Never was surname more applicable than that bestowed upon him by his
subjects of el Zogoybi, or the Unlucky. His misfortunes began almost in
his cradle, and ceased not even with his death. If ever he cherished the
desire of leaving an honourable name on the historic page, how cruelly has
he been defrauded of his hopes! Who is there that has turned the least
attention to the romantic history of the Moorish domination in Spain,
without kindling with indignation at the alleged atrocities of Boabdil?
Who has not been touched with the woes of his lovely and gentle queen,
subjected by him to a trial of life and death, on a false charge of
infidelity? Who has not been shocked by his alleged murder of his sister
and her two children, in a transport of passion? Who has not felt his
blood boil at the inhuman massacre of the gallant Abencerrages, thirty-six
of whom, it is affirmed, he ordered to be beheaded in the Court of Lions?
All these charges have been reiterated in various forms; they have passed
into ballads, dramas, and romances, until they have taken too thorough
possession of the public mind to be eradicated. There is not a foreigner
of education that visits the Alhambra, but asks for the fountain where the
Abencerrages were beheaded; and gazes with horror at the grated gallery
where the queen is said to have been confined; not a peasant of the Vega
or the Sierra, but sings the story in rude couplets, to the accompaniment
of his guitar, while his hearers learn to execrate the very name of
Boabdil.
Never, however, was name more foully and unjustly slandered. I have
examined all the authentic chronicles and letters written by Spanish
authors, contemporary with Boabdil; some of whom were in the confidence of
the Catholic sovereigns, and actually present in the camp throughout the
war. I have examined all the Arabian authorities I could get access to,
through the medium of translation, and have found nothing to justify these
dark and hateful accusations. The most of these tales may be traced to a
work commonly called _The Civil Wars of Granada_, containing a pretended
history of the feuds of the Zegries and Abencerrages, during the last
struggle of the Moorish empire. The work appeared originally in Spanish,
and professed to be translated from the Arabic by one Gines Perez de Hita,
an inhabitant of Murcia. It has since passed into various languages, and
Florian has taken from it much of the fable of his Gonsalvo of Cordova:
it has thus, in a great measure, usurped the authority of real history,
and is currently believed by the people, and especially the peasantry of
Granada. The whole of it, however, is a mass of fiction, mingled with
a few disfigured truths, which give it an air of veracity. It bears
internal evidence of its falsity; the manners and customs of the Moors
being extravagantly misrepresented in it, and scenes depicted totally
incompatible with their habits and their faith, and which never could have
been recorded by a Mohammedan writer.
[Illustration]
I confess there seems to me something almost criminal in the wilful
perversions of this work: great latitude is undoubtedly to be allowed to
romantic fiction, but there are limits which it must not pass; and the
names of the distinguished dead, which belong to history, are no more
to be calumniated than those of the illustrious living. One would have
thought, too, that the unfortunate Boabdil had suffered enough for his
justifiable hostility to the Spaniards, by being stripped of his kingdom,
without having his name thus wantonly traduced, and rendered a byword
and a theme of infamy in his native land, and in the very mansion of his
fathers!
[Illustration: _Entrance to Hall of Abencerrages_]
[Illustration]
MEMENTOES OF BOABDIL
While my mind was still warm with the subject of the unfortunate Boabdil,
I set forth to trace the mementoes of him still existing in this scene
of his sovereignty and misfortunes. In the tower of Comares, immediately
under the Hall of Ambassadors, are two vaulted rooms, separated by a
narrow passage; these are said to have been the prisons of himself and his
mother, the virtuous Ayxa la Horra; indeed, no other part of the tower
would have served for the purpose. The external walls of these chambers
are of prodigious thickness, pierced with small windows secured by iron
bars. A narrow stone gallery, with a low parapet, extends along three
sides of the tower just below the windows, but at a considerable height
from the ground. From this gallery, it is presumed, the queen lowered
her son with the scarves of herself and her female attendants during
the darkness of the night to the hill-side, where some of his faithful
adherents waited with fleet steeds to bear him to the mountains.
