their government. They ruled it from Africa, and the consequence was
that their hold upon Spain was weak. The disturbed provinces of
Andalusia were not easily to be retained by princes who contented
themselves with deputies sent from Morocco, and with an occasional
expedition to repel the attacks of the Christians. When they came in
force their efforts were generally crowned with success. They won a
splendid victory over the Christians in 1195 at Alarcos, near Badajoz,
where thousands of the enemy were slain, and immense spoils fell into
the hands of the fanatics. But the fortune of war changed when, in 1212,
the disastrous field of Las Navas decided the fate of the Almohades. Of
600,000 men, few escaped to tell the tale of slaughter. City after city
fell into the hands of the Christians; and family dissensions among the
foreigners, and the attacks of rival dynasties in Africa, enabled the
chiefs of Andalusia, who had grown impatient of the spasmodic rule of
their foreign masters, in 1235, to drive the Almohades out of the
peninsula. An Arab chief, Ibn-H[=u]d, then made himself master of most of
the south of Spain, and even of Ceuta in Africa; but he died in 1238,
and the command of Andalusia now devolved upon the Beny-Nasr of Granada.
The kingdom of Granada was the last bulwark of the Moors in Spain. It
was not much that was now left to them. Between 1238 and 1260, Fernando
III. of Castile and Jayme I. of Aragon conquered Valencia, Cordova,
Seville, and Murcia; and the rule of the Moors was now restricted to the
present province of Granada, _i.e._, the country about the Sierra Nevada
and the sea coast from Almeria to Gibraltar. Within this limit, however,
their kingdom was destined to endure for another two centuries and a
half. Though hemmed in on all sides, the Moors were well served by
soldiers. The people of the conquered cities, the most valiant warriors
of the vanquished Moslem states, came to place their swords at the
disposal of the one remaining Mohammedan king. Fifty thousand Moors are
recorded to have fled to his protection from Valencia, and three hundred
thousand from Seville, Xeres, and Cadiz. Nevertheless, Granada was
forced to become tributary to the Castilian crown. The founder of the
dynasty of the Beny-Nasr, an Arab named Ibn-el-Ahmar, or the "Red man,"
because of his fair skin and hair, was a vigorous sovereign, but he
could not withstand the power of the Christians, who now held nearly the
whole of Spain. He paid homage and tribute to Fernando and his son
Alfonso the Learned, not, however, without more than one struggle to
free himself from their yoke; and from that time forward Granada with
its surrounding territory was generally let alone by the Christian
kings, who had enough to do to settle their already vast acquired
territory and to do away with local pretenders. From time to time the
Moors made war upon their Christian neighbours, but eventually they had
to make up their minds to a secondary position. The sum of twelve
thousand gold ducats was the tribute paid by Mohammed X., in 1463, as a
condition of peace. During these two centuries the Moorish territory had
suffered little diminution. Gibraltar had been lost and won and lost
again; other places, notably Algeciras, had become part of the Christian
dominions; but the general extent of the Moslem realm remained in the
third quarter of the fifteenth century much what it had been in the
first half of the thirteenth.
[Illustration: SHIELD OF A KING OF GRANADA.]
During this period of comparative tranquillity, Granada had taken the
place of Cordova as the home of the arts and sciences. Its architects
were renowned throughout Europe; they had built the marvellous "Red
Palace," _Alhambra_, so called from the colour of the ferruginous soil
on which it stands, and they had covered it with the splendid gold
ornament and Arabesque mouldings which are still the wonder of artists
of all countries.[26] Granada itself, with its two castles, was a pearl
of price. It stands on the border of a rich plain, the famous "Vega,"
lying at the feet of the snowy "mountains of the moon," the Sierra
Nevada. From the heights of the city, and still better from the
Alhambra, which stands sentinel over the plain like the Acropolis of
Athens, the eye ranges over this beautiful Vega, with its streams and
vineyards, its orchards and orange groves. No city in Andalusia was more
favoured in site or climate; the breezes from the snow mountains made
the hottest summer tolerable, and the land was fertile beyond compare.
