As yet we were only acquainted with the galera on two wheels; we now had the pleasure of making a trial of one on four. An amiable vehicle of this description happened to be about starting for Cordova; it was already occupied with a Spanish family, and we helped to fill it still more. Just fancy rather a low wagon, with its sides formed of a number of wooden spokes at a considerable distance from each other, and having no bottom save a strip of spartum on which the trunks and packages are heaped, without much attention to the irregularities of surface which they may present. Above the luggage are thrown two or three mattresses, or, to speak more correctly, two or three linen sacks, in which a few tufts of wool but very slightly carded, float about, and on these mattresses the unfortunate travellers are stretched transversely, in a position very similar (excuse the triviality of the comparison) to that of calves that are being carried to market. The only difference is, that the travellers do not have their feet tied, but their situation is not much more comfortable for all that. The top consists of a coarse cloth, stretched on wooden hoops, and the whole machine is driven by a mayoral and dragged by four mules.

Our fellow-travellers consisted of the family of an engineer, who was rather a well educated man, and spoke very good French. They were accompanied by a tall, villanous, fantastic-looking individual, who had formerly been a brigand in Jose Maria's gang, and who was now a superintendent of mines. This gentleman followed the galera on horseback, with a knife stuck in his girdle and a carbine slung at his saddle-bow. The engineer appeared to entertain a high opinion of him, and spoke in very favourable terms of his probity, of which he was perfectly convinced in spite of the superintendent's old trade. It is true that in speaking of Jose Maria himself, he told me several times that he was a brave and worthy man. This opinion, which would strike us as slightly paradoxical in the case of a highway robber, is that of the most honourable persons in Andalusia. On this point, Spain is still Arabian, and brigands very frequently are looked upon as heroes. This is less strange than it may at first appear, especially in southern countries, where men's minds are so easily acted on. Is it not certain that the contempt of death, audacity, coolness, bold and prompt determination, address, and bodily strength, and all the kind of grandeur which belongs to a man who revolts against society, as well as the qualities which exercise so great an influence over minds as yet but little civilized, are exactly those which constitute great characters, and is the people so very wrong in admiring them in these energetic individuals, even although they employ them in a reprehensible manner?

The cross-road along which we were journeying ascended and descended rather abruptly through a country dented with hills and furrowed by narrow valleys, the bottom of which was occupied by the dry beds of torrents, and bristling with enormous stones that jolted us most atrociously, and elicited loud screams from the women and children. On our road we noticed some admirably coloured and poetical effects of sunset. The mountains in the distance assumed a variety of purple and violet hues, tinged with gold, of the most extraordinary warmth and intensity, while the total absence of vegetation imparted to the whole scene, consisting exclusively of ground and sky, a look of grand nudity and savage severity that is to be found in no other country, and which no painter has yet transferred to canvass. We halted for a few hours at nightfall, in a little hamlet of three or four houses, in order to rest our mules and obtain some refreshment: but with the thoughtlessness of true French travellers, although a sojourn of five months in Spain ought to have rendered us more prudent, we had brought nothing with us from Malaga, and the consequence was that we were obliged to sup on dry bread and white wine, which a woman in the posada was obliging enough to procure for us, for Spanish safes and cellars do not participate in that horror which Nature is said to entertain for a vacuum, but contain nothing with the most perfect tranquillity of conscience.

About one o'clock in the morning we set out again; and, in spite of the awful jolting, of the engineer's children rolling over us, and of the knocks that our heads received from bumping against the spokes of the wagon, we soon fell asleep. When the sun came and tickled our noses with one of his rays, as with a golden ear of corn, we were near Caratraca, an insignificant village which is not marked in the map, and which is only remarkable for its sulphurous springs, which are very beneficial in diseases of the skin, and attract to this remote spot a population that is rather suspicious and not calculated to prove very desirable company. Gambling is carried on there to a frightful extent, and although it was still very early, the cards and ounces of gold were passing from hand to hand. It was something hideous to see these invalids with their green, cadaverous faces, rendered still more ugly by rapacity, slowly stretching out their fingers and seizing convulsively their prey. The houses of Caratraca, like those of all Andalusian villages, are whitewashed; and this, in conjunction with the bright colour of the tiles, the festoons of the vines, and the shrubs growing around, gives them a comfortable, holiday look, very different from the picture we are accustomed to draw, in other parts of Europe, of Spanish filth; this notion is generally false, and the fact of its ever having been entertained can only be attributed to some miserable hamlets in Castile, whose wretchedness is equalled and even surpassed by some that we possess in Brittany.

In the courtyard of the inn, our attention was attracted by a number of coarse frescoes, representing, with primitive simplicity, bull-fights: round the pictures were coplas in honour of Paquirro Montes and his quadrille. The name of Montes enjoys the same kind of universal popularity in Andalusia as that of Napoleon does with us; walls, fans, and snuff-boxes are ornamented with his portrait; and the English, who always turn the public taste—whatever it may be—to good account, send from Gibraltar thousands of handkerchiefs with red, violet, and yellow printed portraits of the celebrated matador, accompanied by verses in his praise.

