Out of darkness, as if but just born of the sun."
It is with difficulty that our agile oarsman, the raven-locked and graceful featured Jewish youth, whose services as guide we have again secured, makes his way among the countless pleasure boats that ply to and fro. We marvel at this, for distinctly we remember how the broad stream was furrowed during our first visit by boats of traffic only. "It is Friday, the Mohammedan Sabbath," our guide informs us, and we no longer wonder. The boats, some gilded, some festooned, some decked with the richest tapestry, are peopled with gay and happy pleasure seekers. The whole youth of Cordova seems to disport itself upon the water. The air re-echoes their merry laughters and their music:
"From psaltery, pipe and lutes of heavenly thrill,
Or there own youthful voices, heavenlier still."
The winged chorister of the woods and parks take up the refrain, and warble their sweetest, as if in contest with voices human for supremacy in song. But what is most strange and most charming is the continual challenge between the oarsmen for repartee songs, which are either extemporized at the moment, or quotations from their numerous poets. A boat crosses our path, stays our course, and its oarsman to test our guide's readiness to sing Cordova's praise, thus begins in the sweet tones of the poetic Arabic tongue:
"Do not talk of the court of Bagdad and its glittering magnificence.
Do not praise Persia and China, and their manifold advantages,
For there is no spot on earth like Cordova,
Nor in the whole world beauties like its beauties."
To which our guide instantly replies, with a sweet and pure tenor voice: