As soon as the quadrilles are over, you take your leave by saying,

"_A los pies de vd._" to the lady of the house, and "_Beso à vd. la

mano_" to her husband; to which they reply, "_Buenas noches_," and

"_Beso à vd. la suya_:" and then again on the threshold, as a last

adieu, "_Hasta mañana_" (till to-morrow); which is an invitation

to return. In spite of their familiar ways, the people of even

the lower classes, the peasants and vagrants, make use towards

one another of the most exquisite urbanity, which forms a strong

contrast with the uncouthness of our own rabble. It is true that

a stab might be the result of an offensive expression, and this

is certainly one way of making all interlocutors use a good deal

of circumspection. It is worthy of remark that French politeness,

formerly proverbial, has disappeared since swords have ceased to be

worn. The laws against duelling will end by making us the rudest

nation in the world.

On returning home, you meet, under the windows and balconies,

numbers of young gallants enveloped in their hooded cloaks, and

staying there to _pelar la paba_ (pluck the turkey), that is,

to talk with their _novias_ through the bars. These nocturnal

conversations often last till two or three o'clock in the morning,

which is nothing astonishing, since the Spaniards spend a part of

the day in sleep. You sometimes tumble also on a serenade composed

of three or four musicians, but more generally of the sighing swain

only, who sings couplets as he accompanies himself on the guitar,

with his _sombrero_ drawn over his eyes, and his feet resting

on a stone or a step. Formerly two serenades in the same street

would not have been tolerated. The first comer claimed the right

of remaining there alone, and forbade every other guitar, except

his own, to tinkle in silence of the night. Such pretensions were

maintained at the point of the sword, or by the knife, unless

the patrol happened to be passing. In this case the two rivals

coalesced, in order to charge the patrol, with the understanding

that they were to renew their own private combat by and by. The

susceptibility of serenaders has greatly diminished, and every one

can at present tranquilly _rascar el jamon_ (scrape the ham) under

the window of his mistress.

If the night is dark you must take care not to put your foot into

the stomach of some honourable hidalgo, rolled up in his mantle,

which serves him for garment, bed, and house. During the summer

nights the granite steps of the theatre are covered with a mass of

blackguards who have no other place to go to. Each of them has his

particular step, which serves as his apartment, where he is always

sure to be found. They sleep there under the blue vault of heaven,

with the stars for night lights, with no bugs to annoy them, and

defy the sting of the mosquito by the coriaceous nature of their

tanned skin, which is bronzed by the fiery sun of Andalusia, and

certainly quite as dark as that of the darkest mulattoes.

The following is, without much variation, the life we led. The

morning was devoted to visiting different parts of the city, to a

walk to the Alhambra or the Generalife; we then went, of necessity,

to call on the ladies at whose houses we had passed the previous

evening. When we called but twice a day they told us we were

ungrateful, and received us with so much kindness that we came

to the conclusion that we really were fierce savage beings, and

extremely negligent.

Our passion for the Alhambra was such that, not satisfied with

visiting it every day, we were desirous of altogether taking up

our abode there; not, however, in the neighbouring houses, which

are let at very high prices to the English, but in the palace

itself; and, thanks to the interest of our Granadian friends,

the authorities, without giving us formal permission, promised

not to perceive us. We remained there four days and four nights,

which constituted, without any doubt, the happiest moments of my

existence.

In order to reach the Alhambra, we will pass, if you please,

through the square of the Vivarambla, where Gazal, the valiant

Moor, used to hunt the bull, and where the houses, with their

wooden balconies and _miradores_, present a vague appearance of so

many hen-coops. The fish-market occupies one corner of the square,

the middle of which forms an open space, surrounded with stone

seats, peopled with money-changers, vendors of alcarrazas, earthen

pots, water melons, mercery, ballads, knives, chaplets, and other

little articles that can be sold in the open air. The Zacatin,

which has preserved its picturesque name, connects the Vivarambla

with the Plaza Nueva. It is in this street, bordered by lateral

lanes, and covered with canvass _tendidos_, that all the commerce

of Granada moves and buzzes; hatters, tailors, and shoemakers,

lacemen and cloth merchants, occupy nearly all the shops, which

possess as yet nothing of the improvements of modern art, and

remind you of the old pillars of the Paris markets.

The Zacatin is always crowded. Now you meet a group of students

on a tour from Salamanca, playing the guitar, the tambourine,

castanets, and triangle, while they sing couplets full of fun and

animation; then again your eye encounters a gang of gipsy women,

with their blue flounced dresses studded with stars, their long

yellow shawls, their hair in disorder, and their necks encircled

with big coral or amber necklaces, or a file of donkeys loaded with

enormous jars, and driven by a peasant from the Vega, as sun-burnt

as an African.

The Zacatin leads into the Plaza Nueva, one side of which is

taken up by the splendid palace of the Chancellor, remarkable

for its columns of rustic order and the severe richness of its

architecture. As soon as you have crossed the place, you begin

to ascend the Calle de los Gomeres, at the end of which you find

yourself on the limits of the jurisdiction of the Alhambra, and

face to face with the Puerta de Granada, named Bib Leuxar by the

Moors, with the Vermilion Towers on its right, built, as the

learned world declares, on Phœnician sub-structures, and inhabited

at present by basket-makers and potters.

Before proceeding further, we ought to warn our readers, who may

perhaps think our descriptions, though scrupulously exact, beneath

the idea they have formed of the Alhambra, that this palace and

fortress of the ancient Moorish kings is very far from presenting

the appearance lent to it by the imagination. We expected to see

terrace superposed on terrace, open-worked minarets, and rows

of boundless colonnades. But nothing of all this really exists:

outside, there are only to be seen large massive towers of the

colour of bricks or toasted bread, built at different epochs by

Arabian princes; and within, all you see is a suite of chambers and

galleries, decorated with extreme delicacy, but with nothing grand

about them. Having made these remarks, we will continue our route.

After having passed the Puerta de Granada, you find yourself

within the bounds of the fortress and under the jurisdiction of a

special governor. There are two routes marked out in a wood of

lofty trees. Let us take the one to the left, which leads to the

fountain of Charles the Fifth: it is the steeper of the two, but

then it is the shorter and the more picturesque. Water flows along

rapidly in small trenches paved with kelp, and spreads around the

bottom of the trees, which nearly all belong to species peculiar

to the north, and the verdancy of which is of such moisture as to

be truly delicious at so short a distance from Africa. The noise

of the murmuring water joins itself to the hoarse hum of a hundred

thousand grasshoppers or crickets, whose music never ceases, and

which forcibly reminds you, in spite of the coolness of the place,

of southern and torrid climes. Water springs forth everywhere; from

beneath the trunks of the trees and through the cracks in the old

walls. The hotter it is, the more abundant are the springs, for

it is the snow which supplies them. This mixture of water, snow,

and fire, renders the Granadian climate unparalleled throughout

the world, and makes Granada a real terrestrial paradise; without

being Moors, we might well have had applied to us, when we appeared

oppressed by deep melancholy, the Arabian saying--"He is thinking

of Granada."

At the end of the road, which continues to rise, you meet a large

monumental fountain, which serves as a shouldering-piece, raised

to the memory of the emperor Charles the Fifth: it is covered with

numerous devices, coats of arms, names of victories, imperial

eagles, mythological medallions, is of a heavy imposing richness,

and in the Romanic-German style. Two shields, bearing the arms of

the house of Mondejar, announce that Don Luis de Mendoza, marquis

of this title, raised the monument in honour of the red-bearded

Cæsar. This fountain, which is solidly constructed, supports the

ascent which leads to the Gate of Justice, through which you enter

the Alhambra proper.

The Gate of Justice was built by King Yusef Abul Hagiag, about

the year of our Lord 1348: it owes its name to the custom the

Mussulmans have of rendering justice on the threshold of their

palaces; this custom possesses the advantage of being very

majestic, and of allowing no one to enter the inner courts; for

the maxim of Monsieur Royer-Collard, which says that "Private life

ought to be walled in," was invented ages ago by the inhabitants of

the East--that country of the sun, whence all light and wisdom come.

The name of tower might be given more properly than that of gate to

this construction of King Yusef Abul Hagiag; for it is in reality a

large square tower, rather high, and through which there is a large

hollow arch in the form of a heart, to which a hieroglyphic key and

hand, cut in two separate stones, impart a stern and cabalistic

air. The key is a symbol held in great veneration by the Arabs, on

account of a verse in the Koran beginning with the words "He has

opened," and of several other hermetic significations; the hand is

destined to destroy the influence of the Evil Eye, the _jettatura_,

like the little coral hands which they wear at Naples as pins or

watch appendages, to avert the power of sinister looks. There was

an ancient prediction which asserted that Granada would never be

taken until the hand had seized the key: it must be owned, however,

to the shame of the prophet, that the two hieroglyphics are still

in the same places; and that Boabdil, _el rey chico_, as he was

called on account of his small stature, uttered outside the walls

of conquered Granada the historical groan, _suspiro del Moro_,

which has given its name to a rock of the Sierra de Elvira.