Between three and four hundred years have elapsed, yet this scene of the
drama remains almost unchanged. As I paced the gallery, my imagination
pictured the anxious queen leaning over the parapet, listening, with the
throbbings of a mother's heart, to the last echoes of the horse's hoofs
as her son scoured along the narrow valley of the Darro.
[Illustration]
I next sought the gate by which Boabdil made his last exit from the
Alhambra, when about to surrender his capital and kingdom. With the
melancholy caprice of a broken spirit, or perhaps with some superstitious
feeling, he requested of the Catholic monarchs that no one afterwards
might be permitted to pass through it. His prayer, according to ancient
chronicles, was complied with, through the sympathy of Isabella, and the
gate was walled up.
I inquired for some time in vain for such a portal; at length my humble
attendant, Mateo Ximenes, said it must be one closed up with stones,
which, according to what he had heard from his father and grandfather,
was the gateway by which King Chico had left the fortress. There was a
mystery about it, and it had never been opened within the memory of the
oldest inhabitant.
He conducted me to the spot. The gateway is in the centre of what was
once an immense pile, called the Tower of the Seven Floors (_la Torre
de los siete suelos_). It is famous in the neighbourhood as the scene
of strange apparitions and Moorish enchantments. According to Swinburne
the traveller, it was originally the great gate of entrance. The
antiquaries of Granada pronounce it the entrance to that quarter of the
royal residence where the king's bodyguards were stationed. It therefore
might well form an immediate entrance and exit to the palace; while the
grand Gate of Justice served as the entrance of state to the fortress.
When Boabdil sallied by this gate to descend to the Vega, where he was
to surrender the keys of the city to the Spanish sovereigns, he left his
vizier Aben Comixa to receive, at the gate of Justice, the detachment from
the Christian army and the officers to whom the fortress was to be given
up.
[Illustration]
The once redoubtable Tower of the Seven Floors is now a mere wreck,
having been blown up with gunpowder by the French, when they abandoned
the fortress. Great masses of the wall lie scattered about, buried in
luxuriant herbage, or overshadowed by vines and fig-trees. The arch of
the gateway, though rent by the shock, still remains; but the last wish
of poor Boabdil has again, though unintentionally, been fulfilled, for
the portal has been closed up by loose stones gathered from the ruins,
and remains impassable.
[Illustration]
Mounting my horse, I followed up the route of the Moslem monarch from this
place of his exit. Crossing the hill of Los Martyros, and keeping along
the garden-wall of a convent bearing the same name, I descended a rugged
ravine beset by thickets of aloes and Indian figs, and lined with caves
and hovels swarming with gipsies. The descent was so steep and broken
that I was fain to alight and lead my horse. By this _via dolorosa_ poor
Boabdil took his sad departure to avoid passing through the city; partly,
perhaps, through unwillingness that its inhabitants should behold his
humiliation; but chiefly, in all probability, lest it might cause some
popular agitation. For the last reason, undoubtedly, the detachment sent
to take possession of the fortress ascended by the same route.
[Illustration]
Emerging from this rough ravine, so full of melancholy associations, and
passing by the _puerta de los molinos_ (the gate of the mills), I issued
forth upon the public promenade called the Prado; and pursuing the course
of the Xenil, arrived at a small chapel, once a mosque, now the Hermitage
of San Sebastian. Here, according to tradition, Boabdil surrendered
the keys of Granada to King Ferdinand. I rode slowly thence across the
Vega to a village where the family and household of the unhappy king
awaited him, for he had sent them forward on the preceding night from the
Alhambra, that his mother and wife might not participate in his personal
humiliation, or be exposed to the gaze of the conquerors. Following on in
the route of the melancholy band of royal exiles, I arrived at the foot of
a chain of barren and dreary heights, forming the skirt of the Alpuxarra
Mountains. From the summit of one of these the unfortunate Boabdil took
his last look at Granada; it bears a name expressive of his sorrows, _La
Cuesta de las Lagrimas_ (the hill of tears). Beyond it, a sandy road winds
across a rugged cheerless waste, doubly dismal to the unhappy monarch, as
it led to exile.
