THE fair which is held annually at Ronda, in the month of May, collects an astonishing concourse of people from all parts of the country, and offers an excellent opportunity for seeing the peculiar costumes of the different provinces, as well as for observing the various shades of character of their respective inhabitants. The national costume, (speaking generally of it) is, without dispute, extremely becoming; for, not only does it set off to advantage such as are naturally well formed, but it conceals the defects of those to whom Dame Nature has been less kind; making them appear stout, well built fellows—in their own expressive words, “bien, plantado”[83]—when, in point of fact, it ofttimes happens that their slender legs have enough to do to bear the weight of the spare and ill-formed bodies placed upon them.

This is very perceptible when, deprived of their broad-brimmed Sombreros and stout leather botines, the peasantry come to be capped and trousered in a military garb. To a stranger, indeed, it must appear that the Spanish troops are collected from the very refuse of the population of the country; so miserable is their look. But the truth is, the conscription (by which the Army is raised) is levied with great fairness; and to the change of dress alone, therefore, must the falling off in their appearance be attributed.

The Spanish peasant, moreover, is the only one in Europe,[84] whose tenue is not improved by the drill serjeant; which may be accounted for by his not, like those of other countries, having been accustomed in his youth to carry burthens upon his shoulders. He consequently bends under the new weight of a musket and knapsack, which, so placed, he cannot but find particularly irksome.

To return, however, to the crowded city; whilst Ronda fair thus periodically furnishes the occasion for a general muster of the natives of all classes, the Fair of Ronda may claim the merit of holding out to them the inducement to display their figures and wardrobes to the best advantage; and strange are the ways, and various the means, by which the Andaluz Majo[85] seeks to win the sweet smiles or dazzle the bright eyes of his tinsel-loving countrywomen.

Amongst the numerous varieties of the genus Majo, that claiming the first rank may be readily known, by the seeming wish to avoid rather than to court admiration. Thus, the rich waistcoat of bright silk or costly velvet, studded with buttons innumerable of the most exquisite gold or silver filigree, is partially concealed, though rendered more brilliant, by the jacket of dark cloth simply ornamented with black braid and tags, which is worn over it; whilst the plain white kerchief that protrudes from either side-pocket requires to be closely examined, to make the extreme delicacy of its texture apparent.

Others, of more gaudy and questionable taste, hold peagreens and lavenders to be more becoming; and here and there an ultra dandy may be seen, aping the bull-fighter, and bedizened with gold and silver lace; but he is of an inferior caste, and may generally be set down as a Chevalier d’Industrie.

Another class of the genus is distinguished by the glossy jacket of black goat-skin. The wearers of this singular costume are the Ganaderos, or cattle owners; whilst those satisfied with the more humble dresses, of brown or white sheep-skin—by no means the least picturesque of the motley crowd—belong to the shepherd tribe.

The breeches and gaiters undergo as many varieties as those above specified of the upper garments; but almost all who thus appear in the national costume wear the sombrero, or broad-brimmed hat with a high conical crown; the Montera—a low flat cap, made of black velvet, and ornamented with silk tassels—being now used only by the bull-fighters, and some elderly sticklers for old hats as well as old habits.

Many scowling fellows, enveloped in capacious cloaks, seemed to have no object in view but to examine with searching eyes the persons of the assembled multitude, and to conceal as much as possible their own from counter observation; and some of the savage mountaineers,—whom nothing but a bull fight, or perhaps the hope of plunder, could draw from their mountain fastnesses,—gave evident signs of never before having seen the British uniform.

I may observe here, en passant, that a few robberies are generally heard of, at the breaking up of the fair; the temptation of well filled pockets and bales of merchandize drawing all the ladrones of the surrounding mountains down to the high roads.