This massive and embattled tower, glazed with orange and red on

a stiff sky-blue ground, and having behind it a whole abyss of

vegetation, with the city built on a precipice, while beyond it are

long ranges of mountains streaked with a thousand hues, like those

of African porphyry, forms a truly majestic and splendid entrance

to the Arabian palace. Under the gate is a guard-house, and poor

ragged soldiers now take their siesta in the same place where the

caliphs, seated on sofas of gold brocade, with their black eyes

motionless in their marble faces and their hands buried in the

folds of their silky beards, listened with a thoughtful and solemn

air to the complaints of the believers. An altar, surmounted by an

image of the Virgin, stands against the wall, as if to sanctify at

the very entrance this ancient abode of the worshippers of Mahomet.

When you have passed through the gate, you enter a vast place

called the _Plaza de las Algives_, in the middle of which is a

well whose curb is surrounded by a sort of wooden shed covered

with esparto-work, where you can go, for a _cuarto_, and drink

large glasses of water as clear as a diamond, as cold as ice, and

of the most delicious taste. The towers of Quebrada, the Homenaga,

the Armeria, and of the Vela, whose bell announces the time at

which the water is distributed; and stone parapets on which you

can lean, in order to admire the wonderful view that stretches

itself before you, surround one side of the place; the other side

is occupied by the palace of Charles the Fifth, an immense monument

of the Renaissance which would be admired anywhere else, but which

is wished anywhere but here when you think that it covers a space

once belonging to a part of the Alhambra, that was pulled down

on purpose to make room for this heavy mass. This _alcazar_ was

designed, however, by Alonzo Berruguete: the trophies, bas-reliefs,

and medallions on its façade have been executed with patience

by a bold and spirited hand: the circular court with its marble

columns, where the bull-fights, doubtless, took place, is certainly

a magnificent piece of architecture, but _non erat hic locus_.

[Illustration: WELL DE LAS ALGIVES, ALHAMBRA.]

You enter the Alhambra by a corridor running through an angle of

the palace of Charles the Fifth, and after a few windings you

arrive at a large court indifferently known by the names of _Patio

de los Arrayanes_ (Court of Myrtles), of the _Alberca_ (of the

Reservoir), or of the _Mezouar_, an Arabian word signifying a bath

for women.

On coming from these obscure passages into this large space

inundated with light, you feel an effect similar to that produced

by a diorama. It appears to you that an enchanter's wand has

carried you to the East of four or five centuries back. Time,

which changes all things in its progress, has in no way modified

the aspect of these places, where the apparition of one of the old

Moorish sultans, and of Tarfe the Moor in his white cloak, would

not cause the least surprise.

In the middle of the court there is a large reservoir three or

four feet deep, in the form of a parallelogram, bordered by two

large beds of myrtles and shrubs, and terminated at each end by a

sort of gallery, with slender columns supporting Moorish arches

of very delicate workmanship. Fountains, the over-abundant water

of which is conducted from the basins to the reservoir through a

marble gutter, are placed under each gallery, and complete the

symmetry of the decorations. To the left are the archives, and the

chamber where, to the shame of the Granadians, is stowed away,

among all sorts of rubbish, the magnificent vase of the Alhambra,

a monument of inestimable rareness, nearly four feet in height,

covered with ornaments and inscriptions, and fitted in itself to

form the glory of a museum, but which Spanish heedlessness allows

to lie uncared-for in an ignoble hole. One of the wings which form

the handles was broken off a little time back. On this side also

are passages leading to an ancient mosque, converted into a church

under the protection of St. Mary of the Alhambra, at the time of

the conquest. To the right are the rooms of the attendants, where

the head of some dark Andalusian servantmaid, looking out of a

narrow Moorish casement, now and then produces a very pleasing

Oriental effect. At the bottom, above the ugly roof of round tiles,

which have replaced the gilt tiles and cedar-beams of the Arabian

roof, rises majestically the tower of Comares, the embattlements of

which boldly shoot forth their vermilion denticulations into the

beautifully limpid vault of heaven. This tower contains the Hall of

Ambassadors, and communicates with the _Patio de los Arrayanes_ by

a sort of antechamber called the _Barca_, on account of its form.

The antechamber of the Hall of Ambassadors is worthy of

its purpose; the nobleness of its arcades, the variety and

interweavings of its arabesques, the mosaic-work of its walls,

the delicacy of its stuccoed roof, furrowed like the stalactite

ceiling of a grotto, painted blue, green, and yellow, of which

there are still some traces left, form a whole of the most charming

originality and strangeness.

On each side of the door leading to the Hall of Ambassadors, in the

jamb itself of the arcade, and above the coating of varnished glass

which decorates the lower part of the walls, and which is divided

into triangles of glaring colours, are two white marble niches,

looking like little chapels, and sculptured in a most delicate

manner. It was here that the ancient Moors used to leave their

slippers before entering, as a mark of deference, just as we take

off our hat in places we respect.

The Hall of Ambassadors, one of the largest of the Alhambra,

occupies all the interior of the tower of Comares. The roof, which

is cedar, is full of those mathematical combinations so familiar to

Arabian architects: all the pieces are placed so that their salient

or re-entering angles form a great variety of designs; the walls

disappear beneath a network of ornaments so close together, and so

inextricably interwoven, that they can be compared to nothing more

fitly than to several pieces of guipure placed one over another.

Gothic architecture, with its stone lacework, and its open-worked

roses, is nothing to this. Fish-knives, and paper embroidery

executed with a fly-press, like that which confectioners use to

cover their bonbons with, can alone give you an idea of it. One of

the characteristics of the Moorish style is that it offers very

few projections or profiles. All this ornamental work is executed

on smooth surfaces, and scarcely ever projects more than four or

five inches; it resembles a kind of tapestry worked on the wall

itself. It has, too, one very distinguishing feature, and this is,

the employment of writing as a means of decoration. It is true

that Arabian writing, with its mysterious forms and distortions,

is admirably fitted for this use. The inscriptions, which are

nearly always _suras_ of the Koran, or eulogiums on the different

princes who have built and decorated the halls, are placed along

the friezes, on the jambs of the doors, and round the arches of

the windows, and are interspersed with flowers, foliage, net-work,

and all the riches of Arabian calligraphy. Those in the Hall of

Ambassadors signify "Glory to God, power and riches to believers;"

or they sing the praises of Abu Nazar, who, "if he had been taken

alive into heaven, would have made the brightness of the stars and

planets pale"--a hyperbolical assertion, which seems to us rather

too oriental. Other rows of inscriptions are filled with eulogiums

of Abi Abd Allah, another sultan, who helped to build this part of

the palace. The windows are loaded with pieces of poetry in honour

of the limpidness of the waters of the reservoir, of the blooming

condition of the shrubs, and of the perfume of the flowers that

ornament the yard of the Mezouar, which is seen from the Hall of

Ambassadors through the door and columns of the gallery.

The loopholes, with their interior balconies at a great height from

the ground, and the roof of wood-work without any other ornaments

but the zigzags and the cross-work formed by the placing of the

timber, give the Hall of Ambassadors a severer aspect than the

other halls of the palace have, but which is more in harmony with

the purpose it was intended for. From the window at the back there

is a beautiful view over the ravine of the Darro.

[Illustration: EXTERIOR OF THE ALHAMBRA.]

Now that we have given this description, we think it our duty to

destroy another illusion. All these magnificent things are made

neither of marble nor of alabaster, nor even of stone, but simply

of plaster! This interferes very much with the ideas of fairy

splendour that the name alone of the Alhambra creates in the most

positive imaginations; but it is true, for all that. With the

exception of the columns, which are nearly all made of a single

piece, and which are hardly ever more than from six to eight feet

in height, of a few flag-stones, of the smaller basins of the

fountains, and of the little chapels where the slippers used to be

left, there has not been a single bit of marble employed in the

construction of the Alhambra. The same thing may be said of the

Generalife: the Arabs surpassed all other nations in the art of

moulding, hardening, and carving plaster, which acquired in their

hands the firmness of stucco, without having its disagreeable shiny

appearance.

The greater part of these ornaments were made in casts, so that

they could be reproduced without any great trouble as often as

the symmetry of the place required it. Nothing would be easier

than to reproduce an exact likeness of any hall of the Alhambra;

to do this, it would suffice to take casts of all the ornaments

contained in it. Two arcades of the Hall of Justice, which had

fallen down, have been reconstructed by some Granadian workmen, in

a manner which leaves nothing to be desired. If we were anything of

a _millionaire_, one of our fancies would be to have a duplicate of

the Court of Lions in one of our parks.