Remembering our famished condition the night before, we purchased some provisions from our host, and among other articles, a ham, for which he made us pay an exorbitant price. A great deal has been said about highway robberies, but it is not on the highway that the danger exists; it is at the road-side, in the inns, that you are robbed and pillaged with the most perfect safety to those that plunder you, without your possessing the right of having recourse to your weapons of defence, and discharging your carbine at the waiter who brings you your bill. I pity the brigands from the bottom of my heart; such landlords as those in Spain do not leave much for them, and only deliver travellers into their hands, like so many lemons with the juice squeezed out. In other countries, landlords make you pay a high price for the things with which they supply you, but in Spain you pay for the absence of everything with its weight in gold.

After we had taken our siesta, the mules were put to the galera, each person resumed his place, the escopetero bestrode his little mountain-steed, the mayoral laid in a stock of small flint-stones to hurl at the ears of his mules, and we set out once more on our journey. The country through which we passed was savage without being picturesque. We beheld nothing but bare, naked, sterile, rugged hills, stony torrent-beds, like scars made in the ground by the winter's rains, and woods of olive-trees, whose pale foliage, powdered over with dust, did not suggest the least idea of refreshing verdure. Here and there, on the gaping sides of the rocks of turf and chalk, was a solitary tuft of fennel, whitened by the heat; on the powdery road were the marks of serpents and vipers, while, over the whole, was a sky as glowing as the roof of an oven and not a gust of wind, not even so much as the slightest breath of air! The grey sand which was raised by the hoofs of the mules fell again without the least eddy to the ground. You might have made iron red-hot in the sun, which darted its rays on the cloth covering of our galera, in which we were ripening like melons under a glass frame. From time to time, we got out and walked a short distance, keeping in the shade projected by the body of the horse or the wagon; when we had stretched our legs somewhat, we would scramble in again, slightly crushing the children and their mother, for we could not reach our seats except by crawling on all fours under the elliptical arch formed by the tilted roof of the galera. By dint of crossing quagmires and ravines, and making short cuts over fields, we lost our way. Our mayoral, in the hope of coming into the right road again, still went on, as if he was perfectly aware where he was going, for corsarios and guides will never own that they have lost themselves till they are reduced to extremities, and have taken you five or six leagues out of the right direction. I must, in justice, say, however, that nothing could be easier than to lose oneself on this fabulous road, which was scarcely marked out, and intersected every moment by deep ravines. At length we found ourselves in the midst of large fields, dotted here and there by olive-trees, with misshapen, dwarfish trunks, and frightful forms, without the slightest signs of a human habitation or a living being. Since the morning, we had met only one half-naked muchacho driving before him, in a cloud of dust, half-a-dozen black pigs. Night set in, and, to augment our misfortunes, there was no moon, so that we had nothing but the uncertain light of the stars to guide us.

The mayoral left his seat every instant to feel the ground with his hands, in the hopes of finding some rut or wheelmark which might direct him to the right road, but all his efforts were in vain, and, greatly against his inclination, he was under the necessity of informing us that he had lost his way, and did not know where he was: he could not understand it; he had made the journey twenty times, and would have undertaken to go to Cordova with his eyes shut. All this appeared rather suspicious, and the idea then struck us that we were, perhaps, purposely brought there in order to be attacked and plundered. Our situation was not an agreeable one, even supposing this were not the case; we were benighted in a remote spot, far from all human help, in a country which enjoys the reputation of concealing more robbers than all the other provinces of Spain united. These reflections doubtlessly suggested themselves also to the minds of the engineer and his friend, the former associate of Jose Maria, who, of course, was not a bad judge in such matters, for they silently loaded their own carbines with ball, and performed the same operation on two others that were placed inside the galera; they then handed us one apiece without uttering a syllable, a mode of proceeding that was exceedingly eloquent. The mayoral was thus left without arms, and, even had he been in collusion with the brigands, was reduced to a state of helplessness. However, after wandering about at hazard, during two or three hours, we perceived a light glittering like a glow-worm under the branches, at a long distance from us. We immediately adopted it as our polar star, and started off towards it in as direct a line as possible, at the risk of being overturned every moment. Sometimes a rise in the ground would conceal it from our eyes, and all nature seemed to be extinguished. Suddenly it would again appear, and our hopes returned with it. At last we arrived sufficiently near a farm-house to distinguish the windows, which was the sky in which our star was shining under the form of a copper lamp. A number of the peculiar wagons drawn by oxen, and of agricultural instruments, scattered here and there, completely restored our confidence, for we were not, at first, sure that we had not fallen into some den of thieves, some posada de barrateros. The dogs, having smelt us out, began barking furiously, so that the whole farm was soon in a state of commotion. The peasants came out with their muskets in their hands to discover the cause of this nocturnal alarm, and having satisfied themselves that we were honest travellers who had lost our way, politely invited us to enter and rest ourselves in the farm.

