Spent the whole morning in the Alhambra, wandering amid its beauties, feasting upon its romantic memories, and reading at intervals the charming legends connected with every spot so delightfully told by Washington Irving. In the hall of the tribunal, we read his account of the entrance of the triumphant Ferdinand and Isabella, and fancy the scene when Cardinal Mendoza celebrated the first mass here.
Seated in the Court of the Lions, we meditate upon the cruel death of the noble Abencerrages, and lean from the window of the Tower of Comares, down which the good Ayesha let her infant son Boabdil escape, to save him from the jealous fury of her rival Zorayda.
And then, in the later days of the beautiful Elizabetta of Parma, we recall the scene where the hypochondriac Philip persists in being laid out for dead, and can only be brought to life by the voice and lute of the fair maiden, "the Rose of the Alhambra."
In contrast to the Alhambra are the remains of the palace begun with such magnificence by Charles V., of which only the walls remain. Within their vast area and amongst its marble pillars, muleteers were depositing their billets of wood, and burdens of dirt and ashes! Sic transit gloria mundi.
We go to look at that which has lasted longer, the church built by him near by, and called Sta. Maria del Alhambra. Wandering on, we find ourselves amongst the ruins of the Franciscan convent (still within the Alhambra walls) which was destroyed by the French in 1809-11, when so much of the Alhambra was injured.
Led by a little boy, and following the wall, we come upon a plantation of cactus, with its red and yellow fruit, which a man is gathering with great scissors, to prevent its prickings. A woman politely cuts and pares some for us to taste. It is sweet and juicy; is much eaten by the poor, who call it "Tuños." They also make from it a palatable drink—a sort of beer. Hans Andersen has written a pretty sonnet to the cactus, which seems especially applicable to this time and occasion.
"Yes, yellow and red are the colors of Spain;
In banners and flags they are waving on high;
And the cactus flower has adopted them too,
In the warm sunshine to dazzle the eye.
Thou symbol of Spain, thou flower of the sun,
When the Moors of old were driven away,
Thou didst not, like them, abandon thy home.
But stayed with thy fruit and thy flowers so gay.
The thousand daggers that hide in thy leaves
Cannot rescue thee from the love of gain;
Too often it is thy fate to be sold,
Thou sunny fruit with the colors of Spain."
Here we find ourselves at the tower of the "Siete Suelos," through which Boabdil passed when he left the Alhambra for ever. It is said that he asked of Isabella that the door might be walled up, so that no one should ever pass through it after him, and his conquerors acceded to his request. Returning through one of the many beautiful paths leading to our hotel, we diverge to look at a view which presented itself, and find we are near the villa of Señora Calderon. Here, terrace above terrace rises in view of the mountains, and on the summit is an artificial lake, with bridges and boats, and winding walks, and flowers and fruits, and statues and fountains—everything to make a perfect paradise.
At night, we have a gypsy-dance. The chief of his troop is the finest guitar player in Spain—there can be no better in the world—a tall, dark, grave man, who received our plaudits with kingly grace; he looked as if in sorrow over the degradation of his people, who are here in great numbers, living in wretched quarters on a hillside, in holes or caves in the ground.