it is in one of the most lovely spots on earth, it is as though the
Moors had discovered Paradise and made it habitable. I am told that
there is no time in the year when Granada is not beautiful; but beyond
question the best time to be there is when the song of the nightingale
and the fragrance of the orange blossom fill its groves with melody and
sweetness: when the eye, penetrating the foliage of its elm-planted
alameda, rests on the dazzling crest of Mulahacen with a sense of
refreshment, to which the contrast of green leaves and summer snow lends
an unwonted charm: when day is Elysium, and night a dream-land of
romance, illumined by the warm beams of a southern moon: when the
Alhambra assumes a garb of beauty to which, amid the glare of noon, its
courts and bowers are strangers. At that hour, as Irving tells us,
“Every rent and chasm of time, every mouldering tint and weather-stain,
disappears. The marble resumes its original whiteness: the long
colonnades brighten in the moonbeams: the halls are illumined with a
softened radiance, until the whole edifice reminds one of the enchanted
palace of some Arabian tale.”
[Illustration: THE INFANTAS’ TOWER.]
Another American author, G. P. Lathrop, has acknowledged the supreme
spell of the Alhambra in a passage of remarkable descriptive power:
“When the Madonna’s lamp shone bright amid the engulfing shadows of the
Tower of Justice, while its upper half was cased in steely radiance, we
passed in by Charles’s Palace, where the moon, shining through the
roofless top, made a row of smaller moons in the circular upper windows
of the dark gray wall. In the Court of the Pond a low, gourd-like
umbellation at the north end sparkled in diamond lustre beneath the
quivering rays; while the whole Tower of Comares behind it, repeated
itself in the gray-green water at our feet, with a twinkle of stars
around its reversed summit--the coldness of the moonlight on the soft,
cream-coloured plaster in this warm, stilly air is peculiarly
impressive. As for sound, absolutely none is heard but that of dripping
water: nor did I ever walk through a profounder, more ghost-like silence
than that which eddied in Lindaraxa’s garden around the fountain, as it
mourned in silvery monotones of neglected grief. The moon-glare coming
through the lonely arches shaped gleaming cuirasses on the ground, or
struck the out-thrust branches of citron trees, and seemed to drip from
them again in a dazzle of crystals.... From the Queen’s Peinador we saw
long shadows from the towers thrown out over the sleeping city, which,
far below, caked together its squares of hammered silver, dusked over by
the deep gray of roofs that did not reflect the light. But within the
Hall of Ambassadors reigned a gloom like that of the grave. Gleams of
sharp radiance lay in the deep embrasures without penetrating; and at
one, the intricacies of open work above the arch were mapped sharp
figures of light on a space of jet-black floor. Another was filled
nearly to the top by the blue, weirdly-luminous image of a mountain
across the valley. Through all these openings I thought the spirit of
the departed would find entrance as easily as the footless night breeze.
I wonder if the people who lived in this labyrinth of art ever smiled?
In the palpitating dark, robed men and veiled women seemed to steal by
with a rustle no louder than that of their actual movement in life: silk
hangings hung floating from the walls: scented lamps shed their
[Illustration: COURT OF MYRTLES.]
[Illustration: HALL OF AMBASSADORS.]
[Illustration: COURT OF LIONS.]
[Illustration: THE FAVOURITE’S BALCONY.]
beams at moments through the obscurity, and I saw the gleam of enamelled
swords, the shine of bronze candlesticks, the blur of coloured vases in
the corners: the _kasidas_, of which poetry-loving monarchs turned the
pages. But in such a place I could not imagine laughter. I felt inclined
to prostrate myself in the darkness before I knew not what power of
bygone, yet ever present things--a half-tangible essence that expressed
only the solemnity of life and the presentiment of change.”
It were endless to describe all the various courts, balconies,
galleries, and baths contained within the circuit of the Alhambra. The
Mosque alone, with its exquisite niche where the Koran is deposited,
would long detain an archæologist. Yet that is but one Mosque; there are
the remains of three others to be seen. There are the ruins of the house
of the Cadi, the Water-tower, the Tower of the Prisoner, the Tower of
the Candil, a dozen other towers besides the house of Mondejar--what is
left of it--the military quarters, the gardens, the promenades, the--but
the list is endless, the sights are inexhaustible. One may live in the
Alhambra itself, as Washington Irving lived, and echo his plaint, “Oh,
that I had seen the Alhambra!”
[Illustration: EL GENERALIFFE.]
