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 superexcellence 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 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,
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nor hear even the name of love. For this purpose
he built a beautiful palace on the brow of the
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 intrusted to the
guardianship and instruction of Eben Bonabben,
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 was to be kept
utterly ignorant of love. “Use every precaution
for the purpose you may think proper,” said the
king, “but remember, O Eben Bonabben, if my
son learns aught of that forbidden knowledge
while under your care, your head shall answer for
it.” A withered smile came over the dry visage
of the wise Bonabben 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
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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
Eben Bonabben, 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 counsellor. He suppressed
his yawns, and listened patiently to the
long and learned discourses of Eben Bonabben,
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 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 Eben Bonabben 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,”
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said he; “it is an abomination to me. I want
something that speaks more to the heart.”
The sage Eben Bonabben shook his dry head
at the words. “Here is 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
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, enrving his name on its bark, hanging
garlands on its branches, and singing couplets in
its praise, to the accompaniment of his lute.
Eben Bonabben 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
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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 mentioned.
Fortunately Eben Bonabben 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,
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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 huge 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 metaphysics,
and the prince found his prosings even
more ponderous than those of the sage Eben Bonabben.
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.
Besides 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.
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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 spoke so little to the head, and nothing
to the heart; and gradually relapsed 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 — chanted
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. I am a
warrior, and know nothing of this thing called
love.”
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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
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; 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 villany 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
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swallow, and stopped him just as he was circling
about the summit of the tower. The swallow, as
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. “O,
Eben Bonabben,” 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, O most profound of sages, what
is the nature of this thing called love?”
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Eben Bonabben was struck as with 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, O Eben Bonabben,” 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 strain.
“Allah Akbar! God is great!” exclaimed the
wise Bonabben. “Who shall pretend to keep
this secret from the heart of man, when even the
birds of the air conspire to betray it?”
Then turning to Ahmed—“O 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 and strife between brethren
and friends; which causes treacherous murder
and desolating war. Care and sorrow, weary
days and sleepless nights, are its attendants. It
withers the bloom and blights the joys of youth,
and brings on the ills and griefs of premature old
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age. Allah preserve thee, my prince, in total
ignorance of this thing called love!”
The sage Eben Bonabben 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 teazed 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 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
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
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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,
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 Eben Bonabben 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:
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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 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
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partner of thy heart in the days of youth and
spring-time. Why should I make thee a fellowprisoner
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 Bonabben. “Why hast thou kept me in this
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 Bonabben 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
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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. Besides, he really was attached to Eben
Bonabben, and being as yet but theoretically acquainted
with the passion of love, he 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 heart. “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 wild compass of my flight, which extends over
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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 wandering 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
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 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 bewailing the unhappy
thraldom of his person, which prevented him
from seeking her out and throwing himself at
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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.
“Away, trustiest of messengers!” said he.
“Fly over mountain and valley, and river and
plain; 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
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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 her approval
of his passion? Unfortunately the death of the
faithful dove left every thing in mystery and
doubt.
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
almost in an 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,
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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 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 a 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 this 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.
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“Go to!” said the owl, with a look of displeasure;
“am I a bird to engage in a love affair?
I 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 are lost 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 on 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
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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
am 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 conjuror, 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
advice, and accordingly bent his course towards
Seville. He travelled only in the night, to
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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, and had a most antiquarian taste for ruins.
At length one morning at daybreak 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 that is
standing at the present day, and known 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, poring with his remaining eye on a diagram
described on the pavement.
The prince approached him with the awe and
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
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before you a votary of love, who would fain seek
your counsel 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, 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 nought 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
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or the reach of thy art, inform me where she may
be found.”
The grey-headed raven was rebuked by the
gravity of the prince.
“What know I,” replied he, drily, “of youth
and beauty? my visits are to the old and withered,
not the fresh 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 can I seek, if not among the sons
of wisdom, versed in the book of destiny? Know
that I am a royal prince, 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.
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 thou wilt find a great traveller who has
visited all countries and courts, and been a
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favourite with queens and princesses. He will give
thee tidings of the object of thy search.”
“Many thanks for this precious information,”
said the prince. “Farewell, most venerable conjuror.”
“Farewell, pilgrim of love,” said the raven,
drily, 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 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
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perceive that they were all listening to a parrot, who
with his bright green coat, pragmatical eye, and
consequential top-knot, had the air of a bird on
excellent terms with himself.
“How is this,” said the prince to one of the
bystanders, “that so many grave persons can be
delighted with the garrulity of a chattering bird?”
“You know not whom you speak of,” 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 various foreign
courts, where he has been considered an oracle
of 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 merriment,” said he,
“but the mere mention of love always sets me
laughing.”
The prince was shocked at this ill-timed mirth.
“Is not love,” said he, “the great mystery of
-- 041 --
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nature, the secret principle of life, the universal
bond of sympathy!”
“A fig's end!” cried the parrot, interrupting,
him; “pr'ythee where hast thou learned 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 the court, he affects
the wit and the fine gentleman, he knows nothing
of the thing called love. 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
-- 042 --
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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. 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 place 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
-- 043 --
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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 savant, 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 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, would 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 proceedings the owl considered as a
grievous invasion of his dignity, and would scowl
-- 044 --
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and sulk and swell, and be 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
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 ancestry?
Behold what is more to the purpose—behold the
abode of youth and beauty—behold at length, O
prince, the abode of your long-sought princess.”
The prince looked in the direction indicated
-- 045 --
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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,”
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. “O 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 overhung
the river. Here, looking in at the casement,
he beheld the princess reclining on a couch, with
-- 046 --
[figure description] Page 046.[end figure description]
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 top-knot, the
parrot perched himself beside her with a gallant
air: then assuming a tenderness of tone, “Dry thy
tears, most beautiful of princesses,” said he, “I
come to bring solace to thy heart.”
The princess was startled on hearing a voice,
but turning and seeing nothing but a little greencoated
bird bobbing and bowing before her;
“Alas! what solace canst thou yield,” said she,
“seeing thou art but a parrot?”
The parrot was nettled at the question. “I
have consoled many beautiful ladies in my time,”
said he; “but let that pass. At present I come
ambassador from a royal prince. Know that
Ahmed, the prince of Granada, has arrived in
quest of thee, and is encamped even now on the
flowery banks of the Tagus.”
The eyes of the beautiful princess sparkled
at these words even brighter than the diamonds
in her coronet. “O sweetest of parrots,” cried
she, “joyful indeed are thy tidings, for I was
faint and weary, and sick almost unto death with
doubt of the constancy of Ahmed. Hie thee back,
and tell him that the words of his letter are
-- 047 --
[figure description] Page 047.[end figure description]
engraven in my heart, and his poetry has been the
food of my soul. Tell him, however, that he must
prepare to prove his love by force of arms; tomorrow
is my seventeenth birth-day, when the
king my father holds a great tournament; several
princes are to enter the lists, and my hand is to
be the prize of the victor.”
The parrot again took wing, and rustling through
the groves, flew back to where the prince awaited
his return. The rapture of Ahmed on finding the
original of his adored portrait, and finding her
kind and true, can only be conceived by those
favoured mortals who have had the good fortune
to realize day-dreams and turn a shadow into substance:
still there was one thing that alloyed his
transport—this impending tournament. In fact,
the banks of the Tagus were already glittering
with arms, and resounding with trumpets of the
various knights, who, with proud retinues, were
prancing on towards Toledo to attend the ceremonial.
The same star that had controlled the destiny
of the prince had governed that of the princess,
and until her seventeenth birth-day she had
been shut up from the world, to guard her from
the tender passion. The fame of her charms,
however, had been enhanced rather than obscured
by this seclusion. Several powerful princes had
-- 048 --
[figure description] Page 048.[end figure description]
contended for her alliance; and her father, who
was a king of wondrous shrewdness, to avoid
making enemies by showing partiality, had referred
them to the arbitrement of arms. Among
the rival candidates were several renowned for
strength and prowess. What a predicament for
the unfortunate Ahmed, unprovided as he was
with weapons, and unskilled in the exercises
of chivalry! “Luckless prince that I am!”
said he, “to have been brought up in seclusion
under the eye of a philosopher! Of what avail
are algebra and philosophy in affairs of love?
Alas, Eben Bonabben! why hast thou neglected
to instruct me in the management of arms?”
Upon this the owl broke silence, preluding his
harangue with a pious ejaculation, for he was a
devout Mussulman.
“Allah Akbar! God is great!” exclaimed he;
“in his hands are all secret things—he alone
governs the destiny of princes! Know, O prince,
that this land is full of mysteries, hidden from all
but those who, like myself, can grope after knowledge
in the dark. Know that in the neighbouring
mountains there is a cave, and in that cave
there is an iron table, and on that table there lies
a suit of magic armour, and beside that table there
stands a spell-bound steed, which have been shut
up there for many generations.”
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The prince stared with wonder, while the owl,
blinking his huge round eyes, and erecting his
horns, proceeded.
“Many years since, I accompanied my father
to these parts on a tour of his estates, and we
sojourned in that cave; and thus became I acquainted
with the mystery. It is a tradition
in our family which I have heard from my grandfather,
when I was yet but a very little owlet, that
this armour belonged to a Moorish magician, who
took refuge in this cavern when Toledo was captured
by the Christians, and died here, leaving his
steed and weapons under a mystic spell, never to
be used but by a Moslem, and by him only from
sunrise to mid-day. In that interval, whoever
uses them will overthrow every opponent.”
“Enough: let us seek this cave!” exclaimed
Ahmed.
Guided by his legendary mentor, the prince
found the cavern, which was in one of the wildest
recesses of those rocky cliffs which rise around
Toledo; none but the mousing eye of an owl or
an antiquary could have discovered the entrance
to it. A sepulchral lamp of everlasting oil shed a
solemn light through the place. On an iron table
in the centre of the cavern lay the magic armour,
against it leaned the lance, and beside it stood an
-- 050 --
[figure description] Page 050.[end figure description]
Arabian steed, caparisoned for the field, but motionless
as a statue. The armour was bright and
unsullied as it had gleamed in days of old; the
steed in as good condition as if just from the pasture;
and when Ahmed laid his hand upon his
neck, he pawed the ground and gave a loud neigh
of joy that shook the walls of the cavern. Thus
amply provided with “horse and rider and weapon
to wear,” the prince determined to defy the field
in the impending tournay.
The eventful morning arrived. The lists for
the combat were prepared in the Vega, or plain,
just below the cliff-built walls of Toledo, where
stages and galleries were erected for the spectators,
covered with rich tapestry, and sheltered
from the sun by silken awnings. All the beauties
of the land were assembled in those galleries,
while below pranced plumed knights with their
pages and esquires, among whom figured conspicuously
the princes who were to contend in the
tournay. All the beauties of the land, however,
were eclipsed when the princess Aldegonda appeared
in the royal pavilion, and for the first time
broke forth upon the gaze of an admiring world.
A murmur of wonder ran through the crowd at
her transcendent loveliness; and the princes who
were candidates for her hand, merely on the faith
-- 051 --
[figure description] Page 051.[end figure description]
of her reported charms, now felt tenfold ardour
for the conflict.
The princess, however, had a troubled look.
The colour came and went from her cheek, and
her eye wandered with a restless and unsatisfied
expression over the plumed throng of knights.
The trumpets were about sounding for the encounter,
when the herald announced the arrival
of a stranger knight; and Ahmed rode into the
field. A steeled helmet studded with gems rose
above his turban; his cuirass was embossed with
gold; his cimeter and dagger were of the workmanship
of Fez, and flamed with precious stones.
A round shield was at his shoulder, and in his
hand he bore the lance of charmed virtue. The
caparison of his Arabian steed was richly embroidered
and swept the ground, and the proud animal
pranced and snuffed the air, and neighed with joy
at once more beholding the array of arms. The
lofty and graceful demeanour of the prince struck
every eye, and when his appellation was announced,
“The Pilgrim of Love,” an universal flutter and
agitation prevailed among the fair dames in the
galleries.
When Ahmed presented himself at the lists,
however, they were closed against him: none but
princes, he was told, were admitted to the contest.
-- 052 --
[figure description] Page 052.[end figure description]
He declared his name and rank. Still worse!—
he was a Moslem, and could not engage in a tournay
where the hand of a Christian princess was
the prize.
The rival princes surrounded him with haughty
and menacing aspects; and one of insolent demeanour
and herculean frame sneered at his light
and youthful form, and scoffed at his amorous
appellation. The ire of the prince was roused.
He defied his rival to the encounter. They took
distance, wheeled, and charged; and at the first
touch of the magic lance, the brawny scoffer was
tilted from his saddle. Here the prince would
have paused, but alas! he had to deal with a demoniac
horse and armour—once in action nothing
could control them. The Arabian steed charged
into the thickest of the throng; the lance overturned
every thing that presented; the gentle
prince was carried pell-mell about the field, strewing
it with high and low, gentle and simple, and
grieving at his own involuntary exploits. The
king stormed and raged at this outrage on his subjects
and his guests. He ordered out all his
guards—they were unhorsed as fast as they came
up. The king threw off his robes, grasped
buckler and lance, and rode forth to awe the
stranger with the presence of majesty itself.
-- 053 --
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Alas! majesty fared no better than the vulgar—
the steed and lance were no respecters of persons;
to the dismay of Ahmed, he was borne full tilt
against the king, and in a moment the royal heels
were in the air, and the crown was rolling in the
dust.
At this moment the sun reached the meridian;
the magic spell resumed its power; the Arabian
steed scoured across the plain, leaped the barrier,
plunged into the Tagus, swam its raging current,
bore the prince breathless and amazed to the
cavern, and resumed his station, like a statue, beside
the iron table. The prince dismounted right
gladly, and replaced the armour, to abide the further
decrees of fate. Then seating himself in the
cavern, he ruminated on the desperate state to
which this demoniac steed and armour had reduced
him. Never should he dare to show his
face at Toledo after inflicting such disgrace upon
its chivalry, and such an outrage on its king.
What too would the princess think of so rude and
riotous an achievement? Full of anxiety, he sent
forth his winged messengers to gather tidings
The parrot resorted to all the public places and
crowded resorts of the city, and soon returned
with a world of gossip. All Toledo was in consternation.
The princess had been borne off
-- 054 --
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senseless to the palace; the tournament had ended
in confusion; every one was talking of the sudden
apparition, prodigious exploits, and strange disappearance
of the Moslem knight. Some pronounced
him a Moorish magician; others thought him a
demon who had assumed a human shape, while
others related traditions of enchanted warriors
hidden in the caves of the mountains, and thought
it might be one of these, who had made a sudden
irruption from his den. All agreed that no mere
ordinary mortal could have wrought such wonders,
or unhorsed such accomplished and stalwart Christian
warriors.
The owl flew forth at night and hovered about
the dusky city, perching on the roofs and chimneys.
He then wheeled his flight up to the royal
palace, which stood on the rocky summit of Toledo,
and went prowling about its terraces and battlements,
eves-dropping at every cranny, and
glaring in with his big goggling eyes at every
window where there was a light, so as to throw
two or three maids of honour into fits. It was not
until the grey dawn began to peer above the
mountains that he returned from his mousing expedition,
and related to the prince what he had
seen.
“As I was prying about one of the loftiest
-- 055 --
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towers of the palace,” said he, “I beheld through
a casement a beautiful princess. She was reclining
on a couch with attendants and physicians
around her, but she would none of their ministry
and relief. When they retired I beheld her draw
forth a letter from her bosom, and read and kiss it,
and give way to loud lamentations; at which,
philosopher as I am, I could not but be greatly
moved.”
The tender heart of Ahmed was distressed at
these tidings. “Too true were thy words, O sage
Eben Bonabben,” cried he; “care and sorrow
and sleepless nights are the lot of lovers. Allah
preserve the princess from the blighting influence
of this thing called love!”
Further intelligence from Toledo corroborated
the report of the owl. The city was a prey to
uneasiness and alarm. The princess was conveyed
to the highest tower of the palace, every avenue
to which was strongly guarded. In the mean
time a devouring melancholy had seized upon her,
of which no one could divine the cause—she
refused food and turned a deaf ear to every consolation.
The most skilful physicians had essayed
their art in vain; it was thought some magic
spell had been practised upon her, and the king
made proclamation, declaring that whoever should
-- 056 --
[figure description] Page 056.[end figure description]
effect her cure should receive the richest jewel in
the royal treasury.
When the owl, who was dozing in a corner,
heard of this proclamation, he rolled his large
eyes and looked more mysterious than ever.
“Allah Akbar!” exclaimed he, “happy the
man that shall effect that cure, should he but
know what to choose from the royal treasury.”
“What mean you, most reverend owl?” said
Ahmed.
“Hearken, O prince, to what I shall relate.
We owls, you must know, are a learned body, and
much given to dark and dusty research. During
my late prowling at night about the domes and
turrets of Toledo, I discovered a college of antiquarian
owls, who hold their meetings in a great
vaulted tower where the royal treasury is deposited.
Here they were discussing the forms and
inscriptions and designs of ancient gems and jewels,
and of golden and silver vessels, heaped up in the
treasury, the fashion of every country and age;
but mostly they were interested about certain
reliques and talismans that have remained in the
treasury since the time of Roderick the Goth.
Among these was a box of sandal wood secured
by bands of steel of Oriental workmanship, and
inscribed with mystic characters known only to
-- 057 --
[figure description] Page 057.[end figure description]
the learned few. This box and its inscription had
occupied the college for several sessions, and had
caused much long and grave dispute. At the time
of my visit a very ancient owl, who had recently
arrived from Egypt, was seated on the lid of the
box lecturing upon the inscription, and he proved
from it that the coffer contained the silken carpet
of the throne of Solomon the wise; which doubtless
had been brought to Toledo by the Jews who
took refuge there after the downfall of Jerusalem.”
When the owl had concluded his antiquarian
harangue the prince remained for a time absorbed
in thought. “I have heard,” said he, “from the
sage Eben Bonabben, of the wonderful properties
of that talisman, which disappeared at the fall of
Jerusalem, and was supposed to be lost to mankind.
Doubtless it remains a sealed mystery to the Christians
of Toledo. If I can get possession of that
carpet, my fortune is secure.”
The next day the prince laid aside his rich
attire, and arrayed himself in the simple garb of
an Arab of the desert. He dyed his complexion
to a tawny hue, and no one could have recognised
in him the splendid warrior who had caused
such admiration and dismay at the tournament.
With staff in hand and scrip by his side and a
small pastoral reed, he repaired to Toledo, and
-- 058 --
[figure description] Page 058.[end figure description]
presenting himself at the gate of the royal palace,
announced himself as a candidate for the reward
offered for the cure of the princess. The guards
would have driven him away with blows. “What
can a vagrant Arab like thyself pretend to do,”
said they, “in a case where the most learned of
the land have failed?” The king, however, overheard
the tumult, and ordered the Arab to be
brought into his presence.
“Most potent king,” said Ahmed, “you behold
before you a Bedouin Arab, the greater part of
whose life has been passed in the solitudes of the
desert. These solitudes, it is well known, are the
haunts of demons and evil spirits, who beset us
poor shepherds in our lonely watchings, enter into
and possess our flocks and herds, and sometimes
render even the patient camel furious; against
these our counter-charm is music; and we have
legendary airs handed down from generation to
generation, that we chant and pipe, to cast forth
these evil spirits. I am of a gifted line, and possess
this power in its fullest force. If it be any evil
influence of the kind that holds a spell over thy
daughter, I pledge my head to free her from its
sway.”
The king, who was a man of understanding
and knew the wonderful secrets possessed by the
-- 059 --
[figure description] Page 059.[end figure description]
Arabs, was inspired with hope by the confident
language of the prince. He conducted him immediately
to the lofty tower, secured by several
doors, in the summit of which was the chamber
of the princess. The windows opened upon a
terrace with balustrades, commanding a view over
Toledo and all the surrounding country. The
windows were darkened, for the princess lay
within, a prey to a devouring grief that refused
all alleviation.
The prince seated himself on the terrace, and
performed several wild Arabian airs on his pastoral
pipe, which he had learnt from his attendants
in the Generalife at Granada. The princess
continued insensible, and the doctors who were
present shook their heads, and smiled with incredulity
and contempt: at length the prince lay
aside the reed, and, to a simple melody, chanted
the amatory verses of the letter which had declared
his passion.
The princess recognised the strain—a fluttering
joy stole to her heart; she raised her head and
listened; tears rushed to her eyes and streamed
down her cheeks; her bosom rose and fell with a
tumult of emotions. She would have asked for
the minstrel to be brought into her presence, but
maiden coyness held her silent. The king read
-- 060 --
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her wishes, and at his command Ahmed was conducted
into the chamber. The lovers were discreet:
they but exchanged glances, yet those
glances spoke volumes. Never was triumph of
music more complete. The rose had returned to
the soft cheek of the princess, the freshness to her
lip, and the dewy light to her languishing eyes.
All the physicians present stared at each other
with astonishment. The king regarded the Arab
minstrel with admiration mixed with awe. “Wonderful
youth!” exclaimed he, “thou shalt henceforth
be the first physician of my court, and no
other prescription will I take but thy melody.
For the present receive thy reward, the most precious
jewel in my treasury.”
“O king,” replied Ahmed, “I care not for
silver or gold or precious stones. One relique
hast thou in thy treasury, handed down from the
Moslems who once owned Toledo—a box of sandal
wood containing a silken carpet: give me that
box, and I am content.”
All present were surprised at the moderation of
the Arab; and still more when the box of sandal
wood was brought and the carpet drawn forth.
It was of fine green silk, covered with Hebrew
and Chaldaic characters. The court physicians
looked at each other, and shrugged their
-- 061 --
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shoulders, and smiled at the simplicity of this new
practitioner, who could be content with so paltry
a fee.
“This carpet,” said the prince, “once covered
the throne of Solomon the wise; it is worthy of
being placed beneath the feet of beauty.”
So saying, he spread it on the terrace beneath
an ottoman that had been brought forth for the
princess; then seating himself at her feet—
“Who,” said he, “shall counteract what is
written in the book of fate? Behold the prediction
of the astrologers verified. Know, O
king, that your daughter and I have long loved
each other in secret. Behold in me the Pilgrim
of Love!”