The worthy people were just going to sup. A wrinkled, bronzed, and, so to speak, mummified old woman, whose skin formed, at all her joints, large folds like a Hessian boot, was preparing a gigantic gaspacho in a red earthen pan. Five or six magnificent greyhounds, with thin backs, broad chests, and splendid ears, and who were worthy of being in the kennel of a king, followed the old woman's movements with unflagging attention, and the most melancholy look of admiration that can possibly be conceived. But this delicious repast was not intended for them; in Andalusia it is the men, and not the dogs, who eat soup made of bread-crusts steeped in water. Some cats, whom the absence of ears and tails—for in Spain these ornamental superfluities are always cut off—cause to resemble Japanese monsters—were also watching these savoury preparations, only at a greater distance. A plateful of the said gaspacho, two slices of our own ham, and a few bunches of grapes, of the colour of amber, composed our supper, which we were obliged to defend from the greyhounds, who were encroachingly familiar, and, under pretence of licking us, literally tore the meat out of our mouths. We rose from our seats, and eat standing up, with our plates in our hands, but the diabolical brutes got on their hind legs, and, throwing their fore-paws over our shoulders, were thus on a level with the coveted food. Even if they did not actually carry it off, they at least gave it two or three licks with their tongues, and thus contrived to obtain the first taste of its flavour. It appeared to us that these greyhounds must have been descended in a right line from the famous dog, whose history Cervantes, however, has not written in his Dialogues. This illustrious animal held the office of dish-washer in a Spanish fonda, and when the girl was blamed because the plates were not clean, she swore by everything she held holy, that they had been washed in six waters por siete Aguas. Siete Aguas was the name of the dog, who was so called because he licked the plates so scrupulously clean, that any one would have supposed that they had been washed in six different waters; on the day in question he must have performed his work in a slovenly manner. The greyhounds of the farm certainly belonged to the same breed.

Our hosts gave us a young boy as guide, who was well acquainted with the road, and who took us safely to Ecija, which we reached about ten o'clock in the morning.

The entrance to Ecija is rather picturesque. You pass over a bridge, at the end of which is a gateway like a triumphal arch. This bridge is thrown over a river, which is no other than the Genil of Granada, and which is obstructed by ancient arches and milldams. When you have passed the bridge, you find yourself in an open square, planted with trees, and ornamented with two rather strange monuments. The first is a gilt statue of the Holy Virgin, placed upon a column, the pedestal of which evidently forms a kind of chapel, decorated with pots of artificial flowers, votive offerings, crowns formed of the pith of rushes, and all the other gewgaws of Meridional devotion. The second is a gigantic Saint Christopher, also of gilt metal, with his hand resting upon a palm-tree, a sort of walking-stick in keeping with his immense size; on his shoulder he bears, with the most prodigious contraction of all his muscles, and with as great an effort as if he were raising a house, an exceedingly small infant Jesus, of the most delicate and charming style. This colossus, said to be the work of the Florentine sculptor, Torregiano, who flattened, with a blow of his fist, Michael Angelo's nose, is stuck upon a Solomonic column (as wreathed columns are here called) of light, rose-coloured granite, the spiral wreaths of which end half-way up in a mass of volutes and extravagant flower-work. I am very partial to statues placed in this position; they produce a greater effect, and are seen advantageously at a longer distance. The ordinary pedestals have a kind of flat, massive look, which takes away from the lightness of the figures which they support.

Although Ecija lies out of the ordinary route of tourists, and is generally but little known, it is a very interesting town, and very original and peculiar in its appearance. The spires which form the sharper angles in its outline are neither Byzantine, nor Gothic, nor in the Renaissance style; they are Chinese, or rather Japanese, and you might easily mistake them for the turrets of some miao dedicated to Kong-fu-Tzee, Buddha, or Fo; for the walls are entirely covered with porcelain tiles of the most vivid tints, while the roofs are formed of varnished white and green tiles, arranged like the squares of a chessboard, and presenting one of the most curious sights in the world. The rest of the buildings are not less chimerical. The love of distorted lines is carried to the utmost possible lengths. You see nothing but gilding, incrustation, breccia, and various-coloured marbles, rumpled about as if they were cloth and not stone, garlands of flowers, lovers'-knots, and bloated angels, all coloured and painted in the most profuse manner and sublime bad taste.

The Calle de los Caballeros, where the nobility reside and the finest mansions are situated, is truly a miraculous specimen of this style: you have some difficulty in believing that you are in a real street, between houses that are inhabited by ordinary human beings. Nothing is straight, neither the balconies, the railings, nor the friezes; everything is twisted and tortured all sorts of ways, and ornamented with a profusion of flowers and volutes. You could not find a single square inch which is not guilloched, festooned, gilt, carved, or painted; the whole place is a most harsh and extravagant specimen of the style termed in France rococo, and presents a crowding together of ornament that French good taste, even during its most depraved epochs, has always successfully avoided. This Pompadour-Dutch-Chinese style of architecture amuses and surprises you in Andalusia. The common houses are whitewashed, and their dazzling walls stand out wonderfully from the deep azure of the sky, while their flat roofs, little windows, and miradores, reminded us of Africa, which was already sufficiently suggested to our minds by thirty-seven degrees of RÉaumur, which is the customary temperature of the place during a cool summer. Ecija is called the Stove of Andalusia, and never was a surname more richly merited. The town is situated in a basin, and surrounded by sandy hills which shield it from the wind, and reflect the sun's rays like so many concentric mirrors. Every one in the place is absolutely fried, but this did not prevent us from walking about all over it while our breakfast was being prepared. The Plaza Mayor has a very original look, with its pillared houses, its long rows of windows, its arcades, and its projecting balconies.

Our parador was tolerably comfortable; they gave us a meal that was almost human, and we partook of it with a degree of sensuality very allowable after so many privations. A long siesta, in a large room, carefully shut up, very dark, and well watered, completely restored us; and when, about three o'clock, we again got into the galera, it was with a quiet air of perfect resignation that we did so.

