silence; then
struck some rocky projection with a violent
crash, then rebounded from side to
side, rumbling and tumbling, with a noise
like thunder, then made a final splash
into water, far, far below—and all was
again silence.
The silence, however, did not long
continue. It seemed as if something
had been awakened within this dreary
abyss. A murmuring sound gradually
rose out of the pit, like the hum and buzz
of a bee-hive. It grew louder and louder;
there was the confusion of voices, as of a
distant multitude, together with the faint
din of arms, clash of cymbals, and clangour
of trumpets, as if some army were
marshalling for battle in the very bowels
of the mountain.
The child drew off with silent awe, and
hastened back to the place where she had
left her parents and their companions.
All were gone. The bonfire was expiring,
and its last wreath of smoke curling up
in the moonshine. The distant fires that
had blazed along the mountains and in
the Vega were all extinguished, and every
thing seemed to have sunk to repose.
Sanchica called her parents and some of
her companions by name, but received no
reply. She ran down the side of the
mountain, and by the gardens of the
Generalife, until she arrived in the alley
of trees leading to the Alhambra, when
she seated herself on a bench of a woody
recess to recover breath. The bell from
the watchtower of the Alhambra, tolled
midnight. There was a deep tranquillity,
as if all nature slept; excepting the low
tinkling sound of an unseen stream that
ran under the covert of the bushes. The
breathing sweetness of the atmosphere
was lulling her to sleep, when her eye
was caught by something glittering at a
distance, and to her surprise she beheld a
long cavalcade of Moorish warriors pouring
down the mountain side and along
the leafy avenues. Some were armed
with lance and shields; others with cimeters
and battle-axes, and with polished
cuirasses that flashed in the moonbeams.
Their horses pranced proudly and champed
upon their bits, but their tramp caused
no more sound than if they had been
shod with felt, and the riders were all as
pale as death. Among them rode a beautiful
lady, with a crowned head and long
golden locks entwined with pearls. The
housings of her palfrey were of a crimson
velvet embroidered with gold, and swept
with eyes ever fixed upon the ground.
Then succeeded a train of courtiers
magnificently arrayed in robes and turbans
of divers colours, and amidst them,
on a cream-coloured charger, rode King
Boabdil el Chico, in a royal mantle covered
with jewels, and a crown sparkling
with diamonds. The little Sanchica
knew him by his yellow beard, and his
resemblance to his portrait, which she
had often seen in the picture-gallery of
the Generalife. She gazed in wonder
and admiration at this royal pageant, as
it passed glistening among the trees; but
though she knew these monarchs and
courtiers and warriors, so pale and silent,
were out of the common course of nature,
and things of magic and enchantment,
yet she looked on with a bold heart, such
courage did she derive from the mystic
talisman of the hand, which was suspended
about her neck.
The cavalcade having passed by, she
rose and followed. It continued on to
the great Gate of Justice, which stood
wide open; the old invalid sentinels on
duty lay on the stone benches of the
barbacan, buried in profound and apparently
charmed sleep, and the phantom
pageant swept noiselessly by them with
flaunting banner and triumphant state.
Sanchica would have followed; but to
her surprise she beheld an opening in the
earth, within the barbacan, leading down
beneath the foundations of the tower.
She entered for a little distance, and was
encouraged to proceed by finding steps
rudely hewn in the rock, and a vaulted
passage here and there lit up by a silver
lamp, which, while it gave light, diffused
likewise a grateful fragrance. Venturing
on, she came at last to a great hall,
wrought out of the heart of the mountain,
magnificently furnished in the Moorish
style, and lighted up by silver and crystal
lamps. Here, on an ottoman, sat an old
man in Moorish dress, with a long white
beard, nodding and dozing, with a staff in
his hand, which seemed ever to be slipping
from his grasp; while at a little
distance sat a beautiful lady, in ancient
Spanish dress, with a coronet all sparkling
with diamonds, and her hair entwined
with pearls, who was softly playing on
a silver lyre. The little Sanchica now recollected
a story she had heard among the
old people of the Alhambra, concerning
a Gothic princess confined in the centre
of the mountain by an old Arabian magician,
whom she kept bound up in magic
sleep by the power of music.
The lady paused with surprise at seeing
a mortal in that enchanted hall. "Is it
the eve of the blessed St. John?" said
she.
"It is," replied Sanchica.
"Then for one night the magic charm
is suspended. Come hither, child, and
fear not. I am a Christian like thyself,
though bound here by enchantment.
Touch my fetters with the talisman that
hangs about thy neck, and for this night
I shall be free."
So saying, she opened her robes and
displayed a broad golden band round her
waist, and a golden chain that fastened
her to the ground. The child hesitated
not to apply the little hand of jet to the
golden band, and immediately the chain
fell to the earth. At the sound the old
man awoke and began to rub his eyes;
but the lady ran her fingers over the
chords of the lyre, and again he fell into
a slumber and began to nod, and his staff
to falter in his hand. "Now," said the
lady, "touch his staff with the talismanic
hand of jet." The child did so, and it
fell from his grasp, and he sunk in a deep
sleep on the ottoman. The lady gently
laid the silver lyre on the ottoman, leaning
it against the head of the sleeping
magician; then touching the chords until
they vibrated in his ear—"O potent spirit
of harmony," said she, "continue thus
to hold his senses in thraldom till the
return of day. Now follow me, my
child," continued she, "and thou shalt
behold the Alhambra as it was in the
days of its glory, for thou hast a magic
talisman that reveals all enchantments."
Sanchica followed the lady in silence.