The site chosen by the Moors for their celebrated Red Palace is a
terrace bounded by precipitous ravines, at the foot of which, to the
north, flow the waters of the river Darro. Solid walls of stone covered
with stucco, and strengthened at frequent intervals by towers, surround
the terrace. The enclosed space is somewhat of the form of a lanceolate
leaf lying on the table-land, with its greatest length (about half a
mile) from east to west.
The visitor finds his way into the enclosure through a massive embattled
tower of orange and red pierced by the Gate of Justice under which the
khalifs, like the judges of the Hebrews, were wont to sit in judgment.
Twenty-eight feet above the pavement, over the horseshoe arch, a
cabalistic key and a gigantic hand are carved on two stones. Once inside
the walls, the visitor finds himself in a square, on one side of which
is an unfinished palace designed by Charles the Fifth. The corridor
through which entrance is now gained to the Alhambra crosses an angle of
this ruined structure and admits the visitor to the Court of the
Myrtles, so called from the profusion of those shrubs which adorn its
sides. A narrow passage ushers us into a court one hundred and forty
feet long, and half as broad, flooded with sunlight and gay with
gold-fish, which disport themselves in a long pond that fills the larger
part of the space. Pillars and galleries adorn the sides and ends of the
enclosure, and on the north the great square tower of Comares rises
against the horizon. The court is a place of peace; the water
scarcely makes a ripple as it gently oozes into the ample reservoir, and
leaves it without a gurgle; the multitudinous goldfishes gleam and
glitter in the profusion of sunshine; no suggestion of the outer world
penetrates the stillness.
[Illustration: THE COURT OF THE LIONS IN THE ALHAMBRA.]
All is calm, but it is not the dull, cold calm of ruin and death; we can
but feel a sense of companionship with the former masters of the palace
and the grounds. We walk through the Barca, or boat-shaped antechamber,
to the Hall of the Ambassadors, and imagine the khalif of the Omeyyads
seated upon his throne at the end; while we gaze up into the lofty dome
and allow our eyes to wander about the great apartment as we admire the
medallions, the graceful characters of the Arabic inscriptions, the
delicate patterns of the plaster-work with which the walls are adorned;
the balconies, the white, blue, and gold of the cornice and ceiling; the
circles, crowns, and stars moulded to imitate the vault of heaven. We
stop before the window looking over the Darro to think how Ayesha once
let Boabdil down in a basket from it five centuries ago; how Charles the
Fifth said of the unfortunate Moor, "Ill-fated was the man who lost all
this!" We bring up before us the discoverer of America, as tradition
paints him, pleading in this place with the good Isabella for gracious
permission to add another jewel to her crown--the bright gem of a New
World. We climb to the terraced roof of the tower, following the narrow
windings of the steep stairway once trodden by fair lady and gallant
prince as they hastened to the lofty battlement to watch the approach
of some army or anxiously to study the progress of a battle on the Vega.
Our eyes search the broad expanse for that bridge of Pinos where Moor
and Christian more than once fought for the mastery. We remember that it
was at that spot that Isabella's messenger overtook the despairing
Columbus, as he conveyed to him the queen's recall, when the mariner was
plodding towards other realms to carry his bold proposition to other
and, as he hoped, more gracious sovereigns. We care not that it is
tradition only which fixes the spot; tradition and romance are a portion
of the charm of the Alhambra.
In our search through the intricate plan of the pile, we find ourselves
in the boudoir of the Sultana, the windows of which command the same
prospect over the Vega, a scene to which distance lends its greatest
charm. We are reminded on every side of the luxury of the olden time,
when we see the apertures in the white marble floor near the entrance,
through which perfumes arose from drugs, which tradition says were
burned beneath the floor to make the air of the lady's apartment
redolent with their sweet scents. We look down into the garden of the
Lindaraja, upon which Irving also looked when he occupied those
apartments which have become historic on his account. The garden itself
is scarcely worthy of notice, for it is a little-cultivated court; but
near by are the baths of the Sultans, with their delicate filigree work,
intricate tracery, and brilliant mosaics. There is the fountain which
ripples in gentle cadence, as if keeping time to the harmony that the
musicians poured down from the balconies when the ladies of the harim
enjoyed the pleasures of the Oriental bath, or rested themselves upon
cloth of gold. Each bath, cut from a single mass of white marble, was
placed in its own vaulted chamber, and lighted through openwork of stars
and roses.