The road from Ecija to La Carlotta, where we were to pass the night, traverses a very uninteresting country, which appeared to be arid and dusty, or at least the season gave it that look; it has not left any very remarkable impression on my mind. A few olive plantations and clumps of oak-trees appeared from time to time, and the aloes displayed their bluish foliage which is always so characteristic. The dog belonging to the superintendent of mines (for, besides the children, we had some quadrupeds in our menagerie) started a few partridges, two or three of which were brought down by my companion. This was the most remarkable event during this stage.

La Carlotta, where we stopped for the night, is an unimportant hamlet. The inn is an ancient convent, which had first been turned into barracks, as is almost always the case in times of revolution, military men feeling at their ease, and installing themselves in buildings arranged for monastic life more easily than any other class of persons. Long-arched cloisters formed a covered gallery all round the four sides of the courtyard. In the middle of one of the sides yawned the black mouth of an enormous and very deep well, which promised the luxury of some very cold and very clear water. On leaning over the edge, I saw that the interior was completely lined with plants of the most beautiful green, that had sprung up between the stones; and, indeed, to find any kind of verdure or coolness, it was necessary to go and look into the wells, for the heat was so great, that any one might have supposed it was caused by a large fire in the immediate neighbourhood. The only thing that can give the least idea of it is the temperature of those hot-houses where tropical plants are reared. Even the air burnt you, and ignited molecules seemed to be borne along in each gust of wind. I endeavoured to go out and take a turn in the village, but the stove-like vapour which greeted me the moment I had crossed the threshold, caused me to turn back. Our supper consisted of fowls cut to pieces and laid pell-mell on a bed of rice, as highly flavoured with saffron as a Turkish pillau, with the addition of a salad (ensalada) of green leaves in a deluge of vinegar and water, dotted here and there with drops of oil, taken, doubtless, from the lamp. After we had finished this sumptuous repast, we were conducted to our rooms, which were, however, already so full, that we sallied out to pass the rest of the night in the middle of the courtyard, with our mattress wrapped round, and a chair turned upside down instead of a pillow. There, at least, we were only exposed to the mosquitos; by putting on our gloves, and covering our faces with our handkerchiefs, we escaped with merely five or six stings, which were simply painful, but not disgusting.

The people of the inn had a slightly hang-dog look, but this was a circumstance about which we had long since ceased to concern ourselves, accustomed as we were to meet with faces more or less repulsive. A fragment of their conversation which we overheard proved that their sentiments corresponded to their faces. Thinking that we did not understand Spanish, they asked the escopetero whether they could not do a little stroke of business by lying in wait for us a few leagues further on. Jose Maria's old associate replied, with most perfect nobleness and majesty, "I shall suffer nothing of the kind, as these two young gentlemen form part of the company in which I myself am travelling. Besides, they expect to be robbed, and have only as much as is strictly necessary for the journey, the rest of their money being in bills of exchange on Seville. Again, they are both strong tall men; as for the engineer, he is my friend, and we have four carbines in the galera." This persuasive mode of argument produced its effect on our host and his acolytes, who, on this occasion, contented themselves with the ordinary method of plundering that the innkeepers of all countries are permitted to practise.

In spite of all the frightful stories about brigands which are related by travellers and the natives themselves, this was our only adventure, and the most dramatic incident during our long peregrinations through the provinces which are accounted the most dangerous in all Spain, and at a time that was certainly favourable for this kind of meeting: the Spanish brigand was for us a purely chimerical being, an abstraction, a poetic fiction. We never once perceived the least sign of a trabuco, and we became, as far as robbers were concerned, as incredulous as the English gentleman mentioned by MÉrimÉe, and who, having fallen into the hands of a band of brigands who plundered him, would insist that they were only theatrical supernumeraries dressed up and posted there to play him a trick.

We left La Carlotta about three o'clock in the afternoon, and halted, in the evening, at a miserable gipsy's hut, the roof of which was formed of simple branches cut off the trees, and thrown, like a kind of coarse thatch, over cross pieces. After drinking a few glasses of water, I quietly stretched myself out before the door, upon the bosom of our common mother, and began watching the azure immensity of heaven, where the large stars seemed to float like swarms of golden bees, while their twinkling formed a kind of luminous haze, similar to that which a dragon fly's invisible wings produce round his body by the immense rapidity with which they move; but it was not long before I fell into a profound sleep, just as if I had been reposing on the softest bed in the world. I had, however, for a pillow nothing but a stone wrapt up in the cape of my cloak, while some very respectable flints were stamping an impression of themselves in the hollow of my back. Never did a more beautiful and milder night envelope the globe in her mantle of blue velvet. At about midnight, the galera set out once more, and, when morning appeared, we were not more than half a league from Cordova.

It might, perhaps, be supposed from my description of all these halts and marches, that Cordova is separated by a great distance from Malaga, and that we had gone over an enormous deal of ground in the course of our journey, which did not occupy less than four days and a half. The distance we went, however, is only twenty Spanish leagues, that is to say, about thirty French ones, but the vehicle was heavily loaded, the road abominable, and no fresh mules waiting for us at regular distances. Besides, the heat was so intolerable that it would have suffocated both man and beast, had we ventured out during the time that the sun was at its height. This journey, however, slow and wearisome as it was, has left a pleasing impression on my mind: excessive rapidity in the means of transport, deprives the road of all charm; you are hurried along like a whirlwind, without having time to see anything. If a man comes to his journey's end directly, he may as well stop at home. For my part I think that the pleasure of travelling consists in travelling, and not in arriving at your destination.