These words were scarcely from his lips, when
the carpet rose in the air, bearing off the prince
and princess. The king and the physicians gazed
after it with open mouths and straining eyes until
it became a little speck on the white bosom of a
cloud, and then disappeared in the blue vault of
heaven.
The king in a rage summoned his treasurer.
“How is this,” said he, “that thou hast suffered
an infidel to get possession of such a talisman?”
“Alas, sir, we knew not its nature, nor could
-- 062 --
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we decipher the inscription of the box. If it be
indeed the carpet of the throne of the wise Solomon,
it is possessed of magic power, and can transport
its owner from place to place through the
air.”
The king assembled a mighty army, and set off
for Granada in pursuit of the fugitives. His march
was long and toilsome. Encamping in the Vega,
he sent a herald to demand restitution of his daughter.
The king himself came forth with all his
court to meet him. In the king he beheld the
real minstrel, for Ahmed had succeeded to the
throne on the death of his father, and the beautiful
Aldegonda was his sultana.
The Christian king was easily pacified when
he found that his daughter was suffered to continue
in her faith; not that he was particularly
pious; but religion is always a point of pride and
etiquette with princes. Instead of bloody battles,
there was a succession of feasts and rejoicings,
after which the king returned well pleased to
Toledo, and the youthful couple continued to
reign as happily as wisely, in the Alhambra.
It is proper to add, that the owl and the parrot
had severally followed the prince by easy stages
to Granada; the former travelling by night, and
-- 063 --
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stopping at the various hereditary possessions of
his family; the latter figuring in gay circles of
every town and city on his route.
Ahmed gratefully requited the services which
they had rendered on his pilgrimage. He appointed
the owl his prime minister, the parrot his
master of ceremonies. It is needless to say that
never was a realm more sagely administered, or a
court conducted with more exact punctilio.
-- --
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-- 065 -- p226-292
LEGEND OF THE MOOR'S LEGACY.
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Just within the fortress of the Alhambra, in
front of the royal palace, is a broad open esplanade,
called the Place or Square of the Cisterns,
(la Plaza de los Algibes,) so called from being
undermined by reservoirs of water, hidden from
sight, and which have existed from the time
of the Moors. At one corner of this esplanade
is a Moorish well, cut through the living rock
to a great depth, the water of which is cold as
ice and clear as crystal. The wells made by the
Moors are always in repute, for it is well known
what pains they took to penetrate to the purest
and sweetest springs and fountains. The one of
which we now speak is famous throughout Granada,
insomuch that the water carriers, some bearing
great water-jars on their shoulders, others driving
asses before them laden with earthen vessels, are
ascending and descending the steep woody avenues
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of the Alhambra, from early dawn until a late
hour of the night.
Fountains and wells, ever since the scriptural
days, have been noted gossiping places in hot
climates; and at the well in question there is a
kind of perpetual club kept up during the live-long
day, by the invalids, old women, and other curious
do-nothing folk of the fortress, who sit here on
the stone benches, under an awning spread over
the well to shelter the toll-gatherer from the sun,
and dawdle over the gossip of the fortress, and
question every water carrier that arrives about
the news of the city, and make long comments on
every thing they hear and see. Not an hour of
the day but loitering housewives and idle maidservants
may be seen, lingering with pitcher on
head or in hand, to hear the last of the endless
tattle of these worthies.
Among the water carriers who once resorted
to this well, there was a sturdy, strong-backed,
bandy-legged little fellow, named Pedro Gil, but
called Peregil for shortness. Being a water carrier,
he was a Gallego, or native of Gallicia, of
course. Nature seemed to have formed races of
men, as she has of animals, for different kinds
of drudgery. In France the shoe-blacks are all
Savoyards, the porters of hotels all Swiss, and in
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the days of hoops and hair-powder in England,
no man could give the regular swing to a sedanchair
but a bog-trotting Irishman. So in Spain,
the carriers of water and bearers of burdens are
all sturdy little natives of Gallicia. No man
says, “Get me a porter,” but, “Call a Gallego.”
To return from this digression, Peregil the
Gallego had begun business with merely a great
earthen jar which he carried upon his shoulder;
by degrees he rose in the world, and was enabled
to purchase an assistant of a correspondent class
of animals, being a stout shaggy-haired donkey.
On each side of this his long-eared aid-de-camp,
in a kind of pannier, were slung his water-jars,
covered with fig-leaves to protect them from the
sun. There was not a more industrious water
carrier in all Granada, nor one more merry withal.
The streets rang with his cheerful voice as he
trudged after his donkey, singing forth the usual
summer note that resounds through the Spanish
towns: “Quien quiere agua—agua mas fria que
la nieve?”—“Who wants water—water colder
than snow? Who wants water from the well of
the Alhambra, cold as ice and clear as crystal?”
When he served a customer with a sparkling
glass, it was always with a pleasant word that
caused a smile; and if, perchance, it was a comely
-- 068 --
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dame or dimpling damsel, it was always with a
sly leer and a compliment to her beauty that was
irresistible. Thus Peregil the Gallego was noted
throughout all Granada for being one of the
civilest, pleasantest, and happiest of mortals.
Yet it is not he who sings loudest and jokes
most that has the lightest heart. Under all this
air of merriment, honest Peregil had his cares
and troubles. He had a large family of ragged
children to support, who were hungry and clamorous
as a nest of young swallows, and beset
him with their outcries for food whenever he
came home of an evening. He had a helpmate,
too, who was any thing but a help to him. She
had been a village beauty before marriage, noted
for her skill at dancing the bolero and rattling the
castanets; and she still retained her early propensities,
spending the hard earnings of honest Peregil
in frippery, and laying the very donkey under
requisition for junketting parties into the country
on Sundays, and saints' days, and those innumerable
holidays which are rather more numerous in
Spain than the days of the week. With all this
she was a little of a slattern, something more of a
lie a-bed, and, above all, a gossip of the first water;
neglecting house, household, and every thing else,
to loiter slip-shod in the houses of her gossip
neighbours.
-- 069 --
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He, however, who tempers the wind to the
shorn lamb, accommodates the yoke of matrimony
to the submissive neck. Peregil bore all the
heavy dispensations of wife and children with as
meek a spirit as his donkey bore the water-jars;
and, however he might shake his ears in private,
never ventured to question the household virtues
of his slattern spouse.
He loved his children too even as an owl loves
its owlets, seeing in them his own image multiplied
and perpetuated; for they were a sturdy,
long-backed, bandy-legged little brood. The great
pleasure of honest Peregil was, whenever he could
afford himself a scanty holiday, and had a handful
of marevedis to spare, to take the whole litter forth
with him, some in his arms, some tugging at his
skirts, and some trudging at his heels, and to treat
them to a gambol among the orchards of the Vega,
while his wife was dancing with her holiday friends
in the Angosturas of the Darro.
It was a late hour one summer night, and most
of the water carriers had desisted from their toils.
The day had been uncommonly sultry; the night
was one of those delicious moonlights, which tempt
the inhabitants of those southern climes to indemnify
themselves for the heat and inaction of the
day, by lingering in the open air and enjoying its
-- 070 --
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tempered sweetness until after midnight. Customers
for water were therefore still abroad.
Peregil, like a considerate pains-taking little father,
thought of his hungry children. “One more journey
to the well,” said he to himself, “to earn a
Sunday's puchero for the little ones.” So saying,
he trudged manfully up the steep avenue of the
Alhambra, singing as he went, and now and then
bestowing a hearty thwack with a cudgel on the
flanks of his donkey, either by way of cadence to
the song, or refreshment to the animal; for dry
blows serve in lieu of provender in Spain for all
beasts of burden.
When arrived at the well, he found it deserted
by every one except a solitary stranger in Moorish
garb, seated on a stone bench in the moonlight.
Peregil paused at first and regarded him
with surprise, not unmixed with awe, but the
Moor feebly beckoned him to approach. “I am
faint and ill,” said he, “aid me to return to the
city, and I will pay thee double what thou couldst
gain by thy jars of water.”
The honest heart of the little water carrier
was touched with compassion at the appeal of the
stranger. “God forbid,” said he, “that I should
ask fee or reward for doing a common act of humanity.”
He accordingly helped the Moor on
-- 071 --
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his donkey, and set off slowly for Granada, the
poor Moslem being so weak that it was necessary
to hold him on the animal to keep him from falling
to the earth.
When they entered the city, the water carrier
demanded whither he should conduct him.
“Alas!” said the Moor, faintly, “I have neither
home nor habitation, I am a stranger in the land.
Suffer me to lay my head this night beneath thy
roof, and thou shalt be amply repaid.”
Honest Peregil thus saw himself unexpectedly
saddled with an infidel guest, but he was too
humane to refuse a night's shelter to a fellow
being in so forlorn a plight, so he conducted the
Moor to his dwelling. The children, who had
sallied forth open-mouthed as usual on hearing
the tramp of the donkey, ran back with affright,
when they beheld the turbaned stranger, and hid
themselves behind their mother. The latter stepped
forth intrepidly, like a ruffling hen before her
brood when a vagrant dog approaches.
“What infidel companion,” cried she, “is this
you have brought home at this late hour, to draw
upon us the eyes of the inquisition?”
“Be quiet, wife,” replied the Gallego, “here
is a poor sick stranger, without friend or home;
wouldst thou turn him forth to perish in the
streets?”
-- 072 --
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The wife would still have remonstrated, for
although she lived in a hovel she was a furious
stickler for the credit of her house; the little
water carrier, however, for once was stiffnecked,
and refused to bend beneath the yoke. He assisted
the poor Moslem to alight, and spread a mat and
a sheep-skin for him, on the ground, in the coolest
part of the house; being the only kind of bed that
his poverty afforded.
In a little while the Moor was seized with
violent convulsions, which defied all the ministering
skill of the simple water carrier. The eye
of the poor patient acknowledged his kindness.
During an interval of his fits he called him to his
side, and addressing him in a low voice, “My
end,” said he, “I fear is at hand. If I die, I bequeath
you this box as a reward for your charity:”
so saying, he opened his albornoz, or cloak, and
showed a small box of sandal wood, strapped round
his body. “God grant, my friend,” replied the
worthy little Gallego, “that you may live many
years to enjoy your treasure, whatever it may be.”
The Moor shook his head; he laid his hand upon
the box, and would have said something more concerning
it, but his convulsions returned with increased
violence, and in a little while he expired.
The water carrier's wife was now as one
-- 073 --
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distracted. “This comes,” said she, “of your foolish
good nature, always running into scrapes to
oblige others. What will become of us when this
corpse is found in our house? We shall be sent
to prison as murderers; and if we escape with our
lives, shall be ruined by notaries and alguazils.”
Poor Peregil was in equal tribulation, and
almost repented himself of having done a good
deed. At length a thought struck him. “It is
not yet day,” said he; “I can convey the dead
body out of the city, and bury it in the sands on
the banks of the Xenil. No one saw the Moor
enter our dwelling, and no one will know any
thing of his death.”
So said, so done. The wife aided him; they
rolled the body of the unfortunate Moslem in the
mat on which he had expired, laid it across the
ass, and Peregil set out with it for the banks of
the river.
As ill luck would have it, there lived opposite
to the water carrier a barber named Pedrillo Pedrugo,
one of the most prying, tattling, and mischief-making
of his gossip tribe. He was a weaselfaced,
spider-legged varlet, supple and insinuating;
the famous barber of Seville could not surpass him
for his universal knowledge of the affairs of others,
and he had no more power of retention than a
-- 074 --
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sieve. It was said that he slept but with one eye
at a time, and kept one ear uncovered, so that,
even in his sleep, he might see and hear all that
was going on. Certain it is, he was a sort of
scandalous chronicle for the quid-nunes of Granada,
and had more customers than all the rest of his
fraternity.
This meddlesome barber heard Peregil arrive
at an unusual hour at night, and the exclamations
of his wife and children. His head was instantly
popped out of a little window which served him
as a look-out, and he saw his neighbour assist a
man in Moorish garb into his dwelling. This
was so strange an occurrence, that Pedrillo Pedrugo
slept not a wink that night. Every five
minutes he was at his loophole, watching the
lights that gleamed through the chinks of his
neighbour's door, and before daylight he beheld
Peregil sally forth with his donkey unusually
laden.
The inquisitive barber was in a fidget; he
slipped on his clothes, and, stealing forth silently,
followed the water carrier at a distance, until he
saw him dig a hole in the sandy bank of the Xenil,
and bury something that had the appearance of a
dead body.
The barber hied him home, and fidgetted about
-- 075 --
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his shop, setting every thing upside down, until
sunrise. he then took a basin under his arm, and
sallied forth to the house of his daily customer the
alcalde.
The alcalde was just risen. Pedrillo Pedrugo
seated him in a chair, threw a napkin round his
neck, put a basin of hot water under his chin, and
began to mollify his beard with his fingers.
“Strange doings!” said Pedrugo, who played
barber and newsmonger at the same time—
“Strange doings! Robbery, and murder, and
burial, all in one night!”
“Hey!—how!—what is that you say?” cried
the alcalde.
“I say,” replied the barber, rubbing a piece
of soap over the nose and mouth of the dignitary,
for a Spanish barber disdains to employ a brush—
“I say that Peregil the Gallego has robbed and
murdered a Moorish Mussulman, and buried him,
this blessed night. Maldita sea la noche—
accursed be the night for the same!”
“But how do you know all this?” demanded
the alcalde.
“Be patient, Señor, and you shall hear all
about it,” replied Pedrillo, taking him by the
nose and sliding a razor over his cheek. He then
recounted all that he had seen, going through both
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operations at the same time, shaving his beard,
washing his chin, and wiping him dry with a dirty
napkin, while he was robbing, murdering, and
burying the Moslem.
Now it so happened that this alcalde was one
of the most overbearing, and at the same time
most griping and corrupt curmudgeons in all
Granada. It could not be denied, however, that
he set a high value upon justice, for he sold it at
its weight in gold. He presumed the case in
point to be one of murder and robbery; doubtless
there must be rich spoil; how was it to be
secured into the legitimate hands of the law? for
as to merely entrapping the delinquent—that
would be feeding the gallows; but entrapping the
booty—that would be enriching the judge, and
such, according to his creed, was the great end of
justice. So thinking, he summoned to his presence
his trustiest alguazil—a gaunt, hungry-looking
varlet, clad, according to the custom of his
order, in the ancient Spanish garb, a broad black
beaver turned up at the sides; a quaint ruff; a
small black cloak dangling from his shoulders;
rusty black under-clothes that set off his spare
wiry frame, while in his hand he bore a slender
white wand, the dreaded insignia of his office.
Such was the legal bloodhound of the ancient
-- 077 --
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Spanish breed, that he put upon the traces of the
unlucky water carrier, and such was his speed
and certainty, that he was upon the haunches
of poor Peregil before he had returned to his
dwelling, and brought both him and his donkey
before the dispenser of justice.
The alcalde bent upon him one of his most
terrific frowns. “Hark ye, culprit!” roared he,
in a voice that made the knees of the little Gallego
smite together—“hark ye, culprit! there is no
need of denying thy guilt, every thing is known
to me. A gallows is the proper reward for the
crime thou hast committed, but I am merciful, and
readily listen to reason. The man that has been
murdered in thy house was a Moor, an infidel,
the enemy of our faith. It was doubtless in a fit
of religious zeal that thou hast slain him. I will
be indulgent, therefore; render up the property
of which thou hast robbed him, and we will hush
the matter up.”
The poor water carrier called upon all the
saints to witness his innocence; alas! not one of
them appeared; and if they had, the alcalde would
have disbelieved the whole calendar. The water
carrier related the whole story of the dying Moor
with the straight-forward simplicity of truth, but
it was all in vain. “Wilt thou persist in saying,”
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demanded the judge, “that this Moslem had
neither gold nor jewels, which were the object of
thy cupidity?”
“As I hope to be saved, your worship,” replied
the water carrier, “he had nothing but a small box
of sandal wood, which he bequeathed to me in
reward for my services.”
“A box of sandal wood! a box of sandal wood!”
exclaimed the alcalde, his eyes sparkling at the idea
of precious jewels. “And where is this box?
where have you concealed it?”
“An' it please your grace,” replied the water
carrier, “it is in one of the panniers of my mule,
and heartily at the service of your worship.”
He had hardly spoken the words, when the keen
alguazil darted off, and reappeared in an instant
with the mysterious box of sandal wood. The
alcalde opened it with an eager and trembling hand;
all pressed forward to gaze upon the treasures it
was expected to contain; when, to their disappointment,
nothing appeared within, but a parchment
seroll, covered with Arabic characters, and an end
of a waxen taper.
When there is nothing to be gained by the
conviction of a prisoner, justice, even in Spain, is
apt to be impartial. The alcalde, having recovered
from his disappointment, and found that there was
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really no booty in the case, now listened dispassionately
to the explanation of the water carrier,
which was corroborated by the testimony of his
wife. Being convinced, therefore, of his innocence,
he discharged him from arrest; nay more,
he permitted him to carry off the Moor's legacy,
the box of sandal wood and its contents, as the
well-merited reward of his humanity; but he
retained his donkey in payment of costs and
charges.
Behold the unfortunate little Gallego reduced
once more to the necessity of being his own water
carrier, and trudging up to the well of the Alhambra
with a great earthen jar upon his shoulder.
As he toiled up the hill in the heat of a summer
noon, his usual good humour forsook him. “Dog
of an alcalde!” would he cry, “to rob a poor man
of the means of his subsistence, of the best friend
he had in the world!” And then at the remembrance
of the beloved companion of his labours, all
the kindness of his nature would break forth.
“Ah, donkey of my heart!” would he exclaim,
resting his burden on a stone, and wiping the
sweat from his brow—“Ah donkey of my heart! I
warrant me thou thinkest of thy old master! I warrant
me thou missest the water-jars—poor beast.”
To add to his afflictions, his wife received him,
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on his return home, with whimperings and repinings;
she had clearly the vantage ground of
him, having warned him not to commit the egregious
act of hospitality that had brought on him
all these misfortunes; and like a knowing woman,
she took every occasion to throw her superior
sagacity in his teeth. If ever her children lacked
food, or needed a new garment, she could answer
with a sneer—“Go to your father—he is heir to
king Chico of the Alhambra: ask him to help you
out of the Moor's strong box.”
Was ever poor mortal so soundly punished for
having done a good action? The unlucky Peregil
was grieved in flesh and spirit, but still he bore
meekly with the railings of his spouse. At length,
one evening, when, after a hot day's toil, she
taunted him in the usual manner, he lost all patience.
He did not venture to retort upon her,
but his eye rested upon the box of sandal wood,
which lay on a shelf with lid half open, as if laughing
in mockery at his vexation. Seizing it up, he
dashed it with indignation to the floor:—“Unlucky
was the day that I ever set eyes on thee,”
he cried, “or sheltered thy master beneath my
roof!”
As the box struck the floor, the lid flew wide
open, and the parchment scroll rolled forth
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Peregil sat regarding the scroll for some time in
moody silence. At length rallying his ideas—
“Who knows,” thought he, “but this writing
may be of some importance, as the Moor seems
to have guarded it with such care?” Picking it
up therefore, he put it in his bosom, and the next
morning, as he was crying water through the
streets, he stopped at the shop of a Moor, a native
of Tangiers, who sold trinkets and perfumery in
the Zacatin, and asked him to explain the contents.
The Moor read the scroll attentively, then
stroked his beard and smiled. “This manuscript,”
said he, “is a form of incantation for the recovery
of hidden treasure, that is under the power of enchantment.
It is said to have such virtue, that the
strongest bolts and bars, nay the adamantine rock
itself, will yield before it!”
“Bah!” cried the little Gallego, “what is all
that to me? I am no enchanter, and know nothing
of buried treasure.” So saying, he shouldered
his water-jar, left the scroll in the hands of the
Moor, and trudged forward on his daily rounds.
That evening, however, as he rested himself
about twilight at the well of the Alhambra, he
found a number of gossips assembled at the place,
and their conversation, as is not unusual at that
shadowy hour, turned upon old tales and traditions
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of a supernatural nature. Being all poor as rats,
they dwelt with peculiar fondness upon the popular
theme of enchanted riches left by the Moors in
various parts of the Alhambra. Above all, they
concurred in the belief that there were great treasures
buried deep in the earth under the tower of
the seven floors.
These stories made an unusual impression on
the mind of honest Peregil, and they sank deeper
and deeper into his thoughts as he returned alone
down the darkling avenues. “If, after all, there
should be treasure hid beneath that tower—and if
the scroll I left with the Moor should enable me to
get at it!” In the sudden ecstasy of the thought
he had wellnigh let fall his water-jar.
That night he tumbled and tossed, and could
scarcely get a wink of sleep for the thoughts that
were bewildering his brain. Bright and early, he
repaired to the shop of the Moor, and told him all
that was passing in his mind. “You can read
Arabic,” said he; “suppose we go together to the
tower, and try the effect of the charm; if it fails,
we are no worse off than before; but if it succeeds,
we will share equally all the treasure we may discover.”
“Hold,” replied the Moslem; “this writing is
not sufficient of itself; it must be read at midnight,
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by the light of a taper singularly compounded and
prepared, the ingredients of which are not within
my reach. Without such a taper the scroll is of
no avail.”
“Say no more!” cried the little Gallego; “I
have such a taper at hand, and will bring it here
in a moment.” So saying he hastened home, and
soon returned with the end of yellow wax taper
that he had found in the box of sandal wood.
The Moor felt it and smelt to it. “Here are
rare and costly perfumes,” said he, “combined with
this yellow wax. This is the kind of taper specified
in the scroll. While this burns, the strongest
walls and most secret caverns will remain open.
Wo to him, however, who lingers within until it
be extinguished. He will remain enchanted with
the treasure.”