They passed up through the entrance of
the cavern into the barbacan of the Gate
of Justice, and thence to the Plaza de los
Algibes, or esplanade within the fortress.
This was all filled with Moorish soldiery,
horse and foot, marshalled in squadrons,
with banners displayed. There were
royal guards also at the portal, and rows
of African blacks with drawn cimeters.
No one spake a word, and Sanchica
Her astonishment increased on
entering the royal palace, in which she
had been reared. The broad moonshine
lit up all the halls, courts, and gardens
almost as brightly as if it were day, but
revealed a far different scene from that
to which she was accustomed. The walls
of the apartment were no longer stained
and rent by time. Instead of cobwebs,
they were now hung with rich silks of
Damascus, and the gildings and arabesque
paintings were restored to their original
brilliancy and freshness. The halls, instead
of being naked and unfurnished,
were set out with divans and ottomans of
the rarest stuffs, embroidered with pearls
and studded with precious gems, and all
the fountains in the courts and gardens
were playing.
The kitchens were again in full operation;
cooks were busy preparing shadowy
dishes, and roasting and boiling
the phantoms of pullets and partridges;
servants were hurrying to and fro with
silver dishes heaped up with dainties, and
arranging a delicious banquet. The Court
of Lions was thronged with guards, and
courtiers, and alfaquis, as in the old times
of the Moors; and at the upper end, in
the Saloon of Judgment, sat Boabdil on
his throne, surrounded by his court, and
swaying a shadowy sceptre for the night.
Notwithstanding all this throng and seeming
bustle, not a voice nor a footstep was
to be heard; nothing interrupted the
midnight silence but the splashing of the
fountains. The little Sanchica followed
her conductress in mute amazement about
the palace, until they came to a portal
opening to the vaulted passages beneath
the great Tower of Comares. On each
side of the portal sat the figure of a
Nymph, wrought out of alabaster. Their
heads were turned aside, and their regards
fixed upon the same spot within the
vault. The enchanted lady paused, and
beckoned the child to her. "Here,"
said she, "is a great secret, which I will
reveal to thee in reward for thy faith and
courage. These discreet statues watch
over a mighty treasure hidden in old
times by a Moorish king. Tell thy father
to search the spot on which their eyes
are fixed, and he will find what will make
him richer than any man in Granada.
Thy innocent hands alone, however,
gifted as thou art also with the talisman,
can remove the treasure. Bid thy father
use it discreetly, and devote a part of it
to the performance of daily masses for
my deliverance from this unholy enchantment."
When the lady had spoken these words,
she led the child onward to the little
garden of Lindaraxa, which is hard by
the vault of the statues. The moon
trembled upon the waters of the solitary
fountain in the centre of the garden, and
shed a tender light upon the orange and
citron trees. The beautiful lady plucked
a branch of myrtle, and wreathed it round
the head of the child. "Let this be a
memento," said she, "of what I have
revealed to thee, and a testimonial of its
truth. My hour is come—I must return
to the enchanted hall; follow me not, lest
evil befall thee—farewell. Remember
what I have said, and have masses performed
for my deliverance." So saying,
the lady entered a dark passage leading
beneath the Tower of Comares, and was
no longer seen.
The faint crowing of a cock was now
heard from the cottages below the Alhambra,
in the valley of the Darro, and
a pale streak of light began to appear
above the eastern mountains. A slight
wind arose, there was a sound like the
rustling of dry leaves through the courts
and corridors, and door after door shut
to with a jarring sound.
Sanchica returned to the scenes she
had so lately beheld thronged with the
shadowy multitude, but Boabdil and his
phantom court were gone. The moon
shone into empty halls and galleries
stripped of their transient splendour, stained
and dilapidated by time, and hung
with cobwebs. The bat flitted about in
the uncertain light, and the frog croaked
from the fishpond.
Sanchica now made the best of her
way to a remote staircase that led up to
the humble apartment occupied by her
family. The door as usual was open, for
Lope Sanchez was too poor to need bolt
or bar; she crept quietly to her pallet,
and, putting the myrtle wreath beneath
her pillow, soon fell asleep.
In the morning she related all that had
befallen her to her father. Lope Sanchez,
dream, and laughed at the child for her
credulity. He went forth to his customary
labours in the garden, but had not
been there long when his little daughter
came running to him almost breathless.
"Father! father!" cried she, "behold
the myrtle wreath which the Moorish
lady bound round my head."
Lope Sanchez gazed with astonishment,
for the stalk of the myrtle was of
pure gold, and every leaf was a sparkling
emerald! Being not much accustomed
to precious stones, he was ignorant of the
real value of the wreath, but he saw
enough to convince him that it was something
more substantial than the stuff that
dreams are generally made of, and that
at any rate the child had dreamt to some
purpose. His first care was to enjoin the
most absolute secrecy upon his daughter;
in this respect, however, he was secure,
for she had discretion far beyond her
years or sex. He then repaired to the
vault, where stood the statues of the two
alabaster Nymphs. He remarked that
their heads were turned from the portal,
and that the regards of each were fixed
upon the same point in the interior of the
building. Lope Sanchez could not but
admire this most discreet contrivance for
guarding a secret. He drew a line from
the eyes of the statues to the point of
regard, made a private mark on the wall,
and then retired.
All day, however, the mind of Lope
Sanchez was distracted with a thousand
cares. He could not help hovering within
distant view of the two statues, and became
nervous from the dread that the
golden secret might be discovered. Every
footstep that approached the place made
him tremble. He would have given any
thing could he but have turned the heads
of the statues, forgetting that they had
looked precisely in the same direction for
some hundreds of years, without any
person being the wiser.