In ancient times there was direct communication between the Alhambra and
the Generaliffe, the summer palace of the Moorish sovereigns, by the
Iron Door, and a narrow path running in front of it between two rows of
red walls. An exquisitely-carved door, inlaid with Dutch tiles, in the
lower garden of this place of recreation, leads into it. The
Generaliffe was built by order of Prince Omar, and the word has been
interpreted as meaning “Recreation, or Pleasure House,” and truly a more
delicious and charming spot, or one with more splendid views, cannot be
conceived. It is a small, white villa, with a terrace of gardens
stretching from the top of the mountain to the walls of the house, which
is encircled by thickets of laurel and myrtle. Flowers and myrtles,
arbours and high espaliers, surmounted by arches, abound on every side,
and the ears are soothed by the murmur of a hundred springs and
brooklets which gurgle and bubble amid the greenery and sparkle in every
open space. The noise of the distant city floats upwards with the sound
of a soft hum, and the air is laden with the perfume of roses and orange
blossoms.
The Cathedral of Granada is a splendid pile, but I did not inspect it
during my visit. There is a Cathedral in every Spanish city one enters,
but there is only one Alhambra in the world. Yet here are the tombs of
Ferdinand and Isabella, here is the casket in which Isabella sent her
jewels to the pawnbroker--the jewels that were disposed of in order to
furnish Christopher Columbus with the money for the arming of the ships
in which he sailed to discover the New World.
Close to the Cathedral there is a bazaar, Arabian in form and
appearance, which was re-decorated in 1844 owing to the fire which
occurred there the previous year. It is said that Alcaiceria signifies
the house or place of Cæsar; and, according to Marmol, it is the place
where public and private merchandise was stored according to the custom
in Eastern towns. Before the fire this Alcaiceria preserved all its old
characteristics, and was a great deal narrower than it is now, the shops
being so small that the shopman had to get on the counter or outside it,
as there was no room behind it. At
[Illustration: THE ACEQUIA COURT, FROM THE MAIN ENTRANCE.]
present the Arab decoration is too artificial, and a strange
incongruousness exists between the beautiful Arab columns and the
angular horse-shoe arches covered with show-bills and notices
advertising various articles and professional services of all kinds.
[Illustration: LA ALCAICERIA (GRANADA).]
To the visitor to Spain, who has already seen Seville and Toledo and
Cuenca, the city of Granada is not greatly impressive, or even
deliberately interesting. The older streets are tortuous, narrow and
noisy; but the modern part is as regular and unimaginative as only a
modern city can be, with wide thoroughfares, spacious squares, and
excellent pavements. This monotony is broken by the famous _Alameda_,
which, with its rows of immense trees whose foliage meets and interlaces
overhead, its handsome fountains, its garden filled with roses, myrtle
and jessamine, and its glimpses of the snowy Sierra Nevada from amid the
tropical vegetation, makes it one of the finest and most picturesque
promenades in Spain. During the daytime the Alameda is deserted, but in
the evening it is crowded with a laughing, bustling multitude; and, in
the habit of keeping late hours, the people of Granada are every bit as
fashionable as those of Madrid or Seville. Beggars there are--and where
are they not in this land of mendicancy?--ordinary beggars and
gipsies--the most persistent and irrepressible of beggars.
Where do they all come from, these hungry-looking, scowling, emaciated
men and women, and these wretched, withered, whining children? From the
_Albaycin_, the gipsy quarters on the face of the hill. The road is
steep, and the streets are narrow, the houses dilapidated and unsavoury.
The higher one climbs, the more miserable become the houses, the more
wretched and ragged the people that sleep in the doorways or shuffle
about the streets. Yet this is the Belgravia of the _Albaycin_. Further
still, and the path grows so rugged and narrow, so full of boulders and
holes, that it seems more like a cutting made by a mountain torrent than
a street, and the dwellings are no better than hovels. We are miles from
Spain, in an African village, and an evil specimen at that. The
buildings are so many ruins with tiny doors--you pass through the
doorway and find yourself in the court-yard of an Arabian house,
surrounded by graceful, slender columns, surmounted by very light
arches, and bearing those indescribable traceries which are the glory
and the bewilderment of the Alhambra. One gazes from the bits of
arabesqued walls to the morose wrinkled faces; from the delicate columns
to the rags that serve to but half-clothe the women, and one’s mind
refuses, or is incapable of reconciling these incongruities. The
conditions of the houses and the people continue to grow more malodorous
and repulsive as one proceeds; but if the visitor has a mind (and
stomach) for high-class slumming, there is yet more to see.