It was now agreed between them to try the
charm that very night. At a late hour, therefore,
when nothing was stirring but bats and owls, they
ascended the woody hill of the Alhambra, and approached
that awful tower, shrouded by trees and
rendered formidable by so many traditionary
tales. By the light of a lanthorn, they groped
their way through bushes, and over fallen stones,
to the door of a vault beneath the tower. With
fear and trembling they descended a flight of steps
-- 084 --
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cut into the rock. It led to an empty chamber
damp and drear, from which another flight of steps
led to a deeper vault. In this way they descended
four several flights, leading into as many vaults
one below the other, but the floor of the fourth
was solid; and though, according to tradition,
there remained three vaults still below, it was
said to be impossible to penetrate further, the
residue being shut up by strong enchantment.
The air of this vault was damp and chilly, and
had an earthy smell, and the light scarce cast forth
any rays. They paused here for a time in breathless
suspense, until they faintly heard the clock
of the watch-tower strike midnight; upon this
they lit the waxen taper, which diffused an odour
of myrrh and frankincense and storax.
The Moor began to read in a hurried voice.
He had scarce finished when there was a noise as
of subterraneous thunder. The earth shook, and
the floor, yawning open, disclosed a flight of steps.
Trembling with awe they descended, and by the
light of the lanthorn found themselves in another
vault, covered with Arabic inscriptions. In the
centre stood a great chest, secured with seven
bands of steel, at each end of which sat an enchanted
Moor in armour, but motionless as a statue,
being controlled by the power of the incantation.
-- 085 --
[figure description] Page 085.[end figure description]
Before the chest were several jars filled with gold
and silver and precious stones. In the largest of
these they thrust their arms up to the elbow, and
at every dip hauled forth handfuls of broad yellow
pieces of Moorish gold, or bracelets and ornaments
of the same precious metal, while occasionally a
necklace of oriental pearl would stick to their
fingers. Still they trembled and breathed short
while cramming their pockets with the spoils;
and cast many a fearful glance at the two enchanged
Moors, who sat grim and motionless,
glaring upon them with unwinking eyes. At
length, struck with a sudden panic at some fancied
noise, they both rushed up the staircase, tumbled
over one another into the upper apartment, overturned
and extinguished the waxen taper, and the
pavement again closed with a thundering sound.
Filled with dismay, they did not pause until
they had groped their way out of the tower, and
beheld the stars shining through the trees. Then
seating themselves upon the grass, they divided
the spoil, determining to content themselves for
the present with this mere skimming of the jars,
but to return on some future night and drain them
to the bottom. To make sure of each other's
good faith, also, they divided the talismans between
them, one retaining the scroll and the other
-- 086 --
[figure description] Page 086.[end figure description]
the taper; this done, they set off with light hearts
and well-lined pockets for Granada.
As they wended their way down the hill, the
shrewd Moor whispered a word of counsel in the
ear of the simple little water carrier.
“Friend Peregil,” said he, “all this affair must
be kept a profound secret until we have secured
the treasure, and conveyed it out of harm's way.
If a whisper of it gets to the ear of the alcalde, we
are undone!”
“Certainly,” replied the Gallego, “nothing can
be more true.”
“Friend Peregil,” said the Moor, “you are a
discreet man, and I make no doubt can keep a
secret: but you have a wife.”
“She shall not know a word of it,” replied the
little water carrier, sturdily.
“Enough,” said the Moor, “I depend upon
thy discretion and thy promise.”
Never was promise more positive and sincere;
but, alas! what man can keep a secret from his
wife? Certainly not such a one as Peregil the
water carrier, who was one of the most loving and
tractable of husbands, On his return home, he
found his wife moping in a corner. “Mighty
well,” cried she as he entered, “you've come at
last; after rambling about until this hour of the
-- 087 --
[figure description] Page 087.[end figure description]
night. I wonder you have not brought home
another Moor as a house-mate.” Then bursting
into tears, she began to wring her hands and smite
her breast: “Unhappy woman that I am!” exclaimed
she, “what will become of me? My
house stripped and plundered by lawyers and
alguazils; my husband a do-no-good, that no
longer brings home bread to his family, but goes
rambling about day and night, with infidel Moors!
O my children! my children! what will become
of us? we shall all have to beg in the streets!”
Honest Peregil was so moved by the distress of
his spouse, that he could not help whimpering also.
His heart was as full as his pocket, and not to be
restrained. Thrusting his hand into the latter he
hauled forth three or four broad gold pieces, and
slipped them into her bosom. The poor woman
stared with astonishment, and could not understand
the meaning of this golden shower. Before she
could recover her surprise, the little Gallego drew
forth a chain of gold and dangled it before her,
capering with exultation, his mouth distended from
ear to ear.
“Holy Virgin protect us!” exclaimed the wife.
“What hast thou been doing, Peregil? surely
thou hast not been committing murder and robbery!”
-- 088 --
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The idea scarce entered the brain of the poor
woman, than it became a certainty with her. She
saw a prison and a gallows in the distance, and a
little bandy-legged Gallego hanging pendant from
it; and, overcome by the horrors conjured up by
her imagination, fell into violent hysterics.
What could the poor man do? He had no other
means of pacifying his wife, and dispelling the
phantoms of her fancy, than by relating the whole
story of his good fortune. This, however, he did
not do until he had exacted from her the most
solemn promise to keep it a profound secret from
every living being.
To describe her joy would be impossible. She
flung her arms round the neck of her husband, and
almost strangled him with her caresses. “Now,
wife,” exclaimed the little man with honest exultation,
“what say you now to the Moor's legacy?
Henceforth never abuse me for helping a fellow
creature in distress.”
The honest Gallego retired to his sheep-skin
mat, and slept as soundly as if on a bed of down.
Not so his wife; she emptied the whole contents of
his pockets upon the mat, and sat all night counting
gold pieces of Arabic coin, trying on necklaces and
earrings, and fancying the figure she should one
day make when permitted to enjoy her riches.
On the following morning the honest
-- 089 --
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Gallego took a broad golden coin, and repaired with
it to a jeweller's shop in the Zacatin to offer it for
sale, pretending to have found it among the ruins
of the Alhambra. The jeweller saw that it had
an Arabic inscription, and was of the purest gold;
he offered, however, but a third of its value, with
which the water carrier was perfectly content.
Peregil now bought new clothes for his little flock,
and all kinds of toys, together with ample provisions
for a hearty meal, and returning to his dwelling,
set all his children dancing around him, while
he capered in the midst, the happiest of fathers.
The wife of the water carrier kept her promise
of secrecy with surprising strictness. For a whole
day and a half she went about with a look of mystery
and a heart swelling almost to bursting, yet
she held her peace, though surrounded by her
gossips. It is true, she could not help giving herself
a few airs, apologized for her ragged dress,
and talked of ordering a new basquina all trimmed
with gold lace and bugles, and a new lace mantilla.
She threw out hints of her husband's intention of
leaving off his trade of water carrying, as it did not
altogether agree with his health. In fact she thought
they should all retire to the country for the summer,
that the children might have the benefit of the
mountain air, for there was no living in the city
in this sultry season.
-- 090 --
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The neighbours stared at each other, and thought
the poor woman had lost her wits; and her airs
and graces and elegant pretensions were the theme
of universal scoffing and merriment among her
friends, the moment her back was turned.
If she restrained herself abroad, however, she
indemnified herself at home, and putting a string
of rich oriental pearls round her neck, Moorish
bracelets on her arms, and an aigrette of diamonds
on her head, sailed backwards and forwards in her
slattern rags about the room, now and then stopping
to admire herself in a broken mirror. Nay, in
the impulse of her simple vanity, she could not resist,
on one occasion, showing herself at the window to
enjoy the effect of her finery on the passers by.
As the fates would have it, Pedrillo Pedrugo,
the meddlesome barber, was at this moment sitting
idly in his shop on the opposite side of the
street, when his ever-watchful eye caught the
sparkle of a diamond. In an instant he was at
his loop-hole reconnoitring the slattern spouse
of the water carrier, decorated with the splendour
of an eastern bride. No sooner had he taken
an accurate inventory of her ornaments, than he
posted off with all speed to the alcalde. In a little
while the hungry alguazil was again on the scent,
and before the day was over the unfortunate Peregil
was again dragged into the presence of the judge.
-- 091 --
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“How is this, villain!” cried the alcalde, in a
furious voice. “You told me that the infidel who
died in your house left nothing behind but an
empty coffer, and now I hear of your wife flaunting
in her rags decked out with pearls and diamonds.
Wretch that thou art! prepare to render up
the spoils of thy miserable victim, and to swing on
the gallows that is already tired of waiting for thee.”
The terrified water carrier fell on his knees, and
made a full relation of the marvellous manner in
which he had gained his wealth. The alcalde, the
alguazil, and the inquisitive barber, listened with
greedy ears to this Arabian tale of enchanted treasure.
The alguazil was despatched to bring the
Moor who had assisted in the incantation. The
Moslem entered half frightened out of his wits at
finding himself in the hands of the harpies of the
law. When he beheld the water carrier standing
with sheepish looks and downcast countenance,
he comprehended the whole matter. “Miserable
animal,” said he, as he passed near him, “did I not
warn thee against babbling to thy wife?”
The story of the Moor coincided exactly with
that of his colleague; but the alcalde affected to be
slow of belief, and threw out menaces of imprisonment
and rigorous investigation.
“Softly, good Señor Alcalde,” said the Mussulman,
who by this time had recovered his usual
-- 092 --
[figure description] Page 092.[end figure description]
shrewdness and self-possession. “Let us not mar
Fortune's favours in the scramble for them. Nobody
knows any thing of this matter but ourselves—
let us keep the secret. There is wealth enough
in the cave to enrich us all. Promise a fair division,
and all shall be produced—refuse, and the
cave shall remain for ever closed.”
The alcalde consulted apart with the alguazil.
The latter was an old fox in his profession. “Promise
any thing,” said he, “until you get possession
of the treasure. You may then seize upon the
whole, and if he and his accomplice dare to murmur,
threaten them with the fagot and the stake
as infidels and sorcerers.”
The alcalde relished the advice. Smoothing
his brow and turning to the Moor, “This is a
strange story,” said he, “and may be true, but I
must have ocular proof of it. This very night you
must repeat the incantation in my presence. If there
be really such treasure, we will share it amicably between
us, and say nothing further of the matter; if
ye have deceived me, expect no mercy at my hands.
In the mean time you must remain in custody.”
The Moor and the water carrier cheerfully
agreed to these conditions, satisfied that the event
would prove the truth of their words.
Towards midnight the alcalde sallied forth
secretly, attended by the alguazil and the
-- 093 --
[figure description] Page 093.[end figure description]
meddlesome barber, all strongly armed. They conducted
the Moor and the water carrier as prisoners, and
were provided with the stout donkey of the latter
to bear off the expected treasure. They arrived
at the tower without being observed, and tying
the donkey to a fig tree, descended into the fourth
vault of the tower.
The scroll was produced, the yellow waxen
taper lighted, and the Moor read the form of incantation.
The earth trembled as before, and the
pavement opened with a thundering sound, disclosing
the narrow flight of steps. The alcalde,
the alguazil, and the barber were struck aghast,
and could not summon courage to descend. The
Moor and the water carrier entered the lower
vault, and found the two Moors seated as before,
silent and motionless. They removed two of the
great jars, filled with golden coin and precious
stones. The water carrier bore them up one by
one upon his shoulders, but though a strong-backed
little man, and accustomed to carry burdens, he
staggered beneath their weight, and found, when
slung on each side of his donkey, they were as
much as the animal could bear.
“Let us be content for the present,” said the
Moor, “here is as much treasure as we can carry
off without being perceived, and enough to make
us all wealthy to our heart's desire.”
-- 094 --
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“Is there more treasure remaining behind?”
demanded the alcalde.
“The greatest prize of all,” said the Moor,
“a huge coffer bound with bands of steel, and
filled with pearls and precious stones.”
“Let us have up the coffer by all means,” cried
the grasping alcalde.
“I will descend for no more,” said the Moor,
doggedly; “enough is enough for a reasonable
man—more is superfluous.”
“And I,” said the water carrier, “will bring
up no further burden to break the back of my
poor donkey.”
Finding commands, threats, and entreaties
equally vain, the alcalde turned to his two adherents.
“Aid me,” said he, “to bring up the
coffer, and its contents shall be divided between us.”
So saying he descended the steps, followed with
trembling reluctance by the alguazil and the barber.
No sooner did the Moor behold them fairly
earthed than he extinguished the yellow taper;
the pavement closed with its usual crash, and the
three worthies remained buried in its womb.
He then hastened up the different flights of
steps, nor stopped until in the open air. The little
water carrier followed him as fast as his short
legs would permit.
“What hast thou done?” cried Peregil, as soon
-- 095 --
[figure description] Page 095.[end figure description]
as he could recover breath. “The alcalde and the
other two are shut up in the vault.”
“It is the will of Allah!” said the Moor devoutly.
“And will you not release them?” demanded
the Gallego.
“Allah forbid!” replied the Moor, smoothing his
beard. “It is written in the book of fate that they
shall remain enchanted until some future adventurer
arrive to break the charm. The will of God
be done!” so saying, he hurled the end of the waxen
taper far among the gloomy thickets of the glen.
There was now no remedy, so the Moor and
the water carrier proceeded with the richly laden
donkey toward the city, nor could honest Peregil
refrain from hugging and kissing his long-eared
fellow labourer, thus restored to him from the
clutches of the law; and in fact, it is doubtful
which gave the simple-hearted little man most joy
at the moment, the gaining of the treasure, or the
recovery of the donkey.
The two partners in good luck divided their
spoil amicably and fairly, except that the Moor,
who had a little taste for trinketry, made out to
get into his heap the most of the pearls and precious
stones and other baubles, but then he always
gave the water carrier in lieu magnificent jewels
of massy gold, of five times the size, with which
the latter was heartily content. They took care
-- 096 --
[figure description] Page 096.[end figure description]
not to linger within reach of accidents, but made
off to enjoy their wealth undisturbed in other
countries. The Moor returned to Africa, to his
native city of Tetuan, and the Gallego, with his
wife, his children, and his donkey, made the best
of his way to Portugal. Here, under the admonition
and tuition of his wife, he became a personage
of some consequence, for she made the worthy
little man array his long body and short legs in
doublet and hose, with a feather in his hat and
a sword by his side, and laying aside his familiar
appellation of Peregil, assume the more sonorous
title of Don Pedro Gil: his progeny grew up a
thriving and merry-hearted, though short and
bandy-legged generation, while Señora Gil, befringed,
belaced, and betasselled from her head to
her heels, with glittering rings on every finger,
became a model of slattern fashion and finery.
As to the alcalde and his adjuncts, they remained
shut up under the great tower of the seven
floors, and there they remain spell-bound at the
present day. Whenever there shall be a lack in
Spain of pimping barbers, sharking alguazils, and
corrupt alcaldes, they may be sought after; but if
they have to wait until such time for their deliverance,
there is danger of their enchantment endur
ing until doomsday.
-- 097 -- p226-324
LEGEND OF THE ROSE OF THE ALHAMBRA, &c.
[figure description] Page 097.[end figure description]
For some time after the surrender of Granada
by the Moors that delightful city was a frequent
and favourite residence of the Spanish sovereigns,
until they were frightened away by successive
shocks of earthquakes, which toppled down various
houses, and made the old Moslem towers rock to
their foundation.
Many, many years then rolled away, during
which Granada was rarely honoured by a royal
guest. The palaces of the nobility remained silent
and shut up; and the Alhambra, like a slighted
beauty, sat in mournful desolation, among her neglected
gardens. The tower of the Infantas, once
the residence of the three beautiful Moorish princesses,
partook of the general desolation, and the
spider spun her web athwart the gilded vault, and
bats and owls nestled in those chambers that had
been graced by the presence of Zayda, Zorayda,
-- 098 --
[figure description] Page 098.[end figure description]
and Zorahayda. The neglect of this tower may
partly have been owing to some superstitious notions
of the neighbours. It was rumoured that
the spirit of the youthful Zorahayda, who had
perished in that tower, was often seen by moonlight
seated beside the fountain in the hall, or moaning
about the battlements, and that the notes of her
silver lute would be heard at midnight by wayfarers
passing along the glen.
At length the city of Granada was once more
welcomed by the royal presence. All the world
knows that Philip V. was the first Bourbon that
swayed the Spanish sceptre. All the world knows
that he married, in second nuptials, Elizabetta or
Isabella, (for they are the same,) the beautiful princess
of Parma; and all the world knows that by
this chain of contingencies a French prince and
an Italian princess were seated together on the
Spanish throne. For the reception of this illustrious
pair the Alhambra was repaired and fitted
up with all possible expedition. The arrival of
the court changed the whole aspect of the lately
deserted palace. The clangour of drum and trumpet,
the tramp of steed about the avenues and outer
court, the glitter of arms and display of banners
about barbican and battlement, recalled the ancient
and warlike glories of the fortress. A softer spirit,
-- 099 --
[figure description] Page 099.[end figure description]
however, reigned within the royal palace. There
was the rustling of robes and the cautious tread
and murmuring voice of reverential courtiers
about the antichambers; a loitering of pages and
maids of honour about the gardens, and the sound
of music stealing from open casements.
Among those who attended in the train of the
monarchs was a favourite page of the queen, named
Ruyz de Alarcon. To say that he was a favourite
page of the queen was at once to speak his eulogium,
for every one in the suite of the stately
Elizabetta was chosen for grace, and beauty, and
accomplishments. He was just turned of eighteen,
light and lithe of form, and graceful as a young
Antinous. To the queen he was all deference and
respect, yet he was at heart a roguish stripling,
petted and spoiled by the ladies about the court,
and experienced in the ways of women far beyond
his years.
This loitering page was one morning rambling
about the groves of the Generalife, which overlook
the grounds of the Alhambra. He had taken with
him for his amusement a favourite ger-falcon of
the queen. In the course of his rambles, seeing a
bird rising from a thicket, he unhooded the hawk
and let him fly. The falcon towered high in the
air, made a swoop at his quarry, but missing it,
-- 100 --
[figure description] Page 100.[end figure description]
soared away, regardless of the calls of the page.
The latter followed the truant bird with his eye,
in its capricious flight, until he saw it alight upon
the battlements of a remote and lonely tower, in
the outer wall of the Alhambra, built on the edge
of a ravine that separated the royal fortress from
the grounds of the Generalife. It was in fact the
“Tower of the Princesses.”
The page descended into the ravine and approached
the tower, but it had no entrance from
the glen, and its lofty height rendered any attempt
to scale it fruitless. Seeking one of the gates of
the fortress, therefore, he made a wide circuit to
that side of the tower facing within the walls.
A small garden, enclosed by a trellis-work of
reeds overhung with myrtle, lay before the tower.
Opening a wicket, the page passed between beds
of flowers and thickets of roses to the door. It
was closed and bolted. A crevice in the door
gave him a peep into the interior. There was a
small Moorish hall with fretted walls, light marble
columns, and an alabaster fountain surrounded
with flowers. In the centre hung a gilt cage containing
a singing bird, beneath it, on a chair,
lay a tortoiseshell cat among the reels of silk and
other articles of female labour, and a guitar decorated
with ribands leaned against the fountain.
-- 101 --
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Ruyz de Alarcon was struck with these traces
of female taste and elegance in a lonely, and, as he
had supposed, deserted tower. They reminded
him of the tales of enchanted halls current in the
Alhambra; and the tortoiseshell cat might be some
spell-bound princess.
He knocked gently at the door. A beautiful
face peeped out from a little window above, but was
instantly withdrawn. He waited expecting that
the door would be opened, but he waited in vain;
no footstep was to be heard within—all was silent.
Had his senses deceived him, or was this beautiful
apparition the fairy of the tower? He knocked
again, and more loudly. After a little while the
beaming face once more peeped forth; it was that
of a blooming damsel of fifteen.
The page immediately doffed his plumed bonnet,
and entreated in the most courteous accents
to be permitted to ascend the tower in pursuit of
his falcon.
“I dare not open the door, Señor,” replied the
little damsel, blushing, “my aunt has forbidden it.”
“I do beseech you, fair maid—it is the favourite
falcon of the queen: I dare not return to the palace
without it.”
“Are you then one of the cavaliers of the
court?”
-- 102 --
[figure description] Page 102.[end figure description]
“I am, fair maid; but I shall lose the queen's
favour and my place, if I lose this hawk.”
“Santa Maria! It is against you cavaliers of the
court my aunt has charged me especially to bar the
door.”
“Against wicked cavaliers doubtless, but I am
none of these, but a simple harmless page, who will
be ruined and undone if you deny me this small
request.”
The heart of the little damsel was touched by
the distress of the page. It was a thousand pities
he should be ruined for the want of so trifling a
boon. Surely too he could not be one of those
dangerous beings whom her aunt had described as
a species of cannibal, ever on the prowl to make
prey of thoughtless damsels; he was gentle and
modest, and stood so entreatingly with cap in
hand, and looked so charming.
The sly page saw that the garrison began to
waver, and redoubled his entreaties in such moving
terms that it was not in the nature of mortal
maiden to deny him; so the blushing little warden
of the tower descended, and opened the door
with a trembling hand, and if the page had been
charmed by a mere glimpse of her countenance
from the window, he was ravished by the full
length portrait now revealed to him.
-- 103 --
[figure description] Page 103.[end figure description]
Her Andalusian bodice and trim basquiña set
off the round but delicate symmetry of her form,
which was as yet scarce verging into womanhood.
Her glossy hair was parted on her forehead with
scrupulous exactness, and decorated with a fresh
plucked rose, according to the universal custom of
the country. It is true her complexion was tinged
by the ardour of a southern sun, but it served to
give richness to the mantling bloom of her cheek,
and to heighten the lustre of her melting eyes.
Ruyz de Alarcon beheld all this with a single
glance, for it became him not to tarry; he merely
murmured his acknowledgments, and then bounded
lightly up the spiral staircase in quest of his
falcon.
He soon returned with the truant bird upon his
fist. The damsel, in the mean time, had seated
herself by the fountain in the hall, and was winding
silk; but in her agitation she let fall the reel
upon the pavement. The page sprang and picked
it up, then dropping gracefully on one knee, presented
it to her; but, seizing the hand extended
to receive it, imprinted on it a kiss more fervent
and devout than he had ever imprinted on the fair
hand of his sovereign.