On leaving the Hall of Ambassadors, you follow a passage of modern

structure, comparatively speaking, and you arrive at the _tocador_,

or dressing-room of the queen. This is a small pavilion situated

on the top of a tower, which formerly served the sultanas for an

oratory, whence you enjoy the sight of an admirable panorama. At

the entrance you perceive a slab of white marble, perforated with

small holes to allow the smoke of the perfumes that were burnt

beneath the floor to pass through. On the walls are still seen some

fantastic frescoes, executed by Bartholomew de Ragis, Alonzo Perez,

and Juan de la Fuente. On the frieze the ciphers of Isabella and

Philip V. are intertwined, one with another, together with groups

of Cupids. It is impossible to conceive anything more coquettish

or charming than this closet, suspended as it is, with its little

Moorish pillars, and its surbased arches, over an abyss of azure,

the bottom of which is studded with the house-tops of Granada,

and whither the breeze wafts the perfumes of the Generalife, that

enormous tuft of rose-bays blooming on the brow of the neighbouring

hills, and the plaintive cry of the peacocks walking on the

dismantled walls. How many hours have I not spent there, wrapped

in that serene melancholy so different from the melancholy of the

north, with one leg dangling over the precipice, and straining

my eyes in order to leave unexamined no form or contour of the

picture that lay before them, and which they will, doubtless,

never see again. No pen or pencil will ever be able to give a true

idea of that brilliancy, of that light, of that vividness of hues.

The most commonplace tones assume the appearance of jewels, and

everything is on the same scale. Towards the end of the day, when

the sun is oblique, the most inconceivable effects are produced:

the mountains sparkle like heaps of rubies, topazes and carbuncles;

dust, which looks like dust of gold, fills the intervals, and if,

as is often the case in summer, the labourers are burning stubble

in the plain, the smoke, while rising slowly towards the sky,

borrows the most magical reflections from the rays of the setting

sun. I am surprised that Spanish painters, have, in general, made

their pictures so dark, and have almost exclusively employed

themselves in imitating Caravaggio and the masters of the sombre

school. The pictures of Decamps and Marilhat, who only painted

views of Asia or Africa, give a truer idea of Spain than all the

pictures fetched, at a great expense, from the Peninsula.

We will traverse the garden of Lindaraja without stopping, for

it is nothing but an uncultivated piece of ground, strewed with

rubbish, and bristling with brushwood; we will therefore visit,

for an instant, the Bath-room of the Sultana, which is coated with

square pieces of mosaic-work of glazed clay, and bordered with

filigree-work that would make the most complicated madrepores

blush. A fountain is in the middle of the room, and two alcoves are

in the wall. It was here that the Moorish Sultanas used to come to

repose themselves on square pieces of golden cloth, after having

enjoyed the pleasure and luxury of an oriental bath. The galleries

or balconies, in which the singers and musicians used to be placed,

are still seen, and are at a height of about fifteen feet from the

ground. The baths themselves resemble large troughs, and each of

them is made out of one piece of white marble; they are placed in

little vaulted closets, lighted by open-worked stars or roses. For

fear of becoming irksome by repetition, we will not speak of the

Hall of Secrets, whose acoustic powers are productive of a very

curious effect, and the corners of whose walls are blackened by

the noses of those inquisitive persons who go and whisper, in one

corner, some impertinence that is faithfully carried to another;

nor of the Hall of the Nymphs, over the door of which is an

excellent bas-relief of Jupiter changed into a swan and caressing

Leda, and which said bas-relief is most extraordinarily free in

its composition, and very audacious in its execution; nor of the

apartments of Charles the Fifth, which are in a dreadful state

of devastation, and which possess nothing curious, with the

exception of their roofs, studded with the ambitious device of _Non

plus ultra_; but we will go direct to the Court of Lions, the most

curious and best preserved part of the Alhambra.

[Illustration: PAVILION OF THE COURT OF LIONS, ALHAMBRA.]

English engravings and the numerous drawings which have been

published of the Court of Lions convey but a very incomplete and

false idea of it: nearly all of them fail to give the proper

proportions, and, in consequence of the over-loading necessitated

by the fact of representing the infinite details of Arabian

architecture, suggest the idea of a monument of much greater

importance.

The Court of Lions is a hundred and twenty feet long, seventy-three

broad, while the galleries which surround it are not more than

twenty-two feet high. They are formed by a hundred and twenty-eight

columns of white marble placed in a symmetrical disorder of four

and four, and of three and three, together: these columns, the

capitals of which are full of work and still preserve traces of

gold and colour, support arches of extreme elegance and of quite a

unique shape.

On entering, the Hall of Justice, the roof of which is a monument

of art of the most inestimable rarity and worth, immediately

attracts your attention, as it forms the back of the parallelogram.

There you see the only Arabian pictures, perhaps, which have come

down to us. One of them represents the Court of Lions itself, with

the fountain, which is very apparent, but gilt: some personages,

whom the oldness of the painting does not allow you to distinguish

clearly, seem to be engaged in a joust or passage of arms.

The subject of the other appears to be a sort of divan where the

Moorish kings of Granada are assembled, and whose white burnous,

olive-coloured faces, red mouths, and mysteriously dark eyes, are

still easily discernible. These paintings, as is asserted, are

executed on prepared leather, pasted on cedar panels, and serve to

prove that the precept of the Koran which forbids the likenesses of

animated beings being taken was not always scrupulously observed by

the Moors, even if the twelve lions of the fountain were not there

to confirm this assertion.

To the left, halfway up the gallery, is the Hall of the Two

Sisters, which is the fellow to the Hall of the Abencerrages. This

name of _las Dos Hermanas_ is given it from two immense flagstones

of white Macael marble, equal in size and perfectly alike, which

form part of the pavement. The vaulted roof, or cupola, which the

Spaniards expressively call _media naranja_ (half an orange), is

a miracle of work and patience. It is like a honeycomb, or the

stalactites of a grotto, or the bunches of soap-bubbles which

children blow out through a straw. The myriads of little vaults,

of domes three or four feet high which grow out of one another,

crossing and intersecting each other's edges, seem rather the

effect of fortuitous crystallization than the work of a human

hand; the blue, red, and green in the hollows of the mouldings

are still nearly as bright as if they had only just been put on.

The walls, like those of the Hall of Ambassadors, are covered,

from the frieze to the height of a man, with stucco-work of the

most complicated and delicate description. The bottom of the walls

is coated with those square pieces of glazed clay of which the

black, yellow, and green angles, combined with the white ground,

form a mosaic-work. The middle of the apartment, according to

the invariable custom of the Arabs, whose habitations seem to be

nothing but large ornamented fountains, is occupied by a basin and

a jet of water. There are four fountains under the Gate of Justice,

a like number under the entrance-gate, and another in the Hall of

the Abencerrages, without counting the _Taza de los Leones_, which,

not satisfied with vomiting water through the mouths of its twelve

monsters, throws up another torrent towards the sky out of the cap

which surmounts it. All this water flows through small trenches

made in the flooring of the halls and the pavement of the courts,

to the foot of the Fountain of Lions, where it disappears in a

subterraneous conduit. This is certainly a kind of dwelling in

which you would never be annoyed by the dust, and it is a matter of

conjecture how these halls could be inhabited in the winter. The

large cedar doors were no doubt then shut, the marble floor was

perhaps covered with a thick carpet, and fires of fruit-stones and

odoriferous wood lighted in the _braseros_, and it was thus that

the return of the fine season was waited for, which is never long

in coming at Granada.

We will not describe the Hall of the Abencerrages, which is

almost similar to that of the Two Sisters, and contains nothing

particular, with the exception of its ancient door of wood arranged

in lozenges, which dates from the time of the Moors. At the Alcazar

of Seville there is another one made exactly in the same style.

The _Taza de los Leones_ enjoys, in Arabian poetry, a wonderful

reputation, and no terms of praise are thought too high for

these superb animals: I must own, however, that it would be

difficult to find anything less resembling lions than these

productions of African fancy; the paws are mere wedges, similar

to those bits of wood, of hardly any shape, which are used to

thrust into the bellies of paste-board dogs to make them keep

their equilibrium; the muzzles, streaked with transversal lines,

doubtless to represent the whiskers, are exactly like the snout of

a hippopotamus; and the eyes are designed in so primitive a manner,

that they remind you of the shapeless attempts of children.

Nevertheless, these twelve lions, if we look upon them not as

lions, but as chimeras, as a caprice in ornamenting, produce, with

the basins they support, a picturesque effect full of elegance,

which aids you to comprehend their reputation, and the praises

contained in the following Arabian inscription, of twenty-four

verses of twenty-two syllables each, engraved on the sides of

the basin into which the waters of the upper basin fall. We ask

our readers' pardon for the somewhat barbarous fidelity of the

translation:--

[Illustration: FOUNTAIN, COURT OF LIONS, ALHAMBRA.]

"O you who gaze on the lions fixed to their places! remark that

they only require life to be perfect. And you to whom this Alcazar

and this kingdom fall as an inheritance, take them from the noble

hands who have governed them, without displeasure and without

resistance. May God preserve you for the work which you come to

perform, and protect you for ever from the revenge of your enemy!

Honour and glory be yours. O Mohammed! our king, endowed with

great virtues, by the aid of which you have conquered all! May

God never permit this fine garden, the image of your virtues, to

have a rival that surpasses it! The substance which tints the

basin of the fountain is like mother-of-pearl beneath the clear

sparkling water; the flowing stream resembles melting silver, for

the limpidness of the water and the whiteness of the stone have no

equals; they might be likened unto a drop of transparent essence

on a face of alabaster. It would be difficult to follow its course.

