WE had another amusing instance of Spanish nonchalance at Malaga. The original plan of our journey was this:—to see the galleries of Madrid, the Moorish antiquities of Cordova, Seville, and Granada, and from the south of Spain cross over to Oran, and visit the beautiful old city of Tclemcen, the Granada of the West. But to get to Oran it was necessary to obtain information about boats, and this seemed an undertaking simply impossible. We ran hither and thither to the different steam-boat offices; we telegraphed to head-quarters at Gibraltar; we wrote dozens of letters of inquiry; we spent time, money, and patience; all availed nothing. Sometimes a glimpse of something like hope was vouchsafed to us. There was a weekly boat to Algeciras. There was a fortnightly boat from Gibraltar to Oran; there was a surfeit of boats one day, the next none at all. We were by turns advised to trust to the Algeciras boat, the Gibraltar boat, the Cadiz boat, till we came to the disheartening conclusion that we must give up Tclemcen altogether. No two statements ever agreed, and in this state of uncertainty we went off to Granada.

At six o’clock in the afternoon the diligence was to start, a great cumbersome vehicle divided into three compartments—berlina, coupÉ, and rotunda, and drawn by nine splendid mules in gay harness. We had taken the precaution to engage the berlina to ourselves,—a precaution I should earnestly recommend to all travellers who visit Spain before the completion of the railways brings back another age of gold. The berlina is a small compartment containing three seats and numerous little bags and hooks for the stowage of small baggage; it is somewhat narrow, it is true, and an imprisonment of fifteen hours within such a compass, not a pleasant ordeal to go through. But what is that to the inconveniences of the rotunda, where you are crowded and cramped so that you cannot stir a limb, where you are stifled with smoke and deafened with the noise of voices, where you are poisoned by foul air and bad smells, and where you are subject to tyranny a thousand times worse than that of fleas? We had been forewarned of these things in time, and were thus enabled to perform the wearisome night-journey to Granada without too much fatigue.

The first part of it was amusing enough. We drove out of the town with a tremendous dash; and as we had a coachman, a postilion, and a runner to urge the mules on, no wonder that we got on very fast. The journey was all up-hill, and the diligence was heavily laden; but the mules seemed so anxious to go fast that one might have fancied a pack of wolves was at their heels. The runner had a very bad time of it. He seemed to know every mule by name, and made the most extraordinary noises to urge his beasts on. Every now and then he sprang on to the step and rested awhile; then, on a sudden, just as the mules were slackening their pace a little, he would jump to the ground, crack his whip, and utter the most diabolical sounds.

The night was starlight, and we were able to see something of the wild country through which we passed. At regular intervals we came upon a couple of guardia civile, or gendarmes, standing on each side of the road. They were motionless as statues and looked very brigand-like in their fierce sombreros, hanging cloaks, and tight-fitting gaiters. One of these guardia civile, well-armed, always accompanies the diligence, though the road is considered safe. Our escort was a thin, cadaverous-looking, but soldierly man, who alighted whenever we changed horses, to smoke a cigarette and drink a cup of chocolate, or glass of water. Spaniards seem to live on cigarettes and chocolate.

At five o’clock in the morning we stopped at a posada for nearly an hour, and very refreshing it was to stretch one’s limbs and breathe the cool mountain air. The posada was an enormous rambling old place, but quiet and clean. The landlord showed us, with other travellers, into a room with a little fire, and very civilly promised us chocolate. There were two Englishmen among the rest who bitterly complained of the coupÉ. “Think of it,” they said, “we took the coupÉ to ourselves, and have had such horrid company all the way—a big, strong-smelling, dried tunny-fish!”

“Perhaps it will be taken out here,” I said, consolingly.

They shrugged their shoulders in a very low-spirited fashion and one replied despairingly,—

“It’s ticketed to Granada, so there’s no chance for us. Five hours longer of it! It’s enough to drive one mad.”

It was certainly enough to drive one into a very evil temper. The smell of salted tunny-fish is nearly as bad as anything in the way of smells can be, and reminds one of those odious combinations with which clever chemists once proposed to supersede shot and shell in driving away one’s enemies. The victims in this instance were very long-suffering, and seemed to forget their troubles in a cigarette. They, too, ordered chocolate, but, like ourselves, had to wait for it.