A bridge across the Guadalquivir, which at this point is tolerably broad, leads into Cordova as you come from Ecija. Close to it are the ruins of some ancient arches, and of an Arabian aqueduct. The head of the bridge is defended by a large square embattlemented tower, supported by casemates of a more recent date. The city gates not being yet open, a large collection of carts drawn by oxen majestically crowned with tiaras of yellow and red spartum, mules and white asses loaded with chopped straw, countrymen with sugar-loaf hats, and brown woollen capas, which fell down before and behind like a priest's cape, and which are put on by thrusting your head through a hole made in the middle, were all waiting with the calmness and patience peculiar to Spaniards, who never appear to be in a hurry. A similar crowd at one of the Paris Barriers would have created a horrible disturbance, and given vent to all sorts of invectives and abuse, but here we heard no other noise but the tinkling of the brass bell attached to the collar of some mule, and the silvery sound of that hung round the neck of the coronel ass changing his position, or resting his head upon the neck of one of his long-eared brethren.

We took advantage of this temporary stoppage to examine, at our leisure, the external aspect of Cordova. A handsome gateway, like a triumphal arch, of the Ionic order, and of such good taste that it might be supposed to be of Roman origin, forms a majestic entrance to the city of the Caliphs, although I should prefer one of those beautiful Moorish arches, shaped like a heart, similar to those you see at Granada. The Cathedral Mosque rises above the outer walls and the roofs of the town more like a citadel than a temple, with its high walls denticulated with Arabian embrazures, and its heavy Catholic dome cowering on the Oriental platform. It must be confessed that the walls are daubed over with a very abominable yellow. Without being precisely one of those who admire mouldy, black, leprous-looking edifices, I have a particular horror of that infamous pumpkin colour which possesses such attractions for the priests, the chapters, and the vestry-boards of all countries, since they never fail disfiguring with it the marvellous edifices confided to their care. These buildings always should be, and always have been painted even during the purest periods of the art, only the peculiar shade and nature of the coating they receive ought to be selected with more taste. At last the gates were open, and we had the preliminary gratification of being searched rather strictly by the custom-house officers; after which, we were at liberty to proceed, accompanied by our luggage, to the nearest parador.

Cordova has a more African look than any other town in Andalusia. Its streets, or rather its lanes, with their confused, irregular pavement, that resembles the dry bed of some mountain torrent, are all strewn with the short straw which falls from the loads of the different asses, and have nothing about them which reminds you of the manners and customs of Europe. You walk on between interminable chalk-coloured walls, diversified at rare intervals by a few windows defended with rails and bars; while the only persons that you meet are some repulsive-looking beggar, some devotee enveloped in black, or some majo, who passes with the rapidity of lightning on his brown horse with white harness, causing thousands of sparks to fly up from the flints of the road. If the Moors could come back, they would not have much trouble in making themselves at home. The idea that many people have, perhaps, formed, when thinking of Cordova, that it is a town with Gothic houses, and carved, open spires, is completely wrong. The universal use of whitewash imparts a uniform tint to all the buildings, fills up the architectural lines, effaces all their delicate ornamentation, and does not allow you to read their age. Thanks to whitewash, the wall which has been erected a century cannot be distinguished from that which was erected yesterday. Cordova, which was formerly the centre of Arabian civilization, is at present nothing more than a confused mass of small, white houses, above which rise a few mangrove-trees, with their metallic green foliage, or some palm-tree, with its branches spread out like the claws of a crab; while the whole town is divided into a number of separate blocks by narrow passages, where it would be a difficult matter for two mules to pass abreast. All life seems to have deserted this great body, formerly animated by the active circulation of Moorish blood; there is nothing of it left save the white, calcined skeleton. But Cordova still possesses its Mosque, which is without a rival in the whole world, and quite new, even for those travellers who have had an opportunity of admiring the marvels of Arabian architecture at Granada or Seville.

In spite of the Moorish airs it gives itself, Cordova is a true Christian city, placed under the especial protection of the Archangel Raphael. From the balcony of our parador, we could see a strange kind of monument raised in honour of this celestial patron, and we resolved to examine it more closely. The Archangel Raphael, who is standing upon the top of a column, with a sword in his hand, his wings outstretched and glittering with gilding, seems like a sentinel eternally watching over the city confided to his care. The column is formed of grey granite, with a Corinthian capital of gilt bronze, and rests upon a small tower or lantern of rose-coloured granite, the sub-basement of which is formed of rockwork, on which are grouped a horse, a palm-tree, a lion, and a most fantastic sea-monster; the whole decoration is completed by four allegorical statues. In the plinth is buried the coffin of Bishop Pascal, who was celebrated for his piety and devotion to the holy Archangel.

On a cartouche is the following inscription:

But, the reader will ask, how was it known that the Archangel Raphael, and not some one else, was the patron of the ancient city of Abderama? To this I reply, by means of a song or complaint, printed by permission at Cordova, and to be procured at the establishment of Don Raphael Garcia Rodriguez, Calle della Libreria. At the head of this precious document is a wood engraving, representing the Archangel, with his wings expanded, a glory round his head, his travelling-staff and fish in his hand, majestically placed between two splendid pots of hyacinths and peonies. Underneath is an inscription to this effect: "The true history and curious legend of our patron Saint Raphael, Archangel, Solicitor of the Plague, and Guardian of the City of Cordova."