"A plague upon them," he would say
to himself, "they'll betray all; did ever
mortal hear of such a mode of guarding
a secret?" Then on hearing any one
advance, he would steal off, as though
his very lurking near the place would
awaken suspicions. Then he would return
cautiously, and peep from a distance
to see if every thing was secure, but the
sight of the statues would again call forth
his indignation. "Ay, there they stand,"
would he say, "always looking, and looking,
and looking, just where they should
not. Confound them! they are just like
all their sex; if they have not tongues to
tattle with, they'll be sure to do it with
their eyes."
At length, to his relief, the long anxious
day drew to a close. The sound of
footsteps was no longer heard in the
echoing halls of the Alhambra; the last
stranger passed the threshold, the great
portal was barred and bolted, and the
bat and the frog, and the hooting owl,
gradually resumed their nightly vocations
in the deserted palace.
Lope Sanchez waited, however, until
the night was far advanced, before he
ventured with his little daughter to the
hall of the two Nymphs. He found them
looking as knowingly and mysteriously
as ever at the secret place of deposit.
"By your leaves, gentle ladies," thought
Lope Sanchez, as he passed between
them, "I will relieve you from this
charge that must have set so heavy in
your minds for the last two or three centuries."
He accordingly went to work
at the part of the wall which he had
marked, and in a little while laid open
a concealed recess, in which stood two
great jars of porcelain. He attempted
to draw them forth, but they were immovable,
until touched by the innocent
hand of his little daughter. With her
aid he dislodged them from their niche,
and found, to his great joy, that they
were filled with pieces of Moorish gold,
mingled with jewels and precious stones.
Before daylight he managed to convey
them to his chamber, and left the two
guardian statues with their eyes fixed on
the vacant wall.
Lope Sanchez had thus on a sudden
become a rich man; but riches, as usual,
brought a world of cares to which he had
hitherto been a stranger. How was he
to convey away his wealth with safety?
How was he even to enter upon the
enjoyment of it without awakening suspicion?
Now too, for the first time in
his life, the dread of robbers entered into
his mind. He looked with terror at the
insecurity of his habitation, and went to
yet after all his precautions he
could not sleep soundly. His usual gayety
was at an end, he had no longer a
joke or a song for his neighbours, and,
in short, became the most miserable animal
in the Alhambra. His old comrades
remarked this alteration, pitied him beartily,
and began to desert him; thinking
he must be falling into want, and in danger
of looking to them for assistance.
Little did they suspect that his only calamity
was riches.
The wife of Lope Sanchez shared his
anxiety, but then she had ghostly comfort.
We ought before this to have mentioned
that Lope, being rather a light inconsiderate
little man, his wife was accustomed,
in all grave matters, to seek
the counsel and ministry of her confessor
Fray Simon, a sturdy broad-shouldered,
blue-bearded, bullet-headed friar of the
neighbouring convent of San Francisco,
who was in fact the spiritual comforter
of half the good wives of the neighbourhood.
He was, moreover, in great esteem
among divers sisterhoods of nuns; who
requited him for his ghostly services by
frequent presents of those little dainties
and knicknacks manufactured in convents,
such as delicate confections, sweet
biscuits, and bottles of spiced cordials,
found to be marvellous restoratives after
fasts and vigils.
Fray Simon thrived in the exercise of
his functions. His oily skin glistened in
the sunshine as he toiled up the hill of
the Alhambra on a sultry day. Yet notwithstanding
his sleek condition, the knotted
rope round his waist showed the austerity
of his self-discipline; the multitude
doffed their caps to him as a mirror of
piety, and even the dogs scented the
odour of sanctity that exhaled from his
garments, and howled from their kennels
as he passed.
Such was Fray Simon, the spiritual
counsellor of the comely wife of Lope
Sanchez; and as the father confessor is
the domestic confidant of woman in humble
life in Spain, he was soon made acquainted,
in great secrecy, with the story
of the hidden treasure.
The friar opened eyes and mouth and
crossed himself a dozen times at the news.
After a moment's pause, "Daughter of
my soul!" said he, "know that thy husband
has committed a double sin—a sin
against both state and church. The treasure
he hath thus seized upon for himself,
being found in the royal domains, belongs
of course to the crown; but being infidel
wealth, rescued as it were from the very
fangs of Satan, should be devoted to the
church. Still, however, the matter may
be accommodated. Bring hither the myrtle
wreath."
When the good father beheld it, his
eyes twinkled more than ever with admiration
of the size and beauty of the emeralds.
"This," said he, "being the first
fruits of this discovery, should be dedicated
to pious purposes. I will hang it
up as a votive offering before the image
of San Francisco in our chapel, and will
earnestly pray to him, this very night,
that your husband be permitted to remain
in quiet possession of your wealth."
The good dame was delighted to make
her peace with heaven at so cheap a rate,
and the friar, putting the wreath under
his mantle, departed with saintly steps
towards his convent.
When Lope Sanchez came home, his
wife told him what had passed. He was
excessively provoked, for he lacked his
wife's devotion, and had for some time
groaned in secret at the domestic visitations
of the friar. "Woman," said he,
"what hast thou done? thou hast put
every thing at hazard by thy tattling."
"What!" cried the good woman,
"would you forbid my disburthening my
conscience to my confessor?"
"No, wife! confess as many of your
own sins as you please; but as to this
money-digging, it is a sin of my own,
and my conscience is very easy under
the weight of it."
There was no use, however, in complaining;
the secret was told, and, like
water spilled on the sand, was not again
to be gathered. The only chance was,
that the friar would be discreet.