For beyond the residential area, where hovels serve as dwelling-places,
we come to the district of the cave-dwellers. The caves are dug in the
earth in the side of the hills; caves
[Illustration: VIEW OF ALBAYCIN (GRANADA).]
with a mud wall in front, with holes to admit the light, and cracks to
serve as a means of ingress and exit for the people. They are mere dens,
fit only for wild beasts; and the gitanos that swarm in them are little
better than savages. Their numbers are unobtainable; their laws, if they
have any, are unknown to the statute of any country. No one shall say
how they exist,
[Illustration: COURT-YARD OF AN ARAB HOUSE.]
or what they exist upon. The police dare not penetrate their fastnesses;
the tax-collector never troubles them; nor doctor nor priest visits
them. “Manners none, customs nasty” is the only description that can be
applied to them. One reaches the gates of the gipsy quarter, but few
people have any desire to go further. No sooner is the intruder espied
from afar than the whole mountain-side vomits forth its pack of
beggars--men, women and children--the blind, the lame and the halt, the
diseased and the decrepit, all filthy, and all shouting for alms, and
thrusting out their hungry palms. It is not dignified, I admit, but, in
the circumstances, it is advisable to button up your dignity, with your
other valuables, and take to your heels. Take the advice that Jack
Bunsby gave to Captain Cuttle, when he was in his matrimonial fix, and
bolt.
It is told of one of the gitani, to whom a man child was born, that he
brought the baby to a priest in Granada, and asked that it might be
christened. The old padre was delighted to find such a sign of awakening
to moral consciousness in one of the outlawed people, and willingly
acquiesced.
“And what do you wish to call your son?” he asked.
“Tiger!” promptly responded the proud father.
“Tiger?” protested the priest. “But you cannot name a child after a wild
beast.”
“That is his name,” persisted the father. “The Pope, he is called lion
(Leo), my son shall be tiger.”
And “Tiger” he was duly christened.
[Illustration: THE COLUMBUS MEMORIAL, GRANADA.]
[Illustration: IN THE COURT OF ORANGES, CORDOVA.]
[Illustration: GROUP OF GYPSIES, GRANADA.]
Seville.
There is an old German saying: “_Wein Gott lieb hat, dem giebt er ein
Haus in Sevilla_,” which may be translated, “He whom God loves has a
house in Seville.” Truly, there are few fairer, gayer, and more wholly
desirable places of abode in Europe. It is at once a seaport town,
situated on the banks of the Guadalquiver (“the great river”),
fifty-four miles from the sea, and the centre of an exuberantly fertile
district which produces olives, grapes, oranges, cork, and grain in
perfection. The Sevillians proudly call their country “La Tierra de
Maria Santisima,” of which Byron wrote:
“ ...All sunny land
Of love! When I forget you, may I fail
To--say my prayers!”
The sunshine reflected from the walls and the houses darts through the
labyrinth of narrow streets, peers into fairy-like _patios_, and floods
the orange trees, palms, and acacias that grow in every open space and
square of the city. Here is all gaiety, and mirth, and roses which
blossom all the year round in a climate which is claimed to be one of
the most delightful in Europe. And the sun is in the blood of the
people. They pursue pleasure as the serious business of life; bustle,
love, and laughter fill their days and nights, and the air is ever abuz
with soft sounds. I suppose that the English temperament, which is more
like that of the Catalonians, would in time grow weary of the buoyant,
light-hearted Andalusian nature, and the English resident in Seville
would find himself complaining that he had
“ ... breathed too long awhile,
Soft airs and perfumes, listened to soft sounds,
And journeyed in soft paths beneath soft skies.”
But my visits to Seville have never been so far protracted as to afford
me the opportunity of putting this surmise to the test. My impressions
of the city are snapshots rather than etchings; they are slightly
blurred and indistinct, but wholly delightful to reflect upon. Seville,
like Venice and Rome, is a place that one goes to with one’s mind full
of preconceived notions--unconsciously primed for disappointment and the
disillusionment of reality. Yet I have never met anyone who confessed to
being disappointed with Seville. After the modernity of Madrid, the
prosperous and business-like alertness of Barcelona, and the sombre
mediævalism of Toledo, the exhilarating sense of enjoyment that
permeates the air of this “all sunny land of love” inspires one with a
sympathy that makes the criticisms of the Madrileños seem as ill-natured
slanders. Are these bright, laughing people, these spruce, graceful men,
and entrancing women, vain, false, changeable, and given to gossip?