The book relates how the blessed Archangel appeared to Don Andres RoËla, gentleman and priest, and made, in his room, a speech, the first phrase of which is precisely that engraven on the column. This speech, which the legendaries have perceived, lasted more than an hour-and-a-half, the priest and the Archangel being each seated on a chair opposite one another. The apparition took place on the 7th of May, in the year of our Lord 1578, and the monument was erected to perpetuate the remembrance of it.

An esplanade, enclosed by railings, stretches all round the monument, and enables it to be seen on every side. Statues in this position have something elegant and graceful about them which pleases me very much, and which serves admirably to conceal the nudity of a terrace, a square, or a courtyard that is too large. The small statue on the porphyry column in the courtyard of the Palais des Beaux Arts, at Paris, will convey a faint notion of the ornamental effect which might be produced by arranging figures in this fashion; they assume, when so placed, a monumental aspect which they would otherwise not possess. The same thought struck me when I saw the Holy Virgin and Saint Christopher at Ecija.

We were not greatly struck by the exterior of the Cathedral, and were afraid of being wretchedly disappointed. Victor Hugo's lines:

appeared before we had visited the building to be too flattering, but we were soon convinced that they were only just.

It was the Caliph Abderama I., who laid the foundations of the Mosque at Cordova, towards the end of the eighth century, and the works were carried on with such activity that the whole edifice was completed at the commencement of the ninth; twenty-one years were found sufficient to terminate this gigantic monument! When we reflect that, a thousand years ago, so admirable a work, and one of such colossal proportions, was executed in so short a time by a people who have since fallen into a state of the most savage barbarism, the mind is lost in astonishment, and refuses to believe the pretended doctrines of human progress which are generally received at the present day; we even feel inclined to adopt an opinion diametrically opposite, when we visit those countries which formerly enjoyed a state of civilization which now exists no longer. I have always regretted, for my own part, that the Moors did not remain in possession of Spain, which certainly has only lost by their expulsion. Under their dominion, if we can believe the popular exaggerations so gravely collected and preserved by historians, Cordova contained two hundred thousand houses, eighty thousand palaces, and nine hundred baths, while its suburbs consisted of twelve thousand villages. At present it does not number forty thousand inhabitants, and appears almost deserted.

Abderama wished to make the Mosque of Cordova a place of pilgrimage, a western Mecca, the first temple of Islamism, after that in which the body of the prophet reposes. I have not yet seen the Casbah of Mecca, but I doubt whether it equals in magnificence and size the Spanish Mosque. One of the original copies of the Koran and a still more precious relic, a bone of one of Mahomet's arms, used to be preserved there.

The lower orders even believe that the Sultan of Constantinople still pays a tribute to the King of Spain, in order that mass may not be said in that part of the building especially dedicated to the prophet. This chapel is ironically called by the devout, the Zancarron, a term of contempt which signifies, "Ass's jawbone, carrion."

The Mosque of Cordova is pierced with seven doors, which have nothing ornamental about them; indeed its mode of construction prevents their being so, and does not allow of the majestic portals imperiously required by the unvarying plan of Roman-catholic cathedrals; there is nothing in its external appearance to prepare your mind for the admirable spectacle which awaits you. We will pass, if you please, through the patio de los naranjeros, an immense and magnificent courtyard planted with monster orange-trees, that were contemporaries of the Moorish kings, and surrounded by long arched galleries, paved with marble flags. On one side rises a very mediocre spire, which is a clumsy imitation of the Giralda, as we were afterwards enabled to see, at Seville. There is said to be an immense cistern under the pavement of the courtyard. In the time of the Ommyades, you entered at once from the patio de los naranjeros into the Mosque itself, for the frightful wall which now breaks the perspective on this side, was not built until a more recent period.

I can best convey an idea of this strange edifice, by saying that it resembles a large esplanade enclosed by walls and planted with columns in quincuncial order. The esplanade is four hundred and twenty feet broad, and four hundred and forty long. The number of the columns amounts to eight hundred and sixty, which is, it is said, only half the number in the first mosque.

The impression produced on you when you enter this ancient sanctuary of the Moslem faith cannot be defined, and has nothing whatever in common with that generally caused by architecture; you seem rather to be walking about in a roofed forest than in a building. On whatever side you turn, your eye is lost in alleys of columns crossing each other and stretching away out of sight, like marble vegetation that has shot up spontaneously from the soil; the mysterious half-light which reigns in this lofty wood increases the illusion still more. There are nineteen transepts and thirty-six naves, but the span of the transepts is much less than that of the naves. Each nave and transept is formed between rows of superimposed arches, some of which cross and combine with one another as if they were made of ribbon. The columns, each of which is hewn out of one solid block, are hardly more than ten or twelve feet up to the capitals, which are Arabic-Corinthian, full of force and elegance, and reminding you rather of the African palm than the Greek acanthus. They are composed of rare marbles, porphyry, jasper, green and violet breccia, and other precious substances; there are some even of antique origin, and are said to be the remains of an old temple of Janus. Thus the rites of three religions have been celebrated on the spot. Of these three religions, one has for ever disappeared, with the civilization it represented, in the gulf of the past; the second has been driven out of Europe, where it has now but a precarious footing, to take refuge with the barbarism of the East; and the third, after having reached its apogee, has been undermined by the spirit of inquiry, and is growing weaker every day, even in those countries where it once reigned as absolute sovereign. Perhaps the old mosque built by Abderama may still last long enough to see a fourth religion installed under the shade of its arches, and a new God, or rather a new prophet,—for God never changes,—celebrated with other forms and other songs of praise.