The next day, while Lope Sanchez
was abroad, there was a humble knocking
at the door, and Fray Simon entered
with meek and demure countenance.
"Daughter," said he, "I have prayed
earnestly to San Francisco, and he has
heard my prayer. In the dead of the night
the saint appeared to me in a dream, but
`dost thou pray to me to dispense with
this treasure of the Gentiles, when thou
seest the poverty of my chapel? Go to
the house of Lope Sanchez, crave in my
name a portion of the Moorish gold, to
furnish two candlesticks for the main
altar, and let him possess the residue in
peace."
When the good woman heard of this
vision, she crossed herself with awe, and
going to the secret place where Lope had
hid the treasure, she filled a great leathern
purse with pieces of Moorish gold, and
gave it to the friar. The pious monk
bestowed upon her, in return, benedictions
enough, if paid by Heaven, to enrich
her race to the latest posterity; then
slipping the purse into the sleeve of his
habit, he folded his hands upon his breast,
and departed with an air of humble thankfulness.
When Lope Sanchez heard of this
second donation to the church, he had
well nigh lost his senses. "Unfortunate
man," cried he, "what will become of
me? I shall be robbed by piecemeal; I
shall be ruined and brought to beggary!"
It was with the utmost difficulty that
his wife could pacify him, by reminding
him of the countless wealth that yet remained,
and how considerate it was for
San Francisco to rest contented with so
very small a portion.
Unluckily, Fray Simon had a number
of poor relations to be provided for, not
to mention some half-dozen sturdy bullet-headed
orphan children, and destitute
foundlings that he had taken under his
care. He repeated his visits, therefore,
from day to day, with solicitations on
behalf of Saint Dominic, Saint Andrew,
Saint James, until poor Lope was driven
to despair, and found that, unless he got
out of the reach of this holy friar, he
should have to make peace-offerings to
every saint in the calendar. He determined,
therefore, to pack up his remaining
wealth, beat a secret retreat in the
night, and make off to another part of
the kingdom.
Full of his project, he bought a stout
mule for the purpose, and tethered it in
a gloomy vault underneath the Tower of
the Seven Floors; the very place from
whence the Belludo, or goblin horse without
a head, is said to issue forth at midnight,
and to scour the streets of Granada,
pursued by a pack of hell-hounds. Lope
Sanchez had little faith in the story, but
availed himself of the dread occasioned
by it, knowing that no one would be
likely to pry into the subterranean stable
of the phantom steed. He sent off his
family in the course of the day, with
orders to wait for him at a distant village
of the Vega. As the night advanced, he
conveyed his treasure to the vault under
the tower, and having loaded his mule,
he led it forth, and cautiously descended
the dusky avenue.
Honest Lope had taken his measures
with the utmost secrecy, imparting them
to no one but the faithful wife of his bosom.
By some miraculous revelation,
however, they became known to Fray
Simon. The zealous friar beheld these
infidel treasures on the point of slipping
for ever out of his grasp, and determined
to have one more dash at them for the
benefit of the church and San Francisco.
Accordingly, when the bells had rung for
animas, and all the Alhambra was quiet,
he stole out of his convent, and, descending
through the Gate of Justice, concealed
himself among the thickets of roses
and laurels that border the great avenue.
Here he remained, counting the quarters
of hours as they were sounded on the
bell of the watchtower, and listening to
the dreary hootings of owls and the
distant barking of dogs from the gipsy
caverns.
At length he heard the tramp of hoofs,
and, through the gloom of the overshadowing
trees, imperfectly beheld a steed
descending the avenue. The sturdy friar
chuckled at the idea of the knowing turn
he was about to serve honest Lope.
Tucking up the skirts of his habit, and
wriggling like a cat watching a mouse,
he waited until his prey was directly before
him, when darting forth from his
leafy covert, and putting one hand on
the shoulder and the other on the crupper,
he made a vault that would not have
disgraced the most experienced master of
equitation, and alighted well-forked astride
the steed. "Aha!" said the sturdy friar,
"we shall now see who best understands
the game." He had scarce uttered the
words when the mule began to kick, and
speed down the hill. The friar attempted
to check him, but in vain. He bounded
from rock to rock, and bush to bush;
the friar's habit was torn to ribbands and
fluttered in the wind, his shaven poll
received many a hard knock from the
branches of the trees, and many a scratch
from the brambles. To add to his terror
and distress, he found a pack of seven
hounds in full cry at his heels, and perceived
too late, that he was actually
mounted upon the terrible Belludo!
Away then they went, according to
the ancient phrase, "pull devil, pull
friar," down the great avenue, across the
Plaza Nueva, along the Zacatin, around
the Vivarrambla—never did huntsman
and bound make a more furious run, or
more infernal uproar. In vain did the
friar invoke every saint in the calendar,
and the Holy Virgin into the bargain;
every time he mentioned a name of the
kind, it was like a fresh application of
the spur, and made the Belludo bound as
high as a house. Through the remainder
of the night was the unlucky Fray Simon
carried hither and thither, and whither
he would not, until every bone in his
body ached, and he suffered a loss of
leather too grievous to be mentioned. At
length the crowing of a cock gave the
signal of returning day. At the sound
the goblin steed wheeled about, and galloped
back for his tower. Again he
scoured the Vivarrambla, the Zacatin,
the Plaza Nueva, and the avenue of
fountains, the seven dogs yelling, and
barking, and leaping up, and snapping
at the heels of the terrified friar. The
first streak of day had just appeared as
they reached the tower; here the goblin
steed kicked up his heels, sent the friar
a somerset through the air, plunged into
the dark vault, followed by the infernal
pack, and a profound silence succeeded
to the late deafening clamour.