Look at the water and look at the basin, and you will not be able

to distinguish whether it is the water that is motionless or the

marble that ripples. Like the prisoner of love, whose visage is

covered with vexation and fear by the look of the envious, so is

the jealous water indignant at the stone, and the stone envious of

the water. To this inexhaustible stream may be compared the hand of

our king, who is as liberal and as generous as the lion is valiant

and strong."

It was in the basin of the Fountain of Lions that the heads of

the thirty-six Abencerrages, whom the Zegris had drawn there by

stratagem, fell. The rest of the Abencerrages would have shared the

same fate, had it not been for the devotedness of a little page,

who ran at the risk of his life to warn them against entering the

fatal court. On having your attention directed to the bottom of the

basin, you perceive large reddish spots, an indelible accusation

left by the victims against their executioners. Unfortunately,

the erudite world declares that the Abencerrages and the Zegris

have never existed. With respect to this I am completely guided

by romances, popular traditions, and the novel of Monsieur de

Châteaubriand, and I firmly believe that these purple-looking marks

are blood and not rust.

We had established our head-quarters in the Court of Lions; our

furniture consisted of two mattresses, which we rolled up in a

corner in the day-time, of a brass lamp, of an earthenware jar, and

of a few bottles of sherry that we kept in a fountain to render

the wine cool. We slept one night in the Hall of the Two Sisters,

and the next in that of the Abencerrages, but it was not without

some slight fear, as I lay stretched on my cloak, that I looked

at the white rays of the moon, which appeared quite astonished at

crossing the yellow and flickering flame of a lamp, shoot through

the openings of the roof into the water of the basin and across the

shining ground.

The popular traditions collected by Washington Irving in his

"Tales of the Alhambra," now came into my mind; the stories of

the "Headless Horse" and of the "Hairy Phantom," gravely related

by Father Echeverria, appeared to me very probable, above all,

when the light was out. The likelihood of the legends appears

much greater in the night-time, when these dark places are filled

with uncertain reflections, which give to all objects of a vague

outline a fantastic appearance: doubt is the son of the day, faith

the daughter of the night; and what astonishes me is, that St.

Thomas believed in our Saviour after having felt his wound. I am

not sure that I myself did not see the Abencerrages walking about

in the moonlight, with their heads under their arms, along the

galleries; at all events, the shadows of the columns assumed forms

diabolically suspicious, and the breeze, as it passed through the

arcades, so resembled the breathing of a human being, that it made

you doubt.

One Sunday morning, about four or five o'clock, we felt ourselves,

while yet asleep, inundated on our mattresses with a fine and

soaking rain. This was owing to the conduits of the water-jets

having opened earlier than usual, in honour of a prince of Saxe

Coburg, who was come to view the Alhambra, and who, they said, was

to marry the young queen, as soon as she was of age.

We had scarcely time to rise and dress before the prince arrived,

with two or three persons of his suite. He was half mad with rage.

The keepers, in order to receive him in a proper manner, had fitted

to every fountain the most ridiculous pieces of mechanism and

hydraulic instruments imaginable. One of these inventions aimed,

by the means of a little white tin carriage and lead soldiers,

which were turned by the force of the water, at representing the

journey of the queen to Valencia. You may judge of the prince's

satisfaction at this ingenious and constitutional piece of

refinement. The _Fray Gerundio_, a satirical journal of Madrid,

persecuted this poor prince with marked animosity. It taxed him,

among other crimes, with haggling too much about the charges in his

hotel bills, and with having appeared at the theatre in the costume

of a _majo_, with a pointed hat on his head.

A party of Granadians came to spend the day at the Alhambra;

there were seven or eight young and pretty women, and five or six

cavaliers. They danced to the guitar, played at different games,

and sung in chorus, to a delightful air, a song by Fray Luis de

Leon, which has become very popular throughout Andalusia. As

the water-jets had stopped through having begun to shoot forth

their silver streams too early, and as the basins were dry, the

giddy young girls seated themselves in a round on the edge of the

alabaster basin of the Hall of the Two Sisters, so as to form a

kind of flower-basket, and, throwing back their pretty heads, again

took up simultaneously the burden of their song.

The Generalife is situated at a little distance from the Alhambra,

on a pass of the same mountain. Access is gained to it by a kind

of hollow road, that traverses the ravine of Los Molinos, which is

bordered with fig-trees, having enormous shiny leaves, with palm

oaks, pistachio-trees, laurels, and rock roses, of a remarkably

exuberant nature. The ground is composed of yellow sand teeming

with water, and of wonderful fecundity. Nothing is more delightful

than to follow this road, which appears as if it ran through a

virgin forest of America, to such an extent is it obstructed with

foliage and flowers, and such is the overwhelming perfume of the

aromatic plants you inhale there. Vines start through the cracks

of the crumbling walls, and from all their branches hang fantastic

runners, and leaves resembling Arabian ornaments in the beauty

of their form; the aloe opens its fan of azured blades, and the

orange-tree twists its knotty wood, and clings with its fang-like

roots to the rents in the steep sides of the ravine. Everything

here flourishes and blooms in luxuriant disorder, full of the most

charming effects of chance. A wandering jasmine-branch introduces a

white star among the scarlet flowers of the pomegranate-tree; and a

laurel shoots from one side of the road to the other to embrace a

cactus, in spite of its thorns. Nature, abandoned to herself, seems

to pride herself on her coquetry, and to wish to show how far even

the most exquisite and finished art always remains behind her.

After a quarter of an hour's walk, you come to the Generalife,

which is, so to say, nothing but the _casa de campo_, the

country-house of the Alhambra. The exterior of it, like that of all

oriental buildings, is very simple: large walls without windows,

and surmounted by a terrace with a gallery divided into arcades,

the whole being crowned with a small modern belvedere, constitute

its architecture. Of the Generalife nothing now remains but some

arcades, and some large panels of arabesques, unfortunately clogged

with layers of whitewash, which have been applied again and again

with all the obstinacy and despair of cleanliness. Little by little

have the delicate sculptures and the wonderful guilloches of these

remains become filled up, until they have at last disappeared. What

is at present nothing but a faintly-vermiculated wall, was formerly

open lace-work, as fine as those ivory leaves which the patience of

the Chinese carves for ladies' fans. The brush of the whitewasher

has caused more _chefs-d'œuvre_ to disappear than the scythe

of Time, if we may be allowed to make use of this mythological

expression. In a pretty well preserved hall is a suite of smoky

portraits of the kings of Spain, but the only merit they possess is

a chronological one.

The real charm of the Generalife consists in its gardens and its

waters. A canal, paved with marble, runs through the whole length

of the enclosure, and rolls its rapid and abundant waters beneath a

series of arcades of foliage, formed by twisting and curiously-cut

yews. Orange-trees and cypresses are planted on each side of

it. It was at the foot of one of these cypresses, which is of a

prodigious bulk, and which dates from the time of the Moors, that

the favourite of Boabdil, if we are to believe the legend, often

proved that bolts and bars are but slight guarantees for the virtue

of sultanas. There is one thing, at least, very certain, and that

is, that the yew is very thick, and very old.

The perspective is terminated by a porticoed gallery, ornamented

with jets of water and marble columns, like the _patio_ of myrtles

of the Alhambra. The canal suddenly makes a turn, and you then

enter some other places embellished with pieces of water, and

the walls of which still preserve traces of the frescoes of the

sixteenth century, representing rustic pieces of architecture,

and distant views. In the midst of one of the basins, a gigantic

rose-bay, of the most incomparable beauty and splendour, is seen

to bloom, like an immense flower-basket. At the time when I saw

it, it appeared like an explosion of flowers, or the bouquet of a

display of vegetable fireworks; its aspect, too, is so blooming and

luxuriant, so glaring, if we may be allowed the expression, that

it makes the hue of the most vermilion rose appear insipid. Its

lovely flowers, shot with all the ardour of desire high up into

the pure blue space of the heavens; and its noble-looking leaves,

shaped expressly by nature to form a crown for the glorious deeds

of heroism, and sprinkled by the spray of the water-jets, sparkled

like emeralds glittering in the sun. Never did anything inspire me

with a higher sentiment of the beautiful than this rose-bay of the

Generalife.

The water is brought to the gardens along a sort of steep

acclivity, bordered with little walls, forming on each side a

kind of parapet, that support trenches of large hollow tiles,

through which the water runs beneath the open sky with the most gay

and lively murmur in the world. On each footpace, well-supplied

water-jets burst forth from the middle of little basins, and

shoot their crystal aigrettes into the thick foliage of the wood

of laurels, the branches of which cross and recross one another

above them. The mountain streams with water on every side; at each

step a spring starts forth, and you continually hear at your side

the murmuring of some rivulet, turned out of its course, going to

supply some fountain with water, or to carry bloom and verdure to

the foot of a tree. The Arabs have carried the art of irrigation to

the highest point; their hydraulic works attest the most advanced

state of civilization; these works still exist; and it is to them

that Granada owes the reputation it has of being the Paradise of

Spain, and the fact of its enjoying eternal spring in an African

temperature. An arm of the Darro has been turned out of its course

by the Arabs, and carried for more than two leagues along the hill

of the Alhambra.

