arrest the air. Everything must float and sway; they would not bar out the chirp of the dripping silver water. They thinned and shaved the pillars till they were no longer cylinders of marble, but tender saplings, or flower-stalks, slender as spear-shafts. The spandrils are not corbelled beams, faced with gargoyle monsters, but perforated supports as to some fairy’s cabinet. There is nothing to hold up, only ivory-patterned walls, and a honeycombed dome that seems to float in mid-air.
HALL OF THE ABENCERRAGES.
Here it is said that thirty-six cavaliers of the heroic line of Abencerrage were sacrificed to appease the jealousy or allay the fears of a tyrant. The fountain ran red with the noblest blood of Granada; and a deep stain on the marble pavement is pointed out by the cicerone of the pile as a sanguinary record of the massacre. The discolourations must be regarded with the same perfect faith with which one looks upon the traditional stains of Rizzio’s blood on the floor of the chamber of the unhappy Queen Mary at Holyrood. Who desires to be sceptical on such points of popular belief? The enlightenment of the happy reader of De Foe’s immortal romance—happy in the masterly illusion of the author—robbed him of one of the chief delights of his life. If there is any country in Europe where it is easy to live in the romantic and fabulous traditions of the past, it is in legendary, proud-spirited, romantic Spain, where the old, magnificent, barbaric spirit even now contends with modern innovation.
In the silent halls of the Alhambra, surrounded with the insignia of regal sway, and vivid with traces of Oriental voluptuousness, everything speaks and breathes of the glorious days of Granada when under the dominion of the Crescent. In the proudest days of Moslem domination, the Abencerrages were the soul of everything noble and chivalrous. The veterans of the family, who sat in the royal Council, were the foremost to devise those heroic enterprises which carried dismay into the territories of the Christian; and what the sages of the family devised, the young men of the name were prompt to execute. In all services of hazard, in all adventurous forays, the Abencerrages were sure to win the brightest laurels. In those noble recreations, too, which bear so close an affinity to war, still the Abencerrages carried off the palm. None could equal them in splendour of array, in gallantry of device, or in their noble bearing and glorious horsemanship. Their open-handed munificence made them the idols of the populace, while their lofty magnanimity and perfect faith gained them golden opinions from the generous and high-minded; the “word of an Abencerrage” was a guarantee that never admitted doubt.
The main facts connected with the fate of the chieftains of that generous but devoted race seem to have been ascertained, leaving little doubt of this hall having been the scene of their calamitous end. Alas! that boudoirs made for love and life should witness scenes of hatred and of death; and let none presume to “peep and botanize” over-much, for nothing is more certain than that heroic blood can never be effaced, still less if shed in most unnatural murder. Nor, according to Lady Macbeth, will “all the perfumes of Arabia” serve to sweeten the foul deed. The blood at least is genuine to all intentions of romance as that of “the gentle Lutenist” at Holyrood, or of Becket at the shrine of Canterbury. It behoves us to beware of those dull people who, deprived of imagination, pretend to judgment; and who would abolish the midsummer fairies, or proscribe old Æsop; there is no faith in them.
All who visit the Alhambra are sure to make for the fountain
HALL OF THE ABENCERRAGES (BENI CERRAJ).