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It is time that I give some idea of my domestic
arrangements in this singular residence. The
Royal Palace of the Alhambra is intrusted to the
care of a good old maiden dame, called Doña Antonio
Molina; but who, according to Spanish custom,
goes by the more neighbourly appellation of
Tia Antonia, (Aunt Antonia.) She maintains the
Moorish halls and gardens in order, and shows
them to strangers; in consideration of which she
is allowed all the perquisites received from visiters,
and all the produce of the gardens, excepting, that
she is expected to pay an occasional tribute of
fruits and flowers to the Governor. Her residence
is in a corner of the palace; and her family consists
of a nephew and niece, the children of two
different brothers. The nephew, Manuel Molina,
is a young man of sterling worth, and Spanish
gravity. He has served in the armies both in
Spain and the West Indies; but is now studying
medicine, in hopes of one day or other becoming
physician to the fortress, a post worth at least a
hundred and forty dollars a year. As to the niece,

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she is a plump little black-eyed Andalusian damsel,
named Dolores; but who, from her bright looks
and cheerful disposition, merits a merrier name.
She is the declared heiress of all her aunt's posses
sions, consisting of certain ruinous tenements in
the fortress, yielding a revenue of about one hundred
and fifty dollars. I had not been long in the
Alhambra, before I discovered that a quiet courtship
was going on between the discreet Manuel
and his bright-eyed cousin, and that nothing was
wanting to enable them to join their hands and
expectations, but that he should receive his doctor's
diploma, and purchase a dispensation from the
Pope, on account of their consanguinity.

With the good dame Antonia I have made a
treaty, according to which, she furnishes me with
board and lodging; while the merry-hearted little
Dolores keeps my apartment in order, and officiates
as handmaid at meal-times. I have also at my
command a tall, stuttering, yellow-haired lad,
named Pépe, who works in the gardens, and
would fain have acted as valet; but, in this, he
was forestalled by Mateo Ximenes, “the son of the
Alhambra.” This alert and officious wight has
managed, somehow or other, to stick by me ever
since I first encountered him at the outer gate of
the fortress, and to weave himself into all my

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plans, until he has fairly appointed and installed
himself my valet, cicerone, guide, guard, and historiographic
squire; and I have been obliged to
improve the state of his wardrobe, that he may not
disgrace his various functions; so that he has cast
his old brown mantle, as a snake does his skin,
and now appears about the fortress with a smart
Andalusian hat and jacket, to his infinite satisfaction,
and the great astonishment of his comrades.
The chief fault of honest Mateo is an over anxiety
to be useful. Conscious of having foisted himself
into my employ, and that my simple and quiet
habits render his situation a sinecure, he is at his
wit's ends to devise modes of making himself important
to my welfare. I am, in a manner, the
victim of his officiousness; I cannot put my foot
over the threshold of the palace, to stroll about
the fortress, but he is at my elbow, to explain
every thing I see; and if I venture to ramble
among the surrounding hills, he insists upon
attending me as a guard, though I vehemently
suspect he would be more apt to trust to the
length of his legs than the strength of his arms, in
case of attack. After all, however, the poor
fellow is at times an amusing companion; he is
simple-minded, and of infinite good humour, with
the loquacity and gossip of a village barber, and

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knows all the small-talk of the place and its
environs; but what he chiefly values himself on,
is his stock of local information, having the most
marvellous stories to relate of every tower, and
vault, and gateway of the fortress, in all of which
he places the most implicit faith.