From the Belvedere of the Generalife you can plainly perceive

the configuration of the Alhambra, with its line of reddish,

half-demolished towers, and its remaining pieces of wall, which

rise and descend according to the undulations of the mountain. The

palace of Charles the Fifth, which is not seen from the side of the

city stamps its square and heavy mass, which the sun gilds with a

white reflection, on the damask-like sides of the Sierra Neveda,

whose white ridges stand out on the horizon in a singular manner.

The steeple of Saint Mary's marks its Christian outline above the

Moorish embattlements. A few cypresses thrust their mournful leaves

through the cracks of the walls, surrounded by all this light and

azure, like a melancholy thought in the midst of a joyful fête. The

slopes of the hill running down towards the Darro, and the ravine

of Los Molinos, disappear beneath an ocean of verdure. It is one of

the finest views that can well be imagined.

On the other side, as if to form a contrast with so much verdancy,

rises an uncultivated, scorched up, tawny mountain, tinged with

dashes of red and yellow ochre; this mountain is called _La Silla

del Moro_, on account of a few remains of some buildings on its

summit. It was there that king Boabdil used to view the Arabian

horsemen jousting in the Vega with the Christian knights. The

recollection of the Moors is still vivid at Granada. You would

think that they had quitted the city but yesterday, and, if we

may judge by what remains of them, it is really a pity that they

ever quitted it at all. What southern Spain requires is African

civilization, and not the civilization of Europe, which is not

suited to the heat of the climate or to the passions it inspires.

Constitutional mechanism can only agree with the temperate zones;

above a heat of eighty degrees charters melt or blow up.

As we have now done with the Alhambra and the Generalife, we will

traverse the ravine of the Darro, and take a look as we go along

the road leading to Monte Sagrado, at the dens of the _gitanos_,

who are pretty numerous at Granada. This road is made through the

hill of the Albaycin, which overhangs on one side. Gigantic Indian

fig-trees, and enormous nopals raise their prickly heads, of the

colour of verdigris, along its impoverished and white-coloured

slopes; under the roots of these large unctuous plants, which seem

to supply the place of chevaux-de-frise and spiked fences, are dug

in the living rock, the dwellings of the gipsies. The entrance to

these caverns is whitewashed; a light cord on which hangs a piece

of frayed-out tapestry, serves as a door. It is there that the

wild race swarms and multiplies; there, children, whose skins are

darker than Havannah cigars, play in a state of nudity before the

door, without any distinction as to sex, and roll themselves in

the dust while uttering sharp and guttural cries. The _gitanos_

are generally blacksmiths, mule-shearers, veterinary doctors,

and, above all, horse-dealers. They have a thousand receipts for

putting mettle and strength into the most broken-winded and limping

animals in the world: a _gitano_ would have made Rozinante gallop,

and Sancho's ass would have caracoled under their hands. Their real

trade, however, is that of stealing.

The _gitanas_ sell amulets, tell fortunes, and follow those

suspicious callings inherent to the women of their race. I saw very

few pretty ones, though their faces were remarkable both by their

type and character. Their swarthy complexion contrasts strongly

with the limpidness of their oriental eyes, the fire of which is

tempered by an indescribable and mysterious melancholy, only to be

compared to the look inspired by the recollection of a country that

is lost to us for ever, or of former grandeur. Their mouth, which

is rather thick and deeply coloured, reminds you of the blooming

nature of African mouths; the smallness of their forehead, and

the curved form of their nose, pronounce them to be of the same

origin with the _tzigones_ of Wallachia and Bohemia, and with

all the children of that fantastic people which traversed, under

the generic name of Egyptians, the whole of the society of the

Middle Ages, and the enigmatical filiation of which century upon

century has not been able to interrupt. Nearly all of them possess

so much natural majesty and freedom in their deportment, and are

so well and firmly set, that in spite of their rags, their dirt,

and their misery, they seem to be conscious of the antiquity and

purity of their race, and ever to remember that it is free from

all alloy, for these gipsies never marry but among themselves, and

those children which are the offsprings of temporary unions are

unmercifully cast out of the tribe. One of the pretensions of the

_gitanos_ is that of being good Castilians and good Catholics,

but I think that, at bottom, they are, to some extent, Arabs and

Mahometans; they deny this fact to the best of their power, from a

remnant of fear for the Inquisition which no longer exists. A few

deserted and half-ruined streets of the Albaycin are also inhabited

by richer or less wandering gipsies. In one of these streets, we

perceived a little girl, about eight years old, and entirely naked,

dancing the _zorongo_ on a painted paving stone. Her sister, whose

features were wan and emaciated, and in whose citron-looking face

sparkled eyes of fire, was crouched beside her on the ground, with

a guitar, from the strings of which she drew forth a monotonous

tinkle by running her thumb over them, and producing music not

unsimilar to the husky squeak of the grasshopper. The mother, who

was richly dressed, and whose neck was loaded with glass beads,

beat time with the end of a blue velvet slipper, which she gazed on

with great complacency. The wild attitude, strange accoutrement,

and extraordinary colour of this group, would have made a subject

for the pencil of Collot, or of Salvator Rosa.

Monte Sagrado, which contains the grottoes of the martyrs who were

so miraculously discovered, offers nothing very interesting. It is

a convent with a rather ordinary-looking church, beneath which the

crypts are dug. These crypts have nothing about them capable of

producing any deep impression. They are composed of a complication

of small, straight, whitewashed corridors, from seven to eight

feet high. In recesses made for the purpose, altars, dressed with

more devotion than taste, have been raised. It is there that the

shrines and bones of the holy personages are locked up behind the

wire-work. I expected to see a subterraneous church, dark and

mysterious, nay, even dreadful-looking, with low pillars, and a

surbased roof, lighted by the uncertain reflection of a distant

lamp,--something, in fact, similar to the ancient catacombs, and

great was my surprise at the clean and tidy appearance of this

whitewashed crypt, lighted by ventholes like those of a cellar. We

somewhat superficial Catholics require something picturesque, in

order to get imbued with religious feeling. The devout man thinks

little about the effect of light and shade, or about the more or

less learned proportions of architecture; he knows, however, that,

beneath that altar of so mediocre a form, lie hidden the bones of

the saint who died for the sake of the faith which he professes,

and that suffices for him.

The Carthusian Convent, at present bereft of monks, like all other

convents in Spain, is an admirable edifice, and we cannot regret

too much that it has ever ceased to be used for its original

purpose. We have never been able to understand what harm could be

done by cenobites voluntarily cloistered in a prison, and passing

their lives in austerity and prayer, especially in a country like

Spain, where there is certainly no lack of ground.

You ascend by a double flight of steps to the doorway of the

church: it is surmounted by a white marble statue of St. Bruno,

of a rather handsome effect. The decorations of the church are

singular, and consist of plaster arabesques, truly wonderful by

the variety and richness of their subjects. It appears as if

the architect had been desirous of vying, in quite a different

style, with the lightness and complication of the lace-work of

the Alhambra. There is not a place as large as your hand, in this

immense structure, which is not filled with flowers, damask-work,

leaves, and guilloches: it would be enough to turn the head of any

one who wanted to take an exact sketch of it. The choir is lined

with porphyry and costly marble. A few mediocre pictures are hung

up here and there along the walls, and make you regret the space

they hide. The cemetery is near the church: according to the custom

of the Carthusian friars, no tomb, no cross, indicates the place

where the departed brothers sleep; but the cells surround the

cemetery, and each one is provided with a little garden. In a piece

of ground planted with trees, which, no doubt, formerly served

as a promenade for the friars, my attention was called to a kind

of fish-pond, with a sloping stone edge, in which were awkwardly

crawling three or four dozen tortoises, that basked in the sun

and appeared quite happy at being henceforth in no danger of the

cook's art. The laws of the Carthusian brethren forbade their ever

eating meat, and the tortoise is looked on as a fish by casuists.

These tortoises were destined to supply the friars' table. The

revolution, however, saved them.

While we are about visiting the convents, we will enter, if you

please, the Monastery of San Juan de Dios. The cloister is one of

the most curious imaginable, and is constructed with frightfully

bad taste; the walls, painted in fresco, represent various

fine actions of the life of San Juan de Dios, framed with such

grotesque and fantastic ornaments as throw into the shade the most

extravagant and deformed productions of Japan and China. You behold

sirens playing the violin, she-monkeys at their toilet, chimerical

fish in still more chimerical waves, flowers which look like

birds, birds which look like flowers, lozenges of looking-glass,

squares of earthenware, love-knots--in a word, an endless pell-mell

of all that is inextricable. The church, which is luckily of

another epoch, is gilt nearly all over. The altar-screen, which is

supported by pillars of the Solomonic order, produces a rich and

majestic effect. The sacristan, who served as our guide, on seeing

that we were French, questioned us about our country, and asked if

it were true, as was said at Granada, that Nicholas, the Emperor

of Russia, had invaded France and taken possession of Paris: such

was the latest news. These gross absurdities were spread among the

people by the partisans of Don Carlos, in order to obtain credence

for an absolutist reaction on the part of the European powers, and

to rally, by the hope of speedy assistance, the drooping courage of

the disorganized bands.

I saw in this church a sight that made a deep impression on me;

it was an old woman crawling on her knees from the door to the

altar: her arms were stretched out as stiff as stakes, in the form

of a cross, her head was thrown back, her upturned eyes allowed

the whites only of them to be seen, her lips were firmly closed,

and her face was shiny and of the colour of lead: this was ecstasy

turned to catalepsy. Never did Zurbaban execute anything more

ascetic or possessing more feverish ardour. She was accomplishing a

penance ordered by her confessor, and had still four more days of

it to undergo.

The Convent of San Geronimo, now transformed into barracks,

contains a Gothic cloister with two arteries of arcades of rare

character and beauty. The capitals of the columns are ornamented

with foliage and fantastic animals of the most capricious nature

and charming workmanship. The church, at present profaned and

deserted, exhibits the peculiarity of having all its ornaments and

architectural reliefs painted in imitation on grey grounds, like

the roof of the Bourse, instead of being executed in reality: here

lies interred Gonzalvo of Cordova, surnamed the great captain. His

sword used to be preserved there, but it was lately taken away and

sold for a few _duras_, the value of the silver which ornamented

the handle. It is thus that many objects, valuable as works of art

or from associations, have disappeared without any other profit

to the thieves than the pleasure of doing wrong. It appears to

us that our revolution might be imitated in something else but

its stupid Vandalism. It is this sentiment we all experience on

visiting a tenantless convent, on beholding so many ruins and such

devastation, the utter loss of so many _chefs d'œuvre_ of every

kind, and the long work of centuries destroyed and swept away

in an instant. No one has the power to prejudge the future: I,

however, doubt if it will restore what the past had bequeathed us,

and which we destroy as if we possessed wherewithal to replace it.

In addition to this something might be put _on one side_, for the

globe is not so covered with monuments that it is necessary for

us to raise new buildings on the ruins of the old ones. With such

reflections was my mind filled, as I wandered, in the Antequerula,

through the old convent of San Domingo. The chapel was decorated

with a profusion of all sorts of gewgaws, baubles, and gilding. It

was one mass of wreathed columns, volutes, scroll-work, encrusted

work of various coloured breccia, glass mosaics, checker-work of

mother-of-pearl, and burgau, bevilled mirrors, suns surrounded by

rays, transparencies, and all the most preposterous, misshapen,

ugly, and strange embellishments that the depraved taste of the

eighteenth century and the horror of straight lines could invent.

The library, which has been preserved, is almost exclusively

composed of folios and quartos bound in white vellum, with the

titles written on them in black or red ink. They consist, for the

most part, of theological treatises, casuistical dissertations, and

other scholastic productions, possessing but little attraction for

the mere literary man. A collection of pictures has been formed

at the convent of San Domingo, composed of works from the various

monasteries that were either abolished or suffered to go to ruin,

but, with the exception of some few fine heads of ascetics, and a

few representations of martyrs which seem to have been painted by

the hangman himself, from the proficiency in the art of torturing

which they exhibit, there is nothing remarkably good, which proves

that the persons who were guilty of these acts of pillage are

excellent judges of paintings, for they never fail to keep the best

things for themselves. The courtyards and cloisters are admirable,

and are adorned with fountains, orange-trees, and flowers.

How excellently are such places adapted for reverie, meditation,

and study, and what a pity is it that convents were ever inhabited

by monks, and not by poets! The gardens, left to themselves, have

assumed a wild, savage aspect; luxuriant vegetation has invaded

the walks, and Nature has regained possession of her own, planting

a tuft of flowers or grass in the place of every stone that has

fallen out. The most remarkable feature in these gardens is an

alley of enormous laurels, forming a covered walk which is paved

with white marble, and furnished, on each side, with a long seat

of the same material, with a slanting back. At certain distances

from each other, a number of small fountains maintain a refreshing

coolness beneath this thick vault of verdure, at the end of which

you have a splendid view of a portion of the Sierra Nevada, through

a charming Moorish mirador, which forms part of an old Arabic

palace, enclosed in the convent. This pavilion is said to have

communicated, by means of long subterranean galleries, with the

Alhambra, which is situated at some considerable distance. However,

this is an idea deeply rooted in the minds of the inhabitants of

Granada, where the least Moorish ruin is always presented with five

or six leagues of subterranean passages as well as a treasure,

guarded by some spell or other.

We often went to San Domingo to sit beneath the shade of the

laurels and bathe in a pool, near which, if the satirical songs

are to be believed, the monks used to lead no very reputable sort

of life. It is a remarkable fact, that the most Catholic countries

are always those in which the priests and monks are treated most

cavalierly; the Spanish songs and stories about the clergy rival,

in licence, the facetiæ of Rabelais and Beroalde de Verville, and

to judge by the manner in which all the ceremonies of the church

are parodied in the old pieces, one would hardly think that the

Inquisition had ever existed.

Talking of baths, I will here relate a little incident which proves

that the thermal art, carried to so high a degree of perfection

by the Arabs, has lost much of its former splendour in Granada.

Our guide took us to some baths that appeared very well managed,

the rooms being situated round a patio shaded by a covering of

vine-leaves, while a large reservoir of very limpid water occupied

the greater part of the patio. So far all was well; but of what do

you think the baths themselves were made? Of copper, zinc, stone,

or wood? Not a bit of it, you are wrong; I will tell you at once,

for you will never guess. They were enormous clay jars, like those

made to hold oil. These novel baths were about two-thirds buried

in the ground. Before potting ourselves in them we had the inside

covered with a clean cloth, a piece of precaution which struck the

attendant as something so extremely strange, and which astonished

him so profoundly, that we were obliged to repeat the order several

times before he would obey it. He explained this whim of ours to

his own satisfaction by shrugging his shoulders and shaking his

head in a commiserative manner as he pronounced in a low voice the

one word: _Ingleses!_ There we sat, squatted down in our oil jars,

with our heads stuck out at the top, something like pheasants _en

terrine_, cutting rather grotesque figures. It was on this occasion

that I understood for the first time the story of _Ali Baba and

the Forty Thieves_, which had always struck me as being rather

difficult to believe, and had made me for an instant doubt the

veracity of the "Thousand-and-One Nights."

There are, also, in the Albaycin, some old Moorish baths, and a

pond covered over with a vaulted roof, pierced by a number of

little holes in the shape of stars, but they are not in working

order, and you can get nothing but cold water.

This is about all that is to be seen at Granada, during a stay of

some weeks. Public amusements are scarce. The theatre is closed

during the summer; the bull-fights do not take place at any fixed

periods; there are no clubs or establishments of this description,

and the Lyceum is the only place where it is possible to see the

French and other foreign papers. On certain days, there is a

meeting of the members, when they read papers on various subjects

as well as poetry, besides singing and playing pieces, generally

written by some young author of the company.

Every one employs his time, most conscientiously, in doing nothing.

Gallantry, cigarettes, the manufacture of quatrains and octaves,

and especially card-playing, are found sufficient to fill up a

man's existence very agreeably. In Granada you see nothing of that

furious restlessness, that necessity for action and change of

place which torments the people of the north. The Spanish struck

me as being very philosophical. They attach hardly any importance

to material life, and are totally indifferent about comfort. The

thousand factitious wants created by the civilization of northern

countries, appear to them puerile and troublesome refinements.

Not having to protect themselves continually against the climate,

the advantages of the English _home_ have no attractions in their

eyes. What do people, who would cheerfully pay for a breeze or a

draught of air, if they could obtain such a thing, care whether

or not the windows close properly? Favoured by a beautiful sky,

they have reduced human existence to its simplest expression: this

sobriety and moderation in everything enables them to enjoy a large

amount of liberty, a state of extreme independence; they have time

enough to live, which we cannot say that we have. Spaniards cannot

understand how a man can labour first in order to rest afterwards.

They very much prefer pursuing an opposite course, and I think that

by so doing, they show their superior sense. A workman who has

gained a few reals leaves his work, throws his fine embroidered

jacket over his shoulders, takes his guitar and goes and dances

or makes love to the _majas_ of his acquaintance, until he has

not a single _cuarto_ left; he then returns to his employment.

An Andalusian can live splendidly for three or four sous a day;

for this sum he can have the whitest bread, an enormous slice of

water-melon, and a small glass of aniseed, while his lodging costs

him nothing more than the trouble of spreading his cloak upon

the ground under some portico or the arch of some bridge. As a

general rule, Spaniards consider work as something humiliating and

unworthy of a freeman, which, in my opinion, is a very natural and

very reasonable idea, since Heaven wishing to punish man for his

disobedience, found no greater infliction than the obliging him to

gain his daily bread by the sweat of his brow. Pleasures procured,

as ours are, by dint of labour, fatigue, and mental anxiety and

perseverance strike Spaniards as being bought much too dearly. Like

all people who lead a simple life approaching a state of nature,

they possess a correctness of judgment which makes them despise

the artificial enjoyments of society. Any one coming from Paris or

London, those two whirlpools of devouring activity, of feverish

and unnaturally excited energy, is greatly surprised by the mode

of life of the people of Granada,--a mode of life that is all

leisure, filled up with conversation, siestas, promenades, music,

and dancing. The stranger is astonished at the happy calmness, the

tranquil dignity of the faces he sees around him. No one has that

busy look which is noticeable in the persons hurrying through the

streets of Paris. Every one strolls leisurely along, choosing the

shady side of the street, stopping to chat with his friends, and

betraying no desire to arrive at his destination in the shortest

possible time. The certitude of not being able to make money

extinguishes all ambition: there is no chance of a young man making

a brilliant career. The most adventurous among them go to Manilla

or Havannah, or enter the army, but on account of the piteous state

of the public finances, they sometimes wait for years without

hearing anything about pay. Convinced of the inutility of exertion,

Spaniards do not endeavour to make fortunes, for they know that

such things are quite out of the question; and they therefore pass

their time in a delightful state of idleness, favoured by the

beauty of the country and the heat of the climate.