In the time of the Caliphs, eight hundred silver lamps, filled with aromatic oils, illuminated these long naves, caused the porphyry and polished jasper of the columns to sparkle, spangled with light the gilt stars of the ceiling, and showed, in the shade, the crystal mosaics and the verses of the Koran wreathed with arabesques and flowers. Among their lamps were the bells of Saint Jago de Compostella, which the Moors had won in battle; turned upside down, and suspended to the roof by silver chains, they illuminated the temple of Allah and his Prophet, and were, no doubt, greatly astonished at being changed from Catholic bells into Mahomedan lamps. At that period, the eye could wander in perfect liberty under the long colonnades, and, from the extremity of the temple, look at the orange-trees in blossom and the gushing fountains of the patio, inundated by a torrent of light, rendered still more dazzling by the half-day inside. Unfortunately, this magnificent view is at present destroyed by the Roman-catholic church, which is a heavy, massive building squeezed into the very heart of the Arabian mosque. A number of retablos, chapels, and sacristies crowd the place and destroy its general symmetry. This parasitical church, this enormous stone mushroom, this architectural wart on the back of the Arabian edifice, was erected after the designs of HernÁn Ruiz. As a building it is not destitute of merit, and would be admired anywhere else, but it is ever to be regretted that it occupies the place it does. It was built, in spite of the resistance of the ayuntamiento, by the chapter, in virtue of an order cunningly obtained from the emperor Charles V., who had not seen the mosque. Having visited it, some years later, he said—"Had I known this, I should never have permitted you to touch the old building; you have put what can be seen anywhere in the place of what is seen nowhere." This just reproach caused the members of the chapter to hang down their heads in confusion, but the evil was done. In the choir we admired an immense carving, in massive mahogany, representing subjects of the Old Testament. It is the work of Don Pedro Duque Cornejo, who spent ten years of his life on this prodigious undertaking, as may be seen by the inscription on the poor artist's tomb; he lies stretched upon a slab some few paces distant from his work. Talking of tombs, we noticed a very remarkable one, shaped like a trunk and fastened by three padlocks, let into the wall. How will the corpse, so carefully locked up, manage on the day of judgment, in order to open the stone locks of his coffin, and how will he find the keys in the midst of the general confusion?

Until the middle of the eighteenth century, the original ceiling, built by Abderama, of cedar and larch, was preserved with all its compartments, soffits, lozenges, and oriental magnificence; it has now been replaced by arches and half-cupolas, of a very mediocre effect. The old slabs have disappeared under a brick pavement, which has raised the ground, partly concealed the shafts of the pillars, and rendered still more evident the building, which is too low for its size.

All these acts of profanation, however, do not prevent the mosque of Cordova from still being one of the most marvellous buildings in the world. To make us feel, as it were, still more bitterly the mutilations of the rest, one portion, called the Mirah, has been preserved as if by a miracle, in a state of the most scrupulous integrity.

The wooden roof, carved and gilt, with its median aranja, spangled with stars, the open windowshafts, garnished with railings which render the light so soft and mellow, the gallery of small trefoiled columns, the mosaic tablets of coloured glass, and the verses from the Koran, formed of gilt crystal letters, and wreathed about with the most gracefully complicated ornaments and arabesques, compose a picture which, for richness, beauty, and fairy elegance, is to be equalled nowhere save in the "Thousand-and-One Nights," and could not be improved by any effort of art. Never were lines better chosen or colours better combined; even those found in the most capricious and delicate specimens of Gothic architecture have something poor, weakly and emaciated about them which betrays the infancy of the art. The architecture of the Mirah, on the contrary, is an instance of a state of civilization which has reached its greatest development, of art arrived at its culminating point; all beyond it is nothing but a retrogression. Nothing is wanting, neither proportion, harmony, richness, nor gracefulness. On leaving this chapel, you enter a little sanctuary profusely ornamented, the ceiling of which is formed of a single block of marble, scooped out in the form of a shell, and carved with infinite delicacy. This was probably the sanctum sanctorum, the dread and sacred place where the presence of the Deity was supposed to be more palpable than anywhere else.

Another chapel called Capilla de los Reyes Moros, where the caliphs used to pray apart from the common herd of the Faithful, also offers some curious and charming details; but it has not been so fortunate as the Mirah, its colours having disappeared under an ignoble coating of whitewash.

The sacristies are overflowing with treasures; they are literally crammed full of monstrances glittering with precious stones, silver reliquaries of enormous weight and incredible workmanship, and as large as small cathedrals, candlesticks, gold crucifixes, and copes embroidered with pearls, the whole forming a collection that is more than royal, and altogether Asiatic.

As we were on the point of leaving the building, the beadle, who had served as our guide, led us mysteriously into a remote obscure corner, and pointed out, as an object of the greatest possible curiosity, a crucifix, which is said to have been carved by a Christian prisoner, with his nail, on a porphyry column, to the foot of which he was chained. To prove the authenticity of the story, he showed us the statue of the poor captive some few paces off. Without being more Voltairean than is necessary in the matter of legends, I can not help thinking that people must formerly have had very hard nails, or that porphyry was extremely soft. Nor is this crucifix the only one of its kind; there is a second, on another column, but it is far from being so well formed. The beadle likewise showed us an enormous ivory tusk, suspended from the middle of the cupola by iron chains, and looking like the hunting-horn of some Saracenic giant of some Nimrod of the world that has disappeared: this tusk is said to have belonged to one of the elephants employed in carrying the materials during the building of the mosque. Being well satisfied with our guide's explanations and complaisance, we gave him one or two small coins, a piece of generosity which appeared to be highly displeasing to Jose Maria's old friend, who had accompanied us, and elicited from him the following slightly heretical remark:—"Would it not be better to give that money to some brave bandit, than to a villanous sexton?"

