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I have given a picture of my apartment on my
first taking possession of it; a few evenings have
produced a thorough change in the scene and in
my feelings. The moon, which then was invisible,
has gradually gained upon the night, and now rolls
in full splendour above the towers, pouring a flood
of tempered light into every court and hall. The
garden beneath my window is gently lighted up;
the orange and citron trees are tipped with silver;
the fountain sparkles in the moonbeams, and even
the blush of the rose is faintly visible.

I have sat for hours at my window, inhaling the
sweetness of the garden, and musing on the chequered
fortunes of those whose history is dimly
shadowed out in the elegant memorials around.
Sometimes I have issued forth at midnight, when
every thing was quiet, and have wandered over
the whole building. Who can do justice to a
moonlight night in such a climate and in such a

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place! The temperature of an Andalusian mid-night
in summer is perfectly ethereal. We seem
lifted up into a purer atmosphere; there is a serenity
of soul, a buoyancy of spirits, an elasticity of
frame, that render mere existence enjoyment.
The effect of moonlight too, on the Alhambra, has
something like enchantment. Every rent and
chasm of time, every mouldering tint and weatherstain
disappears; the marble resumes its original
whiteness; the long colonnades brighten in the
moonbeams; the halls are illuminated with a softened
radiance until the whole edifice reminds one
of the enchanted palace of an Arabian tale.

At such a time I have ascended to the little
pavilion called the Queen's Toilette, to enjoy its
varied and extensive prospect. To the right, the
snowy summits of the Sierra Nevada would gleam
like silver clouds against the darker firmament,
and all the outlines of the mountain would be softened,
yet delicately defined. My delight, however,
would be to lean over the parapet of the
tocador, and gaze down upon Granada, spread out
like a map below me; all buried in deep repose,
and its white palaces and convents sleeping, as it
were, in the moonshine.

Sometimes I would hear the faint sounds of casta
ñets from some party of dancers lingering in the

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Alameda, at other times I have heard the dubious
tones of a guitar, and the notes of a single voice
rising from some solitary street, and have pictured
to myself some youthful cavalier serenading his
lady's window; a gallant custom of former days,
but now sadly on the decline, except in the remote
towns and villages of Spain. Such are the scenes
that have detained me for many an hour loitering
about the courts and balconies of the castle, enjoying
that mixture of reverie and sensation which
steal away existence in a southern climate, and it
has been almost morning before I have retired to
my bed, and been lulled to sleep by the falling
waters of the fountain of Lindaraxa.