“Ave Maria, Señor!” exclaimed the damsel,
blushing still deeper with confusion and surprise,
-- 104 --
[figure description] Page 104.[end figure description]
for never before had she received such a salutation.
The modest page made a thousand apologies,
assuring her it was the way, at court, of expressing
the most profound homage and respect.
Her anger, if anger she felt, was easily pacified,
but her agitation and embarrassment continued,
and she sat blushing deeper and deeper, with her
eyes cast down upon her work, entangling the silk
which she attempted to wind.
The cunning page saw the confusion in the opposite
camp, and would fain have profited by it,
but the fine speeches he would have uttered died
upon his lips; his attempts at gallantry were
awkward and ineffectual; and to his surprise, the
adroit page, who had figured with such grace and
effrontery among the most knowing and experienced
ladies of the court, found himself awed and
abashed in the presence of a simple damsel of
fifteen.
In fact, the artless maiden, in her own modesty
and innocence, had guardians more effectual than
the bolts and bars prescribed by her vigilant aunt.
Still, where is the female bosom proof against the
first whisperings of love? The little damsel, with
all her artlessness, instinctively comprehended all
that the faltering tongue of the page failed to
-- 105 --
[figure description] Page 105.[end figure description]
express, and her heart was fluttered at beholding,
for the first time, a lover at her feet—and such a
lover!
The diffidence of the page, though genuine,
was short-lived, and he was recovering his usual
ease and confidence, when a shrill voice was heard
at a distance.
“My aunt is returning from mass!” cried the
damsel in affright: “I pray you, Señor, depart.”
“Not until you grant me that rose from your
hair as a remembrance.”
She hastily untwisted the rose from her raven
locks. “Take it,” cried she, agitated and blushing,
“but pray begone.”
The page took the rose, and at the same time
covered with kisses the fair hand that gave it.
Then, placing the flower in his bonnet, and taking
the falcon upon his fist, he bounded off through
the garden, bearing away with him the heart of
the gentle Jacinta.
When the vigilant aunt arrived at the tower,
she remarked the agitation of her niece, and an
air of confusion in the hall; but a word of explanation
sufficed. “A ger-falcon had pursued his
prey into the hall.”
“Mercy on us! to think of a falcon flying
into the tower. Did ever one hear of so saucy
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a hawk? Why, the very bird in the cage is not
safe!”
The vigilant Fredegonda was one of the most
wary of ancient spinsters. She had a becoming
terror and distrust of what she denominated “the
opposite sex,” which had gradually increased
through a long life of celibacy. Not that the
good lady had ever suffered from their wiles, nature
having set up a safeguard in her face that forbade
all trespass upon her premises; but ladies who have
least cause to fear for themselves are most ready to
keep a watch over their more tempting neighbours.
The niece was the orphan of an officer who had
fallen in the wars. She had been educated in a
convent, and had recently been transferred from
her sacred asylum to the immediate guardianship
of her aunt, under whose overshadowing care she
vegetated in obscurity, like an opening rose blooming
beneath a briar. Nor indeed is this comparison
entirely accidental; for, to tell the truth, her fresh
and dawning beauty had caught the public eye, even
in her seclusion, and, with that poetical turn common
to the people of Andalusia, the peasantry of
the neighbourhood had given her the appellation
of “the Rose of the Alhambra.”
The wary aunt continued to keep a faithful
watch over her tempting little niece as long as the
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court continued at Granada, and flattered herself
that her vigilance had been successful. It is true,
the good lady was now and then discomposed by
the tinkling of guitars and chanting of love ditties
from the moonlit groves beneath the tower; but
she would exhort her niece to shut her ears against
such idle minstrelsy, assuring her that it was one
of the arts of the opposite sex, by which simple
maids were often lured to their undoing. Alas!
what chance with a simple maid has a dry lecture
against a moonlight serenade?
At length king Philip cut short his sojourn at
Granada, and suddenly departed with all his train.
The vigilant Fredegonda watched the royal pageant
as it issued forth from the gate of Justice, and
descended the great avenue leading to the city.
When the last banner disappeared from her sight,
she returned exulting to her tower, for all her
cares were over. To her surprise, a light Arabian
steed pawed the ground at the wicketgate
of the garden:—to her horror, she saw
through the thickets of roses a youth, in gayly
embroidered dress, at the feet of her neice. At
the sound of her footsteps he gave a tender adieu,
bounded lightly over the barrier of reeds and
myrtles, sprang upon his horse, and was out of
sight in an instant.
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The tender Jacinta, in the agony of her grief,
lost all thought of her aunt's displeasure. Throwing
herself into her arms, she broke forth into
sobs and tears.
“Ay de mi!” cried she; “he's gone!—he's
gone!—he's gone! and I shall never see him
more!”
“Gone!—who is gone?—what youth is that I
saw at your feet?”
“A queen's page, aunt, who came to bid me
farewell.”
“A queen's page, child!” echoed the vigilant
Fredegonda, faintly; “and when did you become
acquainted with the queen's page?”
“The morning that the ger-falcon came into the
tower. It was the queen's ger-falcon, and he came
in pursuit of it.”
“Ah silly, silly girl! know that there are no
ger-falcons half so dangerous as these young
prankling pages, and it is precisely such simple
birds as thee that they pounce upon.”
The aunt was at first indignant at learning that
in despite of her boasted vigilance, a tender intercourse
had been carried on by the youthful lovers,
almost beneath her eye; but when she found that
her simple-hearted niece, though thus exposed,
without the protection of bolt or bar, to all the
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machinations of the opposite sex, had come forth
unsinged from the fiery ordeal, she consoled herself
with the persuasion that it was owing to the
chaste and cautious maxims in which she had, as
it were, steeped her to the very lips.
While the aunt laid this soothing unction to her
pride, the niece treasured up the oft-repeated vows
of fidelity of the page. But what is the love of
restless, roving man? A vagrant stream that dallies
for a time with each flower upon its bank, then
passes on, and leaves them all in tears.
Days, weeks, months elapsed, and nothing more
was heard of the page. The pomegranate ripened,
the vine yielded up its fruit, the autumnal rains
descended in torrents from the mountains; the
Sierra Nevada became covered with a snowy
mantle, and wintry blasts howled through the
halls of the Alhambra—still he came not. The
winter passed away. Again the genial spring
burst forth with song and blossom and balmy
zephyr; the snows melted from the mountains,
until none remained but on the lofty summit of
Nevada, glistening through the sultry summer air.
Still nothing was heard of the forgetful page.
In the mean time, the poor little Jacinta grew
pale and thoughtful. Her former occupations and
amusements were abandoned, her silk lay entangled,
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her guitar unstrung, her flowers were neglected,
the notes of her bird unheeded, and her eyes, once
so bright, were dimmed with secret weeping. If
any solitude could be devised to foster the passion
of a love-lorn damsel, it would be such a place as
the Alhambra, where every thing seems disposed
to produce tender and romantic reveries. It is a
very paradise for lovers: how hard then to be
alone in such a paradise—and not merely alone,
but forsaken!
“Alas, silly child!” would the staid and immaculate
Fredegonda say, when she found her
niece in one of her desponding moods—“did I
not warn thee against the wiles and deceptions
of these men? What couldst thou expect, too,
from one of a haughty and aspiring family—thou
an orphan, the descendant of a fallen and impoverished
line? Be assured, if the youth were
true, his father, who is one of the proudest nobles
about the court, would prohibit his union with one
so humble and portionless as thou. Pluck up thy
resolution, therefore, and drive these idle notions
from thy mind.”
The words of the immaculate Fredegonda only
served to increase the melancholy of her niece,
but she sought to indulge it in private. At a late
hour one midsummer night, after her aunt had
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retired to rest, she remained alone in the hall of
the tower, seated beside the alabaster fountain.
It was here that the faithless page had first knelt
and kissed her hand; it was here that he had often
vowed eternal fidelity. The poor little damsel's
heart was overladen with sad and tender recollections,
her tears began to flow, and slowly fell drop
by drop into the fountain. By degrees the crystal
water became agitated, and—bubble—bubble—
bubble—boiled up and was tossed about, until a
female figure, richly clad in Moorish robes, slowly
rose to view.
Jacinta was so frightened that she fled from the
hall, and did not venture to return. The next
morning she related what she had seen to her aunt,
but the good lady treated it as a phantasy of her
troubled mind, or supposed she had fallen asleep
and dreamt beside the fountain. “Thou hast been
thinking of the story of the three Moorish princesses
that once inhabited this tower,” continued
she, “and it has entered into thy dreams.”
“What story, aunt? I know nothing of it.”
“Thou hast certainly heard of the three princesses,
Zayda, Zorayda, and Zorahayda, who were
confined in this tower by the king their father,
and agreed to fly with three Christian cavaliers.
The two first accomplished their escape, but the
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third failed in her resolution, and, it is said, died
in this tower.”
“I now recollect to have heard of it,” said
Jacinta, “and to have wept over the fate of the
gentle Zorahayda.”
“Thou mayest well weep over her fate,” continued
the aunt, “for the lover of Zorahayda was
thy ancestor. He long bemoaned his Moorish
love, but time cured him of his grief, and he
married a Spanish lady, from whom thou art
descended.”
Jacinta ruminated upon these words. “That
what I have seen is no phantasy of the brain,”
said she to herself, “I am confident. If indeed it
be the spirit of the gentle Zorahayda, which I
have heard lingers about this tower, of what should
I be afraid? I'll watch by the fountain to-night—
perhaps the visit will be repeated.”
Towards midnight, when every thing was quiet,
she again took her seat in the hall. As the bell in
the distant watch-tower of the Alhambra struck
the midnight hour, the fountain was again agitated;
and bubble—bubble—bubble—it tossed about the
waters until the Moorish female again rose to view.
She was young and beautiful; her dress was rich
with jewels, and in her hand she held a silver lute.
Jacinta trembled and was faint, but was reassured
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by the soft and plaintive voice of the apparition,
and the sweet expression of her pale, melancholy
countenance.
“Daughter of mortality,” said she, “what aileth
thee? Why do thy tears trouble my fountain,
and thy sighs and plaints disturb the quiet watches
of the night?”
“I weep because of the faithlessness of man,
and I bemoan my solitary and forsaken state.”
“Take comfort; thy sorrows may yet have an
end. Thou beholdest a Moorish princess, who,
like thee, was unhappy in her love. A Christian
knight, thy ancestor, won my heart, and would
have borne me to his native land and to the bosom
of his church. I was a convert in my heart, but
I lacked courage equal to my faith, and lingered
till too late. For this the evil genii are permitted
to have power over me, and I remain enchanted
in this tower until some pure Christian will deign
to break the magic spell. Wilt thou undertake
the task?”
“I will,” replied the damsel, trembling.
“Come hither then, and fear not; dip thy hand
in the fountain, sprinkle the water over me, and
baptize me after the manner of thy faith; so shall
the enchantment be dispelled, and my troubled
spirit have repose.”
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The damsel advanced with faltering steps, dipped
her hand in the fountain, collected water in
the palm, and sprinkled it over the pale face of
the phantom.
The latter smiled with ineffable benignity. She
dropped her silver lute at the feet of Jacinta,
crossed her white arms upon her bosom, and
melted from sight, so that it seemed merely as if
a shower of dew-drops had fallen into the fountain.
Jacinta retired from the hall filled with awe and
wonder. She scarcely closed her eyes that night,
but when she awoke at daybreak out of a troubled
slumber, the whole appeared to her like a distempered
dream. On descending into the hall, however,
the truth of the vision was established, for,
beside the fountain, she beheld the silver lute glittering
in the morning sunshine.
She hastened to her aunt, to relate all that had
befallen her, and called her to behold the lute as a
testimonial of the reality of her story. If the
good lady had any lingering doubts, they were
removed when Jacinta touched the instrument, for
she drew forth such ravishing tones as to thaw
even the frigid bosom of the immaculate Fredegonda,
that region of eternal winter, into a genial
flow. Nothing but supernatural melody could
have produced such an effect.
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The extraordinary power of the lute became
every day more and more apparent. The wayfarer
passing by the tower was detained, and, as it
were, spell-bound, in breathless ecstacy. The very
birds gathered in the neighbouring trees, and hushing
their own strains, listened in charmed silence.
Rumour soon spread the news abroad. The
inhabitants of Granada thronged to the Alhambra
to catch a few notes of the transcendent music that
floated about the tower of Las Infantas.
The lovely little minstrel was at length drawn
forth from her retreat. The rich and powerful of
the land contended who should entertain and do
honour to her; or rather, who should secure the
charms of her lute to draw fashionable throngs to
their saloons. Wherever she went her vigilant
aunt kept a dragon watch at her elbow, awing the
throngs of impassioned admirers, who hung in
raptures on her strains. The report of her wonderful
powers spread from city to city. Malaga,
Seville, Cordova, all became successively mad on
the theme; nothing was talked of throughout
Andalusia but the beautiful minstrel of the Alhambra.
How could it be otherwise among a people
so musical and gallant as the Andalusians, when
the lute was magical in its powers, and the minstrel
inspired by love!
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While all Andalusia was thus music mad, a
different mood prevailed at the court of Spain.
Philip V., as is well known, was a miserable
hypochondriac, and subject to all kinds of fancies.
Sometimes he would keep to his bed for weeks
together, groaning under imaginary complaints.
At other times he would insist upon abdicating his
throne, to the great annoyance of his royal spouse,
who had a strong relish for the splendours of a
court, and the glories of a crown, and guided the
sceptre of her imbecile lord with an expert and
steady hand.
Nothing was found to be so efficacious in dispelling
the royal megrims as the powers of music;
the queen took care, therefore, to have the best
performers, both vocal and instrumental, at hand,
and retained the famous Italian singer Farinelli
about the court as a kind of royal physician.
At the moment we treat of, however, a freak
had come over the mind of this sapient and illustrious
Bourbon that surpassed all former vagaries.
After a long spell of imaginary illness, which set
all the strains of Farinelli and the consultations
of a whole orchestra of court fiddlers at defiance,
the monarch fairly, in idea, gave up the ghost, and
considered himself absolutely dead.
This would have been harmless enough, and
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even convenient both to his queen and courtiers,
had he been content to remain in the quietude
befitting a dead man; but to their annoyance he
insisted upon having the funeral ceremonies performed
over him, and, to their inexpressible perplexity,
began to grow impatient, and to revile
bitterly at them for negligence and disrespect, in
leaving him unburied. What was to be done?
To disobey the king's positive commands was
monstrous in the eyes of the obsequious courtiers
of a punctilious court—but to obey him, and bury
him alive, would be downright regicide!
In the midst of this fearful dilemma a rumour
reached the court, of the female minstrel who was
turning the brains of all Andalusia. The queen
despatched missions in all haste to summon her to
St. Ildefonso, where the court at that time resided.
Within a few days, as the queen with her maids
of honour was walking in those stately gardens,
intended, with their avenues and terraces and
fountains, to eclipse the glories of Versailles, the
far-famed minstrel was conducted into her presence.
The imperial Elizabetta gazed with surprise
at the youthful and unpretending appearance
of the little being that had set the world madding.
She was in her picturesque Andalusian dress, her
silver lute was in her hand, and she stood with
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modest and downcast eyes, but with a simplicity
and freshness of beauty that still bespoke her “the
Rose of the Alhambra.”
As usual she was accompanied by the ever-vigilant
Fredegonda, who gave the whole history of
her parentage and descent to the inquiring queen.
If the stately Elizabetta had been interested by the
appearance of Jacinta, she was still more pleased
when she learnt that she was of a meritorious
though impoverished line, and that her father had
bravely fallen in the service of the crown. “If
thy powers equal their renown,” said she, “and
thou canst cast forth this evil spirit that possesses
thy sovereign, thy fortunes shall henceforth be my
care, and honours and wealth attend thee.”
Impatient to make trial of her skill, she led the
way at once to the apartment of the moody
monarch.
Jacinta followed with downcast eyes through
files of guards and crowds of courtiers. They
arrived at length at a great chamber hung with
black. The windows were closed to exclude the
light of day: a number of yellow wax tapers in
silver sconces diffused a lugubrious light, and dimly
revealed the figures of mutes in mourning dresses,
and courtiers who glided about with noiseless step
and woe-begone visage. On the midst of a funeral
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bed or bier, his hands folded on his breast, and the
tip of his nose just visible, lay extended this
would-be-buried monarch.
The queen entered the chamber in silence, and
pointing to a footstool in an obscure corner, beckoned
to Jacinta to sit down and commence.
At first she touched her lute with a faltering
hand, but gathering confidence and animation as
she proceeded, drew forth such soft aerial harmony,
that all present could scarce believe it mortal. As
to the monarch, who had already considered himself
in the world of spirits, he set it down for some
angelic melody or the music of the spheres. By
degrees the theme was varied, and the voice of the
minstrel accompanied the instrument. She poured
forth one of the legendary ballads treating of the
ancient glories of the Alhambra and the achievements
of the Moors. Her whole soul entered into
the theme, for with the recollections of the Alhambra
was associated the story of her love. The
funeral chamber resounded with the animating
strain. It entered into the gloomy heart of the
monarch. He raised his head and gazed around:
he sat up on his couch, his eye began to kindle—
at length, leaping upon the floor, he called for
sword and buckler.
The triumph of music, or rather of the enchanted
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lute, was complete; the demon of melancholy was
cast forth; and, as it were, a dead man brought to
life. The windows of the apartment were thrown
open; the glorious effulgence of Spanish sunshine
burst into the late lugubrious chamber; all eyes
sought the lovely enchantress, but the lute had
fallen from her hand, she had sunk upon the earth,
and the next moment was clasped to the bosom of
Ruyz de Alarcon.
The nuptials of the happy couple were shortly
after celebrated with great splendour;—but hold—
I hear the reader ask, how did Ruyz de Alarcon
account for his long neglect? O that was all
owing to the opposition of a proud pragmatical old
father: besides young people, who really like one
another, soon come to an amicable understanding,
and bury all past grievances when once they meet.
But how was the proud pragmatical old father
reconciled to the match?
O his scruples were easily overcome by a word
or two from the queen, especially as dignities and
rewards were showered upon the blooming favourite
of royalty. Besides, the lute of Jacinta,
you know, possessed a magic power, and could
control the most stubborn head and hardest breast.
And what came of the enchanted lute?
O that is the most curious matter of all, and
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plainly proves the truth of all this story. That
lute remained for some time in the family, but
was purloined and carried off, as was supposed, by
the great singer Farinelli, in pure jealousy. At
his death it passed into other hands in Italy, who
were ignorant of its mystic powers, and melting
down the silver, transferred the strings to an old
cremona fiddle. The strings still retain something
of their magic virtues. A word in the
reader's ear, but let it go no further—that fiddle
is now bewitching the whole world—it is the
fiddle of Paganini!
-- --
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-- 123 -- p226-350
THE VETERAN.
[figure description] Page 123.[end figure description]
Among the curious acquaintances I have made
in my rambles about the fortress, is a brave and
battered old colonel of Invalids, who is nestled
like a hawk in one of the Moorish towers. His
history, which he is fond of telling, is a tissue of
those adventures, mishaps, and vicissitudes that
render the life of almost every Spaniard of note
as varied and whimsical as the pages of Gil Blas.
He was in America at twelve years of age, and
reckons among the most signal and fortunate
events of his life, his having seen General Washington.
Since then he has taken a part in all the
wars of his country; he can speak experimentally
of most of the prisons and dungeons of the Peninsula;
has been lamed of one leg, crippled in his
hands, and so cut up and carbonadoed that he is a
kind of walking monument of the troubles of
Spain, on which there is a scar for every battle
and broil, as every year of captivity was notched
upon the tree of Robinson Crusoe. The greatest
misfortune of the brave old cavalier, however,
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appears to have been his having commanded at
Malaga during a time of peril and confusion, and
been made a general by the inhabitants, to protect
them from the invasion of the French. This has
entailed upon him a number of just claims upon
government, that I fear will employ him until his
dying day in writing and printing petitions and
memorials, to the great disquiet of his mind, exhaustion
of his purse, and penance of his friends;
not one of whom can visit him without having to
listen to a mortal document of half an hour in
length, and to carry away half a dozen pamphlets
in his pocket. This, however, is the case throughout
Spain; every where you meet with some
worthy wight brooding in a corner and nursing
up some pet grievance and cherished wrong.
Beside, a Spaniard who has a law suit, or a claim
upon government, may be considered as furnished
with employment for the remainder of
his life.
I visited the veteran in his quarters in the upper
part of the Torre del Vino, or Wine Tower. His
room was small but snug, and commanded a beautiful
view of the Vega. It was arranged with a
soldier's precision. Three muskets and a brace
of pistols, all bright and shining, were suspended
against the wall with a sabre and a cane, hanging
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side by side, and above them, two cocked hats,
one for parade, and one for ordinary use. A small
shelf, containing some half dozen books, formed
his library, one of which, a little old mouldy
volume of philosophical maxims, was his favourite
reading. This he thumbed and pondered over
day by day; applying every maxim to his own
particular case, provided it had a little tinge of
wholesome bitterness, and treated of the injustice
of the world.
Yet he is social and kind hearted, and provided
he can be diverted from his wrongs and his philosophy,
is an entertaining companion. I like
these old weather-beaten sons of fortune, and
enjoy their rough campaigning anecdotes. In the
course of my visit to the one in question, I learnt
some curious facts about an old military commander
of the fortress, who seems to have resembled
him in some respects, and to have had
similar fortunes in the wars. These particulars
have been augmented by inquiries among some of
the old inhabitants of the place, particularly the
father of Mateo Ximenes, of whose traditional
stories the worthy I am about to introduce to the
reader, is a favourite hero.
-- --
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THE GOVERNOR AND THE NOTARY.
[figure description] Page 127.[end figure description]
In former times there ruled, as governor of the
Alhambra, a doughty old cavalier, who, from
having lost one arm in the wars, was commonly
known by the name of el Gobernador Manco, or
“the one-armed governor.” He in fact prided
himself upon being an old soldier, wore his mustachios
curled up to his eyes, a pair of campaigning
boots, and a toledo as long as a spit, with his
pocket handkerchief in the basket hilt.