I saw nothing of Spanish pride; nothing is so deceptive as the

reputation bestowed on individuals and nations. On the contrary,

I found them exceedingly simple-minded and good-natured; Spain

is the true country of equality, if not in words at least in

deeds. The poorest beggar lights his _papelito_ at the _puro_ of a

powerful nobleman, who allows him to do so, without the slightest

affectation of condescension; a marchioness will step, with a

smile, over the bodies of the ragged vagabonds who are slumbering

across her threshold, and, when travelling, will not make a face

if compelled to drink out of the same glass as the _mayoral_, the

_zagul_, and the _escopetero_ of the diligence. Foreigners find

great difficulty in accustoming themselves to this familiarity,

especially the English, who have their letters brought upon

salvers, and take them with tongs. An Englishman travelling from

Seville to Jeres, told his _calesero_ to go and get his dinner in

the kitchen. The calesero, who, in his own mind, thought he was

honouring a heretic very highly by sitting down at the same table

with him, did not make the slightest remark, and concealed his rage

as carefully as the villain in a melodrama; but about three or four

leagues from Jeres, in the midst of a frightful desert, full of

quagmires and bushes, he threw the Englishman very neatly out of

the vehicle, shouting to him as he whipped on his horse: "My lord,

you did not think me worthy of sitting at your table, and I, Don

Jose Balbino Bustamente y Orozco, do not think you good enough to

sit on the seat in my calesin. Good evening!"

The servants, both male and female, are treated with a gentle

familiarity very different from our affected civility, which

seems, every moment, to remind them of the inferiority of their

condition. A short example will prove the truth of this assertion.

We had gone to a party given at the country-house of the Señora

----; in the evening, there was a general desire to have a little

dancing, but there were a great many more ladies than gentlemen

present. To obviate this difficulty, the Señora ---- sent for the

gardener and another servant, who danced the whole evening without

the least awkwardness, false bashfulness, or servile forwardness,

but just as if they had been on a perfect equality with the rest

of the company. They invited, in turn, the fairest and most noble

ladies present, and the latter complied with their request in the

most graceful manner possible. Our democrats are very far from

having attained this practical equality, and our most determined

Republicans would revolt at the idea of figuring in a quadrille,

opposite a peasant or a footman.

Of course, there are a great many exceptions to these remarks,

as there are to all other generalities. There are, doubtless,

many Spaniards who are active, laborious, and sensible to all the

refinements of life, but what I have said conveys the general

impression felt by a traveller after a stay of some little

time,--an impression which is often more correct than that of a

native observer, who is less struck by the novelty of the various

circumstances.

As our curiosity was satisfied with regard to Granada and its

buildings, we resolved, from having had a view of the Sierra

Nevada at every turn we took, to become more intimately acquainted

with it, and endeavour to ascend the Mulhacen, which is the most

elevated point of the whole range. Our friends at first attempted

to dissuade us from this project, which was really attended with

some little danger, but, on seeing that our resolution was fixed,

they recommended us a huntsman named Alexandro Romero, as a

person thoroughly acquainted with the mountains, and possessing

every qualification to act as guide. He came and saw us at our

_casa de pupilos_, and his manly, frank physiognomy, immediately

pre-possessed us in his favour. He wore an old velvet waistcoat,

a red woollen sash, and white linen gaiters, like those of the

Valencians, which enabled you to see his clean-made, nervous legs,

tanned like Cordovan leather. Alpargatas of twisted rope served

him for shoes, while a little Andalusian hat, that had grown red

from exposure to the sun, a carbine and a powder-flask, slung

across his shoulder, completed his costume. He undertook to make

all the necessary preparations for our expedition, and promised

to bring, at three o'clock, the next morning, the four horses we

required, one for my travelling companion, one for myself, a third

for a young German who had joined our caravan, and a fourth for

our servant, who was intrusted with the direction of the culinary

department. As for Romero he was to walk. Our provisions consisted

of a ham, some roast fowls, some chocolate, bread, lemons, sugar,

and a large leathern sack, called a _bota_, filled with excellent

Val-de-Peñas, which was the principal article in the list.

At the appointed hour, the horses were before our house, while

Romero was hammering away at the door with the butt-end of his

carbine. Still scarcely awake, we mounted our steeds, and the

procession set forth, our guide running on beforehand to point

out the road. Although it was already light, the sun had not

risen, and the undulating outlines of the smaller hills, which we

had passed, were spread out all around us, cool, limpid and blue,

like the waves of an immovable ocean. In the distance, Granada had

disappeared beneath the vapourized atmosphere. When the fiery globe

at last appeared on the horizon, all the hill-tops were covered

with a rosy tint, like so many young girls at the sight of their

lovers, and appeared to experience a feeling of bashful confusion

at the idea of having been seen in their morning _déshabille_.

The ridges of the mountain are connected with the plain by gentle

slopes, forming the first table-land which is easily accessible.

When we reached this place, our guide decided that we should allow

our horses a little breathing time, give them something to eat,

and breakfast ourselves. We ensconced ourselves at the foot of a

rock, near a little spring, the water of which was as bright as a

diamond, and sparkled beneath the emerald-coloured grass. Romero,

with all the dexterity of an American savage, improvised a fire

with a handful of brush-wood, while Louis prepared some chocolate,

which, with the addition of a slice of ham and a draught of wine,

composed our first meal in the mountains. While our breakfast was

cooking, a superb viper passed beside us, and appeared surprised

and dissatisfied at our installing ourselves on his estate, a fact

that he gave us to understand by unpolitely hissing at us, for

which he was rewarded by a sturdy thrust with a sword-stick through

the stomach. A little bird, that had watched the proceedings very

attentively, no sooner saw the viper disabled, than it flew up with

the feathers of its neck standing on end, its eye all fire, and

flapping its wings, and piping in a strange state of exultation.

Every time that any portion of the venomous beast writhed

convulsively, the bird shrunk back, soon returning to the charge,

however, and pecking the viper with its beak, after which it would

rise in the air three or four feet. I do not know what the serpent

could have done, during its lifetime, to the bird, or what was the

feeling of hatred we had gratified by killing the viper, but it is

certain that I never beheld such an amount of delight.

We once again set out. From time to time we met a string of little

asses coming down from the higher parts of the mountains with their

load of snow, which they were carrying to Granada for the day's

consumption. The drivers saluted us, as they passed by, with the

time honoured "_Vayan Ustedes con Dios_," and we replied by some

joke about their merchandise, which would never accompany them as

far as the city, and which they would be obliged to sell to the

official who was entrusted with the duty of watering the public

streets.

We were always preceded by Romero, who leaped from stone to stone

with the agility of a chamois, and kept exclaiming, _Bueno camino_

(a good road). I should certainly very much like to know what

the worthy fellow would call a bad road, for, as far as I was

concerned, I could not perceive the slightest sign of any road at

all. To our right and left, as far as the eye could distinguish,

yawned delightful abysses, very blue, very azure and very vapoury,

varying in depth from fifteen hundred to two thousand feet, a

difference, however, about which we troubled our heads very little,

for a few dozen fathoms more or less made very little difference

in the matter. I recollect with a shudder a certain pass, three or

four pistol-shots long and two feet broad,--a sort of natural plank

running between two gulfs. As my horse headed the procession, I had

to pass first over this kind of tight-rope, which would have made

the most determined acrobats pause and reflect. At certain points

there was only just enough space for my horse's feet, and each of

my legs was dangling over a separate abyss. I sat motionless in my

saddle, as upright as if I had been balancing a chair on the end of

my nose. This pass, which took us a few minutes to traverse, struck

me as particularly long.

When I quietly reflect on this incredible ascent, I am lost in

surprise, as at the remembrance of some incoherent dream. We

passed over spots where a goat would have hesitated to set its

foot, and scaled precipices so steep that the ears of our horses

touched our chins. Our road lay between rocks and blocks of stone,

which threatened to fall down upon us every moment, and ran in

zigzags along the edge of the most frightful precipices. We took

advantage of every favourable opportunity, and although advancing

slowly we still advanced, gradually approaching the goal of our

ambition,--namely, the summit, that we had lost sight of since

we had been in the mountains, because each separate piece of

table-land hides the one above it.