[Illustration: PLAN OF THE CITY OF GRANADA]
Perhaps the most celebrated portion of the entire palace is the Court of
the Lions, which occupies a space somewhat smaller than that of the
Court of the Myrtles. One hundred and twenty-eight white marble columns,
arranged by threes and fours in symmetrical fashion, support galleries
which rise to no very lofty height; but the extreme gracefulness and
elegance of their varied capitals, the delicate traceries, the remnants
of gold and colour, the raised orange-shaped cupolas, the graceful
minarets, the innumerable arches, beautiful in their labyrinthine
design, the empty basin into which the twelve stiff and unnatural
"lions" once poured their constant streams of cooling waters, the
alabaster reservoir, constitute a whole that poetry and romance have
lauded even to extravagance.
From this beautiful court, through a door ornamented with rare designs,
one is ushered into the Hall of the Abencerrages, named from the legend
that in its precincts the chiefs of that family were beheaded by order
of Boabdil. Convenient spots in the stone floor are exhibited to
credulous visitors as evidences that the blood was there spilt. The
sweet and peaceful light which enters the apartment by sixteen airy
windows in the star-shaped stalactite roof, illuminating its arches
ornamented in azure and scarlet, seem all inappropriate to such a scene
of slaughter, and charity would lead us, if history did not, to doubt
that the stain should rest upon the memory of Boabdil.
Time would fail us to go through all the courts and halls of the
comprehensive building, and we must make our way over the road that
crosses the ravine of Los Molinos, bordered with figs and pistachios,
laurels and roses, to the other palace, the Generalife, or "Garden of
the Surveyor." This is the "Country House" of the greater palace, and,
so far as the exterior of the building is concerned, presents the usual
simplicity of Oriental structures. Here are the walls without windows,
the terraces, the galleries, the arcades--all of which are in a state of
ruin. The delicate arabesques are covered with thick layers of
whitewash; the fine sculptures have disappeared, and the internal beauty
of the edifice has long since departed; but the charm of the gardens and
waters remains. A rapid stream runs through an artificial channel of
marble the entire length of the enclosure under a series of arcades and
leafy screens formed by curiously twisted yews, while cypresses and
orange trees cast their cooling shadows upon the waters. Jets and
fountains, rapid-flowing streams and placid ponds, little basins
nestling under ancient bays, murmuring rivulets and winding courses
reflecting the blue of the sky, are intermingled with the utmost
perfection of skill, and the combination forms one of the most charming
effects that can be imagined.
[Illustration: GARDEN OF THE GENERALIFE, GRANADA.]
"Here," says Irving, "is everything to delight a southern voluptuary:
fruits, flowers, fragrance, green arbours and myrtle hedges, delicate
air and gushing water. Here I had an opportunity of witnessing those
scenes which painters are fond of depicting about southern palaces and
gardens. It was the saint's day of the Count's daughter, and she had
brought up several of her youthful companions from Granada to sport away
a long summer's day among the breezy halls and bowers of the Moorish
palace. A visit to the Generalife was the morning's entertainment. Here
some of the gay companions dispersed themselves in groups about the
green walks, the bright fountains, the flight of Italian steps, the
noble terraces, and marble balustrades. Others, among whom I was one,
took their seats in an open gallery or colonnade, commanding a vast
prospect; with the Alhambra, the city, and the Vega far below, and the
distant horizon of mountains--a dreamy world, all glimmering to the eye
in summer sunshine. While thus seated, the all-pervading tinkling of the
guitar and click on the castanets came stealing up the valley of the
Darro, and half-way down the mountain we descried a festive party under
the trees enjoying themselves in true Andalusian style; some lying on
the grass, others dancing to the music."
From the ruined building one gains, perhaps, the most satisfactory view
of the Alhambra, as its reddish line of half-demolished walls is traced
along the undulations of the mountain on which it stands; while the
white ridges of the Sierra Nevada furnish a magnificent background for
the picture, and set off the heavy mass of the unfinished palace of
Charles the Fifth.