He was, moreover, exceedingly proud and
punctilious, and tenacious of all his privileges
and dignities. Under his sway the immunities of
the Alhambra, as a royal residence and domain,
were rigidly exacted. No one was permitted to
enter the fortress with fire-arms, or even with a
sword or staff, unless he were of a certain rank;
and every horseman was obliged to dismount at
the gate, and lead his horse by the bridle. Now
as the hill of the Alhambra rises from the very
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midst of the city of Granada, being, as it were, an
excrescence of the capital, it must at all times be
somewhat irksome to the captain-general, who
commands the province, to have thus an imperium
in imperio, a petty independent post in the very
centre of his domains. It was rendered the more
galling, in the present instance, from the irritable
jealousy of the old governor, that took fire on the
least question of authority and jurisdiction; and
from the loose vagrant character of the people that
had gradually nestled themselves within the fortress,
as in a sanctuary, and from thence carried on
a system of roguery and depredation at the expense
of the honest inhabitants of the city.
Thus there was a perpetual feud and heartburning
between the captain-general and the governor,
the more virulent on the part of the latter,
inasmuch as the smallest of two neighbouring
potentates is always the most captious about his
dignity. The stately palace of the captain-general
stood in the Plaza Nueva, immediately at the
foot of the hill of the Alhambra, and here was
always a bustle and parade of guards, and domestics,
and city functionaries. A beetling bastion
of the fortress overlooked the palace and public
square in front of it; and on this bastion the old
governor would occasionally strut backwards and
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forwards, with his toledo girded by his side, keeping
a wary eye down upon his rival, like a hawk
reconnoitring his quarry from his nest in a dry tree.
Whenever he descended into the city it was
in grand parade, on horseback, surrounded by his
guards, or in his state coach, an ancient and unwieldy
Spanish edifice of carved timber and gilt
leather, drawn by eight mules, with running footmen,
out-riders, and lacquies; on which occasions
he flattered himself he impressed every beholder
with awe and admiration as vicegerent of the king,
though the wits of Granada, particularly those who
loitered about the palace of the captain-general,
were apt to sneer at his petty parade, and in allusion
to the vagrant character of his subjects, to
greet him with the appellation of “the king of the
beggars.” One of the most fruitful sources of dispute
between these two doughty rivals was the
right claimed by the governor to have all things
passed free of duty through the city, that were intended
for the use of himself or his garrison. By
degrees this privilege had given rise to extensive
smuggling. A nest of contrabandistas took up
their abode in the hovels of the fortress, and the
numerous caves in its vicinity, and drove a thriving
business under the connivance of the soldiers
of the garrison.
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The vigilance of the captain-general was aroused.
He consulted his legal adviser and factotum, a
shrewd meddlesome escribano, or notary, who
rejoiced in an opportunity of perplexing the old
potentate of the Alhambra, and involving him in
a maze of legal subtilties. He advised the captain-general
to insist upon the right of examining every
convoy passing through the gates of his city, and
he penned a long letter for him in vindication of
the right. Governor Manco was a straightforward
cut-and-thrust old soldier, who hated an escribano
worse than the devil, and this one in particular
worse than all other escribanos.
“What!” said he, curling up his mustachios
fiercely, “does the captain-general set his man of
the pen to practice confusions upon me? I'll let
him see an old soldier is not to be baffled by
schoolcraft.”
He seized his pen and scrawled a short letter in
a crabbed hand, in which, without deigning to
enter into argument, he insisted on the right of
transit free of search, and denounced vengeance on
any custom-house officer who should lay his unhallowed
hand on any convoy protected by the flag of
the Alhambra. While this question was agitated
between the two pragmatical potentates, it so happened
that a mule laden with supplies for the
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fortress arrived one day at the gate of Xenil, by
which it was to traverse a suburb of the city on its
way to the Alhambra. The convoy was headed
by a testy old corporal, who had long served under
the governor, and was a man after his own heart;
as rusty and staunch as an old toledo blade.
As they approached the gate of the city, the
corporal placed the banner of the Alhambra on the
pack-saddle of the mule, and, drawing himself up
to a perfect perpendicular, advanced with his head
dressed to the front, but with the wary side glance
of a cur passing through hostile ground, and ready
for a snap and a snarl.
“Who goes there?” said the sentinel at the
gate.
“Soldier of the Alhambra,” said the corporal,
without turning his head.
“What have you in charge?”
“Provisions for the garrison.”
“Proceed.”
The corporal marched straight forward, followed
by the convoy, but had not advanced many paces
before a posse of custom-house officers rushed out
of a small toll-house.
“Hallo there!” cried the leader; “Muleteer,
halt, and open those packages.”
The corporal wheeled round, and drew himself
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up in battle array. “Respect the flag of the Alhambra,”
said he; “these things are for the
governor.”
“A figo for the governor, and a figo for his flag.
Muleteer, halt, I say.”
“Stop the convoy at your peril!” cried the
corporal, cocking his musket; “Muleteer, proceed.”
The muleteer gave his beast a hearty thwack;
the custom-house officer sprang forward and seized
the halter; whereupon the corporal levelled his
piece, and shot him dead.
The street was immediately in an uproar.
The old corporal was seized, and after undergoing
sundry kicks and cuffs and cudgellings, which are
generally given impromptu by the mob in Spain,
as a foretaste of the after penalties of the law, he
was loaded with irons, and conducted to the city
prison; while his comrades were permitted to
proceed with the convoy, after it had been well
rummaged, to the Alhambra.
The old governor was in a towering passion
when he heard of this insult to his flag and capture
of his corporal. For a time he stormed about the
Moorish halls, and vapoured about the bastions,
and looked down fire and sword upon the palace
of the captain-general. Having vented the first
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ebullition of his wrath, he despatched a message
demanding the surrender of the corporal, as to him
alone belonged the right of sitting in judgment on
the offences of those under his command. The
captain-general, aided by the pen of the delighted
escribano, replied at great length, arguing that
as the offence had been committed within the walls
of his city, and against one of his civil officers, it
was clearly within his proper jurisdiction. The
governor rejoined by a repetition of his demand;
the captain-general gave a sur-rejoinder of still
greater length and legal acumen; the governor
became hotter and more peremptory in his demands,
and the captain-general cooler and more
copious in his replies; until the old lion-hearted
soldier absolutely roared with fury at being thus
entangled in the meshes of legal controversy.
While the subtile escribano was thus amusing
himself at the expense of the governor, he was
conducting the trial of the corporal, who, mewed
up in a narrow dungeon of the prison, had merely
a small grated window at which to show his ironbound
visage and receive the consolations of his
friends.
A mountain of written testimony was diligently
heaped up, according to Spanish form, by the indefatigable
escribano; the corporal was completely
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overwhelmed by it. He was convicted of murder,
and sentenced to be hanged.
It was in vain the governor sent down remonstrance
and menace from the Alhambra. The fatal
day was at hand, and the corporal was put in
capilla, that is to say, in the chapel of the prison,
as is always done with culprits the day before execution,
that they may meditate on their approaching
end and repent them of their sins.
Seeing things drawing to an extremity, the old
governor determined to attend to the affair in person.
For this purpose he ordered out his carriage
of state, and, surrounded by his guards, rumbled
down the avenue of the Alhambra into the city.
Driving to the house of the escribano, he summoned
him to the portal.
The eye of the old governor gleamed like a
coal at beholding the smirking man of the law
advancing with an air of exultation.
“What is this I hear,” cried he, “that you are
about to put to death one of my soldiers?”
“All according to law—all in strict form of justice,”
said the self-sufficient escribano, chuckling
and rubbing his hands. “I can show your excellency
the written testimony in the case.”
“Fetch it hither,” said the governor. The
escribano bustled into his office, delighted with
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having another opportunity of displaying his
ingenuity at the expense of the hard-headed veteran.
He returned with a satchel full of papers, and
began to read a long deposition with professional
volubility. By this time a crowd had collected,
listening with outstretched necks and gaping
mouths.
“Prythee, man, get into the carriage, out of
this pestilent throng, that I may the better hear
thee,” said the governor.
The escribano entered the carriage, when, in a
twinkling, the door was closed, the coachman
smacked his whip—mules, carriage, guards and
all dashed off at a thundering rate, leaving the
crowd in gaping wonderment; nor did the
governor pause until he had lodged his prey in
one of the strongest dungeons of the Alhambra.
He then sent down a flag of truce in military
style, proposing a cartel or exchange of prisoners—
the corporal for the notary. The pride of the
captain-general was piqued; he returned a contemptuous
refusal, and forthwith caused a gallows,
tall and strong, to be erected in the centre of the
Plaza Nueva for the execution of the corporal.
“Oho! is that the game?” said governor
Manco. He gave orders, and immediately a
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gibbet was reared on the verge of the great beetling
bastion that overlooked the Plaza. “Now,”
said he in a message to the captain-general, “hang
my soldier when you please; but at the same time
that he is swung off in the square, look up to see
your escribano dangling against the sky.”
The captain-general was inflexible; troops were
paraded in the square; the drums beat, the bell
tolled. An immense multitude of amateurs gathered
together to behold the execution. On the
other hand, the governor paraded his garrison on
the bastion, and tolled the funeral dirge of the
notary from the Torre de la Campana, or Tower
of the Bell.
The notary's wife pressed through the crowd
with a whole progeny of little embryo escribanos
at her heels, and throwing herself at the feet of
the captain-general, implored him not to sacrifice
the life of her husband, and the welfare of herself
and her numerous little ones, to a point of pride;
“for you know the old governor too well,” said
she, “to doubt that he will put his threat in execution,
if you hang the soldier.”
The captain-general was overpowered by her
tears and lamentations, and the clamours of her
callow brood. The corporal was sent up to the
Alhambra, under a guard, in his gallows garb,
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like a hooded friar, but with head erect and a face
of iron. The escribano was demanded in exchange,
according to the cartel. The once bustling and
self-sufficient man of the law was drawn forth
from his dungeon more dead than alive. All his
flippancy and conceit had evaporated; his hair,
it is said, had nearly turned grey with affright,
and he had a downcast, dogged look, as if he still
felt the halter round his neck.
The old governor stuck his one arm a-kimbo,
and for a moment surveyed him with an iron
smile. “Henceforth, my friend,” said he, “moderate
your zeal in hurrying others to the gallows;
be not too certain of your safety, even though you
should have the law on your side; and above all,
take care how you play off your schoolcraft another
time upon an old soldier.”
-- --
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-- 139 -- p226-366
GOVERNOR MANCO AND THE SOLDIER.
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When Governor Manco, or “the one-armed,”
kept up a show of military state in the Alhambra,
he became nettled at the reproaches continually
cast upon his fortress, of being a nestling place
of rogues and contrabandistas. On a sudden, the
old potentate determined on reform, and setting
vigorously to work, ejected whole nests of vagabonds
out of the fortress and the gipsy caves with
which the surrounding hills are honeycombed.
He sent out soldiers, also, to patrol the avenues
and footpaths, with orders to take up all suspicious
persons.
One bright summer morning, a patrol, consisting
of the testy old corporal who had distinguished
himself in the affair of the notary, a trumpeter and
two privates, was seated under the garden wall
of the Generalife, beside the road which leads
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down from the mountain of the sun, when they
heard the tramp of a horse, and a male voice singing
in rough, though not unmusical tones, an old
Castilian campaigning song.
Presently they beheld a sturdy, sun-burnt fellow,
clad in the ragged garb of a foot soldier, leading
a powerful Arabian horse, caparisoned in the
ancient Moresco fashion.
Astonished at the sight of a strange soldier
descending, steed in hand, from that solitary
mountain, the corporal stepped forth and challenged
him.
“Who goes there?”
“A friend.”
“Who and what are you?”
“A poor soldier just from the wars, with a
cracked crown and empty purse for a reward.”
By this time they were enabled to view him
more narrowly. He had a black patch across his
forehead, which, with a grizzled beard, added to a
certain dare-devil cast of countenance, while a
slight squint threw into the whole an occasional
gleam of roguish good humour.
Having answered the questions of the patrol, the
soldier seemed to consider himself entitled to make
others in return. “May I ask,” said he, “what
city is that which I see at the foot of the hill?”
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“What city!” cried the trumpeter; “come,
that's too bad. Here's a fellow lurking about the
mountain of the sun, and demands the name of the
great city of Granada!”
“Granada! Madre di Dios! can it be possible?”
“Perhaps not!” rejoined the trumpeter; “and
perhaps you have no idea that yonder are the
towers of the Alhambra.”
“Son of a trumpet,” replied the stranger, “do
not trifle with me; if this be indeed the Alhambra,
I have some strange matters to reveal to the
governor.”
“You will have an opportunity,” said the corporal,
“for we mean to take you before him.” By
this time the trumpeter had seized the bridle of
the steed, the two privates had each secured an
arm of the soldier, the corporal put himself in
front, gave the word, “Forward—march!” and
away they marched for the Alhambra.
The sight of a ragged foot soldier and a fine
Arabian horse, brought in captive by the patrol,
attracted the attention of all the idlers of the
fortress, and of those gossip groups that generally
assemble about wells and fountains at early dawn.
The wheel of the cistern paused in its rotations,
and the slip-shod servant-maid stood gaping, with
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pitcher in hand, as the corporal passed by with his
prize. A motley train gradually gathered in the
rear of the escort.
Knowing nods and winks and conjectures passed
from one to another. “It is a deserter,” said one;
“A contrabandista,” said another; “A bandalero,”
said a third;—until it was affirmed that a captain
of a desperate band of robbers had been captured
by the prowess of the corporal and his patrol,
“Well, well,” said the old crones, one to another,
“captain or not, let him get out of the grasp of old
governor Manco if he can, though he is but onehanded.”
Governor Manco was seated in one of the inner
halls of the Alhambra, taking his morning's cup
of chocolate in company with his confessor, a fat
Franciscan friar, from the neighbouring convent.
A demure, dark-eyed damsel of Malaga, the
daughter of his housekeeper, was attending upon
him. The world hinted that the damsel who, with
all her demureness, was a sly buxom baggage, had
found out a soft spot in the iron heart of the old
governor, and held complete control over him.
But let that pass—the domestic affairs of these
mighty potentates of the earth should not be too
narrowly scrutinized.
When word was brought that a suspicious
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stranger had been taken lurking about the fortress, and
was actually in the outer court, in durance of the
corporal, waiting the pleasure of his excellency,
the pride and stateliness of office swelled the bosom
of the governor. Giving back his chocolate cup
into the hands of the demure damsel, he called for
his basket-hilted sword, girded it to his side,
twirled up his mustachios, took his seat in a large
high-backed chair, assumed a bitter and forbidding
aspect, and ordered the prisoner into his presence.
The soldier was brought in still closely pinioned
by his captors, and guarded by the corporal. He
maintained, however, a resolute self-confident air,
and returned the sharp, scrutinizing look of the
governor with an easy squint, which by no means
pleased the punctilious old potentate.
“Well, culprit,” said the governor, after he
had regarded him for a moment in silence, “what
have you to say for yourself—who are you?”
“A soldier, just from the wars, who has brought
away nothing but scars and bruises.”
“A soldier—humph—a foot soldier by your
garb. I understand you have a fine Arabian
horse. I presume you brought him too from the
wars, besides your scars and bruises.”
“May it please your excellency, I have something
strange to tell about that horse. Indeed I
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have one of the most wonderful things to relate
Something too that concerns the security of this
fortress, indeed of all Granada. But it is a matter
to be imparted only to your private ear, or in pre
sence of such only as are in your confidence.”
The governor considered for a moment, and
then directed the corporal and his men to withdraw,
but to post themselves outside of the door,
and be ready at a call. “This holy friar,” said
he, “is my confessor, you may say any thing in
his presence—and this damsel,” nodding towards
the handmaid, who had loitered with an air of
great curiosity, “this damsel is of great secrecy
and discretion, and to be trusted with any thing.”
The soldier gave a glance between a squint
and a leer at the demure handmaid. “I am perfectly
willing,” said he, “that the damsel should
remain.”
When all the rest had withdrawn, the soldier
commenced his story. He was a fluent, smoothtongued
varlet, and had a command of language
above his apparent rank.
“May it please your excellency,” said he, “I
am, as I before observed, a soldier, and have seen
some hard service, but my term of enlistment
being expired, I was discharged, not long since,
from the army at Valladolid, and set out on foot
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for my native village in Andalusia. Yesterday
evening the sun went down as I was traversing a
great dry plain of Old Castile.”
“Hold,” cried the governor, “what is this you
say? Old Castile is some two or three hundred
miles from this.”
“Even so,” replied the soldier, coolly; “I told
your excellency I had strange things to relate;
but not more strange than true; as your excellency
will find, if you will deign me a patient
hearing.”
“Proceed, culprit,” said the governor, twirling
up his mustachios.
“As the sun went down,” continued the soldier,
“I cast my eyes about in search of some quarters
for the night, but as far as my sight could reach,
there were no signs of habitation. I saw that I
should have to make my bed on the naked plain,
with my knapsack for a pillow; but your excellency
is an old soldier, and knows that to one who
has been in the wars, such a night's lodging is no
great hardship.”
The governor nodded assent, as he drew his
pocket handkerchief out of the basket hilt, to
drive away a fly that buzzed about his nose.
“Well, to make a long story short,” continued
the soldier, “I trudged forward for several miles
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until I came to a bridge over a deep ravine,
through which ran a little thread of water, almost
dried up by the summer heat. At one end of the
bridge was a Moorish tower, the upper end all in
ruins, but a vault in the foundation quite entire.
Here, thinks I, is a good place to make a halt; so
I went down to the stream, took a hearty drink,
for the water was pure and sweet, and I was
parched with thirst; then, opening my wallet, I
took out an onion and a few crusts, which were
all my provisions, and seating myself on a stone
on the margin of the stream, began to make my
supper; intending afterwards to quarter myself
for the night in the vault of the tower; and
capital quarters they would have been for a campaigner
just from the wars, as your excellency,
who is an old soldier, may suppose.”
“I have put up gladly with worse in my time,”
said the governor, returning his pocket-handkerchief
into the hilt of his sword.
“While I was quietly crunching my crust,”
pursued the soldier, “I heard something stir
within the vault; I listened—it was the tramp of
a horse. By-and-by, a man came forth from a
door in the foundation of a tower, close by the
water's edge, leading a powerful horse by the
bridle. I could not well make out what he was
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by the star-light. It had a suspicious look to be
lurking among the ruins of a tower, in that wild
solitary place. He might be a mere wayfarer,
like myself; he might be a contrabandista; he
might be a bandalero! what of that? thank heaven
and my poverty, I had nothing to lose; so I set
still and crunched my crusts.
“He led his horse to the water, close by where
I was sitting, so that I had a fair opportunity of
reconnoitring him. To my surprise he was
dressed in a Moorish garb, with a cuirass of steel,
and a polished skull-cap that I distinguished by
the reflection of the stars upon it. His horse,
too, was harnessed in the Moresco fashion, with
great shovel stirrups. He led him, as I said, to
the side of the stream, into which the animal
plunged his head almost to the eyes, and drank
until I thought he would have burst.
“`Comrade,' said I, `your steed drinks well;
it's a good sign when a horse plunges his muzzle
bravely into the water.'
“`He may well drink,' said the stranger,
speaking with a Moorish accent, `it is a good year
since he had his last draught.'
“`By Santiago,' said I, `that beats even the
camels that I have seen in Africa. But come, you
seem to be something of a soldier, will you sit
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down and take part of a soldier's fare?' In fact
I felt the want of a companion in this lonely place,
and was willing to put up with an infidel. Besides,
as your excellency well knows, a soldier is
never very particular about the faith of his company,
and soldiers of all countries are comrades on
peaceable ground.”
The governor again nodded assent.
“Well, as I was saying, I invited him to share
my supper, such as it was, for I could not do less
in common hospitality. `I have no time to pause
for meat or drink,' said he, `I have a long journey
to make before morning.'
“`In which direction?' said I.
“`Andalusia,' said he.
“`Exactly my route,' said I, `so, as you won't
stop and eat with me, perhaps you will let me
mount and ride with you. I see your horse is of
a powerful frame, I'll warrant he'll carry double.'
“`Agreed,' said the trooper; and it would not
have been civil and soldier-like to refuse, especially
as I had offered to share my supper with
him. So up he mounted, and up I mounted
behind him.
“`Hold fast,' said he, `my steed goes like the
wind.'
“`Never fear me,' said I, and so off we set.
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“From a walk the horse soon passed to a trot,
from a trot to a gallop, and from a gallop to a harum
scarum scamper. It seemed as if rocks, trees,
houses, every thing, flew hurry scurry behind us.
“`What town is this?' said I.
“`Segovia,' said he; and before the word was
out of his mouth, the towers of Segovia were out
of sight. We swept up the Guadarama mountains,
and down by the Escurial; and we skirted
the walls of Madrid, and we scoured away across
the plains of La Mancha. In this way we went
up hill and down dale, by towers and cities, all
buried in deep sleep, and across mountains, and
plains, and rivers, just glimmering in the star-light.
“To make a long story short, and not to fatigue
your excellency, the trooper suddenly pulled up
on the side of a mountain. `Here we are,' said
he, `at the end of our journey.' I looked about,
but could see no signs of habitation; nothing but
the mouth of a cavern. While I looked I saw
multitudes of people in Moorish dresses, some on
horseback, some on foot, arriving as if borne by
the wind from all points of the compass, and hurrying
into the mouth of the cavern like bees into
a hive. Before I could ask a question the trooper
struck his long Moorish spurs into the horse's
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flanks, and dashed in with the throng. We passed
along a steep winding way, that descended into
the very bowels of the mountain. As we pushed
on, a light began to glimmer up, by little and
little, like the first glimmerings of day, but what
caused it I could not discern. It grew stronger
and stronger, and enabled me to see every thing
around. I now noticed, as we passed along, great
caverns, opening to the right and left, like
halls in an arsenal. In some there were shields,
and helmets, and cuirasses, and lances, and cimeters,
hanging against the walls; in others there
were great heaps of warlike munitions, and camp
equipage lying upon the ground.