Was ever so diabolical a trick played
off upon a holy friar? A peasant going
to his labours at early dawn found the
unfortunate Fray Simon lying under a
fig-tree at the foot of the tower, but so
bruised and bedevilled that he could
neither speak nor move. He was conveyed
with all care and tenderness to his
cell, and the story went that he had been
waylaid and maltreated by robbers. A
day or two elapsed before he recovered
the use of his limbs; he consoled himself,
in the mean time, with the thought
that though the mule with the treasure
had escaped him, he had previously had
some rare pickings at the infidel spoils.
His first care on being able to use his
limbs, was to search beneath his pallet,
where he had secreted the myrtle wreath
and the leathern pouches of gold extracted
from the piety of dame Sanchez.
What was his dismay at finding the
wreath, in effect, but a withered branch
of myrtle, and the leathern pouches filled
with sand and gravel?
Fray Simon, with all his chagrin, had
the discretion to hold his tongue, for to
betray the secret might draw on him the
ridicule of the public, and the punishment
of his superior: it was not until many
years afterwards, on his death-bed, that
he revealed to his confessor his nocturnal
ride on the Belludo.
Nothing was heard of Lope Sanchez
for a long time after his disappearance
from the Alhambra. His memory was
always cherished as that of a merry
companion, though it was feared, from
the care and melancholy observed in his
conduct shortly before his mysterious
departure, that poverty and distress had
driven him to some extremity. Some
years afterwards one of his old companions,
an invalid soldier, being at Malaga,
was knocked down and nearly run over
by a coach and six. The carriage stopped;
an old gentleman magnificently
dressed, with a bag wig and sword,
stepped out to assist the poor invalid.
What was the astonishment of the letter
to behold in this grand cavalier his old
friend Lope Sanchez, who was actually
celebrating the marriage of his daughter
Sanchica with one of the first grandees
in the land!
The carriage contained the bridal
party. There was dame Sanchez, now
grown as round as a barrel, and dressed
out with feathers and jewels, and necklaces
of pearls and necklaces of diamonds,
and rings on every finger, and
altogether a finery of apparel that had
not been seen since the days of the
Queen of Sheba. The little Sanchica
had now grown to be a woman, and for
for a duchess, if not a princess
outright. The bridegroom sat beside her
—rather a withered, spindle-shanked little
man, but this only proved him to be
of the true blood; a legitimate Spanish
grandee being rarely above three cubits
in stature. The match had been of the
mother's making.
Riches had not spoiled the heart of
honest Lope. He kept his old comrade
with him for several days; feasted him
like a king, took him to plays and bullfights,
and at length sent him away rejoicing,
with a big bag of money for himself,
and another to be distributed among
his ancient messmates of the Alhambra.
Lope always gave out that a rich brother
had died in America and left him
heir to a copper mine; but the shrewd
gossips of the Alhambra insist that his
wealth was all derived from his having
discovered the secret guarded by the two
marble Nymphs of the Alhambra. It is
remarked, that these very discreet statues
continue, even unto the present day, with
their eyes fixed most significantly on the
same part of the wall; which leads many
to suppose there is still some hidden
treasure remaining there well worthy the
attention of the enterprising traveller.
Though others, and particularly all female
visiters, regard them with great
complacency, as lasting monuments of
the fact that women can keep a secret.
MUHAMED ABU ALAHMAR,
THE
FOUNDER OF THE ALHAMBRA.
Having dealt so freely in the marvellous
legends of the Alhambra, I feel as if
bound to give the reader a few facts
concerning its sober history, or rather
the history of those magnificent princes,
its founder and finisher, to whom the
world is indebted for so beautiful and
romantic an Oriental monument. To
obtain these facts, I descended from the
region of fancy and fable where every
thing is liable to take an imaginative tint,
and carried my researches among the
dusty tomes of the old Jesuits' library in
the university. This once boasted repository
of erudition is now a mere shadow
of its former self, having been stript of
its manuscripts and rarest works by the
French, when masters of Granada. Still
it contains, among many ponderous tomes
of polemics of the Jesuit fathers, several
curious tracts of Spanish literature; and
above all, a number of those antiquated,
dusty, parchment-bound chronicles, for
which I have a peculiar veneration.
In this old library I have passed many
delightful hours of quiet, undisturbed literary
foraging, for the keys of the doors
and book-cases were kindly entrusted to
me, and I was left alone to rummage at
my leisure—a rare indulgence in these
sanctuaries of learning, which too often
tantalize the thirsty student with the
sight of sealed fountains of knowledge.
In the course of these visits I gleaned
the following particulars concerning the
historical characters in question.
The Moors of Granada regarded the
Alhambra as a miracle of art, and had a
tradition that the king who founded it
dealt in magic, or, at least, was versed
in alchemy, by means whereof he procured
the immense sums of gold expended
in its erection. A brief view of his reign
will show the real secret of his wealth.
The name of this monarch, as inscribed
on the walls of some of the
apartments, was Abu Abd'allah (i. e. the
father of Abdallah), but he is commonly
known in the Moorish history as Muhamed
Abu Alahmar (or Muhamed, son
of Alahmar), or simply, Abu Alahmar,
for the sake of brevity.