At the last moment, just as the diligence was ready to start, came cakes and chocolate, and after hastily swallowing a little of both, we entered our berlina. Here another amusing scene occurred. At the tail-end of the last moment, such packages as were addressed to Loja, the name of our halting-place, had to be brought from the roof to the diligence. Amongst others, was a light deal-box, which, by some mismanagement or other, fell with an awful crash into the gutter! Out came, as if by magic, all the paraphernalia of some poor little maiden’s wardrobe and belongings: mantilla, gloves, dresses, slippers, needle-work, chocolate-boxes, love-letters tied up with ribbon, missal, rosary,—all lay sucking up the mire in inextricable confusion. Driver, postilion, landlord, and gendarme, stood still, looking overwhelmed and hopeless. After some minutes the driver picked up a glove, the postilion a shoe, the landlord a love-letter, the gendarme a thimble. Then, as if by mutual consent, they slowly and patiently rescued the miry treasures, stopping now and then to sigh over the ruinous condition of each. It was a very humble little outfit, doubtless of some nursemaid or milliner’s apprentice, which made the accident all the more deplorable, and I daresay many of those muddy spots were washed out by tears alone. No one grumbled at the delay, and no one seemed to think that the reason of it was not a legitimate one. How unlike our English promptitude and bustle! It was quite touching to see the concern of the stately gendarme when he took up a neck-ribbon the beauty of which was gone for ever. “La pobrecita! La pobrecita! (Poor little thing! poor little thing!) she’ll never be able to wear that again,” he ejaculated.

When everything had been replaced in the broken box, we went on. Now came the tiresome part of the journey. The early morning air was very cold, the road monotonous, and the berlina seemed to become narrower and more suffocating every league we went.

At last we reached Granada. At first sight we were disappointed with the aspect of the place; and indeed Cordova and Toledo are infinitely more impressive as approached by the ordinary road, but afterwards our preconceived ideas were a hundred-fold realised.

Crowds of beggars, the halt, the lame, and the blind, surrounded the diligence, and it was with some difficulty we got out. Some of the beggars were of loathsome appearance, victims of horrible disease and depravity, and all were terribly importunate. Amongst the crowd was a tall, thin, poor-looking old man, wrapped in a shabby Spanish cloak, who came up to us at once and said in excellent English, “How much baggage have you, ladies?” and on our replying, busied himself with it, and with us, in a way that seemed a little unwarrantable. Commissionnaires and guides stick to you like leeches, and we had determined to employ Bensaken, the well-known cicerone of Ford, of Owen Jones, and of hundreds of travellers. This old man looked more like a beggar than anything else, and, but for his proud manner, I think I should have bribed him with a few cuartos to go away. As it was, I sent a little lad after a fiacre, and managed my luggage myself, not feeling inclined to accept anonymous services, after having heard such golden reports of Emmanuel Bensaken. Our old friend, however, seated himself on the box, and not thinking it worth while to deprive him of the pleasure of the drive, we said nothing, and drove off.

Never was a hotel so enchantingly situated as the Hotel Ortiz, to which we had been recommended.

The Hotel Ortiz stands in the Alhambra gardens. The windows let in golden sunshine, and you look over bright yellow avenues of elms and panoramic views of plain and mountain. The Alhambra is quite near. Here you have a glimpse of battlement, superb in colour and outline, there a tower. The air is light, and warm, and balmy. Everybody has a pleasant smile and a brisk air, and goes about singing. The rooms are sunny, and have charming views, and the Alhambra is close by! It seems too good to be true.

After a bath and some excellent tea and bread and butter, the first we had tasted in Spain, and a little rest, we asked for SeÑor Bensaken.

SeÑor Bensaken was in the house, and would wait upon the SeÑoras at once, was the reply. After waiting an hour, again we asked for Bensaken. “Has he not been?” was the surprised answer. “We sent him to you long ago.” But no Bensaken appeared, and as it was now late in the afternoon, we gave up all idea of seeing the Alhambra that day, and strolled into the gardens instead.

I should say there is no lovelier time than autumn for these beautiful avenues of tall elms, these shelving banks and trickling streams. The melancholy of the season harmonizes with the melancholy of this place; and the setting suns bestow a blood-red pomp, as of a battle-field, upon the glorious plain of the Vega.

The great charm of the Alhambra gardens is the constant purling and plashing of water. You never lose sight or sound of this purling and plashing of melted snow charmed from cool haunts in the Sierra Nevada, and both sight and sound grow upon you like sweet music. The flower-beds, once so carefully kept, are now sadly neglected, but the borders of myrtle and violets are lovely in neglect, and the orange and lemon trees bear blossom and fruit as of old. We lingered till sunset, when the old towers and the yellow forest of elm-trees, were burnished to the hue of brightly-polished copper, and the plain below was flecked with deep shadows, black and purple, and golden. Beyond rose the blue and grey mountains of the Sierra Nevada, their crests shining with the silvery brightness of everlasting snow, in a belt of rosy sky. It was a scene of enchantment.

When we returned to our hotel, we were informed that Bensaken awaited us in the corridor, or salle À manger; what was our surprise to find Bensaken, the renowned guide, and our old friend in the threadbare cloak, one and the same person!

“Why, SeÑor Bensaken,” we said, “you should have introduced yourself to us at first. We had no idea it was you, or we should have engaged you as guide on the spot.”

The old man was evidently much offended with us.

“SeÑora,” he said, “it is not my habit to push myself in where I am not wanted, and you preferred to employ that Spanish boy. Corriente! you had to please yourselves.”