Perish the thought! True, that is the opinion held in the capital; the
Sevillians only half resenting the allegations, which they ascribe to
jealousy. And their criticisms of the bodies, minds, and manners of the
Madrileños are unprintable. In Madrid you hear, “The Sevillians! Ah,
they can do nothing but make love!” And in Seville they declare that the
Madrileños can make nothing--but mistakes.
But whatever the shortcomings of Seville may be, no town in the south of
Spain receives more visitors. All sorts of people go there, with all
sorts of motives. The artist goes to fill his portfolio with the
picturesque forms and showy costumes of Majo and Maja. The lover of
painting makes a pilgrimage there to see Murillo in all his glory. The
seasons of the Church--Christmas, Holy Week, and Easter--attract
thousands from
[Illustration: GENERAL VIEW OF SEVILLE, FROM THE TOP OF THE “GIRALDA,”
LOOKING EAST.]
devotion or curiosity, the religious ceremonies of the place being of
peculiar interest, and unrivalled, except in Rome. And not even in the
Eternal City itself shall you see boys dancing before the high altar.
This curious survival of a very ancient custom takes place at the
festival of Corpus Christi--the _corps de ballet_, if one may so term it
without offence, consisting of two rows of boys, from eight to ten years
old, dressed like Spanish cavaliers of the mediæval age, with plumed
hats and
[Illustration: DANCING BOYS, SEVILLE CATHEDRAL.]
white stockings. The dance they execute to the low music of violins is
simple, dignified, and exceedingly graceful. When they break out all
together into a lovely and harmonious chant, the effect upon the
spectator is electrical; and even the use of the castanets does not rob
the ceremony of its impressiveness. I am told that some two hundred
years ago an Archbishop of Seville desired to suppress this dance, and
the tumult that ensued among the people and the canons of the cathedral
echoed even to Rome. The Pope was naturally curious to see the dance,
and the boys were taken to Rome to dance and sing before his holiness.
The Pope laughed, and did not express any disapproval; but, wishing to
satisfy the canons without displeasing the Archbishop, decreed that the
boys should dance until the clothes they had on were worn out, after
which the ceremony might be considered as abolished. In two centuries
these clothes are still in a state of excellent repair; and as only one
part of the boys’ costumes are renewed at a time, they bid fair to last
for ever.
[Illustration: THE TOWER OF GOLD, SEVILLE.]
Seville, which is always gay, and Spanish, and fascinating to the
receptive visitor, is at its best at this festival of Corpus Christi.
For days beforehand preparations are in progress, streets are swept,
awnings are put up over all the streets and squares along which the
procession is to pass, flowers are banked to make a background, chairs
are placed in every available corner, and in the cathedral the columns
are draped in gorgeous velvet cloths. On the day itself, thousands flock
into Seville from the country and the neighbouring towns. The procession
itself would appear a poor and ineffective spectacle to people who saw
Alfonso XIII. ride from the Palacio Real to the Plaza de Toros in May
last year, or Edward VII. pass from Westminster Abbey to Buckingham
Palace. But the line of route is a sight to remember. Along it, on
either side, one can observe the Andalusians in all their glory. As a
beauty show, it is a display that in my experience has no equal. Every
window and every balcony contains a picture of feminine loveliness.
Every individual beauty composing it is a subject for the painter’s
brush. Hardly less attractive is the sight of the soldiers lining the
route, either on foot or mounted on Andalusian steeds, proud and
graceful
[Illustration: GENERAL VIEW OF THE EXTERIOR OF THE CATHEDRAL.]
as their riders, and beautiful as the señoritas, who gaze upon them with
their big, black, lustrous eyes.
The streets of Seville, in comparison with those of Toledo or Córdova,
are almost modern and relatively spacious. The most interesting of them
all is the _Calle de Sierpes_, which no wagon is allowed to enter, and
which is lined with cafés, clubhouses, and splendid shops. Many of the
latter are semi-Moorish, and although you do not see a turbanned
Mohammedan squatting in a small booth open to the street, you do see no
end of shops which are practically in the street, the whole front wall
(consisting of doors) being removed in the daytime. I have wandered for
hours through the dazzling white streets, sniffing the diffused odour of
oranges, and watching the handsome and picturesque peasantry as they
revel through life. To the Englishman, no city in Spain presents more
novel sights and historic contrasts. Having been successively a
Phœnician, Greek, Roman, Gothic, Moorish, and Catholic city, it
preserves traces and monuments of almost all these dynasties. At the
suberb, Italica, the birthplace of three Roman emperors, the ruins of an
ancient amphitheatre, with its various subterranean divisions for the
gladiators and the wild beasts that appeared therein, may still be seen.