He was born in Arjoun, in the year
of the Hegira 591, of the Christian era
1195, of the noble family of the Beni
Nasar, or children of Nasar, and no expense
was spared by his parents to fit
him for the high station to which the
opulence and dignity of his family entitled
him. The Saracens of Spain were
greatly advanced in civilization, every
principal city was a seat of learning and
the arts, so that it was easy to command
the most enlightened instructers for a
youth of rank and fortune. Abu Alahmar,
when he arrived at manly years,
was appointed alcayde or governor of
Arjoua and Jaen, and gained great popularity
by his benignity and justice.
Abu Hud, the Moorish power in Spain
was broken into factions, and many
places declared for Muhamed Abu Alahmar.
Being of a sanguine spirit, and
lofty ambition, he seized upon the occasion,
made a circuit through the country,
and was every where received with acclamations.
It was in the year 1238,
that he entered Granada amidst the enthusiastic
shouts of the multitude. He
was proclaimed king with every demonstration
of joy, and soon became the head
of the Moslems in Spain, being the first
of the illustrious line of Beni Nasar, that
had sat upon the throne. His reign was
such as to render him a blessing to his
subjects. He gave the command of his
various cities to such as had distinguished
themselves by valour and prudence, and
who seemed most acceptable to the people.
He organized a vigilant police, and
established rigid rules for the administration
of justice. The poor and the distressed
always found ready admission to
his presence, and he attended personally
to their assistance and redress. He
erected hospitals for the blind, the aged,
and infirm, and all those incapable of
labour, and visited them frequently; not
on set days, with pomp and form, so as
to give time for every thing to be put in
order, and every abuse concealed, but
suddenly and unexpectedly, informing
himself, by actual observation and close
inquiry, of the treatment of the sick, and
the conduct of those appointed to administer
to their relief. He founded schools
and colleges, which he visited in the same
manner, inspecting personally the instruction
of the youth. He established
butcheries and public ovens, that the
people might be furnished with wholesome
provisions at just and regular
prices. He introduced abundant streams
of water into the city, erecting baths and
fountains, and constructing aqueducts and
canals to irrigate and fertilize the Vega.
By these means prosperity and abundance
prevailed in this beautiful city, its gates
were thronged with commerce, and its
warehouses filled with luxuries and merchandise
of every clime and country.
While Muhamed Abu Alahmar was
ruling his fair domains thus wisely and
prosperously, he was suddenly menaced
by the horrors of war. The Christians
at that time, profiting by the dismemberment
of the Moslem power, were rapidly
regaining their ancient territories. James
the Conqueror had subjected all Valencia,
and Ferdinand the Saint was carrying
his victorious arms into Andalusia. The
latter invested the city of Jaen, and swore
not to raise his camp until he had gained
possession of the place. Muhamed Abu
Alahmar was conscious of the insufficiency
of his means to carry on a war
with the potent sovereign of Castile.
Taking a sudden resolution, therefore,
he repaired privately to the Christian
camp, and made his unexpected appearance
in the presence of King Ferdinand.
"In me," said he, "you behold Muhamed,
king of Granada; I confide in
your good faith, and put myself under
your protection. Take all I possess, and
receive me as your vassal." So saying,
he knelt and kissed the king's hand in
token of submission.
King Ferdinand was touched by this
instance of confiding faith, and determined
not to be outdone in generosity.
He raised his late rival from the earth,
and embraced him as a friend, nor would
he accept the wealth he offered, but received
him as a vassal, leaving him
sovereign of his dominions, on condition
of paying a yearly tribute, attending the
Cortes as one of the nobles of the empire,
and serving him in war with a certain
number of horsemen.
It was not long after this that Muhamed
was called upon for his military services,
to aid King Ferdinand in his famous
siege of Seville. The Moorish king sallied
forth with five hundred chosen horsemen
of Granada, than whom none in the
world knew better how to manage the
steed or wield the lance. It was a melancholy
and humiliating service, however,
for they had to draw the sword
against their brethren of the faith.
Muhamed gained a melancholy distinction
by his prowess in this renowned
conquest, but more true honour by the
humanity which he prevailed upon Ferdinand
to introduce into the usages of
war. When in 1248 the famous city of
Seville surrendered to the Castilian monarch,
Muhamed returned sad and full
of care to his dominions. He saw the
cause; and uttered an ejaculation often
used by him in moments of anxiety and
trouble—"How straitened and wretched
would be our life, if our hope were not
so spacious and extensive!"
"Que angosta y miserabile seria nuestra
vida, sino fuera tan dilatada y espaciosa
nuestra esperanza!"
When the melancholy conqueror approached
his beloved Granada, the people
thronged forth to see him with impatient
joy; for they loved him as a benefactor.
They had erected arches of triumph in
honour of his martial exploits, and
wherever he passed he was hailed with
acclamations as El Ghalib, or the Conqueror.
Muhamed shook his head when
he heard the appellation. "Wa la ghalib
ila Allah!" exclaimed he. (There is
no conqueror but God!) From that time
forward he adopted this exclamation as a
motto.
He inscribed it on an oblique band
across his escutcheon, and it continued
to be the motto of his descendants.
Muhamed had purchased peace by
submission to the Christian yoke; but
he knew that where the elements were
so discordant, and the motives for hostility
so deep and ancient, it could not be
secure or permanent. Acting therefore
upon an old maxim, "Arm thyself in
peace, and clothe thyself in summer," he
improved the present interval of tranquillity
by fortifying his dominions and
replenishing his arsenals, and by promoting
those useful arts which give
wealth and real power to an empire.
He gave premiums and privileges to the
best artisans; improved the breed of
horses and other domestic animals; encouraged
husbandry; and increased the
natural fertility of the soil two-fold by
his protection, making the lovely valleys
of his kingdom to bloom like gardens.