“But,” we urged, “how could we know that you were SeÑor Bensaken? Why did you not give us your card? We had come to Granada with the intention of employing no other guide but Bensaken. We sent for you this afternoon, and you did not come.” He had evidently stayed away out of displeasure, and we found it very difficult to heal the sore of which we felt so innocent. At last, growing a little impatient, we said sharply,—

“SeÑor Bensaken, it is really through your own stupidity, and no fault of ours, that this mistake occurred. If you are willing to act as guide to us, we are willing to engage you, and let the matter end.”

The matter did end, and SeÑor Bensaken became our cicerone. He is a very old man, stiff in manner, aristocratic in appearance, and very entertaining when the mood takes him; full of stories of the great men he has known, Longfellow, Irving, and others. His English is wonderfully elegant, and he speaks several European languages, besides Arabic. But travellers must make haste to Granada who wish to secure his services, for he is in the sere and yellow leaf, and he coughs terribly.

The next day being Sunday, the Alhambra was not open, so we went to see the Cathedral and the Carthusian Convent. The Convent is very rich in inlaid doors and altars of silver, ebony, and tortoise-shell, and is curious in many respects. On the cloister walls are some paintings that Spanish guides show English tourists with sly looks. They represent the persecutions of the English Carthusians by Henry VIII., and one finds the same subject illustrated in other Carthusian convents, which is but natural. Lutheran bigotry still appears to the orthodox Spaniard as dreadful as it then was. The youthful Spanish mind is as vigorously infused with a hatred and fear of heresy as ever, and in the history of Spain used for schools and institutions of the second instruction (Los Institutos y Colegios de segunda enseÑanza) occur such passages as these:—

(The odious errors of Luther were prospering in the Low Countries.)

There is a charming view from the terrace of the convent, which, perhaps, repays the traveller for his trouble more than anything to be seen within its walls. The Cathedral every one will naturally visit, on account of the superb monuments of Ferdinand and Isabella. Mass was going on when we entered, and we could not but notice the terribly irreverent behaviour of the congregation, the choristers, and acolytes. They had, some of them, vicious faces, and all stared about and whispered to each other, and behaved as if they were at a bull-fight.

In the afternoon we drove on the Alameda, very gay at this hour, with a band playing, and ladies promenading, as a Spanish author says, in all their “atractivos;” officers darting past on pretty Andalusian horses, and all the world of Granada out for a holiday.

Granada is very conservative,—EspaÑolisimo still to the backbone, which is rather trying to a traveller’s patience. In spite of the annual influx of foreigners, a foreigner is still stared at and commented on. If you sit down to make a sketch, you are sure to have an obtrusive crowd around you, and I don’t think English ladies could walk with comfort in the town unless accompanied by a guide. At least, we were advised not to try it. It is not that the common people are malicious, but they are so childishly astonished at the sight of strangers, that you feel as if you were a bear being led through a country-town on fair day. Every one has something to say about the bear.

Some of the people were, nevertheless, delightful, the family at the Ortiz, for example. The father acted as cook, the mother as house-keeper, the daughters as chambermaids, and the son as waiter. All were kindly, intelligent, and as gay as larks from morning till night. There was always singing in the house and garden, the same monotonous Arab singing we used to hear at Toledo and Cordova, but here, in sprightly Andalusia, it was infinitely improved upon. The daughters of the house were very pretty, with bright eyes, small regular features, elegant little figures, and great vivacity of expression. One was married, and had a dear little girl, about three, who used to greet us with an English “good morning!” she had learned somewhere. When their work was done, and it seemed done very early in the day, the sisters used to sit on the doorsteps, a friend or two would join them, and what with gossip, needle-work, and singing, they had a merry time of it.

The hotel was quite a little paradise of pleasantness and comfort. From every window were long views of the Alhambra walls and garden; there were very few visitors excepting ourselves, so that we had the salle À manger to ourselves, and the people were so kind and careful of our comfort that we could willingly have stayed a month.

Though we were already in December the weather was perfect, soft, golden, and balmy. We were glad of a little wood fire at night, but could have roamed about all day without our bonnets on. Roses and geraniums blossomed in the garden; and, whenever we walked out, little Murillo-like boys offered us bunches of violets.

Before entering the charmed precincts of the Alhambra I must mention a horrifying scene we witnessed just outside our windows. It was a pauper’s funeral. We were warned of its approach by the sound of loud talking and laughter, and, on looking out, saw a wretched coffin borne by four men, smoking cigarettes, followed by a few lookers-on, all appearing equally unconcerned, and preceded by two or three men, who were, I suppose, the mourners, bearing lighted candles in their hands. There was no priest, no pall, no semblance of decency, and by-and-by our disgust was increased to the last pitch by the bearers setting the coffin on the bank, and leaning on it to rest themselves!

There is no sort of respect for death in Spain. The body of the pauper is carried to the cemetery in a coffin that belongs to the parish, and is thrust sometimes almost naked into a hole. The priests do not perform burial-service except for those who can afford to pay for it; they read a short service over the body in the church; and when once that ceremony is over, there is no more regard shown for the dead than for the slaughtered horse at a bull-fight. It is horrible.