“It would have done your excellency's heart
good, being an old soldier, to have seen such
grand provision for war. Then, in other caverns,
there were long rows of horsemen armed to
the teeth, with lances raised and banners unfurled,
all ready for the field; but they all sat
motionless in their saddles like so many statues.
In other halls were warriors sleeping on the ground
beside their horses, and foot-soldiers in groups
ready to fall into the ranks. All were in old-fashioned
Moorish dresses and armour.
“Well, your excellency, to cut a long story
short, we at length entered an immense cavern, or
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I may say palace, of grotto work, the walls of
which seemed to be veined with gold and silver,
and to sparkle with diamonds and sapphires and
all kinds of precious stones. At the upper end sat
a Moorish king on a golden throne, with his nobles
on each side, and a guard of African blacks with
drawn cimeters. All the crowd that continued
to flock in, and amounted to thousands and thousands,
passed one by one before his throne, each
paying homage as he passed. Some of the multitude
were dressed in magnificent robes, without
stain or blemish and sparkling with jewels; others
in burnished and enamelled armour; while others
were in mouldered and mildewed garments, and in
armour all battered and dented and covered with
rust.
“I had hitherto held my tongue, for your excellency
well knows it is not for a soldier to ask many
questions when on duty, but I could keep silent no
longer.
“`Pr'ythee, comrade,' said I, `what is the meaning
of all this?'
“`This,' said the trooper, `is a great and fearful
mystery. Know, O Christian, that you see
before you the court and army of Boabdil the last
king of Granada.'
“`What is this you tell me?' cried I. `Boabdil
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and his court were exiled from the land hundreds
of years agone, and all died in Africa.'
“`So it is recorded in your lying chronicles,'
replied the Moor, `but know that Boabdil and the
warriors who made the last struggle for Granada
were all shut up in the mountain by powerful enchantment.
As for the king and army that
marched forth from Granada at the time of the
surrender, they were a mere phantom train, of
spirits and demons permitted to assume those
shapes to deceive the Christian sovereigns. And
furthermore let me tell you, friend, that all Spain
is a country under the power of enchantment.
There is not a mountain cave, not a lonely watch-tower
in the plains, nor ruined castle on the hills,
but has some spell-bound warriors sleeping from
age to age within its vaults, until the sins are expiated
for which Allah permitted the dominion
to pass for a time out of the hands of the faithful.
Once every year, on the eve of St. John, they are
released from enchantment, from sunset to sunrise,
and permitted to repair here to pay homage to
their sovereign! and the crowds which you beheld
swarming into the cavern are Moslem warriors
from their haunts in all parts of Spain. For
my own part, you saw the ruined tower of the
bridge in Old Castile, where I have now wintered
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and summered for many hundred years, and where
I must be back again by daybreak. As to the
battalions of horse and foot which you beheld draw
up in array in the neighbouring caverns, they are
the spell-bound warriors of Granada. It is written
in the book of fate, that when the enchantment is
broken, Boabdil will descend from the mountain
at the head of this army, resume his throne in the
Alhambra and his sway of Granada, and gathering
together the enchanted warriors, from all parts of
Spain, will reconquer the Peninsula and restore it
to Moslem rule.'
“`And when shall this happen?' said I.
“`Allah alone knows: we had hoped the day
of deliverance was at hand; but there reigns at
present a vigilant governor in the Alhambra, a
staunch old soldier, well known as governor
Manco. While such a warrior holds command
of the very outpost, and stands ready to check
the first irruption from the mountain, I fear Boabdil
and his soldiery must be content to rest upon
their arms.”'
Here the governor raised himself somewhat
perpendicularly, adjusted his sword, and twirled
up his mustachios.
“To make a long story short, and not to fatigue
your excellency, the trooper, having given me this
account, dismounted from his steed.
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“`Tarry here,' said he, `and guard my steed
while I go and bow the knee to Boabdil.' So
saying, he strode away among the throng that
pressed forward to the throne.
“`What's to be done?' thought I, when thus
left to myself; `shall I wait here until this infidel
returns to whisk me off on his goblin steed, the
Lord knows where; or shall I make the most of
my time and beat a retreat from this hobgoblin
community?' A soldier's mind is soon made up,
as your excellency well knows. As to the horse,
he belonged to an avowed enemy of the faith and
the realm, and was a fair prize according to the
rules of war. So hoisting myself from the crupper
into the saddle, I turned the reins, struck the
Moorish stirrups into the sides of the steed, and
put him to make the best of his way out of the
passage by which he had entered. As we scoured
by the halls where the Moslem horsemen sat in
motionless battalions, I thought I heard the clang
of armour and a hollow murmur of voices. I
gave the steed another taste of the stirrups and
doubled my speed. There was now a sound
behind me like a rushing blast; I heard the clatter
of a thousand hoofs; a countless throng overtook
me. I was borne along in the press, and hurled
forth from the mouth of the cavern, while
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thousands of shadowy forms were swept off in every
direction by the four winds of heaven.
“In the whirl and confusion of the scene I was
thrown senseless to the earth. When I came to
myself I was lying on the brow of a hill, with the
Arabian steed standing beside me; for in falling,
my arm had slipt within the bridle, which, I
presume, prevented his whisking off to Old
Castile.
“Your excellency may easily judge of my surprise,
on looking round, to behold hedges of aloes
and Indian figs and other proofs of a southern
climate, and to see a great city below me, with
towers, and palaces, and a grand cathedral.
“I descended the hill cautiously, leading my
steed, for I was afraid to mount him again, lest he
should play me some slippery trick. As I descended
I met with your patrol, who let me into
the secret that it was Granada that lay before me;
and that I was actually under the walls of the Alhambra,
the fortress of the redoubted governor
Manco, the terror of all enchanted Moslems.
When I heard this, I determined at once to seek
your excellency, to inform you of all that I had
seen, and to warn you of the perils that surround
and undermine you, that you may take measures
in time to guard your fortress, and the kingdom
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itself, from this intestine army that lurks in the
very bowels of the land.”
“And pr'ythee, friend, you who are a veteran
campaigner, and have seen so much service,” said
the governor, “how would you advise me to proceed,
in order to prevent this evil?”
“It is not for an humble private of the ranks,”
said the soldier, modestly, “to pretend to instruct
a commander of your excellency's sagacity, but it
appears to me that your excellency might cause all
the caves and entrances into the mountain to be
walled up with solid mason work, so that Boabdil
and his army might be completely corked up in
their subterranean habitation. If the good father,
too,” added the soldier reverently bowing to the
friar, and devoutly crossing himself, “would consecrate
the barricadoes with his blessing, and put
up a few crosses and reliques and images of saints,
I think they might withstand all the power of
infidel enchantments.”
“They doubtless would be of great avail,” said
the friar.
The governor now placed his arm akimbo, with
his hand resting on the hilt of his toledo, fixed his
eye upon the soldier, and gently wagging his head
from one side to the other,
“So, friend,” said he, “then you really
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suppose I am to be gulled with this cock-and-bull
story about enchanted mountains and enchanted
Moors? Hark ye, culprit!—not another word.
An old soldier you may be, but you'll find you
have an older soldier to deal with, and one not
easily outgeneralled. Ho! guards there! put this
fellow in irons.”
The demure handmaid would have put in a
word in favour of the prisoner, but the governor
silenced her with a look.
As they were pinioning the soldier, one of the
guards felt something of bulk in his pocket, and
drawing it forth, found a long leathern purse that appeared
to be well filled. Holding it by one corner,
he turned out the contents upon the table before
the governor, and never did freebooter's bag make
more gorgeous delivery. Out tumbled rings, and
jewels, and rosaries of pearls, and sparkling diamond
crosses, and a profusion of ancient golden
coin, some of which fell jingling to the floor,
and rolled away to the uttermost parts of the
chamber.
For a time the functions of justice were suspended;
there was a universal scramble after the
glittering fugitives. The governor alone, who
was imbued with true Spanish pride, maintained
his stately decorum, though his eye betrayed a
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little anxiety until the last coin and jewel was
restored to the sack.
The friar was not so calm; his whole face
glowed like a furnace, and his eyes twinkled and
flashed at sight of the rosaries and crosses.
“Sacrilegious wretch that thou art!” exclaimed
he; “what church or sanctuary hast thou been
plundering of these sacred relics?”
“Neither one nor the other, holy father. If
they be sacrilegious spoils, they must have been
taken, in times long past, by the infidel trooper I
have mentioned. I was just going to tell his
excellency when he interrupted me, that on taking
possession of the trooper's horse, I unhooked a
leathern sack which hung at the saddle-bow, and
which I presume contained the plunder of his
campaignings in days of old, when the Moors
overran the country.”
“Mighty well; at present you will make up
your mind to take up your quarters in a chamber
of the vermilion tower, which, though not under
a magic spell, will hold you as safe as any cave
of your enchanted Moors.”
“Your excellency will do as you think proper,”
said the prisoner, coolly. “I shall be thankful to
your excellency for any accommodation in the
fortress. A soldier who has been in the wars, as
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your excellency well knows, is not particular
about his lodgings: provided I have a snug dungeon
and regular rations, I shall manage to make
myself comfortable. I would only entreat that
while your excellency is so careful about me, you
would have an eye to your fortress, and think on
the hint I dropped about stopping up the entrances
to the mountain.”
Here ended the scene. The prisoner was conducted
to a strong dungeon in the vermilion tower,
the Arabian steed was led to his excellency's
stable, and the trooper's sack was deposited in his
excellency's strong box. To the latter, it is true,
the friar made some demur, questioning whether
the sacred relics, which were evidently sacrilegious
spoils, should not be placed in custody of the
church; but as the governor was peremptory on
the subject, and was absolute lord in the Alhambra,
the friar discreetly dropped the discussion,
but determined to convey intelligence of the fact
to the church dignitaries in Granada.
To explain these prompt and rigid measures
on the part of old governor Manco, it is proper
to observe, that about this time the Alpuxarra
mountains in the neighbourhood of Granada were
terribly infested by a gang of robbers, under the
command of a daring chief named Manuel Borasco,
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who were accustomed to prowl about the country,
and even to enter the city in various disguises, to
gain intelligence of the departure of convoys of
merchandise, or travellers with well-lined purses,
whom they took care to waylay in distant and
solitary passes of their road. These repeated and
daring outrages had awakened the attention of
government, and the commanders of the various
posts had received instructions to be on the alert,
and to take up all suspicious stragglers. Governor
Manco was particularly zealous in consequence of
the various stigmas that had been cast upon his
fortress, and he now doubted not that he had entrapped
some formidable desperado of this gang.
In the mean time the story took wind, and
became the talk, not merely of the fortress, but of
the whole city of Granada. It was said that the
noted robber Manuel Borasco, the terror of the
Alpuxarras, had fallen into the clutches of old
Governor Manco, and been cooped up by him in
a dungeon of the vermilion tower; and every one
who had been robbed by him flocked to recognise
the marauder. The vermilion towers, as is well
known, stand apart from the Alhambra on a sister
hill, separated from the main fortress by the ravine
down which passes the main avenue. There were
no outer walls, but a sentinel patrolled before the
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tower. The window of the chamber in which the
soldier was confined was strongly grated, and
looked upon a small esplanade. Here the good
folks of Granada repaired to gaze at him, as they
would at a laughing hyena, grinning through the
cage of a menagerie. Nobody, however, recognised
him for Manuel Borasco, for that terrible
robber was noted for a ferocious physiognomy, and
had by no means the good-humoured squint of the
prisoner. Visiters came not merely from the
city, but from all parts of the country; but nobody
knew him, and there began to be doubts in the
minds of the common people whether there might
not be some truth in his story. That Boabdil
and his army were shut up in the mountain, was
an old tradition which many of the ancient inhabitants
had heard from their fathers. Numbers
went up to the mountain of the sun, or rather of
St. Elena, in search of the cave mentioned by the
soldier; and saw and peeped into the deep dark pit,
descending no one knows how far, into the mountain,
and which remains there to this day—the
fabled entrance to the subterranean abode of
Boabdil.
By degrees the soldier became popular with the
common people. A freebooter of the mountains is
by no means the opprobrious character in Spain
-- 162 --
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that a robber is in any other country: on the contrary,
he is a kind of chivalrous personage in the
eyes of the lower classes. There is always a disposition,
also, to cavil at the conduct of those in
command, and many began to murmur at the
high-handed measures of old Governor Manco,
and to look upon the prisoner in the light of a
martyr.
The soldier, moreover, was a merry, waggish
fellow, that had a joke for every one who came
near his window, and a soft speech for every
female. He had procured an old guitar also, and
would sit by his window and sing ballads and
love ditties to the delight of the women of the
neighbourhood, who would assemble on the esplanade
in the evenings and dance boleros to his
music. Having trimmed off his rough beard, his
sunburnt face found favour in the eyes of the fair,
and the demure handmaid of the governor declared
that his squint was perfectly irresistible. This
kind-hearted damsel had from the first evinced a
deep sympathy in his fortunes, and having in vain
tried to mollify the governor, had set to work privately
to mitigate the rigour of his dispensations.
Every day she brought the prisoner some crumbs
of comfort which had fallen from the governor's
table, or been abstracted from his larder, together
-- 163 --
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with, now and then, a consoling bottle of choice
Val de Peñas, or rich Malaga.
While this petty treason was going on, in the
very centre of the old governor's citadel, a storm
of open war was brewing up among his external
foes. The circumstance of a bag of gold and
jewels having been found upon the person of the
supposed robber, had been reported, with many
exaggerations, in Granada. A question of territorial
jurisdiction was immediately started by the
governor's inveterate rival, the captain-general.
He insisted that the prisoner had been captured
without the precincts of the Alhambra, and within
the rules of his authority. He demanded his body
therefore, and the spolia opima taken with him.
Due information having been carried likewise by
the friar to the grand inquisitor of the crosses and
rosaries, and other reliques contained in the bag,
he claimed the culprit as having been guilty of
sacrilege, and insisted that his plunder was due to
the church, and his body to the next auto da fe.
The feuds ran high; the governor was furious, and
swore, rather than surrender his captive, he would
hang him up within the Alhambra, as a spy caught
within the purlieus of the fortress.
The captain-general threatened to send a body
of soldiers to transfer the prisoner from the
-- 164 --
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vermilion tower to the city. The grand inquisitor
was equally bent upon despatching a number of
the familiars of the Holy Office. Word was
brought late at night to the governor of these
machinations. “Let them come,” said he,
“they'll find me beforehand with them; he must
rise bright and early who would take in an old
soldier.” He accordingly issued orders to have
the prisoner removed, at daybreak, to the donjon
keep within the walls of the Alhambra. “And
d'ye hear, child,” said he to his demure handmaid,
“tap at my door, and wake me before cockcrowing,
that I may see to the matter myself.”
The day dawned, the cock crowed, but nobody
tapped at the door of the governor. The sun
rose high above the mountain-tops, and glittered
in at his casement, ere the governor was wakened
from his morning dreams by his veteran corporal,
who stood before him with terror stamped upon
his iron visage.
“He's off! he's gone!” cried the corporal,
gasping for breath.
“Who's off—who's gone?”
“The soldier—the robber—the devil for aught
I know; his dungeon is empty, but the door
locked: no one knows how he has escaped out
of it.”
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“Who saw him last?”
“Your handmaid, she brought him his supper.”
“Let her be called instantly.”
Here was new matter of confusion. The chamber
of the demure damsel was likewise empty, her
bed had not been slept in: she had doubtless gone
off with the culprit, as she had appeared, for some
days past, to have frequent conversations with
him.
This was wounding the old governor in a
tender part, but he had scarce time to wince at
it, when new misfortunes broke upon his view.
On going into his cabinet he found his strong box
open, the leather purse of the trooper abstracted,
and with it, a couple of corpulent bags of doubloons.
But how, and which way had the fugitives
escaped? An old peasant who lived in a cottage
by the road-side, leading up into the Sierra, declared
that he had heard the tramp of a powerful
steed just before daybreak, passing up into the
mountains. He had looked out at his casement,
and could just distinguish a horseman, with a
female seated before him.
“Search the stables!” cried governor Manco.
The stables were searched; all the horses were
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in their stalls, excepting the Arabian steed. In
his place was a stout cudgel tied to the manger,
and on it a label bearing these words, “A gift to
Governor Manco, from an Old Soldier.”
-- 167 -- p226-394
LEGEND OF THE TWO DISCREET STATUES.
[figure description] Page 167.[end figure description]
There lived once in a waste apartment of the
Alhambra, a merry little fellow, named Lope
Sanchez, who worked in the gardens, and was as
brisk and blithe as a grasshopper, singing all day
long. He was the life and soul of the fortress;
when his work was over, he would sit on one of
the stone benches of the esplanade, and strum his
guitar, and sing long ditties about the Cid, and
Bernardo del Carpio, and Fernando del Pulgar,
and other Spanish heroes, for the amusement of
the old soldiers of the fortress, or would strike up
a merrier tune, and set the girls dancing boleros
and fandangos.
Like most little men, Lope Sanchez had a strapping
buxom dame for a wife, who could almost
have put him in her pocket; but he lacked the
usual poor man's lot—instead of ten children he
-- 168 --
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had but one. This was a little black-eyed girl
about twelve years of age, named Sanchica, who
was as merry as himself, and the delight of his
heart. She played about him as he worked in the
gardens, danced to his guitar as he sat in the shade,
and ran as wild as a young fawn about the groves
and alleys and ruined halls of the Alhambra.
It was now the eve of the blessed St. John, and
the holiday-loving gossips of the Alhambra, men,
women, and children, went up at night to the
mountain of the sun, which rises above the Generalife,
to keep their midsummer vigil on its level
summit. It was a bright moonlight night, and all
the mountains were grey and silvery, and the city,
with its domes and spires, lay in shadows below,
and the Vega was like a fairy land, with haunted
streams gleaming among its dusky groves. On
the highest part of the mountain they lit up a
bonfire, according to an old custom of the country
handed down from the Moors. The inhabitants
of the surrounding country were keeping a
similar vigil, and bonfires, here and there in the
Vega, and along the folds of the mountains, blazed
up palely in the moonlight.
The evening was gayly passed in dancing to
the guitar of Lope Sanchez, who was never so
joyous as when on a holiday revel of the kind.
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While the dance was going on, the little Sanchica
with some of her playmates sported among the
ruins of an old Moorish fort that crowns the mountain,
when, in gathering pebbles in the fosse, she
found a small hand curiously carved of jet, the
fingers closed, and the thumb firmly clasped upon
them. Overjoyed with her good fortune, she ran
to her mother with her prize. It immediately
became a subject of sage speculation, and was eyed
by some with superstitious distrust. “Throw it
away,” said one; “it's Moorish—depend upon it
there's mischief and witchcraft in it.” “By no
means,” said another; “you may sell it for something
to the jewellers of the Zacatin.” In the
midst of this discussion an old tawny soldier drew
near, who had served in Africa, and was as swarthy
as a Moor. He examined the hand with a knowing
look. “I have seen things of this kind,” said
he, “among the Moors of Barbary. It is a great
virtue to guard against the evil eye, and all kinds
of spells and enchantments. I give you joy, friend
Lope, this bodes good luck to your child.”
Upon hearing this, the wife of Lope Sanchez
tied the little hand of jet to a riband, and hung
it round the neck of her daughter.
The sight of this talisman called up all the
favourite superstitions about the Moors. The
-- 170 --
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dance was neglected, and they sat in groupes on
the ground, telling old legendary tales handed down
from their ancestors. Some of their stories turned
upon the wonders of the very mountain upon
which they were seated, which is a famous hobgoblin
region. One ancient crone gave a long
account of the subterranean palace in the bowels
of that mountain where Boabdil and all his Moslem
court are said to remain enchanted. “Among
yonder ruins,” said she, pointing to some crumbling
walls and mounds of earth on a distant part
of the mountain, “there is a deep black pit that
goes down, down into the very heart of the mountain.
For all the money in Granada I would not
look down into it. Once upon a time a poor
man of the Alhambra, who tended goats upon this
mountain, scrambled down into that pit after
a kid that had fallen in. He came out again
all wild and staring, and told such things of
what he had seen, that every one thought his
brain was turned. He raved for a day or two
about the hobgoblin Moors that had pursued him
in the cavern, and could hardly be persuaded to
drive his goats up again to the mountain. He
did so at last, but, poor man, he never came down
again. The neighbours found his goats browsing
about the Moorish ruins, and his hat and mantle
-- 171 --
[figure description] Page 171.[end figure description]
lying near the mouth of the pit, but he was never
more heard of.”
The little Sanchica listened with breathless attention
to this story. She was of a curious nature,
and felt immediately a great hankering to peep into
this dangerous pit. Stealing away from her companions
she sought the distant ruins, and after
groping for some time among them came to a small
hollow, or basin, near the brow of the mountain,
where it swept steeply down into the valley of the
Darro. In the centre of this basin yawned the
mouth of the pit. Sanchica ventured to the verge
and peeped in. All was as black as pitch, and
gave an idea of immeasurable depth. Her blood
ran cold; she drew back, then peeped again, then
would have run away, then took another peep—
the very horror of the thing was delightful to her.
At length she rolled a large stone, and pushed it
over the brink. For some time it fell in silence;
then struck some rocky projection with a violent
crash, then rebounded from side to side, rumbling
and tumbling, with a noise like thunder, then
made a final splash into water, far, far below—and
all was again silent.
The silence, however, did not long continue.
It seemed as if something had been awakened
within this dreary abyss. A murmuring sound
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gradually rose out of the pit like the hum and
buzz of a beehive. It grew louder and louder;
there was the confusion of voices as of a distant
multitude, together with the faint din of arms,
clash of cymbals and clangour of trumpets, as if
some army were marshalling for battle in the very
bowels of the mountain.
The child drew off with silent awe, and hastened
back to the place where she had left her
parents and their companions. All were gone.
The bonfire was expiring, and its last wreath of
smoke curling up in the moonshine. The distant
fires that had blazed along the mountains and in
the Vega were all extinguished, and every thing
seemed to have sunk to repose. Sanchica called
her parents and some of her companions by name,
but received no reply. She ran down the side of
the mountain, and by the gardens of the Generalife,
until she arrived in the alley of trees leading
to the Alhambra, when she seated herself on
a bench of a woody recess to recover breath.