The cattle fair is held on a rocky plain beyond the northern limits of the New Town. It is not so celebrated as some others held on the banks of the Guadalquivir; the narrow stony tracts across the mountains being both inconvenient for driving cattle, and injurious to their feet. Nevertheless, it offers a good opportunity for swapping “a Haca,”[86] though Spanish jockeys—like all others—must be dealt with according to their own proverb—À picaro, picaro y medio.[87] The horses of the South of Spain are small, hardy animals, well suited to the mountain roads of the country, but possessing no claims to beauty, beyond a lively head and a sleek coat. The Spaniards, by the way, have a strange prejudice in favour of Roman-nosed horses. They not only admire the Cabeza de Carnero, (sheep’s head) as they call it, but maintain that it is a certain indication of the animal being a “good one.” I presume, therefore, the protuberance must be the organ of ambulativeness.

I was much mortified to find that “Almanzor,” whose finely finished head, straight forehead, sparkling eye, and dilated nostril, I certainly thought entitled him to be considered the handsomest of his kind in the fair, was looked upon as a very ordinary animal.

No ai vasija que mida los gustos, ni balanza que los iguale,[88] as Guzman de Alfarache says; and my taste will certainly be disputed in other matters besides horseflesh by all Spaniards, when I confess to having frequently retired from the busy throng of the fair, or abstained from witnessing the yet more exciting bull fight, to enjoy, without fear of interruption, the lovely view obtained from the shady walks of the new Alameda.[89] This delightful promenade is situated at the further extremity of the modern town, overhanging the precipice which has been mentioned as bounding it to the west. The view is similar to that obtained from the parapet of the bridge; but here, the eye ranges over a greater extent of country, commanding the whole of the southern portion of the fertile valley, and taking in the principal part of the mountain chain that encompasses it.

For hours together have I sat on the edge of the precipice, receiving the refreshing westerly breeze, and feasting my eyes on the beauteous scene beneath; tracing the windings of the serpent streamlet, and watching the ever-changing tints and shadows, cast by the sun on the deeply-furrowed sides of the mountains, as he rolled on in his diurnal course. All nature seemed to be at rest; not a human being could be seen throughout the wide vale; not a sound came up from it, save now and then the bay of some vigilant watch dog, or the call of the parent partridge to her infant brood. Its carefully irrigated gardens, its neatly trimmed vineyards, and, here and there, a low white cottage peeping through blossoming groves of orange and lemon trees, bore evidence of its being fertilized by the hand of man: but where are its inhabitants? nay, where are those of the city itself, whose boisterous mirth but lately rent the air! All is now silent as the grave: the cries of showmen have ceased. The tramp of horses and the lowing of cattle are heard no longer; the Thebaic St. Anthony himself could not have been more solitary than I found myself.—But, hark. What sound is that? a buz of distant vivas is borne through the air!—It proceeds from the crowded circus—the Matador has made a successful thrust—his brave antagonist bites the dust, and he is rewarded with a shower of pesetas,[90] and those cries of triumph!—I regret not having missed witnessing his prowess! but the declining sun tells me that my retreat is about to be invaded; the glorious luminary sinks below the horizon, and the walk is crowded with the late spectators of the poor bull’s last agonies.

“Jesus![91] Don Carlos”—would exclaim many of my bright-eyed acquaintances—“why were you not at the Bull fight?”—“I could not withdraw myself from this lovely spot.”—“Well, no ai vasija que mida los gustos.... You might see this at any other time.” There was no replying to such an indisputable fact, but by another equally incontrovertible—viz.—“The sun sets but once a day.”

The Bull-fights of Ronda are amongst the best of Spain; the animals being selected from the most pugnacious breeds of Utrera and Tarifa; the Picadores from the most expert horsemen of Xeres and Cordoba; the Matadores from the most skilful operators of Cadiz and Seville; and the whole arrangement of the sports being under the superintendence of the Royal Maestranza. During the fair there are usually three Corridas,[92] at each of which, eight bulls are slaughtered.

A Bull-fight has been so often described that I will content myself with offering but very few remarks upon the disgusting, barbarous, exciting, interesting sport,—for such it successively becomes, to those who can be persuaded to witness it a second, third, and fourth time.

In the first place, I cannot admit, that it is a bit more cruel than an English bull-bait (I speak only from hearsay of the latter), or more disgusting than a pugilistic contest; which latter, whatever pity it may occasion to see human nature so debased, can certainly possess little to interest the spectator, beyond the effect its termination will have upon his betting-book.