Every time our horses stopped to take breath, we turned round in

our saddles to contemplate the immense panorama formed by the

circular canvas of the horizon. The mountain tops which lay below

us looked as if they had been marked out in a large map. The Vega

of Granada and all Andalusia presented the appearance of an azure

sea, in the midst of which a few white points that caught the rays

of the sun, represented the sails of the different vessels. The

neighbouring eminences that were completely bare, and cracked,

and split from top to bottom, were tinged in the shade with a

green-ash colour, Egyptian blue, lilac and pearl-grey, while in

the sunshine they assumed a most admirable and warm hue similar to

that of orange peel, tarnished gold or a lion's skin. Nothing gives

you so good an idea of a chaos, of a world still in the course

of creation, as a mountain range seen from its highest point. It

seems as if a nation of Titans had been endeavouring to build some

sacrilegious Babel, some prodigious _Lylac_ or other; that they

had heaped together all the materials and commenced the gigantic

terraces, when suddenly the breath of some unknown being had, like

a tempest, swept over the temples and palaces they had begun,

shaking their foundations and levelling them with the ground. You

might fancy yourself amidst the remains of an antediluvian Babylon,

a pre-Adamite city. The enormous blocks, the Pharaoh-like masses,

awake in your breast thoughts of a race of giants that has now

disappeared, so visibly is the old age of the world written in deep

wrinkles on the bald front and rugged face of these millennial

mountains.

We had reached the region inhabited by the eagles. Several times,

at a distance, we saw one of these noble birds perched upon a

solitary rock, with its eye turned towards the sun, and immersed

in that state of contemplative ecstasy which with animals replaces

thought. There was one of them floating at an immense height above

us, and seemingly motionless in the midst of a sea of light. Romero

could not resist the pleasure of sending him a visiting card in

the shape of a bullet. It carried away one of the large feathers

of his wing, but the eagle, nothing moved, continued on his way

with indescribable majesty, as if nothing had happened. The feather

whirled round and round for a long time before reaching the earth;

it was picked up by Romero, who stuck it in his hat.

Thin streaks of snow now began to show themselves, scattered

here and there, in the shade; the air became more rarified and

the rocks more steep and precipitous; soon afterwards, the snow

appeared in immense sheets and enormous heaps which the sun was

no longer strong enough to melt. We were above the sources of

the Gruil, which we perceived like a blue ribband frosted with

silver, streaming down with all possible speed in the direction

of its beloved city. The table-land on which we stood is about

nine thousand feet above the level of the sea, and is the highest

spot in the range with the exception of the peak of Veleta and

the Mulhacen, which towers another thousand feet towards the

immeasurable height of heaven. On this spot Romero decided that

we should pass the night. The horses, who were worn out with

fatigue, were unsaddled; Louis and the guide tore up a quantity of

brushwood, roots, and juniper plants to make a fire, for although

in the plain the thermometer stood at thirty or thirty-five

degrees, there was a freshness on the heights we then occupied,

which we knew would settle down into intense cold as soon as

the sun had set. It was about five o'clock in the afternoon; my

companion and the young German determined to take advantage of the

daylight that remained, to scale alone and on foot the last heights

of the mountain. For my own part, I preferred stopping behind; my

soul was moved by the grand and sublime spectacle before me, and

I busied myself in scribbling in my pocket-book sundry verses,

which, if not well turned, had, at least, the merit of being the

only alexandrines composed at such an elevation. After my strophes

were finished, I manufactured some sorbets with snow, sugar, lemon

and brandy, for our dessert. Our encampment presented rather a

picturesque appearance; our saddles served us for seats, and our

cloaks for a carpet, while a large heap of snow protected us from

the wind. A fire of broom blazed brightly in the centre, and we

fed it by throwing in, from time to time, a fresh branch which

shrivelled up and hissed, darting out its sap in little streams

of all colours. Above us, the horses stretched forward their thin

heads, with their sad, gentle eyes, and caught an occasional puff

of warmth.

Night was rapidly approaching. The least elevated mountains were

the first to sink into obscurity, and the light, like a fisherman

flying before the rising tide, leapt from peak to peak, retiring

towards the highest in order to escape from the shade which was

advancing from the valleys beneath and burying everything in

its bluish waves. The last ray which stopt on the summit of the

Mulhacen hesitated for an instant; then, spreading out its golden

wings, winged its way like some bird of flame into the depths of

heaven and disappeared. The obscurity was now complete, and the

increased brilliancy of our fire caused a number of grotesque

shadows to dance about upon the sides of the rocks. Eugene and

the German had not returned, and I began to grow anxious on their

account; I feared that they might have fallen down some precipice

or been buried beneath some mass of snow. Romero and Louis already

requested me to sign a declaration to the effect that they had

neither murdered nor robbed the two worthy gentlemen, and that, if

the latter were dead, it was their own fault.

Meanwhile, we tore our lungs to pieces by indulging in the most

shrill and savage cries, to let them know the position of our

wig-wam, in case they should not be able to perceive the fire.

At last the report of firearms, which was hurled back by all the

echoes of the mountains, told us that we had been heard, and that

our companions were but a short distance off--in fact, at the

expiration of a few minutes, they made their appearance, fatigued

and worn out, asserting that they had distinctly seen Africa on

the other side of the ocean; it is very possible they had done so,

for the air of these parts is so pure, that the eye can perceive

objects at the distance of thirty or forty leagues. We were all

very merry at supper, and by dint of playing the bagpipes with

our skin of wine, we made it almost as flat as the wallet of a

Castilian beggar. It was agreed that each of us should sit up

in turn to attend the fire, an arrangement which was faithfully

carried out, but the circumference of our circle, which was at

first pretty considerable, kept becoming smaller and smaller.

Every hour the cold became more intense, and at last we literally

laid ourselves in the fire itself, so as to burn our shoes and

pantaloons. Louis gave vent to his feelings in loud exclamations;

he bewailed his _gaspacho_ (cold garlic soup), his house, his bed,

and even his wife. He made himself a formal promise, by everything

he reverenced, never to be caught a second time attempting an

ascent; he asserted that mountains are far more interesting when

seen from below, and that a man must be a maniac to expose himself

to the chance of breaking every bone in his body a hundred thousand

times, and having his nose frozen off in the middle of the month of

August, in Andalusia, and in sight of Africa. All night long he did

nothing but grumble and groan in the same manner, and we could not

succeed in reducing him to silence. Romero said nothing, and yet

his dress was made of thin linen, and all that he had to wrap round

him was a narrow piece of cloth.

At last the dawn appeared; we were enveloped in a cloud, and

Romero advised us to begin our descent, if we wished to reach

Granada before night. When it was sufficiently light to enable us

to distinguish the various objects, I observed that Eugene was as

red as a lobster nicely boiled, and at the same moment he made an

analogous observation with respect to me, and did not feel himself

bound to conceal the fact. The young German and Louis were also

equally red; Romero alone had reserved his peculiar tint, which

resembled, by the way, that of a boot-top, and although his legs of

bronze were naked, they had not undergone the slightest alteration.

It was the biting cold and the rarefaction of the air that had

turned us this colour. Going up a mountain is nothing, because you

look at the objects above you, but coming down, with the awful

depths before your eyes, is quite a different matter. At first the

thing appeared impracticable, and Louis began screeching like a

jay who is being picked alive. However, we could not remain for

ever on the Mulhacen, which is as little adapted for the purpose of

habitation as any place in the known world, and so, with Romero

at our head, we began our descent. It would be impossible, without

laying ourselves open to the charge of exaggeration, to convey any

notion of the paths, or rather the absence of paths, by which our

dare-devil of a guide conducted us; never more break-neck obstacles

crowded together in the course marked out for any steeple-chase,

and I entertain strong doubts as to whether the feats of any

"gentlemen riders" ever outrivalled our exploits on the Mulhacen.

The _Montagnes Russes_ were mild declivities in comparison to the

precipices with which we had to do. We were almost constantly

standing up in our stirrups, and leaning back over the cruppers of

our horses, in order to avoid performing an incessant succession

of parabolas over their heads. All the lines of perspective seem

jumbled up together; the streams appeared to be flowing up towards

their source, the rocks vacillated and staggered on their bases,

and the most distant objects appeared to be only two paces off; we

had lost all feeling of proportion, an effect which is very common

in the mountains, where the enormous size of the masses, and the

vertical position of the different ranges, do not allow of your

judging distances in the ordinary manner.

In spite of every difficulty we reached Granada without our horses

having even made one false step, only they had got but one shoe

left among them all. Andalusian horses--and ours were of the most

authentic description--cannot be equalled for mountain travelling.

They are so docile, so patient, and so intelligent, that the best

thing the rider can do is to throw the reins on their necks and let

them follow their own impulse.

We were impatiently expected, for our friends in the city had seen

our fire burning like a beacon on the table-land of Mulhacen. I

wanted to go and give an account of our perilous expedition to

the charming Senoras B----, but I was so fatigued that I fell

asleep on a chair, holding my stocking in my hand, and I did not

wake before ten o'clock the following morning, when I was still in

the same position. Some few days afterwards, we quitted Granada,

sighing quite as deeply as ever King Boabdil did.