The bell from the watch-tower of the Alhambra
tolled midnight. There was a deep tranquillity,
as if all nature slept; excepting the low tinkling
sound of an unseen stream that ran under the
covert of the bushes. The breathing sweetness
of the atmosphere was lulling her to sleep, when
-- 173 --
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her eye was caught by something glittering at a
distance, and to her surprise she beheld a long
cavalcade of Moorish warriors pouring down the
mountain side and along the leafy avenues. Some
were armed with lances and shields; others with
cimeters and battle-axes, and with polished cuirasses
that flashed in the moonbeams. Their
horses pranced proudly and champed upon their
bits, but their tramp caused no more sound than
if they had been shod with felt, and the riders
were all as pale as death. Among them rode a
beautiful lady with a crowned head and long
golden locks entwined with pearls. The housings
of her palfry were of crimson velvet embroidered
with gold, and swept the earth; but she rode
all disconsolate, with eyes ever fixed upon the
ground.
Then succeeded a train of courtiers magnificently
arrayed in robes and turbans of divers
colours, and amidst them, on a cream-coloured
charger, rode king Boabdil el Chico, in a royal
mantle covered with jewels, and a crown sparkling
with diamonds. The little Sanchica knew him by
his yellow beard, and his resemblance to his portrait,
which she had often seen in the picture
gallery of the Generalife. She gazed in wonder
and admiration at this royal pageant, as it passed
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glistening among the trees; but though she knew
these monarchs and courtiers and warriors, so pale
and silent, were out of the common course of
nature, and things of magic and enchantment, yet
she looked on with a bold heart, such courage did
she derive from the mystic talisman of the hand,
which was suspended about her neck.
The cavalcade having passed by, she rose and
followed. It continued on to the great gate of
justice, which stood wide open; the old invalid
sentinels on duty lay on the stone benches of the
barbican, buried in profound and apparently
charmed sleep, and the phantom pageant swept
noiselessly by them with flaunting banner and triumphant
state. Sanchica would have followed;
but to her surprise she beheld an opening in the
earth, within the barbican, leading down beneath
the foundations of the tower. She entered for a
little distance, and was encouraged to proceed by
finding steps rudely hewn in the rock, and a
vaulted passage here and there lit up by a silver
lamp, which, while it gave light, diffused likewise
a grateful fragrance. Venturing on, she came at
last to a great hall, wrought out of the heart of the
mountain, magnificently furnished in the Moorish
style, and lighted up by silver and crystal lamps.
Here, on an ottoman, sat an old man in Moorish
-- 175 --
[figure description] Page 175.[end figure description]
dress, with a long white beard, nodding and dozing,
with a staff in his hand, which seemed ever to be
slipping from his grasp; while at a little distance
sat a beautiful lady, in ancient Spanish dress, with
a coronet all sparkling with diamonds, and her hair
entwined with pearls, who was softly playing on a
silver lyre. The little Sanchica now recollected a
story she had heard among the old people of the
Alhambra, concerning a Gothic princess confined
in the centre of the mountain by an old Arabian
magician, whom she kept bound up in magic sleep
by the power of music.
The lady paused with surprise at seeing a mortal
in that enchanted hall. “Is it the eve of the
blessed St. John?” said she.
“It is,” replied Sanchica.
“Then for one night the magic charm is suspended.
Come hither, child, and fear not. I am
a Christian like thyself, though bound here by
enchantment. Touch my fetters with the talisman
that hangs about thy neck, and for this night I
shall be free.”
So saying, she opened her robes and displayed
a broad golden band round her waist, and a golden
chain that fastened her to the ground. The child
hesitated not to apply the little hand of jet to the
golden band, and immediately the chain fell to the
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[figure description] Page 176.[end figure description]
earth. At the sound the old man woke and began
to rub his eyes; but the lady ran her fingers over
the chords of the lyre, and again he fell into a
slumber and began to nod, and his staff to falter in
his hand. “Now,” said the lady, “touch his staff
with the talismanic hand of jet.” The child did
so, and it fell from his grasp, and he sunk in a
deep sleep on the ottoman. The lady gently laid
the silver lyre on the ottoman, leaning it against
the head of the sleeping magician; then touching
the chords until they vibrated in his ear—“O
potent spirit of harmony,” said she, “continue
thus to hold his senses in thraldom till the return
of day. Now follow me, my child,” continued
she, “and thou shalt behold the Alhambra as it
was in the days of its glory, for thou hast a magic
talisman that reveals all enchantments.” Sanchica
followed the lady in silence. They passed up
through the entrance of the cavern into the barbican
of the gate of justice, and thence to the Plaza
de los Algibes, or esplanade within the fortress.
This was all filled with Moorish soldiery, horse
and foot, marshalled in squadrons, with banners
displayed. There were royal guards also at the
portal, and rows of African blacks with drawn
cimeters. No one spake a word, and Sanchica
passed on fearlessly after her conductor. Her
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[figure description] Page 177.[end figure description]
astonishment increased on entering the royal
palace, in which she had been reared. The broad
moonshine lit up all the halls and courts and gardens
almost as brightly as if it were day, but
revealed a far different scene from that to
which she was accustomed. The walls of the
apartments were no longer stained and rent by
time. Instead of cobwebs, they were now hung
with rich silks of Damaseus, and the gildings and
arabesque paintings were restored to their original
brilliancy and freshness. The halls, instead of
being naked and unfurnished, were set out with
divans and ottomans of the rarest stuffs, embroidered
with pearls and studded with precious gems,
and all the fountains in the courts and gardens
were playing.
The kitchens were again in full operation;
cooks were busy preparing shadowy dishes, and
roasting and boiling the phantoms of pullets and
partridges; servants were hurrying to and fro
with silver dishes heaped up with dainties, and
arranging a delicious banquet. The Court of
Lions was thronged with guards, and courtiers,
and alfaquais, as in the old times of the Moors;
and at the upper end, in the saloon of judgment,
sat Boabdil on his throne, surrounded by his court,
and swaying a shadowy sceptre for the night.
-- 178 --
[figure description] Page 178.[end figure description]
Notwithstanding all this throng and seeming
bustle not a voice nor a footstep was to be heard;
nothing interrupted the midnight silence but the
splashing of the fountains. The little Sanchica
followed her conductress in mute amazement
about the palace, until they came to a portal opening
to the vaulted passages beneath the great tower
of Comares. On each side of the portal sat the
figure of a nymph, wrought out of alabaster. Their
heads were turned aside, and their regards fixed
upon the same spot within the vault. The enchanted
lady paused, and beckoned the child to
her. “Here,” said she, “is a great secret, which
I will reveal to thee in reward for thy faith and
courage. These discreet statues watch over a
treasure hidden in old times by a Moorish king.
Tell thy father to search the spot on which their
eyes are fixed, and he will find what will make
him richer than any man in Granada. Thy innocent
hands alone, however, gifted as thou art also
with the talisman, can remove the treasure. Bid
thy father use it discreetly, and devote a part of
it to the performance of daily masses for my deliverance
from this unholy enchantment.”
When the lady had spoken these words, she led
the child onward to the little garden of Lindaraxa,
which is hard by the vault of the statues.
-- 179 --
[figure description] Page 179.[end figure description]
The moon trembled upon the waters of the solitary
fountain in the centre of the garden, and shed a
tender light upon the orange and citron trees.
The beautiful lady plucked a branch of myrtle, and
wreathed it round the head of the child. “Let
this be a memento,” said she, “of what I have
revealed to thee, and a testimonial of its truth.
My hour is come—I must return to the enchanted
hall; follow me not, lest evil befall thee—farewell.
Remember what I have said, and have masses performed
for my deliverance.” So saying, the lady
entered a dark passage leading beneath the tower
of Comares, and was no longer seen.
The faint crowing of a cock was now heard from
the cottages below the Alhambra, in the valley of
the Darro, and a pale streak of light began to appear
above the eastern mountains. A slight wind
arose, there was a sound like the rustling of dry
leaves through the courts and corridors, and door
after door shut to with a jarring sound.
Sanchica returned to the scenes she had so lately
beheld thronged with the shadowy multitude, but
Boabdil and his phantom court were gone. The
moon shone into empty halls and galleries stripped
of their transient splendour, stained and dilapidated
by time, and hung with cobwebs. The bat flitted
about in the uncertain light, and the frog croaked
from the fish-pond.
-- 180 --
[figure description] Page 180.[end figure description]
Sanchica now made the best of her way to a remote
staircase that led up to the humble apartment
occupied by her family. The door as usual was
open, for Lope Sanchez was too poor to need bolt
or bar; she crept quietly to her pallet, and, putting
the myrtle wreath beneath her pillow, soon fell
asleep.
In the morning she related all that had befallen
her to her father. Lope Sanchez, however, treated
the whole as a mere dream, and laughed at the
child for her credulity. He went forth to his customary
labours in the garden, but had not been
there long when his little daughter came running
to him almost breathless. “Father! father!”
cried she, “behold the myrtle wreath which the
Moorish lady bound round my head.”
Lope Sanchez gazed with astonishment, for the
stalk of the myrtle was of pure gold, and every
leaf was a sparkling emerald! Being not much
accustomed to precious stones, he was ignorant of
the real value of the wreath, but he saw enough to
convince him that it was something more substantial
than the stuff that dreams are generally
made of, and that at any rate the child had dreamt
to some purpose. His first care was to enjoin the
most absolute secrecy upon his daughter; in this
respect, however, he was secure, for she had
-- 181 --
[figure description] Page 181.[end figure description]
discretion far beyond her years or sex. He then
repaired to the vault, where stood the statues of
the two alabaster nymphs. He remarked that
their heads were turned from the portal, and that
the regards of each were fixed upon the same point
in the interior of the building. Lope Sanchez
could not but admire this most discreet contrivance
for guarding a secret. He drew a line from the
eyes of the statues to the point of regard, made a
private mark on the wall, and then retired.
All day, however, the mind of Lope Sanchez
was distracted with a thousand cares. He could
not help hovering within distant view of the two
statues, and became nervous from the dread that
the golden secret might be discovered. Every
footstep that approached the place made him tremble.
He would have given any thing could he but
have turned the heads of the statues, forgetting
that they had looked precisely in the same direction
for some hundreds of years, without any
person being the wiser.
“A plague upon them,” he would say to himself,
“they'll betray all; did ever mortal hear of
such a mode of guarding a secret?” Then on
hearing any one advance, he would steal off, as
though his very lurking near the place would
awaken suspicions. Then he would return
-- 182 --
[figure description] Page 182.[end figure description]
cautiously, and peep from a distance to see if every
thing was secure, but the sight of the statues
would again call forth his indignation. “Ay
there they stand,” would he say, “always looking,
and looking, and looking, just where they should
not. Confound them! they are just like all their
sex; if they have not tongues to tattle with, they'll
be sure to do it with their eyes.”
At length, to his relief, the long anxious day
drew to a close. The sound of footsteps was no
longer heard in the echoing halls of the Alhambra;
the last stranger passed the threshold, the great
portal was barred and bolted, and the bat and the
frog and the hooting owl gradually resumed their
nightly vocations in the deserted palace.
Lope Sanchez waited, however, until the night
was far advanced before he ventured with his little
daughter to the hall of the two nymphs. He found
them looking as knowingly and mysteriously as
ever at the secret place of deposit. “By your
leaves, gentle ladies,” thought Lope Sanchez, as
he passed between them, “I will relieve you from
this charge that must have set so heavy in your
minds for the last two or three centuries.” He
accordingly went to work at the part of the wall
which he had marked, and in a little while laid
open a concealed recess, in which stood two
-- 183 --
[figure description] Page 183.[end figure description]
great jars of porcelain. He attempted to draw
them forth, but they were immoveable, until
touched by the innocent hand of his little daughter.
With her aid he dislodged them from their niche,
and found, to his great joy, that they were filled
with pieces of Moorish gold, mingled with jewels
and precious stones. Before daylight he managed
to convey them to his chamber, and left the two
guardian statues with their eyes still fixed on the
vacant wall.
Lope Sanchez had thus on a sudden become a
rich man; but riches, as usual, brought a world of
cares to which he had hitherto been a stranger.
How was he to convey away his wealth with
safety? How was he even to enter upon the
enjoyment of it without awakening suspicion?
Now, too, for the first time in his life the dread of
robbers entered into his mind. He looked with
terror at the insecurity of his habitation, and went
to work to barricado the doors and windows; yet
after all his precautions he could not sleep soundly.
His usual gayety was at an end, he had no longer a
joke or a song for his neighbours, and, in short,
became the most miserable animal in the Alhambra.
His old comrades remarked this alteration,
pitied him heartily, and began to desert him;
thinking he must be falling into want, and in
-- 184 --
[figure description] Page 184.[end figure description]
danger of looking to them for assistance. Little
did they suspect that his only calamity was riches.
The wife of Lope Sanchez shared his anxiety,
but then she had ghostly comfort. We ought
before this to have mentioned that Lope, being
rather a light inconsiderate little man, his wife
was accustomed, in all grave matters, to seek the
counsel and ministry of her confessor Fray Simon,
a sturdy, broad-shouldered, blue-bearded, bullet-headed
friar of the neighbouring convent of San
Francisco, who was in fact the spiritual comforter
of half the good wives of the neighbourhood. He
was moreover in great esteem among divers sisterhoods
of nuns; who requited him for his ghostly
services by frequent presents of those little dainties
and knick-knacks manufactured in convents,
such as delicate confections, sweet biscuits, and
bottles of spiced cordials, found to be marvellous
restoratives after fasts and vigils.
Fray Simon thrived in the exercise of his functions.
His oily skin glistened in the sunshine as
he toiled up the hill of the Alhambra on a sultry
day. Yet notwithstanding his sleek condition, the
knotted rope round his waist showed the austerity
of his self-discipline; the multitude doffed
their caps to him as a mirror of piety, and even
the dogs scented the odour of sanctity that exhaled
-- 185 --
[figure description] Page 185.[end figure description]
from his garments, and howled from their kennels
as he passed.
Such was Fray Simon, the spiritual counsellor
of the comely wife of Lope Sanchez; and as the
father confessor is the domestic confidant of women
in humble life in Spain, he was soon made acquainted,
in great secresy, with the story of the
hidden treasure.
The friar opened eyes and mouth and crossed
himself a dozen times at the news. After a
moment's pause, “Daughter of my soul!” said
be, “know that thy husband has committed a
double sin—a sin against both state and church!
The treasure he hath thus seized upon for himself,
being found in the royal domains, belongs
of course to the crown; but being infidel wealth,
rescued as it were from the very fangs of Satan,
should be devoted to the church. Still, however,
the matter may be accommodated. Bring hither
the myrtle wreath.”
When the good father beheld it, his eyes
twinkled more than ever with admiration of the
size and beauty of the emeralds. “This,” said
he, “being the first-fruits of this discovery, should
be dedicated to pious purposes. I will hang it
up as a votive offering before the image of San
Francisco in our chapel, and will earnestly pray
-- 186 --
[figure description] Page 186.[end figure description]
to him, this very night, that your husband be
permitted to remain in quiet possession of your
wealth.”
The good dame was delighted to make her
peace with heaven at so cheap a rate, and the
friar, putting the wreath under his mantle, departed
with saintly steps towards his convent.
When Lope Sanchez came home, his wife told
him what had passed. He was excessively provoked,
for he lacked his wife's devotion, and had
for some time groaned in secret at the domestic
visitations of the friar. “Woman,” said he,
“what hast thou done? thou hast put every thing
at hazard by thy tattling.”
“What!” cried the good woman, “would you
forbid my disburdening my conscience to my
confessor?”
“No, wife! confess as many of your own sins
as you please; but as to this money digging, it is
a sin of my own, and my conscience is very easy
under the weight of it.”
There was no use, however, in complaining;
the secret was told, and, like water spilled on the
sand, was not again to be gathered. Their only
chance was, that the friar would be discreet.
The next day, while Lope Sanchez was
abroad, there was an humble knocking at the door,
-- 187 --
[figure description] Page 187.[end figure description]
and Fray Simon entered with meek and demure
countenance.”
“Daughter,” said he, “I have prayed earnestly
to San Francisco, and he has heard my prayer.
In the dead of the night the saint appeared to me
in a dream, but with a frowning aspect. `Why,'
said he, `dost thou pray to me to dispense with
this treasure of the Gentiles, when thou seest the
poverty of my chapel? Go to the house of Lope
Sanchez, crave in my name a portion of the Moorish
gold, to furnish two candlesticks for the main
altar, and let him possess the residue in peace.”'
When the good woman heard of this vision,
she crossed herself with awe, and going to the
secret place where Lope had hid the treasure, she
filled a great leathern purse with pieces of Moorish
gold, and gave it to the friar. The pious monk
bestowed upon her, in return, benedictions enough,
if paid by Heaven, to enrich her race to the latest
posterity; then slipping the purse into the sleeve
of his habit, he folded his hands upon his breast,
and departed with an air of humble thankfulness.
When Lope Sanchez heard of this second donation
to the church, he had well nigh lost his senses.
“Unfortunate man,” cried he, “what will become
of me? I shall be robbed by peace-meal; I shall
be ruined and brought to beggary!
-- 188 --
[figure description] Page 188.[end figure description]
It was with the utmost difficulty that his wife
could pacify him, by reminding him of the countless
wealth that yet remained, and how considerate
it was for San Francisco to rest contented with so
small a portion.
Unluckily, Fray Simon had a number of poor
relations to be provided for, not to mention some
half-dozen sturdy bullet-headed orphan children,
and destitute foundlings that he had taken
under his care. He repeated his visits, therefore,
from day to day, with solicitations on behalf of
Saint Dominick, Saint Andrew, Saint James, until
poor Lope was driven to despair, and found
that unless he got out of the reach of this holy
friar, he should have to make peace offerings
to every saint in the calender. He determined,
therefore, to pack up his remaining wealth, beat a
secret retreat in the night, and make off to another
part of the kingdom.
Full of his project, he bought a stout mule for
the purpose, and tethered it in a gloomy vault
underneath the tower of the seven floors; the very
place from whence the Beludo, or goblin horse is
said to issue forth at midnight, and scour the
streets of Granada, pursued by a pack of hellhounds.
Lope Sanchez had little faith in the
story, but availed himself of the dread occasioned
-- 189 --
[figure description] Page 189.[end figure description]
by it, knowing that no one would be likely to
pry into the subterranean stable of the phantom
steed. He sent off his family in the course of
the day with orders to wait for him at a distant
village of the Vega. As the night advanced,
he conveyed his treasure to the vault under
the tower, and having loaded his mule, he led
it forth, and cautiously descended the dusky
avenue.
Honest Lope had taken his measures with the
utmost secrecy, imparting them to no one but the
faithful wife of his bosom. By some miraculous
revelation, however, they became known to Fray
Simon. The zealous friar beheld these infidel treasures
on the point of slipping for ever out of his
grasp, and determined to have one more dash at them
for the benefit of the church and San Francisco. Accordingly,
when the bells had rung for animas,
and all the Alhambra was quiet, he stole out of
his convent, and descending through the gate of
justice, concealed himself among the thickets of
roses and laurels that border the great avenue.
Here he remained, counting the quarters of hours
as they were sounded on the bell of the watch
tower, and listening to the dreary hootings of owls,
and the distant barking of dogs from the gipsy
caverns
-- 190 --
[figure description] Page 190.[end figure description]
At length he heard the tramp of hoofs, and,
through the gloom of the overshadowing trees,
imperfectly beheld a steed descending the avenue.
The sturdy friar chuckled at the idea of the knowing
turn he was about to serve honest Lope.
Tucking up the skirts of his habit, and wriggling
like a cat watching a mouse, he waited until
his prey was directly before him, when darting
forth from his leafy covert, and putting one hand
on the shoulder and the other on the crupper, he
made a vault that would not have disgraced the
most experienced master of equitation, and alighted
well-forked astride the steed. “A ha!” said the
sturdy friar, “we shall now see who best understands
the game.” He had scarce uttered the
words when the mule began to kick, and rear, and
plunge, and then set off full speed down the hill.
The friar attempted to check him, but in vain.
He bounded from rock to rock, and bush to bush;
the friar's habit was torn to ribbands and fluttered
in the wind, his shaven poll received many a hard
knock from the branches of the trees, and many a
scratch from the brambles. To add to his terror
and distress, he found a pack of seven hounds in
fully cry at his heels, and perceived too late, that
he was actually mounted upon the terrible Belludo!
-- 191 --
[figure description] Page 191.[end figure description]
Away then they went, according to the ancient
phrase, “pull devil, pull friar,” down the great
avenue, across the Plaza Nueva, along the Zacatin,
around the Vivarrambla—never did huntsman and
hound make a more furious run, or more infernal
uproar. In vain did the friar invoke every saint
in the calendar, and the holy virgin into the bargain;
every time he mentioned a name of the kind
it was like a fresh application of the spur, and
made the Belludo bound as high as a house.
Through the remainder of the night was the
unlucky Fray Simon carried hither and thither,
and whither he would not, until every bone in
his body ached, and he suffered a loss of leather
too grievous to be mentioned. At length the
crowing of a cock gave the signal of returning
day. At the sound the goblin steed wheeled
about, and galloped back for his tower. Again
he scoured the Vivarrambla, the Zacatin, the
Plaza Nueva, and the avenue of fountains, the
seven dogs yelling, and barking, and leaping up,
and snapping at the heels of the terrified friar.
The first streak of day had just appeared as they
reached the tower; here the goblin steed kicked
up his heels, sent the friar a somerset through the
air, plunged into the dark vault followed by the
-- 192 --
[figure description] Page 192.[end figure description]
infernal pack, and a profound silence succeeded to
the late deafening clamour.
Was ever so diabolical a trick played off upon a
holy friar? A peasant going to his labours at
early dawn found the unfortunate Fray Simon
lying under a fig-tree at the foot of the tower, but
so bruised and bedevilled that he could neither
speak nor move. He was conveyed with all care
and tenderness to his cell, and the story went that
he had been waylaid and maltreated by robbers.
