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“At first she touched her lute with a
faltering hand, but gathering confidence and animation as she proceeded,
drew forth such soft aerial harmony, that all present could scarce
believe it mortal. As to the monarch, who had already considered himself
in the world of spirits, he set it down for some angelic melody or the
music of the spheres. By degrees the theme was varied, and the voice of
the minstrel accompanied the instrument. She poured forth one of the
legendary ballads treating of the ancient glories of the Alhambra and
the achievements of the Moors. Her whole soul entered into the theme,
for with the recollections of the Alhambra was associated the story of
her love. The funeral chamber resounded with the animating strain. It
entered into the gloomy heart of the monarch. He raised his head and
gazed around: he sat up on his couch, his eye began to kindle – at
length, leaping upon the floor, he called for sword and buckler. The
triumph of music, or rather of the enchanted lute, was complete; the
demon of melancholy was cast forth; and, as it were, a dead ma brought
to life. The windows of the apartment were thrown open; the glorious
effulgence of Spanish sunshine burst into the late lugubrious chamber;
all eyes sought the lovely enchantress, but the lute had fallen from her
hand , she had sunk upon the earth, and the next moment was clasped to
the bosom of Ruyz de Alarcon…”
Excerpt
The Journey
IN THE spring of 1829, the author of this work, whom curiosity had
brought into Spain, made a rambling expedition from Seville to Granada
in company with a friend, a member of the Russian Embassy at Madrid.
Accident had thrown us together from distant regions of the globe, and a
similarity of taste led us to wander together among the romantic
mountains of Andalusia. Should these pages meet his eye, wherever thrown
by the duties of his station, whether mingling in the pageantry of
courts, or meditating on the truer glories of nature, may they recall
the scenes of our adventurous companionship, and with them the
recollection of one, in whom neither time nor distance will obliterate
the remembrance of his gentleness and worth.
And here, before setting forth, let me indulge in
a few previous remarks on Spanish scenery and Spanish travelling. Many
are apt to picture Spain to their imaginations as a soft southern
region, decked out with the luxuriant charms of voluptuous Italy. On the
contrary, though there are exceptions in some of the maritime provinces,
yet, for the greater part, it is a stern, melancholy country, with
rugged mountains, and long sweeping plains, destitute of trees, and
indescribably silent and lonesome, partaking of the savage and solitary
character of Africa. What adds to this silence and loneliness, is the
absence of singing birds, a natural consequence of the want of groves
and hedges. The vulture and the eagle are seen wheeling about the
mountain-cliffs, and soaring over the plains, and groups of shy bustards
stalk about the heaths; but the myriads of smaller birds, which animate
the whole face of other countries, are met with in but few provinces in
Spain, and in those chiefly among the orchards and gardens which
surround the habitations of man.... |