Two centuries of prosperity, with a powerful Christian State almost at
bow-shot, were as much as the Moors had any right to expect; and
towards the third quarter of the fifteenth century there were signs that
their knell was about to sound. The union of Aragon with Castile by the
marriage of Ferdinand and Isabella was the note of doom. Two such
sovereigns could not long leave the Moors undisturbed in their corner of
the peninsula. Muley Aly, generally known by his surname, Abu-l-Hasan
(which the Spaniards change into Alboacen, and many English writers into
Aben Hasan), who was of a fiery and warlike nature, resolved to be
beforehand with their Catholic majesties in opening the game of war. He
refused to pay the customary tribute, and when the ambassador of
Ferdinand came to insist, he made answer: "Tell your sovereigns that the
kings of Granada who paid tribute are dead: our mint now coins nothing
but sword-blades!" To make his meaning unmistakable, he proceeded to
carry a raid into the lands of the Christians. Zahara was the spot he
selected for attack. A gifted American author has told the story of the
last wars of the Moors in his own eloquent style; and we must follow
Washington Irving in relating the assault of Zahara.[27]
[Illustration: PLAN OF THE ALHAMBRA]
"In the year of our Lord one thousand four hundred and eighty one, and
but a night or two after the festival of the most blessed Nativity, the
inhabitants of Zahara were sunk in profound sleep; the very sentinel had
deserted his post, and sought shelter from a tempest which had raged
without for three nights in succession; for it appeared but little
probable that an enemy would be abroad during such an uproar of the
elements. But evil spirits work best during a storm. In the midst of the
night an uproar rose within the walls of Zahara, more awful than the
raging of the storm. A fearful alarm-cry, 'The Moor!' 'The Moor!'
resounded through the streets, mingled with the clash of arms, the
shriek of anguish, and the shout of victory. Muley Abu-l-Hasan, at the
head of a powerful force, had hurried from Granada, and passed
unobserved through the mountains in the obscurity of the tempest. While
the storm pelted the sentinel from his post and howled around tower and
battlement, the Moors had planted their scaling-ladders, and mounted
securely into both town and castle. The garrison was unsuspicious of
danger until battle and massacre burst forth within its very walls. It
seemed to the affrighted inhabitants as if the fiends of the air had
come upon the wings of the wind, and possessed themselves of tower and
turret. The war-cry resounded on every side, shout answering shout,
above, below, on the battlements of the castle, in the streets of the
town; the foe was in all parts, wrapped in obscurity, but acting in
concert by the aid of preconcerted signals. Starting from sleep, the
soldiers were intercepted and cut down as they rushed from their
quarters; or, if they escaped, they knew not where to assemble, or where
to strike. Whenever lights appeared, the flashing scimitar was at its
deadly work, and all who attempted resistance fell beneath its edge. In
a little while the struggle was at an end. Those who were not slain took
refuge in the secret places of their houses, or gave themselves up as
captives. The clash of arms ceased, and the storm continued its
howling, mingled with the occasional shout of the Moorish soldiery
roaming in search of plunder. While the inhabitants were trembling for
their fate, a trumpet resounded through the streets, summoning them all
to assemble, unarmed, in the public square. Here they were surrounded by
soldiery, and strictly guarded until daybreak. When the day dawned, it
was piteous to behold this once prosperous community, which had lain
down to rest in peaceful security, now crowded together without
distinction of age, or rank, or sex, and almost without raiment, during
the severity of a winter storm. The fierce Muley Abu-l-Hasan turned a
deaf ear to all remonstrances, and ordered them to be conducted captives
to Granada. Leaving a strong garrison in both town and castle, with
orders to put them in a complete state of defence, he returned flushed
with victory to his capital, entering it at the head of his troops,
laden with spoil, and bearing in triumph the banners and pennons taken
at Zahara. While preparations were making for jousts and other
festivities in honour of this victory over the Christians, the captives
of Zahara arrived--a wretched train of men, women, and children, worn
out with fatigue and haggard with despair, and driven like cattle into
the city gates by a detachment of Moorish soldiery."
The civilized people of Granada were shocked at the cruelty of
Abu-l-Hasan, and felt that this was the beginning of the end. "Woe to
Granada!" they cried. "The hour of its desolation is at hand. The ruins
of Zahara will fall upon our own heads!"