Oh!—I hear many of my countrymen exclaim—“I do not complain so much of the cruelty practised on the bulls, or the dangers incurred by the men. The former were made to be killed for our use; the latter are free agents, and enter the arena from choice. I feel only for the poor horses, exposed to be gored and tortured by an infuriated animal, without a chance of ultimate escape.” Doubtless, the sufferings endured by the poor horses are very disgusting to witness; but it is merely because we see their agonies, that we feel so acutely for them. Before we condemn the Spaniards, therefore, let us look again at the amusements of our own country, and consider how many birds every sportsman dooms to linger in the excruciating torments of a broken leg or wing, or some painful bodily wound, for each one that he kills!—“But recollect,” rejoins my Interlocutor, “recollect the difference between a bird and such a noble animal as a horse!”—Certes, I reply, a horse is a nobler looking beast than a pheasant or a wild duck; but just observe the wretchedness of our own decayed equinine nobility, standing in Trafalgar Square and other rendezvous of cabs and hackney coaches!—Would it not be comparative charity to end their sufferings by half an hour’s exposure in the Arena?

I must next throw my gauntlet into the arena in behalf of the Spanish Ladies, who I maintain are vilely aspersed by those who have represented them as taking pleasure in the tortures inflicted on the unfortunate horses, and as expressing delight at the jeopardy in which the lives of the bull’s human persecutors are sometimes placed.

On such occasions, I have on the contrary remarked, that they always retired to the back part of their box, or, if they could not do that, turned their heads away in disgust or alarm.

It may be said, that they have no business at such exhibitions. Very true—but surely some allowance is due, considering their want of such breakneck sights as horse-races and steeple-chases? And,—apart the cruelty to the animals,—I see no greater harm in the Spanish Lady’s attendance at a Bull-fight, than our fair country-woman’s witnessing such national sports.—The Toreadores[93] are certainly not exposed to greater risks than the jockeys and gentlemen whom taste or avocation leads daily to encounter the dangers of the field, for the entertainment of the public!

At the numerous bull-fights I have witnessed—for I must plead guilty to having become an aficionado[94]—I saw but four men hurt, and who can say as much, that has hunted regularly throughout the season with a pack of fox-hounds? or, that has walked the streets of London for a week, since cabs and omnibuses have been introduced?

Certainly, it is not unusual to hear female voices cry, “Bravo toro!” when some fierce bull has, at his first sweep round the circle, borne down all the horsemen opposed to him; and then, maddened with pain, and flushed with victory, but unable to attain his human tormentors, (who, in spite of the ponderous weight of cuirasse, boot leather, and padding that encumbers them, always manage to hobble off to a place of refuge) rushes upon the poor blindfold, abandoned horses; which, with just sufficient strength to get upon their legs, stand trembling in the centre of the Arena, quite conscious of their danger, but not knowing which way to avoid it, and thus, one by one, fall victims to the rage of their infuriated enemy.—On such occasions, I repeat, I have heard such encouraging cries proceed from female lips; but he who asserts that they have been uttered by a Spanish Lady can be classed only with Monsieur Pillet, (I think that was the quinze jours À Londres gentleman’s name) who stated that all English Ladies boxed and drank brandy.

The most amusing part of the sport afforded by the Bulls is the driving them into the town. This is done at night, and the following is the method adopted. The animals, having been conducted from their native pastures to the vale of Ronda, are left to graze upon the sides of the mountains, until the night preceding the first day’s corrida; when a number of persons—of whom a large proportion are amateurs—proceed from the city, armed with long lances, to drive them into their destined slaughterhouse. The weapons, however, are more for show than use; since the savage animals are decoyed, rather than goaded, into the snare prepared for them. To effect this, some tame animals are intermixed with the new comers on their first arrival; and these, trained by human devices in all the ways of deceit, lead them off to slake their thirst at the purest rill, and point out to them the tenderest pasture wherewith to satisfy their hunger. The unsuspecting strangers, trusting to the pundonor of their new friends, abandon themselves to a Cupuan enjoyment of the delights of this fertile region, and perceive not the host of human foes that, under shelter of the night, are stealthily encircling them. The investment completed, a horseman rides forward to attract the attention of their treacherous brethren, who trot off after him, followed by the whole herd. The rest of the horsemen now close upon their rear, urging the bulls forward with loud shouts and blazing torches; and, following close upon the heels of their leader, the wonder-struck animals enter the town at a brisk pace and in compact order. The cross streets having been strongly barricaded, the avant courier of the Calbalgada proceeds straight to the court-yard attached to the amphitheatre, the entrance to which alone has been left open, and forthwith ensconces himself in a stable. The savage brutes, bewildered by the strangeness of the scene, the blaze of lights and din of voices, make no attempts either at escape or resistance, but, blindly following his track, enter the court-yard, the gate of which is immediately closed upon them.

