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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

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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 in those chiefly among the orchards and gardens
which surround the habitations of man.

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 watch-tower; a strong-hold,
in old times, against civil war, or Moorish inroad;

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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
is noble in its severity, and in unison with 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
possess, in some degree, 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;

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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

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his saddle-bow, contains wine or water, for a supply
across barren mountains and thirsty plains.
A mule-cloth spread upon the ground, his bed at
night, and his pack-saddle 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 à
usted!” “Va usted con Dios, Caballero!” “God
guard you!” “God be with you, Cavalier!”

As these men have often their whole fortune at
stake upon the burden of their mules, they have
their weapons at hand, slung to their saddles, and
ready to be snatched 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 stock
of songs and ballads, with which to beguile his incessant
wayfaring. The airs are rude and simple,
consisting of but few inflexions. These he chants
forth with a loud voice, and long, drawling

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cadence, seated sideways on his mule, who seems to
listen with infinite gravity, and to keep time, with
his paces, to the tune. The couplets thus chanted,
are often old traditional romances about the Moors,
or some legend of a saint, or some love-ditty; or
what is still more frequent, some ballad about a
bold contrabandista, or hardy 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 ditties 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

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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
were 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 valley, 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 watch-towers 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

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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
barrancos, 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 stones at some
lonely part of the road, admonishes the traveller
that he is among the haunts of banditti, perhaps at
that very moment under the eye of some lurking
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.
I have felt, if I may so express it, an agreeable
horror in thus contemplating, near at hand, 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

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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.

I have been betrayed unconsciously into a
longer disquisition than I had intended on the
general features of Spanish travelling; but there
is a romance about all the recollections of the
Peninsula that is dear to the imagination.

It was on the first of May that my companion
and myself set forth from Seville on our route to
Granada. We had made all due preparations for
the nature of our journey, which lay through
mountainous regions, where the roads are little better
than mere mule-paths, and too frequently beset
by robbers. The most valuable part of our luggage
had been forwarded by the arrieros; we retained
merely clothing and necessaries for the
journey, and money for the expenses of the road,
with a sufficient surplus of the latter to satisfy the
expectations of robbers should we be assailed, and
to save ourselves from the rough treatment that
awaits the too wary and empty-handed traveller.
A couple of stout hired steeds were provided for
ourselves, 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

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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 vain-glorious boast,
though, to the discredit of his generalship, I must
say that it generally hung unloaded behind his
saddle. He was, however, a faithful, cheery, kind-hearted
creature, as 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 common-place;
but give me the rude mountain scramble,
the roving, hap-hazard wayfaring, the frank,

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hospitable, though half-wild manners, that impart
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,

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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, Señors; 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 Drawcansir
friend, we heard the notes of a guitar, and the
click of castañets, and presently a chorus of voices
singing a popular air. In fact mine host had
gathered together the amateur singers and musicians,
and the rustic belles of the neighbourhood,
and on going forth, the court-yard of the inn presented
a scene of true Spanish festivity. We took
our seats with mine host and hostess and the commander
of the patrol, under the archway of the
court; the guitar passed from hand to hand, but
a jovial shoemaker was the Orpheus of the place.

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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

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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 alforgas, 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,

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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.

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Nothing pleased the simple-hearted varlet more
than to be compared, for his devotion to the
trencher, to the renowned Squire of Don Quixote.
He was well versed in the history of the Don, and,
like most of the common people of Spain, he
firmly believed it to be a true history.

“All that, however, happened a long time ago,
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 grey 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 sheep-skin 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

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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, señors,” 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 a
hidalgo. There was altogether a measured manner
and a quiet self-possession about the old man, that
made me think that he had seen better days: his

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language, too, though simple, had occasionally something
picturesque and almost poetical in the
phraseology. I set him down for some brokendown
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 seventynine
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. “Perdon usted por Dios hermano!”
(Excuse us, brother, for God's sake!) was the
reply—the usual mode in Spain of refusing a

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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:—
`Perdon usted por Dios hermano!'—and the window
closed. I crept 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 grey hairs, took me into his
house, and gave me food. So, señors, 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

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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, señors, 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

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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 scene 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 strong-hold of old Aliatar, 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

[figure description] Page 028.[end figure description]

situated in a broken mountain-pass, on the banks
of the Genil, 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 basquiña 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 chesnut
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
round his neck, gathered through a ring, on
the bosom of a neatly-plaited shirt; a sash round
the waste to match; bottinas, or spatterdashes, of
the finest russet-leather, elegantly worked, and

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open at the calf to show his stocking; and russetshoes,
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 broadmouthed
blunderbusses hung behind the saddle.
He had the air of one of those contrabandistas
that I have seen in the mountains of Ronda, and
evidently had a good understanding with the
brother of mine hostess; nay, if I mistake not, he
was a 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

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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 moustaches,
and had something of a lofty swaggering air.
Every one seemed to regard him with great
deference.

Our man Sancho whispered to us that he was
Don Ventura Rodriguez, the hero and champion
of Loxa, famous for his prowess and the strength
of his arm. In the time of the French invasion 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 poseta (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

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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 terra! 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 moneycoiners
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
midday's repast under a grove of olive-trees, on

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the borders of a rivulet, with the old Moorish
capital in the distance, surmounted 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 ring-doves
from the neighbouring olive-trees. When the
sultry hours were past, we resumed our journey;
and after passing between hedges of aloes and
Indian figs, and through a wilderness of gardens,
arrived about 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 and war and chivalry,
are associated with this romantic pile! The
reader may judge, therefore, of our delight, when,
shortly after our arrival in Granada, the governor
of the Alhambra gave us his permission to occupy

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his vacant apartments in the Moorish palace. My
companion was soon summoned away by the duties
of his station; but I remained for several
months, spell-bound in the old enchanted pile.
The following papers are the result of my reveries
and researches during that delicious thraldom. If
they have the power of imparting any of the
witching charms of the place to the imagination of
the reader, he will not repine at lingering with
me for a season in the legendary halls of the
Alhambra.

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p226-038

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