University of Virginia Library

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

possible to realize the idea that but a
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

a lingering gleam of daylight; its
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

was nothing like the city he had left a
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.