A number of doors are now thrown open, which communicate with a large apartment boarded off into narrow stalls. Into these but one bull at a time can enter, and each of the decoy animals, selecting a separate entrance, is quickly followed by two or three of the strangers. The tame animal is permitted to pass through the narrow passage and escape at the other end; but the unhappy victims of his toils, in attempting to follow his footsteps, find their progress impeded by stout bars let down from above, and are thus finally and securely installed.

Under this unpleasant restraint they continue until their services are required in the arena; and during this brief period they are open to the inspection of the curious, who can examine them at their ease from the apartment above, the planking of the floor being left open for the express purpose.

When the hour of the bull is come, the front bar of his prison is withdrawn, a goad from above urges him forward, and, rushing from his dark cell into the broad daylight, the astonished animal finds himself at once in the Arena and within a few paces of a Picador’s lance, couched ready to receive his attack.

Some rush upon their enemy without a moment’s hesitation; and I have not unfrequently seen a valiant bull overthrow the four picadores placed at intervals round the circus, in less than that number of minutes. But, in general, the animal pauses ere making his first onset—looks round with amazement at the assembled multitude—paws up the dusty surface of the arena—appears bewildered at the novelty of the sight and by the din of voices,—and is undecided where to make the first attack. At length, his eye rests on the nearest picador, and it is seldom withdrawn until he has made his charge. He rushes on his enemy with his head erect, lowering it only when arrived within a few paces. The picador gives point to receive him on the fleshy part of the neck above the right shoulder; and, if his horse be steady, he generally succeeds in turning the bull off. But should the bull, regardless of his wound, return immediately to the attack, the man has not time to resume his defensive position, and his only safety is in ignominious flight. If his steed be quick in answering the spur, he is soon removed from danger, but, if otherwise, nine times in ten both horse and rider are laid prostrate.

Whilst in confinement, the bulls are decorated with the colours of their respective breeders (a bunch of ribbon, attached to a dart, which is forced into the animal’s shoulder); and such as appear tame, and hold out small promise of sport, are often “ingeniously tormented” previously to being turned into the arena. I have heard also that it is not unusual, when the circus is small, and the Toreadores are not very expert, to weaken the animal’s powers by letting a weight fall upon his back, so as to injure the spine; but this refinement of cruelty is certainly not practised at Ronda.

It doubtless requires the possession of some courage to be a bull-fighter; though at the same time it is to be recollected, that the people who devote themselves to the profession have been brought up, from their earliest youth, amongst the horns of these animals, and have thus acquired a knowledge of all their peculiarities; they are consequently aware, that the bull’s furious onset requires but a little activity to be readily avoided, and they have by long habit become quick-sighted to take advantage of his blind rage, for striking their blow. But, above all, their confidence is increased by knowing with what ease the attention of the bull is drawn off; and no Picador or Matador ever ventures into the arena unattended by one Chulo,[95] at least; who, provided with a gaudy coloured flag or cloak, stands near at hand to occupy the bull’s attention, should his opponent have met with any accident.

