with one of the Abencerrages, we ascend to the cenador, or summer-house erected immediately above the villa. The view from this elevated position is so magnificent that an adequate description would be impossible. Fronting us is the Alhambra, built like the castle at Edinburgh, on a lofty height overhanging the town; a stately pile of majestic old buildings interspersed with verdant foliage and environed by walls studded with Moorish towers. Beyond lies the Vega, or plain, dotted with villages and clusters of trees, a vast arena fertilized with the blood of contending Moorish and Christian hosts, during the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries. In the distance rises the celebrated hill El ultimo suspiro del Moro, or "the last sigh of the Moor." From this memorable spot, in 1492, Boabdil, the last Moorish sovereign of Granada, gave his last look at the Alhambra and sighed a long farewell to his departed greatness. Natural indeed was it that the unhappy king should burst into tears at leaving for ever his beautiful domain. "Who can wonder at his anguish at being expelled from such a kingdom and such an abode? With the Alhambra he seemed to be yielding up all the honours of his line, and all the glories and delights of life."* But the tables were turned, the Moorish dynasty, after a * Washington Irving's "Tales of the Alhambra." glorious duration of eight centuries, had ceased to exist, the Crescent had yielded to the Cross; the Christian banner waved triumphantly over the Alhambra, and all was lost. Nothing remained to the wretched Boabdil but to retire to Fez, and mourn in exile his cruel fate. More immediately before us, but far below, lies the city of Granada; to the right the old Moorish town, the gipsy quarter, called the Albaysin, with its caves burrowing into the hill beyond; behind stretches away the glorious Sierra Nevada, a lofty range of mountains, the highest peaks upwards of two miles above the level of the sea and covered with perpetual snows. The prospect is truly splendid. What a "noble panorama of city and country; of rocky mountain, verdant valley, and fertile plain; of castle, cathedral, Moorish towers, and Gothic domes, crumbling ruins, and blooming groves." I forthwith produce my book and commence a hurried sketch of the Alhambra fortress, while Ben's tongue wags away as rapidly as I commit the outlines of the scene to paper. Sauntering back through bowers redolent in perfume, where "Every air is heavy with the sighs Of orange-groves, and music of sweet lutes, And murmurs of low fountains that gush forth I decidedly "like the picture" actually represented in glowing colours before me. As I gaze dreamily at the sunny arcades of the Generalife, my fancy wanders to the Arabian Nights, to tales of fairyland and traditions of romantic fable. Imagination bodies forth Prince Ahmed el Kamel, the pilgrim of love, pining in his cheerful prison-house, communing with his feathered companions, and finally winging his way to his loved Aldegonda in far-off Toledo. I ponder over the legend of the three beautiful princesses, and in my mind's eye behold the gallant cavaliers at the foot of the tower, receiving their fond mistresses into their arms; and discern the gentle Zorahaydah trembling at the lattice window, fearing to descend, yet unwilling to remain. But Bensaken brutally puts my reveries to flight by reminding me that I am trifling time: reluctantly tearing myself from the enchanted spot, I follow my tyrant back to Granada, and, after a hasty repast, am remorselessly dragged about the town, visiting some of its many interesting localities. The Capilla de los Reyes, forming part of the cathedral, contains the tombs of Ferdinand and Isabella. They are of beautiful alabaster, and surmounted by the marble effigies of the slumbering pair. Near the altar are kneeling figures of the king and queen; behind them |