He fostered also the growth and fabrication
of silk, until the looms of Granada
surpassed even those of Syria in the
fineness and beauty of their productions.
He moreover caused the mines of gold
and silver and other metals, found in the
mountainous regions of his dominions,
to be diligently worked, and was the
first king of Granada who struck money
of gold and silver with his name, taking
great care that the coins should be skilfully
executed.
It was about this time, towards the
middle of the thirteenth century, and
just after his return from the siege of
Seville, that he commenced the splendid
palace of the Alhambra; superintending
the building of it in person, mingling frequently
among the artists and workmen,
and directing their labours.
Though thus magnificent in his works
and great in his enterprises, he was simple
in his person and moderate in his
enjoyments. His dress was not merely
void of splendour, but so plain as not to
distinguish him from his subjects. His
harem boasted but few beauties, and
these he visited but seldom, though they
were entertained with great magnificence.
His wives were daughters of the principal
nobles, and were treated by him as
friends and rational companions. What
is more, he managed to make them live
as friends with one another. He passed
much of his time in his gardens; especially
in those of the Alhambra, which
he had stored with the rarest plants and
the most beautiful and aromatic flowers.
Here he delighted himself in reading histories,
or in causing them to be read and
related to him, and sometimes, in intervals
of leisure, employed himself in the
instruction of his three sons, for whom
he had provided the most learned and
virtuous masters.
As he had frankly and voluntarily
offered himself a tributary vassal to Ferdinand,
so he always remained loyal to
his word, giving him repeated proofs
of fidelity and attachment. When that
renowned monarch died in Seville, in
1254, Muhamed Abu Alahmar sent ambassadors
to condole with his successor
Alonso X., and with them a gallant train
of a hundred Moorish cavaliers of distinguished
rank, who were to attend,
each bearing a lighted taper, round the
bier, during the funeral ceremonies.
This grand testimonial of respect was
repeated by the Moslem monarch during
the remainder of his life on each anniversary
of the death of King Ferdinand
el Santo, when the hundred Moorish
knights repaired from Granada to Seville,
and took their stations with lighted
tapers in the centre of the sumptuous
illustrious deceased.
Muhamed Abu Alahmar retained his
faculties and vigour to an advanced age.
In his seventy-ninth year he took the
field on horseback, accompanied by the
flower of his chivalry, to resist an invasion
of his territories. As the army
sallied forth from Granada, one of the
principal adalides, or guides, who rode
in the advance, accidentally broke his
lance against the arch of the gate. The
councillors of the king, alarmed by this
circumstance, which was considered an
evil omen, entreated him to return.
Their supplications were in vain. The
king persisted, and at noontide the omen,
say the Moorish chroniclers was fatally
fulfilled. Muhamed was suddenly struck
with illness, and had nearly fallen from
his horse. He was placed on a litter,
and borne back towards Granada, but
his illness increased to such a degree
that they were obliged to pitch his tent
in the Vega. His physicians were filled
with consternation, not knowing what
remedy to prescribe. In a few hours he
died, vomiting blood and in violent convulsions.
The Castilian prince, Don
Philip, brother of Alonso X., was by his
side when he expired. His body was embalmed,
enclosed in a silver coffin, and
buried in the Alhambra in a sepulchre
of precious marble, amidst the unfeigned
lamentations of his subjects, who bewailed
him as a parent.
Such was the enlightened patriot prince
who founded the Alhambra, whose name
remains emblazoned among its most delicate
and graceful ornaments, and whose
memory is calculated to inspire the loftiest
associations in those who tread these
lading scenes of his magnificence and
glory. Though his undertakings were
vast, and his expenditures immense, yet
his treasury was always full; and this
seeming contradiction gave rise to the
story that he was versed in magic art,
and possessed of the secret for transmuting
baser metals into gold. Those
who have attended to his domestic policy,
as here set forth, will easily understand
the natural magic and simple alchemy
which made his ample treasury to overflow.
YUSEF ABUL HAGIG,
THE
FINISHER OF THE ALHAMBRA.
Beneath the governor's apartment in
the Alhambra, is the royal mosque,
where the Moorish monarchs performed
their private devotions. Though consecrated
as a Catholic chapel, it still bears
traces of its Moslem origin; the Saracenic
columns with their gilded capitals,
and the latticed gallery for the females
of the harem, may yet be seen, and the
escutcheons of the Moorish kings are
mingled on the walls with those of the
Castilian sovereigns.
In this consecrated place perished the
illustrious Yusef Abul Hagig, the high-minded
prince who completed the Alhambra,
and who for his virtues and endowments,
deserves almost equal renown
with its magnanimous founder. It is with
pleasure I draw forth from the obscurity
in which it has too long remained, the
name of another of those princes of a
departed and almost forgotten race, who
reigned in elegance and splendour in
Andalusia, when all Europe was in comparative
barbarism.
Yusef Abul Hagig, (or, as it is sometimes
written, Haxis) ascended the throne
of Granada in the year 1333, and his
personal appearance and mental qualities
were such, as to win all hearts, and to
awaken anticipations of a beneficent and
prosperous reign. He was of a noble
presence, and great bodily strength,
united to manly beauty; his complexion
was exceeding fair, and, according to the
Arabian chroniclers, he heightened the
gravity and majesty of his appearance
by suffering his beard to grow to a dignified
length, and dyeing it black. He
had an excellent memory, well stored
with science and erudition; he was of a
lively genius, and accounted the best poet
of his time, and his manners were gentle,
affable, and urbane. Yusef possessed
the courage common to all generous
spirits, but his genius was more calculated
for peace than war, and though
obliged to take up arms repeatedly in his
time, he was generally unfortunate. He
carried the benignity of his nature into
warfare, prohibiting all wanton cruelty,
women and children, the aged
and infirm, and all friars and persons of
holy and recluse life. Among other ill-starred
enterprises, he undertook a great
campaign, in conjunction with the King of
Morocco, against the kings of Castile
and Portugal, but was defeated in the
memorable battle of Salado; a disastrous
reverse, which had nearly proved a
death-blow to the Moslem power in
Spain.