Retribution was not far off. The redoubtable Marquess of Cadiz captured
the castle of Alhama by surprise, and thus planted a Christian garrison
in the heart of the Moslem territory, within a short distance of Granada
itself. In vain did Muley Abu-l-Hasan invest the captured castle; the
Christians within performed prodigies of valour in its defence, and held
the place till their friends came to their support. _Ay de mi Alhama!_
"Woe for my Alhama!" was the cry that arose in Granada; "Alhama is
fallen; the key of Granada is in the hands of the infidels!" Byron has
made every one familiar with the plaintive ballad which he
mistranslated:
Pasavase el rey Moro
Por la ciudad de Granada,
Desde las puertas de Elvira
Hasta las de Bivarambla.
Ay de mi Alhama!
Henceforward, the castle proved a sore thorn in the side of the Moorish
kings; for thence the brave Count of Tendillo harried the Vega and
wrought infinite destruction. "It was a pleasing and refreshing sight,"
says the Jesuit chronicler[28] invented by Washington Irving, "to behold
the pious knight and his followers returning from one of these crusades,
leaving the rich land of the infidel in smoking desolation behind them:
to behold the long line of mules and asses laden with the plunder of
the Gentiles, the hosts of captive Moors, men, women, and children;
droves of sturdy beeves, lowing kine and bleating sheep--all winding up
the steep acclivity to the gates of Alhama, pricked on by the Catholic
soldiery.... It was an awful spectacle at night to behold the volumes of
black smoke, mingled with lurid flames, that rose from the burning
suburbs, and the women on the walls of the towns wringing their hands
and shrieking at the desolation of their dwellings."
Inflamed by their respective conquests, both sides busied themselves in
raids such as these, with little result, save general devastation and
exasperation. The Christians at last attempted a movement on a larger
scale. They resolved to invade the province of Malaga, and, marshalling
the forces of the south, led by the Marquess of Cadiz and other noted
warriors, they set out upon their fateful march. "It was on a
Wednesday[29] that the pranking army of high-mettled warriors issued
forth from the ancient gates of Antequera. They marched all day and
night, making their way secretly, as they supposed, through the passes
of the mountains. As the tract of country they intended to maraud was
far in the Moorish territories, near the coast of the Mediterranean,
they did not arrive there till late in the following day. In passing
through these stern and lofty mountains, their path was often along the
bottom of a barranca, or deep rocky valley, with a scanty stream dashing
along it, among the loose rocks and stones which it had broken and
rolled down in the time of its autumnal violence. Sometimes their road
was a mere rambla, or dry bed of a torrent cut deep into the mountains
and filled with their shattered fragments. These barrancas and ramblas
were overhung by immense cliffs and precipices, forming the
lurking-places of ambuscades during the wars between the Moors and
Spaniards, as in after times they have become the favourite haunts of
robbers to waylay the unfortunate traveller.
"As the sun went down, the cavaliers came to a lofty part of the
mountains, commanding, to their right, a distant glimpse of a part of
the fair Vega of Malaga, with the blue Mediterranean beyond, and they
hailed it with exultation, as a glimpse of the promised land. As the
night closed in they reached the chain of little valleys and hamlets,
locked up among those rocky heights, and known among the Moors by the
name of Axarquia. Here their vaunting hopes were destined to meet the
first disappointment. The inhabitants had heard of their approach; they
had conveyed away their cattle and effects, and with their wives and
children had taken refuge in the towers and fortresses of the mountains.
"Enraged at their disappointment, the troops set fire to the deserted
houses, and pressed forward, hoping for better fortune as they advanced.
Don Alonzo de Aguilar, and the other cavaliers in the van-guard, spread
out their forces to lay waste the country, capturing a few lingering
herds of cattle, with the Moorish peasants who were driving them to some
place of safety.
"While this marauding party carried fire and sword in the advance, and
lit up the mountain cliffs with the flames of the hamlets, the Master of
Santiago, who brought up the rear-guard, maintained strict order,
keeping his knights together in martial array, ready for attack or
defence should an enemy appear. The men-at-arms of the Holy Brotherhood
attempted to roam in quest of booty; but he called them back and rebuked
them severely.