A day or two elapsed before he recovered the use
of his limbs; he consoled himself, in the mean
time, with the thoughts that though the mule with
the treasure had escaped him, he had previously
had some rare pickings at the infidel spoils. His
first care on being able to use his limbs, was
to search beneath his pallet, where he had secreted
the myrtle wreath and the leathern
pouches of gold extracted from the piety of
dame Sanchez. What was his dismay at finding
the wreath, in effect, but a withered branch of
myrtle, and the leathern pouches filled with sand
and gravel!
Fray Simon, with all his chagrin, had the discretion
to hold his tongue, for to betray the secret
might draw on him the ridicule of the public, and
-- 193 --
[figure description] Page 193.[end figure description]
the punishment of his superior: it was not until
many years afterwards, on his death-bed, that he
revealed to his confessor his nocturnal ride on the
Belludo.
Nothing was heard of Lope Sanchez for a long
time after his disappearance from the Alhambra.
His memory was always cherished as that of a
merry companion, though it was feared, from the
care and melancholy observed in his conduct
shortly before his mysterious departure, that
poverty and distress had driven him to some
extremity. Some years afterwards one of his old
companions, an invalid soldier, being at Malaga,
was knocked down and nearly run over by a coach
and six. The carriage stopped; an old gentleman
magnificently dressed, with a bag wig and sword,
stepped out to assist the poor invalid. What was
the astonishment of the latter to behold in this
grand cavalier his old friend Lope Sanchez, who
was actually celebrating the marriage of his
laughter Sanchica with one of the first grandees
in the land.
The carriage contained the bridal party. There
was dame Sanchez, now grown as round as a barrel,
and dressed out with feathers and jewels, and
necklaces of pearls, and necklaces of diamonds, and
-- 194 --
[figure description] Page 194.[end figure description]
rings on every finger, altogether a finery of apparel
that had not been seen since the days of Queen
Sheba. The little Sanchica had now grown to be a
woman, and for grace and beauty might have been
mistaken for a duchess, if not a princess outright.
The bridegroom sat beside her—rather a withered
spindle-shanked little man, but this only proved
him to be of the true blue blood; a legitimate Spanish
grandee being rarely above three cubits in
stature. The match had been of the mother's
making.
Riches had not spoiled the heart of honest Lope.
He kept his old comrade with him for several
days; feasted him like a king, took him to plays
and bull-fights, and at length sent him away rejoicing,
with a big bag of money for himself, and
another to be distributed among his ancient messmates
of the Alhambra.
Lope always gave out that a rich brother had
died in America and left him heir to a copper
mine; but the shrewd gossips of the Alhambra
insist that his wealth was all derived from his
having discovered the secret guarded by the two
marble nymphs of the Alhambra. It is remarked
that these very discreet statues continue,
even unto the present day, with their eyes fixed
-- 195 --
[figure description] Page 195.[end figure description]
most significantly on the same part of the wall;
which leads many to suppose there is still some
hidden treasure remaining there well worthy the
attention of the enterprising traveller. Though
others, and particularly all female visitors, regard
them with great complacency as lasting
monuments of the fact that women can keep a
secret.
-- --
[figure description] Blank Page.[end figure description]
-- 197 -- p226-424
MUHAMED ABU ALAHMAR, THE FOUNDER OF THE ALHAMBRA.
[figure description] Page 197.[end figure description]
Having dealt so freely in the marvellous legends
of the Alhambra, I feel as if bound to give
the reader a few facts concerning its sober history,
or rather the history of those magnificent princes,
its founder and finisher, to whom the world is indebted
for so beautiful and romantic an oriental
monument. To obtain these facts, I descended
from this region of fancy and fable, where every
thing is liable to take an imaginative tint, and carried
my researches among the dusty tomes of the
old Jesuit's library in the university. This once
boasted repository of erudition is now a mere
shadow of its former self, having been stripped of
its manuscripts and rarest works by the French,
when masters of Granada. Still it contains, among
many ponderous tomes of polemics of the Jesuit
fathers, several curious tracts of Spanish literature;
and above all, a number of those antiquated, dusty,
-- 198 --
[figure description] Page 198.[end figure description]
parchment-bound chronicles, for which I have a
peculiar veneration.
In this old library I have passed many delightful
hours of quiet, undisturbed literary foraging, for
the keys of the doors and bookcases were kindly
intrusted to me, and I was left alone to rummage
at my leisure—a rare indulgence in these sanctuaries
of learning, which too often tantalize the
thirsty student with the sight of sealed fountains
of knowledge.
In the course of these visits I gleaned the following
particulars concerning the historical characters
in question.
The Moors of Granada regarded the Alhambra
as a miracle of art, and had a tradition that the
king who founded it dealt in magic, or, at least,
was versed in alchymy, by means whereof he procured
the immense sums of gold expended in its
erection. A brief view of his reign will show the
real secret of his wealth.
The name of this monarch, as inscribed on the
walls of some of the apartments, was Abu Abd'allah,
(i. e. the father of Abdallah,) but he is commonly
known in Moorish history as Muhamed
Abu Alahmar, (or Mahomed, son of Alahmar,)
or simply, Abu Alahmar, for the sake of brevity.
He was born in Arjona, in the year of the
-- 199 --
[figure description] Page 199.[end figure description]
Hejera 591, of the Christian era 1195, of the noble
family of the Beni Nasar, or children of Nasar,
and no expense was spared by his parents to fit him
for the high station to which the opulence and dignity
of his family entitled him. The Saracens of
Spain were greatly advanced in civilization, every
principal city was a seat of learning and the arts,
so that it was easy to command the most enlightened
instructors for a youth of rank and fortune.
Abu Alahmar, when he arrived at manly years,
was appointed alcayde or governor of Arjona and
Jaen, and gained great popularity by his benignity
and justice. Some years afterwards, on the death
of Abou Hud, the Moorish power in Spain was
broken into factions, and many places declared for
Muhamed Abu Alahmar. Being of a sanguine
spirit, and lofty ambition, he seized upon the occasion,
made a circuit through the country, and
was every where received with acclamations. It
was in the year 1238, that he entered Granada
amidst the enthusiastic shouts of the multitude.
He was proclaimed king with every demonstration
of joy, and soon became the head of the Moslems
in Spain, being the first of the illustrious line of
Beni Nasar that had sat upon the throne. His
reign was such as to render him a blessing to his
subjects. He gave the command of his various
-- 200 --
[figure description] Page 200.[end figure description]
cities to such as had distinguished themselves by
valour and prudence, and who seemed most acceptable
to the people. He organized a vigilant
police, and established rigid rules for the administration
of justice. The poor and the distressed
always found ready admission to his presence, and
he attended personally to their assistance and
redress. He erected hospitals for the blind, the
aged, and infirm, and all those incapable of labour,
and visited them frequently; not on set days with
pomp and form, so as to give time for every thing
to be put in order, and every abuse concealed, but
suddenly, and unexpectedly, informing himself, by
actual observation and close inquiry, of the treatment
of the sick, and the conduct of those appointed
to administer to their relief. He founded schools
and colleges, which he visited in the same manner,
inspecting personally the instruction of the youth.
He established butcheries and public ovens, that the
people might be furnished with wholesome provisions
at just and regular prices. He introduced
abundant streams of water into the city, erecting
baths and fountains, and constructing aqueducts and
canals to irrigate and fertilize the Vega. By these
means prosperity and abundance prevailed in this
beautiful city, its gates were thronged with commerce,
and its warehouses filled with luxuries and
merchandise of every clime and country.
-- 201 --
[figure description] Page 201.[end figure description]
While Muhamed Abu Alahmar was ruling his
fair domains thus wisely and prosperously, he was
suddenly menaced by the horrors of war. The
Christians at that time, profiting by the dismemberment
of the Moslem power, were rapidly
regaining their ancient territories. James the
conqueror had subjected all Valencia, and Ferdinand
the Saint was carrying his victorious arms
into Andalusia. The latter invested the city of
Jaen, and swore not to raise his camp until he had
gained possession of the place. Muhamed Abu
Alahmar was conscious of the insufficiency of his
means to carry on a war with the potent sovereign
of Castile. Taking a sudden resolution, therefore,
he repaired privately to the Christian camp, and
made his unexpected appearance in the presence
of king Ferdinand. “In me,” said he, “you behold
Muhamed, king of Granada; I confide in
your good faith, and put myself under your protection.
Take all I possess, and receive me as
your vassal.” So saying, he knelt and kissed the
king's hand in token of submission.
King Ferdinand was touched by this instance
of confiding faith, and determined not to be outdone
in generosity. He raised his late rival from
the earth, and embraced him as a friend, nor would
he accept the wealth he offered, but received him
-- 202 --
[figure description] Page 202.[end figure description]
as a vassal, leaving him sovereign of his dominions,
on condition of paying a yearly tribute, attending
the Cortes as one of the nobles of the empire, and
serving him in war with a certain number of
horsemen.
It was not long after this that Muhamed was
called upon, for his military services, to aid king
Ferdinand in his famous siege of Seville. The
Moorish king sallied forth with five hundred
chosen horsemen of Granada, than whom none in
the world knew better how to manage the steed
or wield the lance. It was a melancholy and
humiliating service, however, for they had to
draw their sword against their brethren of the
faith.
Muhamed gained a melancholy distinction by
his prowess in this renowned conquest, but more
true honour by the humanity which he prevailed
upon Ferdinand to introduce into the usages of
war. When in 1248 the famous city of Seville
surrendered to the Castilian monarch, Muhamed
returned sad and full of care to his dominions.
He saw the gathering ills that menaced the Moslem
cause; and uttered an ejaculation often used by
him in moments of anxiety and trouble—“How
straitened and wretched would be our life, if our
hope were not so spacious and extensive.”
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“Que angoste y miserabile seria nuestra vida,
sino fuera tan dilatada y espaciosa nuestra esperanza!”
When the melancholy conqueror approached
his beloved Granada, the people thronged forth
to see him with impatient joy; for they loved
him as a benefactor. They had erected arches
of triumph in honour of his martial exploits, and
wherever he passed he was hailed with acclamations
as El Ghalib, or the conqueror. Muhamed
shook his head when he heard the appellation.
“Wa la ghalib ila Alá!” exclaimed he. (There
is no conqueror but God!) From that time forward
he adopted this exclamation as a motto. He
inscribed it on an oblique band across his escutcheon,
and it continued to be the motto of his
descendants.
Muhamed had purchased peace by submission
to the Christian yoke; but he knew that where
the elements were so discordant, and the motives
for hostility so deep and ancient, it could not be
secure or permanent. Acting therefore upon an
old maxim, “Arm thyself in peace, and clothe
thyself in summer,” he improved the present
interval of tranquillity by fortifying his dominions
and replenishing his arsenals, and by promoting
those useful arts which give wealth and real power
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to an empire. He gave premiums and privileges
to the best artizans; improved the breed of horses
and other domestic animals; encouraged husbandry;
and increased the natural fertility of the
soil two-fold by his protection, making the lovely
valleys of his kingdom to bloom like gardens
He fostered also the growth and fabrication of
silk, until the looms of Granada surpassed even
those of Syria in the fineness and beauty of their
productions. He moreover caused the mines of
gold and silver and other metals, found in the
mountainous regions of his dominions, to be diligently
worked, and was the first king of Granada
who struck money of gold and silver with his
name, taking great care that the coins should be
skilfully executed.
It was about this time, towards the middle of
the thirteenth century, and just after his return from
the seige of Seville, that he commenced the splendid
palace of the Alhambra; superintending the building
of it in person; mingling frequently among
the artists and workmen, and directing their
labours.
Though thus magnificent in his works and great
in his enterprises, he was simple in his person and
moderate in his enjoyments. His dress was not
merely void of splendour, but so plain as not to
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distinguish him from his subjects. His harem
boasted but few beauties, and these he visited but
seldom, though they were entertained with great
magnificence. His wives were daughters of the
principal nobles, and were treated by him as
friends and rational companions. What is more,
he managed to make them live friends with one
another. He passed much of his time in his gardens;
especially in those of the Alhambra, which
he had stored with the rarest plants and the most
beautiful and aromatic flowers. Here he delighted
himself in reading histories, or in causing them to
be read and related to him, and sometimes, in intervals
of leisure, employed himself in the instruction
of his three sons, for whom he had provided the
most learned and virtuous masters.
As he had frankly and voluntarily offered himself
a tributary vassal to Ferdinand, so he always
remained loyal to his word, giving him repeated
proofs of fidelity and attachment. When that renowned
monarch died in Seville in 1254, Muhamed
Abu Alahmar sent ambassadors to condole
with his successor Alonzo X., and with them a
gallant train of a hundred Moorish cavaliers of
distinguished rank, who were to attend, each bearing
a lighted taper, round the royal bier, during
the funeral ceremonies. This grand testimonial
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of respect was repeated by the Moslem monarch
during the remainder of his life on each anniversary
of the death of King Ferdinand el Santo,
when the hundred Moorish knights repaired from
Granada to Seville, and took their stations with
lighted tapers in the centre of the sumptuous cathedral
round the cenotaph of the illustrious deceased.
Muhamed Abu Alahmar retained his faculties
and vigour to an advanced age. In his seventyninth
year he took the field on horseback, accompanied
by the flower of his chivalry, to resist an
invasion of his territories. As the army sallied
forth from Granada, one of the principal adalides,
or guides, who rode in the advance, accidently
broke his lance against the arch of the gate. The
councillors of the king, alarmed by this circumstance,
which was considered an evil omen, entreated
him to return. Their supplications were
in vain. The king persisted, and at noontide the
omen, says the Moorish chroniclers, was fatally
fulfilled. Muhamed was suddenly struck with illness,
and had nearly fallen from his horse. He was
placed on a litter, and borne back towards Granada,
but his illness increased to such a degree that they
were obliged to pitch his tent in the Vega. His
physicians were filled with consternation, not
knowing what remedy to prescribe. In a few
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hours he died vomiting blood and in violent convulsions.
The Castilian prince Don Philip, brother
of Alonzo X., was by his side when he
expired. His body was embalmed, enclosed in a
silver coffin, and buried in the Alhambra in a
sepulchre of precious marble, amidst the unfeigned
lamentations of his subjects, who bewailed him as
a parent.
Such was the enlightened patriot prince who
founded the Alhambra, whose name remains emblazoned
among its most delicate and graceful
ornaments, and whose memory is calculated to
inspire the loftiest associations in those who tread
these fading scenes of his magnificence and glory.
Though his undertakings were vast, and his expenditures
immense, yet his treasury was always
full; and this seeming contradiction gave rise to
the story that he was versed in magic art, and
possessed of the secret for transmuting baser
metals into gold. Those who have attended to hidomestic
policy, as here set forth, will easily
understand the natural magic and simple alchymy
which made his ample treasury to overflow.
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-- 209 -- p226-436
YUSEF ABUL HAGIG, THE FINISHER OF THE ALHAMBRA.
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Beneath the governor's apartment in the
Alhambra, is the royal mosque, where the Moorish
monarchs performed their private devotions.
Though consecrated as a Catholic chapel, it still
bears traces of its Moslem origin; the Saracenic
columns with their gilded capitals, and the latticed
gallery for the females of the Harem, may
yet be seen, and the escutcheons of the Moorish
kings are mingled on the walls with those of the
Castilian sovereigns.
In this consecrated place perished the illustrious
Yusef Abul Hagig, the high-minded prince who
completed the Alhambra, and who for his virtues
and endowments deserves almost equal renown
with its magnanimous founder. It is with pleasure
I draw forth from the obscurity in which it
has too long remained, the name of another of
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those princes of a departed and almost forgotten
race, who reigned in elegance and splendour in
Andalusia, when all Europe was in comparative
barbarism.
Yusef Abul Hagig, (or, as it is sometimes written,
Haxis,) ascended the throne of Granada in
the year 1333, and his personal appearance and
mental qualities were such as to win all hearts,
and to awaken anticipations of a beneficent and
prosperous reign. He was of a noble presence,
and great bodily strength, united to manly beauty;
his complexion was exceeding fair, and, according
to the Arabian chroniclers, he heightened the
gravity and majesty of his appearance by suffering
his beard to grow to a dignified length, and
dyeing it black. He had an excellent memory,
well stored with science and erudition; he was
of a lively genius, and accounted the best poet of
his time, and his manners were gentle, affable, and
urbane. Yusef possessed the courage common to
all generous spirits, but his genius was more cultivated
for peace than war, and though obliged to
take up arms repeatedly in his time, he was generally
unfortunate. He carried the benignity of
his nature into warfare, prohibiting all wanton
cruelty, and enjoining mercy and protection towards
women and children, the aged and infirm,
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and all friars and persons of holy and recluse life.
Among other ill-starred enterprises, he undertook
a great campaign in conjunction with the king of
Morocco, against the kings of Castile and Portugal,
but was defeated in the memorable battle of Salado;
a disastrous reverse, which had nearly proved a
death-blow to the Moslem power in Spain.
Yusef obtained a long truce after this defeat,
during which time he devoted himself to the instruction
of his people, and the improvement of
their morals and manners. For this purpose he
established schools in all the villages, with simple
and uniform systems of education; he obliged
every hamlet of more than twelve houses, to have
a Mosque, and prohibited various abuses and indecorums
that had been introduced into the ceremonies
of religion and the festivals and public
amusements of the people. He attended vigilantly
to the police of the city, establishing nocturnal
guard and patrols, and superintending all municipal
concerns. His attention was also directed
towards finishing the great architectural works
commenced by his predecessors, and erecting
others on his own plans. The Alhambra, which
had been founded by the good Abu Alahmar, was
now completed. Yusef constructed the beautiful
gate of justice, forming the grand entrance to the
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fortress, which he finished in 1348. He likewise
adorned many of the courts and halls of the palace,
as may be seen by the inscriptions on the walls, in
which his name repeatedly occurs. He built also
the noble Alcazar or citadel of Malaga, now unfortunately
a mere mass of crumbling ruins, but which
most probably exhibited in its interior, similar
elegance and magnificence with the Alhambra.
The genius of a sovereign stamps a character
upon his time. The nobles of Granada, imitating
the elegant and graceful taste of Yusef, soon filled
the city of Granada with magnificent palaces;
the halls of which were paved with Mosaic, the
walls and ceiling wrought in fret work, and delicately
gilded and painted with azure, vermillion,
and other brilliant colours, or minutely inlaid with
cedar and other precious woods; specimens of
which have survived, in all their lustre, the lapse
of several centuries. Many of the houses had
fountains which threw up jets of water to refresh
and cool the air. They had lofty towers also, of
wood or stone, curiously carved and ornamented,
and covered with plates of metal that glittered in
the sun. Such was the refined and delicate taste
in architecture that prevailed among this elegant
people: insomuch that to use the beautiful simile
of an Arabian writer, “Granada in the days Yusef,
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was as a silver vase, filled with emeralds and
jacynths.”
One anecdote will be sufficient to show the
magnanimity of this generous prince. The long
truce which had succeeded the battle of Salado
was at an end, and every effort of Yusef to renew it
was in vain. His deadly foe Alonzo XI. of Castile
took the field with great force, and laid siege
to Gibraltar. Yusef reluctantly took up arms and
sent troops to the relief of the place; when in the
midst of his anxiety, he received tidings that his
dreaded foe had suddenly fallen a victim to the
plague. Instead of manifesting exultation on the
occasion, Yusef called to mind the great qualities
of the deceased, and was touched with a noble
sorrow. “Alas!” cried he, “the world has lost
one of its most excellent princes; a sovereign
who knew how to honour merit, whether in friend
or foe!”
The Spanish chroniclers themselves bear witness
to this magnanimity. According to their accounts,
the Moorish cavaliers partook of the sentiment of
their king, and put on mourning for the death of
Alfonzo. Even those of Gibraltar who had been
so closely invested, when they knew that the hostile
monarch lay dead in his camp, determined
among themselves that no hostile movement should
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be made against the Christians. The day on
which the camp was broken up, and the army departed
bearing the corpse of Alfonso, the Moors
issued in multitudes from Gibraltar, and stood
mute and melancholy, watching the mournful
pageant. The same reverence for the deceased
was observed by all the Moorish commanders on
the frontiers, who suffered the funeral train to
pass in safety, bearing the corpse of the Christian
sovereign from Gibraltar to Seville.[1]
Yusef did not long survive the enemy he had
so generously deplored. In the year 1354, as he
was one day praying in the royal mosque of the
Alhambra, a maniac rushed suddenly from behind
and plunged a dagger in his side. The cries of
the king brought his guards and courtiers to his
assistance. They found him weltering in his
blood, and in convulsions. He was borne to the
royal apartments, but expired almost immediately.
The murderer was cut to pieces, and his limbs
burnt in public to gratify the fury of the populace.
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The body of the king was interred in a superb
sepulchre of white marble a long epitaph in letters
of gold upon an azure ground recorded his virtues.
“Here lies a king and martyr, of an illustrious
line, gentle, learned, and virtuous; renowned for
the graces of his person and his manners, whose
clemency, piety, and benevolence, were extolled
throughout the kingdom of Granada. He was a
great prince; an illustrious captain; a sharp
sword of the Moslems; a valiant standard-bearer
among the most potent monarchs,” &c.
The mosque still remains which once resounded
with the dying cries of Yusef, but the monument
which recorded his virtues has long since disappeared.
His name however remains inscribed
among the ornaments of the Alhambra, and will be
perpetuated in connexion with this renowned pile,
which it was his pride and delight to beautify.
THE END.
eaf226v2.n1[1] “Y los moros que estaban en la villa y Castillo de Gibraltar
despues que sopieron que el Rey Don Alonzo era
muerto, ordenaron entresi que ninguno non fuesse osado de
fazer ningun movimiento contra los Christianos, ni mover
pelear contra ellos, estovieron todos quedos y dezian entre
ellos qui aquel dia muriera un noble rey y Gran principe del
mundo.”
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Irving, Washington, 1783-1859 [1840], Works, volume 2 (Lea & Blanchard, Philadelphia) [word count] [eaf226v2].