Seville itself is Moorish in the arrangement of the streets and houses,
and the Alcázar is the best preserved specimen of Moorish architecture
in Spain. Adjoining it is the Christian Cathedral. In the streets the
mediæval donkey grazes the modern tram-car. At the hotel sits an
Englishman in a Moorish _patio_ reading the latest number of the
_Times_.
These Moorish _patios_ are, of all the sights in Seville, the most
interesting. One finds them at Malaga and Granada, at Córdova and
Toledo, but one must come to Seville to see these pleasant courtyards at
their best. Here are _patios_ of all sizes and grades of splendour, but
always _patios_. In the finest of these square courtyards the floor is
of marble, and the walls are inlaid with elegant mosaic. In the centre
is a flower plot, or a fountain surrounded with flowers or statuary.
Marble columns on each side support the inside projection of the upper
story, which is sometimes provided with windows, while the _patio_
itself is open above to the sky at night, and covered during the daytime
with an awning. To me these sweet shady spots were a source of
increasing delight. Anything more exquisite after its kind--more
perfectly ordered, delicately arranged, and beautifully kept up, than
the court of a Sevillian gentleman’s residence, I have never seen; and
the poorer classes follow suit with marvellous success and unanimity.
There is no great outer door, as at Toledo, but cunningly-wrought and
fairy-like iron gates, which only serve to set off an enticing picture
of marble pavement, colonnade, and fountain, in a framing of palmitos,
bananas, and lemon-trees, with here and there a coquettishly-perched
cage of singing birds. The temptation to pry into these dainty interiors
was irresistible.
[Illustration: GIRLS’ COURT IN THE ALCÁZAR, SEVILLE.]
I confess that I had been two days in Seville before I explored the
cathedral. For one thing, there was so much to see all around that I had
no temptation to make a definite excursion to any particular point of
interest; and as somebody once remarked about a five-act tragedy, it was
so easy not to go to the cathedral. Moreover, I had seen cathedrals in
every town
[Illustration: THE GARDENS OF THE ALCÁZAR.]
that I had visited in Spain, and I was surfeited of them. I had stood in
admiration before the magnificent pile, and gazed in wonderment at the
famous rose-coloured Giralda; but it was not until the third day of my
visit that I determined to “do” the cathedral. It has been said “there
is not a more solemn
[Illustration: SEVILLE CATHEDRAL.]
and beautiful temple in the world than the great cathedral at Seville.”
It is so grand and solemn as to strike the visitor with amazement and
awe. From the gay, colour-slashed streets of the city to the grand
interior is but a step, but the effect is overwhelming. The sudden
transition from the dazzling sunshine of the outer air produces a
sensation of darkness; all is confused and indistinct; while the eye,
instinctively seeking relief, looks upward to the clerestory, where,
through the small windows, a feeble ray of daylight comes struggling in.
By degrees, the magnificent proportions of the building reveal
themselves, and their majestic grandeur almost oppresses the mind. Even
Furguson allows Seville Cathedral to be “so grand, so spacious, and so
richly furnished that it is impossible to criticise when the result is
so splendid and imposing.” How, indeed, can one criticise a building
whose decorations consist of paintings by Murillo, Juan Valdes Leal,
Morales, Zurburan, Roelas, and Vargas, sculptures by Montanes and Alonso
Cano, and whose painted glass, wood-carving, and embroidery, mural
decoration, and metal work are the finest examples of the finest date in
every branch of each art?
[Illustration: ENTRANCE TO THE ALCÁZAR, SEVILLE.]
“The first view of the interior,” says Lomas, “is one of the supreme
moments of a life-time. The glory and majesty of it are almost terrible.
No other building, surely, is so fortunate as this in what may be called
its presence. Nave, side aisles, and lateral chapels, all of singularly
happy proportions, a vista of massive and yet graceful columns, a
rightly dim religious light, gloriously rich stained glass, and an
all-prevailing notion of venerable age--such is the sum of one’s first
impressions.”
Gautier’s and De Amicis’ comparison of the interior of the mosque at
Córdova to a marble forest, is in reality much more applicable to the
interior of the Seville Cathedral. As one writer has said: “Vast height,
dim light, gloom, and awe are