p220-288 VISITORS TO THE ALHAMBRA.

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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

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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

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indulged in the luxury of the baths. A soft mysterious
light reigns through the place, the broken
baths are still there, and traces of ancientelegance.

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 and seclusion of a
grotto, I have of late passed the sultry hours of
the day; emerging toward 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

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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
measure 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 region 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

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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, his
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 infantine 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

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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 country-women,
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 fete 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 relations, to the right
and left, became gradually entailed upon the

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family. Hence the huge palaces of the Spanish
nobility, 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 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 fete 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

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a feast, was laid in the beautiful moresco hall
called “la sala de las 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:

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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 imprompiu 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 regards 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.

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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 Castanets,
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 of those
that most struck me, I will endeavour to shape
forth some entertainment for the reader.

p220-298 LEGEND OF PRINCE AHMED AL KAMEL, OR THE PILGRIM OF LOVE.

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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

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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 a 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 Ebon Bonabbon,
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 is to be kept
utterly ignorant of love—“use every precaution
for the purpose you may think proper,” said the
king, “but remember, oh Ebon Bonabbon, if
my son learns aught of that forbidden knowledge,
while under your care, your head shall

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answer for it.” A withered smile came over the
dry visage of the wise Bonabbon 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 Ebon Bonabbon, 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 councillor. He suppressed
his yawns, and listened patiently to the
long and learned discourses of Ebon Bonabbon,
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

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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 Ebon Bonabbon 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 Ebon Bonabbon shook his dry head
at the words. “Here's 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 of feelings
of which he knew not the cause. Sometimes
he would sit plunged in a delicious reverie;
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

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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 Ebon Bonabbon 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

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mentioned. Fortunately Ebon Benabbon 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 carnage,
and desperate exploits.

His next acquaintance was an owl, a mighty
wise looking bird, with a large 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

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metaphysics, and the prince found his prosings
were more ponderous than those of the sage
Ebon Bonabbon.

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.

Beside 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 spake so little to the head
and nothing to the heart; and gradually relapsed

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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—chaunted forth and responded
to in every variety 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

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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. In a word, 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 villainy 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

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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. “Oh
sage Ebon Bonabbon,” 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 then, oh most profound of sages,
what is the nature of this thing called love?”

The sage Ebon Bonabbon was struck as with

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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, oh Ebon Bonabbon!” 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 theme. “Allah Achbar!
God is great!” exclaimed the wise Bonabbon.
“Who shall pretend to keep this secret from the
hearts of men when even the birds of the air conspire
to betray it?”

Then turning to Ahmed, “Oh 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 of strife between brethren
and friends; which causes treacherous murder
and desolating war. Care and sorrow, weary
days and sleepless nights, are its attendants. It

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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 Ebon Bonabbon 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 teased 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 a
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 the 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

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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 spring-time—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,

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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, Ebon Bonabbon, 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 yon
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

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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
spring-time. Why should I make thee a fellow
prisoner in this dreary tower, where love can never
enter?”

The dove flapped its wings in rapture, gave
one vault into 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 Bonabbon. “Why hast thou kept me in this

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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 Bonabbon saw that all further reserve
was useless, for the prince had acquired
the dangerous and forbidden 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. Beside, he really was attached
to the sage Bonabbon, and being as yet but theoretically
acquainted with the passion of love, he

[figure description] Page 071.[end figure description]

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 fondled it to his breast. “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 wide 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 meandering 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

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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 as 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 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.

“A way, trustiest of messengers,” said he. “Fly
over mountain, and valley, and river, and plain;

[figure description] Page 073.[end figure description]

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 taking his
course darted away in one 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
lingerings 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 an approval of his passion? Unfortunately,
the death of the faithful dove left every
thing in mystery and doubt.

[figure description] Page 074.[end figure description]

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
in an almost 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

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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
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 these 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

[figure description] Page 076.[end figure description]

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 arel ost 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 upon 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

[figure description] Page 077.[end figure description]

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 became 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

[figure description] Page 078.[end figure description]

advice, and accordingly bent his course toward
Seville. He travelled only in the night, to accommodate
his companion, and lay by during the day
in some dark cavern or mouldering watch-tower,
for the owl knew every hiding hole of the kind
in the country, and had a most antiquarian taste
for ruins.

At length, one morning at day-break 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 known
at the present day 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, grey-headed
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, and poring with his remaining eye on a
diagram described on the pavement.

The prince approached him with the awe and

[figure description] Page 079.[end figure description]

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 council 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 black-eyed
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

[figure description] Page 080.[end figure description]

gravely, “I am on none such light and vagrant
errand as thou dost insinuate. The black-eyed
damsels of Andalusia who dance among the
orange groves of the Guadalquiver, are as naught
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 the reach of thy art, inform
me where she may be found.”

The gray-headed raven was rebuked by the
gravity of the prince. “What know I,” replied
he dryly, “of youth and beauty? My visits are
to the old and withered, not the young 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 am I to 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.

[figure description] Page 081.[end figure description]

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 you will find a great traveller,
who has visited all countries and courts, and been
a favourite with queens and princesses. He will
give you tidings of the object of your search.”

“Many thanks for this precious information,”
said the prince. “Farewell, most venerable conjurer.”

“Farewell, pilgrim of love,” said the raven
dryly, and again fell 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 Guadalquiver. When arrived at its
gates the owl flew 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

[figure description] Page 082.[end figure description]

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 by-standers,
“that so many grave persons can be delighted
with the garrulity of a chattering bird?”

“You know not of whom you speak,” 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 foreign courts,
where he has been considered an oracle of

[figure description] Page 083.[end figure description]

erudition. He has been a universal favourite also with
the fair sex, who have a vast admiration for erudite
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 mirth,” 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. “Pry'thee 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 court, he affects the
wit and the fine gentleman; he knows nothing of
the thing called love.

[figure description] Page 084.[end figure description]

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
birth-day, 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.

[figure description] Page 085.[end figure description]

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 post 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 sçavant,
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

[figure description] Page 086.[end figure description]

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, could 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 the owl
considered a grievous invasion of his dignity, and
would scowl, and sulk, and swell, and sit 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

[figure description] Page 087.[end figure description]

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 those venerable domes
and towers, hoary 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 ancestors?
Behold, what is more to the purpose, behold the
abode of youth and beauty,—behold, at length, oh
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,”

[figure description] Page 088.[end figure description]

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. “Oh most
accomplished of birds,” said he, “thou hast the
gift of human speech. Hie thee to yon 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 over-hung
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 cheek.

Pluming his wings for a moment, adjusting his
bright green coat, and elevating his topknot, the
parrot perched himself beside her with a gallant
air; then assuming a tenderness of tone,—

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