On leaving the cathedral, we stopped for a few moments before a pleasing Gothic portal, which serves as a faÇade to the Foundling Hospital. Anywhere else it would be admired, but, in its present position, it is crushed by its formidable neighbour.

After we had visited the cathedral, there was nothing more to keep us at Cordova, which is not the liveliest place in the world to stop at. The only amusement a stranger can take, is to bathe in the Guadalquiver, or get shaved in one of the numerous shaving-shops near the mosque; the operation is very dexterously performed, with the aid of an enormous razor, by a little barber perched upon the back of the large oaken arm-chair in which the customer is seated.

The heat was intolerable, being artificially increased by a fire. The harvest had just been got in; and it is the custom in Andalusia to burn the stubble as soon as the sheaves are carted away, in order that the ashes may improve the ground. The country was in flames for two or three leagues all round, and the wind, which singed its wings in its passage through this fiery ocean, wafted to us gusts of hot air, like that which escapes from the mouth of a stove. We were placed in the same position as the scorpions that children surround with a circle of shavings, which they set on fire; the poor creatures are obliged to make a desperate effort to get out, or to commit suicide by turning their sting against themselves. We preferred the first alternative.

The galera in which we had come to Cordova took us back by the same road, as far as Ecija, where we asked for a calessin, to convey us to Seville. We succeeded in finding one, but when the driver saw us, he found us too tall, too big, and too heavy, and made all sorts of objections. Our trunks, he asserted, were so enormously weighty, that it would require four men to move them; and the consequence was, that they would immediately cause his vehicle to break down. The truth of the last objection we disproved, by placing, unassisted and with the greatest ease, the portmanteaus thus calumniated, on the back part of the calessin. The rascal, having no more objections to raise, at last decided on setting out.

For several leagues the view consisted of nothing save flat, or vaguely-undulating ground, planted with olive-trees, whose grey colour was rendered still more insipid by the dust upon them, and large sandy plains, whose uniform appearance was broken, from time to time, by balls of blackish vegetation, like vegetable warts.

At La Sinsiana, the whole population was stretched out before the doors of the houses, and snoring away in the open air. Our vehicle obliged the rows of sleepers to rise and stand up against the wall in order to allow us to pass, grumbling all the while, and bestowing on us all the treasures of the Andalusian vocabulary. We supped in a suspicious-looking posada, more liberally furnished with muskets and blunderbusses than cooking utensils. A number of immense dogs followed all our movements with the most obstinate perseverance, and seemed to be only awaiting the signal to fall on us, and tear us to pieces. The landlady looked extremely surprised at the voracious tranquillity with which we despatched our tomato omelette. She appeared to consider the repast quite superfluous, and to regret our devouring so much food, which would never be of any good to us. In spite of the sinister aspect of the place, however, we were not assassinated, and the people were merciful enough to allow us to continue our journey.

The ground became more and more sandy, and the wheels of the calessin sank up to their naves in the shifting soil. We now understood why our driver had so strongly objected to our specific gravity. To ease the horse a little, we got down, and, about midnight, after having followed a road which wound round a steep rock in a zigzag direction, we reached Cormana, where we were to pass the night. Some limekilns cast their long, reddish reflection over the line of rocks, producing most powerful and admirably picturesque Rembrandt-like effects.

The room into which we were shown was ornamented with some wretched lithographed plates representing various episodes of the revolution of July, such as the taking of the HÔtel de Ville, and so on. This circumstance pleased and almost moved us; it was like seeing a piece of France framed and hung up against the wall. Cormana, which we had scarcely time to look at, as we once more got into our calessin, is a little town as white as cream; the campanilas and towers of an old convent of Carmelite nuns give it a very picturesque appearance, and that is all we can say about it.

Beyond Cormana, luxuriant plants, cactuses, and aloe-trees, which had for some time deserted us, now appeared again more bristling and ferocious than ever. The landscape was less bare and arid, and more varied; the heat, too, had lost something of its intensity. We soon afterwards reached Alcala de los Panaderos, celebrated for the excellence of its bread, as its name signifies, and for its novillos (young bulls) fights, to which the aficionados of Seville resort when the circus there is closed. Alcala de los Panaderos is situated very pleasantly at the bottom of a small valley, irrigated by a river; it is sheltered by a hill, on which the ruins of an old Moorish palace are still standing. We were approaching Seville; in fact, it was not long ere the Giralda displayed on the horizon its open lantern and then its square tower: a few hours afterwards we were passing through the Puerta de Cormana, whose arch enclosed a background of dusty light, in which galeras, asses, mules, and carts drawn by oxen, some coming to the town and others leaving it, crossed each other in a flood of golden vapour. To the left of the road arose the stone arcades of a superb aqueduct, of a truly Roman appearance: on the other side were rows of houses built nearer and nearer to each other: we were at Seville.