Most of these he has derived, according to his
own account, from his grandfather, a little legendary
tailor, who lived to the age of nearly a hundred
years, during which he made but two migrations
beyond the precincts of the fortress. His
shop, for the greater part of a century, was the
resort of a knot of venerable gossips, where they
would pass half the night talking about old times,
and the wonderful events and hidden secrets of the
place. The whole living, moving, thinking, and
acting, of this historical little tailor, had thus been
bounded by the walls of the Alhambra; within
them he had been born, within them he lived,
breathed, and had his being; within them he
died, and was buried. Fortunately for posterity,
his traditionary lore died not with him. The
authentic Mateo, when an urchin, used to be an
attentive listener to the narratives of his grandfather,
and of the gossip group assembled round
the shopboard; and is thus possessed of a stock
of valuable knowledge concerning the Alhambra,

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not to be found in books, and well worthy the
attention of every curious traveller.

Such are the personages that contribute to my
domestic comforts in the Alhambra; and I question
whether any of the potentates, Moslem or
Christian, who have preceded me in the palace,
have been waited upon with greater fidelity, or
enjoyed a serener sway.

When I rise in the morning, Pépe, the stuttering
lad from the gardens, brings me a tribute of
fresh-culled flowers, which are afterwards arranged
in vases, by the skilful hand of Dolores, who
takes a female pride in the decorations of my
chamber. My meals are made wherever caprice
dictates; sometimes in one of the Moorish halls,
sometimes under the arcades of the Court of Lions,
surrounded by flowers and fountains: and when
I walk out, I am conducted by the assiduous Mateo,
to the most romantic retreats of the mountains,
and delicious haunts of the adjacent valleys, not
one of which but is the scene of some wonderful
tale.

Though fond of passing the greater part of my
day alone, yet I occasionally repair in the evenings
to the little domestic circle of Doña Antonia.
This is generally held in an old Moorish chamber,
that serves for kitchen as well as hall, a rude

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fireplace having been made in one corner, the smoke
from which has discoloured the walls, and almost
obliterated the ancient arabesques. A window,
with a balcony overhanging the valley of the Darro,
lets in the cool evening breeze; and here I take
my frugal supper of fruit and milk, and mingle
with the conversation of the family. There is a
natural talent or mother wit, as it is called, about
the Spaniards, which renders them intellectual and
agreeable companions, whatever may be their condition
in life, or however imperfect may have been
their education: add to this, they are never vulgar,
nature has endowed them with an inherent dignity
of spirit. The good Tia Antonio is a woman of
strong and intelligent, though uncultivated mind;
and the bright-eyed Dolores, though she has read
but three or four books in the whole course of her
life, has an engaging mixture of naïvetè and good
sense, and often surprises me by the pungency of
her artless sallies. Sometimes the nephew entertains
us by reading some old comedy of Calderon
or Lope de Vega, to which he is evidently prompted
by a desire to improve, as well as amuse his cousin
Dolores; though to his great mortification, the
little damsel generally falls asleep before the first
act is completed. Sometimes Tia Antonia has a
little levee of humble friends and dependents, the

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inhabitants of the adjacent hamlet, or the wives of
the invalid soldiers. These look up to her with
great deference, as the custodian of the palace, and
pay their court to her by bringing the news of the
place, or the rumours that may have straggled up
from Granada. In listening to these evening gossipings
I have picked up many curious facts, illustrative
of the manners of the people and the peculiarities
of the neighbourhood.

These are simple details of simple pleasures; it
is the nature of the place alone that gives them
interest and importance. I tread haunted ground,
and am surrounded by romantic associations.
From earliest boyhood, when, on the banks of the
Hudson, I first pored over the pages of an old
Spanish story about the wars of Granada, that city
has ever been a subject of my waking dreams;
and often have I trod in fancy the romantic halls
of the Alhambra. Behold for once a day-dream
realized; yet I can scarce credit my senses, or believe
that I do indeed inhabit the palace of Boabdil,
and look down from its balconies upon chivalric
Granada. As I loiter through these Oriental chambers,
and hear the murmur of fountains and the
song of the nightingale; as I inhale the odour of
the rose, and feel the influence of the balmy

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climate, I am almost tempted to fancy myself in the
paradise of Mahomet, and that the plump little
Dolores is one of the bright-eyed houris, destined
to administer to the happiness of true believers.