Yusef obtained a long truce after this
defeat, during which time he devoted
himself to the instruction of his people,
and the improvement of their morals
and manners. For this purpose he had
established schools in all the villages,
with simple and uniform systems of education;
he obliged every hamlet of more
than twelve houses to have a mosque,
and prohibited various abuses and indecorums
that had been introduced into the
ceremonies of religion and the festivals
and public amusements of the people.
He attended vigilantly to the police of
the city, establishing nocturnal guards
and patrols, and superintending all municipal
concerns. His attention was also
directed towards finishing the great architectural
works commenced by his predecessors,
and erecting others on his own
plans. The Alhambra, which had been
founded by the good Abu Alahmar, was
now completed. Yusef constructed the
beautiful Gate of Justice, forming the
grand entrance to the fortress, which he
finished in 1348. He likewise adorned
many of the courts and halls of the
palace, as may be seen by the inscriptions
on the walls, in which his name
repeatedly occurs. He built also the
noble Alcazar or citadel of Malaga, now
unfortunately a mere mass of crumbling
ruins, but which most probably exhibited
in its interior, similar elegance and magnificence
with the Alhambra.
The genius of a sovereign stamps a
character upon his time. The nobles of
Granada, imitating the elegant and graceful
taste of Yusef, soon filled the city of
Granada with magnificent palaces; the
halls of which were paved with mosaic,
the walls and ceilings wrought in fretwork,
and delicately gilded and painted
with azure, vermilion, and other brilliant
colours, or minutely inlaid with cedar
and other precious woods; specimens of
which have survived, in all their lustre,
the lapse of several centuries. Many of
the houses had fountains, which threw
up jets of water to refresh and cool the
air. They had lofty towers also, of wood
or stone, curiously carved and ornamented,
and covered with plates of metal that
glittered in the sun. Such was the refined
and delicate taste in architecture
that prevailed among this elegant people:
insomuch that to use the beautiful simile
of an Arabian writer, "Granada in the
days of Yusef was as a silver vase,
filled with emeralds and jacynths."
One anecdote will be sufficient to show
the magnanimity of this generous prince.
The long truce which had succeeded
the battle of Salado was at an end, and
every effort of Yusef to renew it was in
vain. His deadly foe Alonso XI. of
Castile took the field with great force,
and laid siege to Gibraltar. Yusef reluctantly
took up arms and sent troops
to the relief of the place; when in the
midst of his anxiety, he received tidings
that his dreaded foe had suddenly fallen
a victim to the plague. Instead of manifesting
exultation on the occasion, Yusef
called to mind the great qualities of the
deceased, and was touched with a noble
sorrow. "Alas!" cried he, "the world
has lost one of its most excellent princes;
a sovereign who knew how to honour
merit, whether in friend or foe!"
The Spanish chroniclers themselves
bear witness to this magnanimity. According
to their accounts, the Moorish
cavaliers partook of the sentiment of their
king, and put on mourning for the death
of Alonso. Even those of Gibraltar who
had been so closely invested, when they
knew that the hostile monarch lay dead
in his camp, determined among themselves
that no hostile movement should
be made against the Christians. The
day on which the camp was broken up,
and the army departed bearing the corpse
of Alonzo, the Moors issued in multitudes
from Gibraltar, and stood mute and melancholy,
watching the mournful pageant.
The same reverence for the deceased was
observed by all the Moorish commanders
on the frontiers, who suffered the funeral
train to pass in safety, bearing the corpse
to Seville.[1]
Yusef did not long survive the enemy
he had so generously deplored. In the
year 1354, as he was one day praying
in the royal mosque of the Alhambra, a
maniac rushed suddenly from behind and
plunged a dagger in his side. The cries
of the king brought his guards and courtiers
to his assistance. They found him
weltering in his blood, and in convulsions.
He was borne to the royal apartments,
but expired almost immediately.
The murderer was cut to pieces, and his
limbs burnt in public to gratify the fury
of the populace.
The body of the king was interred in
a superb sepulchre of white marble, a
long epitaph in letters of gold upon an
azure ground recorded his virtues. "Here
lies a king and a martyr, of an illustrious
line, gentle, learned, and virtuous; renowned
for the graces of his person and
his manners, whose elemency, piety, and
benevolence, were extolled throughout
the kingdom of Granada. He was a great
prince; an illustrious captain; a sharp
sword of the Moslem; a valiant standard-bearer
among the most potent monarchs,"
etc.
The mosque still remains which once
resounded with the dying cries of Yusef,
but the monument which recorded his
virtues has long since disappeared. His
name, however, remains inscribed among
the ornaments of the Alhambra, and will
be perpetuated in connexion with this renowned
pile, which it was his pride and
delight to beautify.
"Y los Moros que estaban en la villa y castillo
de Gibraltar, despaes que sopicron que el Rey Don
Alonso era muerto, ordenaron entre si que ninguno
nua fuesse osado de fazer ningun movimiento contrz
los Christianos, nin mover pelea contra ellos,
estovieron todos quedos, y dezian entre ellos que
squel dia muriera un noble rey y gran principe del
mundo."
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