[Illustration]
I spurred my horse to the summit of a rock, where Boabdil uttered his last
sorrowful exclamation, as he turned his eyes from taking their farewell
gaze: it is still denominated _el ultimo suspiro del Moro_ (the last sigh
of the Moor). Who can wonder at his anguish at being expelled from such a
kingdom and such an abode? With the Alhambra he seemed to be yielding up
all the honours of his line, and all the glories and delights of life.
[Illustration]
It was here, too, that his affliction was embittered by the reproach of
his mother, Ayxa, who had so often assisted him in times of peril, and had
vainly sought to instil into him her own resolute spirit. "You do well,"
said she, "to weep as a woman over what you could not defend as a man;"
a speech savouring more of the pride of the princess than the tenderness
of the mother.
When this anecdote was related to Charles V., by Bishop Guevara, the
emperor joined in the expression of scorn at the weakness of the wavering
Boabdil. "Had I been he, or he been I," said the haughty potentate,
"I would rather have made this Alhambra my sepulchre than have lived
without a kingdom in the Alpuxarra." How easy it is for those in power
and prosperity to preach heroism to the vanquished! how little can they
understand that life itself may rise in value with the unfortunate when
naught but life remains!
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
Slowly descending the "Hill of Tears," I let my horse take his own
loitering gait back to Granada, while I turned the story of the
unfortunate Boabdil over in my mind. In summing up the particulars, I
found the balance inclining in his favour. Throughout the whole of his
brief, turbulent, and disastrous reign, he gives evidence of a mild and
amiable character. He, in the first instance, won the hearts of his people
by his affable and gracious manners; he was always placable, and never
inflicted any severity of punishment upon those who occasionally rebelled
against him. He was personally brave, but wanted moral courage; and, in
times of difficulty and perplexity, was wavering and irresolute. This
feebleness of spirit hastened his downfall, while it deprived him of that
heroic grace which would have given grandeur and dignity to his fate, and
rendered him worthy of closing the splendid drama of the Moslem domination
in Spain.
[Illustration: _Rubbing from the Commemorative Plaque in the wall of the
Hermitage of San Sebastian._]
[Illustration: _Pass of Lope._]
THE HOUSE OF THE WEATHERCOCK
On the brow of the lofty hill of the Albaycin, the highest part of
Granada, and which rises from the narrow valley of the Darro, directly
opposite to the Alhambra, stands all that is left of what was once a
royal palace of the Moors. It has, in fact, fallen into such obscurity,
that it cost me much trouble to find it, though aided in my researches by
the sagacious and all-knowing Mateo Ximenes. This edifice has borne for
centuries the name of "The House of the Weathercock" (_La casa del Gallo
de Viento_), from a bronze figure on one of its turrets, in ancient times,
of a warrior on horseback, and turning with every breeze. This weathercock
was considered by the Moslems of Granada a portentous talisman. According
to some traditions, it bore the following Arabic inscription:
_Calet el Bedici Aben Habuz,
Quidat ehahet Lindabuz._
Which has been rendered into Spanish:
_Dice el sabio Aben Habuz,
Que asi se defiende el Anduluz._
And into English:
In this way, says Aben Habuz the Wise,
Andaluz guards against surprise.
This Aben Habuz, according to some of the old Moorish chronicles, was a
captain in the invading army of Taric, one of the conquerors of Spain,
who left him as _Alcayde_ of Granada. He is supposed to have intended this
effigy as a perpetual warning to the Moslems of Andaluz, that, surrounded
by foes, their safety depended upon their being always on their guard and
ready for the field.
[Illustration: _The Alhambra, from the Albaycin._]
[Illustration]
Others, among whom is the Christian historian Marmol, affirms "_Badis Aben
Habus_" to have been a Moorish sultan of Granada, and that the weathercock
was intended as a perpetual admonition of the instability of Moslem power,
bearing the following words in Arabic:
"Thus _Ibn Habus al badise_ predicts Andaluz shall one day vanish and pass
away."
Another version of this portentous inscription is given by a Moslem
historian, on the authority of Sidi Hasan, a _faquir_ who flourished about
the time of Ferdinand and Isabella, and who was present at the taking down
of the weathercock, when the old Kassaba was undergoing repairs.
"I saw it," says the venerable _faquir_, "with my own eyes; it was of a
heptagonal shape, and had the following inscription in verse:
"The palace at fair Granada presents a talisman."
"The horseman, though a solid body, turns with every wind."
"This to a wise man reveals a mystery. In a little while comes a
calamity to ruin both the palace and its owner."
In effect it was not long after this meddling with the portentous
weathercock that the following event occurred. As old Muley Abul Hassan,
the king of Granada, was seated under a sumptuous pavilion, reviewing his
troops, who paraded before him in armour of polished steel and gorgeous
silken robes, mounted on fleet steeds, and equipped with swords, spears,
and shields embossed with gold and silver,--suddenly a tempest was seen
hurrying from the south-west. In a little while black clouds overshadowed
the heavens and burst forth with a deluge of rain. Torrents came roaring
down from the mountains, bringing with them rocks and trees; the Darro
overflowed its banks; mills were swept away, bridges destroyed, gardens
laid waste; the inundation rushed into the city, undermining houses,
drowning their inhabitants, and overflowing even the square of the Great
Mosque. The people rushed in affright to the mosques to implore the
mercy of Allah, regarding this uproar of the elements as the harbinger of
dreadful calamities; and, indeed, according to the Arabian historian Al
Makkari, it was but a type and prelude of the direful war which ended in
the downfall of the Moslem kingdom of Granada.
I have thus given historic authorities sufficient to show the portentous
mysteries connected with the House of the Weathercock, and its talismanic
horseman.
I now proceed to relate still more surprising things about Aben Habuz and
his palace; for the truth of which, should any doubt be entertained, I
refer the dubious reader to Mateo Ximenes and his fellow-historiographers
of the Alhambra.
[Illustration: _Among the Hills._]
LEGEND OF THE ARABIAN ASTROLOGER.
In old times, many hundred years ago, there was a Moorish king named
Aben Habuz, who reigned over the kingdom of Granada. He was a retired
conqueror, that is to say, one who, having in his more youthful days led a
life of constant foray and depredation, now that he was grown feeble and
superannuated, "languished for repose," and desired nothing more than to
live at peace with all the world, to husband his laurels, and to enjoy in
quiet the possessions he had wrested from his neighbours.
It so happened, however, that this most reasonable and pacific old monarch
had young rivals to deal with; princes full of his early passion for fame
and fighting, and who were disposed to call him to account for the scores
he had run up with their fathers. Certain distant districts of his own
territories, also, which during the days of his vigour he had treated
with a high hand, were prone, now that he languished for repose, to rise
in rebellion and threaten to invest him in his capital. Thus he had foes
on every side; and as Granada is surrounded by wild and craggy mountains,
which hide the approach of an enemy, the unfortunate Aben Habuz was kept
in a constant state of vigilance and alarm, not knowing in what quarter
hostilities might break out.
[Illustration: _The Tomb of Ferdinand and Isabella._]
It was in vain that he built watch-towers on the mountains, and stationed
guards at every pass with orders to make fires by night and smoke by day,
on the approach of an enemy. His alert foes, baffling every precaution,
would break out of some unthought-of defile, ravage his lands beneath his
very nose, and then make off with prisoners and booty to the mountains.
Was ever peaceable and retired conqueror in a more uncomfortable
predicament?
While Aben Habuz was harassed by these perplexities and molestations, an
ancient Arabian physician arrived at his court. His gray beard descended
to his girdle, and he had every mark of extreme age, yet he had travelled
almost the whole way from Egypt on foot, with no other aid than a staff,
marked with hieroglyphics. His fame had preceded him. His name was Ibrahim
Ebn Abu Ayub; he was said to have lived ever since the days of Mahomet,
and to be son of Abu Ayub; the last of the companions of the Prophet. He
had, when a child, followed the conquering army of Amru into Egypt, where
he had remained many years studying the dark sciences, and particularly
magic, among the Egyptian priests.
It was, moreover, said that he had found out the secret of prolonging
life by means of which he had arrived to the great age of upwards of two
centuries, though, as he did not discover the secret until well stricken
in years, he could only perpetuate his gray hairs and wrinkles.
This wonderful old man was honourably entertained by the king; who, like
most superannuated monarchs, began to take physicians into great favour.
He would have assigned him an apartment in his palace, but the astrologer
preferred a cave in the side of the hill which rises above the city of
Granada, being the same on which the Alhambra has since been built. He
caused the cave to be enlarged so as to form a spacious and lofty hall,
with a circular hole at the top, through which, as through a well, he
could see the heavens and behold the stars even at mid-day. The walls
of this hall were covered with Egyptian hieroglyphics with cabalistic
symbols, and with the figures of the stars in their signs. This hall he
furnished with many implements, fabricated under his directions by cunning
artificers of Granada, but the occult properties of which were known only
to himself.
[Illustration: _The Road up to the Alhambra._]
In a little while the sage Ibrahim became the bosom counsellor of the
king, who applied to him for advice in every emergency. Aben Habuz was
once inveighing against the injustice of his neighbours, and bewailing
the restless vigilance he had to observe to guard himself against their
invasions; when he had finished, the astrologer remained silent for a
moment, and then replied, "Know, O king, that, when I was in Egypt, I
beheld a great marvel devised by a pagan priestess of old. On a mountain,
above the city of Borsa, and overlooking the great valley of the Nile,
was a figure of a ram, and above it a figure of a cock, both of molten
brass, and turning upon a pivot. Whenever the country was threatened with
invasion, the ram would turn in the direction of the enemy, and the cock
would crow; upon this the inhabitants of the city knew of the danger, and
of the quarter from which it was approaching, and could take timely means
to guard against it."
"God is great!" exclaimed the pacific Aben Habuz, "what a treasure would
be such a ram to keep an eye upon these mountains around me; and then such
a cock, to crow in time of danger! _Allah Akbah!_ how securely I might
sleep in my palace with such sentinels on the top!"
The astrologer waited until the ecstasies of the king had subsided, and
then proceeded:
"After the victorious Amru (may he rest in peace!) had finished his
conquest of Egypt, I remained among the priests of the land, studying the
rites and ceremonies of their idolatrous faith, and seeking to make myself
master of the hidden knowledge for which they are renowned. I was one day
seated on the banks of the Nile, conversing with an ancient priest, when
he pointed to the mighty pyramids which rose like mountains out of the
neighbouring desert. 'All that we can teach thee,' said he, 'is nothing
to the knowledge locked up in those mighty piles. In the centre of the
central pyramid is a sepulchral chamber, in which is enclosed the mummy
of the high priest who aided in rearing that stupendous pile; and with
him is buried a wondrous book of knowledge, containing all the secrets of
magic and art. This book was given to Adam after his fall, and was handed
down from generation to generation to King Solomon the Wise, and by its
aid he built the Temple of Jerusalem. How it came into the possession of
the builder of the pyramids is known to Him alone who knows all things.'
"When I heard these words of the Egyptian priest, my heart burned to
get possession of that book. I could command the services of many of
the soldiers of our conquering army, and of a number of the native
Egyptians: with these I set to work, and pierced the solid mass of the
pyramid, until, after great toil, I came upon one of its interior and
hidden passages. Following this up, and threading a fearful labyrinth, I
penetrated into the very heart of the pyramids, even to the sepulchral
chamber, where the mummy of the high-priest had lain for ages. I broke
through the outer cases of the mummy, unfolded its many wrappers and
bandages, and at length found the precious volume on its bosom. I seized
it with a trembling hand, and groped my way out of the pyramid, leaving
the mummy in its dark and silent sepulchre, there to await the final day
of resurrection and judgment."
"Son of Abu Ayub," exclaimed Aben Habuz, "thou hast been a great
traveller, and seen marvellous things; but of what avail to me is the
secret of the pyramid, and the volume of knowledge of the wise Solomon?"
"This it is, O king! By the study of that book I am instructed in all
magic arts, and can command the assistance of genii to accomplish my
plans. The mystery of the Talisman of Borsa is therefore familiar to me,
and such a talisman can I make, nay, one of greater virtues."
"O wise son of Abu Ayub," cried Aben Habuz, "better were such a talisman
than all the watch towers on the hills, and sentinels upon the borders.
Give me such a safeguard, and the riches of my treasury are at thy
command."