I once witnessed a laughable instance—as it turned out—of the ease with which a bull’s attention may be diverted. An Aguador, or water-seller, had taken post in the narrow passage which serves as a retreat for the bull-fighters when hard pressed, between the front row of seats and the Arena, and, unconscious of danger, was vending his iced liquid to the thirsty spectators—pouring it with singular dexterity from a huge jar made fast to his back into their outstretched goblets—when a bull, following close upon the heels of a Chulo, leapt the five-foot barrier, and came with his fore legs amongst the front row spectators, but, unable to make good his footing, fell back into the narrow passage. The Chulo, by vaulting back into the Arena, readily escaped from the enraged animal, which, not having space to turn round, face and re-leap the barrier, found himself a prisoner within the narrow passage. Very different, however, was the situation of the venturous Aguador, who, labouring under his weighty liquid incubus, could not possibly have clambered over the fence, even had time permitted of his making the attempt. But, so far from that being the case, the bull having instantly recovered his legs, was coming trotting and bellowing towards him, with the most felonious intentions. The spectators shouted with all their might to the luckless water-seller, to save himself; alas! how was he to do so?—a single glance over his right shoulder convinced him of the vainness of the admonition! Instinct prompted him to run; but escape appeared impossible; for the horns of the rabid animal were within a few feet of him, and every barrier was closed!

In this awful predicament, fright made him take the only step that could possibly have saved him—namely, a false one. He stumbled, groaned, and fell flat upon his face. The bull, without slacking his speed, stooped down to give him his quietus; when a peasant—one of the spectators—having tied his pocket-handkerchief to the end of his porra,[96] dangled it before the animal’s eyes just as he reached the fallen Aguador. The enraged bull, making a toss at the new object thus placed before him, bounded over the prostrate water-carrier, without doing any other injury than breaking his jar with his hind feet, and proceeded on to complete the tour of the circus.

The fright of the fortunate vender of water was excessive, and now most ludicrous. The liquid poured in torrents over his shoulders and down his neck, leading him to believe that he had been most desperately gored, and that it was his life’s blood which was—not oozing out of, but—absolutely deluging him. He screamed most lustily that he was a dead man; and the spectators, highly amused at the scene, cried out in return, “Get up—get up, or you’ll be drowned!” But, until some of the Chulos came to his aid, and put him on his legs, he could not be persuaded that he had escaped without even a scratch.

He lost no time, however, in putting the power of his limbs to the proof, running off as fast as they could carry him, to escape from the jeers of the crowd, who, amidst roars of laughter, shouted after him, “What a gash!”—“I can see right through his body.”—“The Bull is swimming after you!”—“Toro! Toro!” &c.

We will now leave the Amphitheatre, and proceed to visit one of the most interesting sights of the ancient city—namely, an extraordinary staircase, or Mina as it is called by the natives, which, sunk close to the edge of the chasm dividing the two towns, communicates with the rocky bed of the river.

It is said to have been a work of Abou Melic, the first king of Ronda, and was clearly undertaken to ensure a supply of water to the city in the event of a siege;—the want of this indispensable article being, in those early days, the only dread the inattackable fortress had to guard against.

The entrance to the Mina is in the garden attached to a gentleman’s house at a little distance from, and to the east of, the principal bridge.

The descent, according to our Cicerone’s information, was formerly effected by 365 steps, cut in the live rock; but, at the present day, it would defy the powers of numbers to reckon them, the greater part of the staircase being in so ruinous a condition as to be barely practicable. I should suppose, however, the depth of the Mina, from its mouth to the bed of the river, is about 250 feet. It pierces the solid rock, in short and very irregular zig-zags, for about two thirds the distance down, when, entering a natural rent in the cliff, the remaining portion is built up from the bottom of the chasm with large blocks of stone; advantage having been taken of a lateral projection, to cover this artificial facing from an enemy’s projectiles.

At various levels, passages lead off from the staircase into spacious and curiously arched apartments, to which light is admitted by narrow casements opening into the chasm or tajo. This subterranean edifice is supposed to have been a palace of the Moorish kings.

On the side walls of the narrow, crooked staircase, are numerous rudely engraved crosses, which our conductor assured us were wrought by the hands of the Christian captives who, during the last siege of the place, were employed in bringing up water for the use of the garrison, and whose oft-repeated signs of faith, thus lightly marked by their passing hands, had miraculously left these deep impressions on the hard stone. “Nor”—added he—“did such proofs of their devotion go unrewarded even in this world, for their liberation quickly followed; the until then unconquered city having been wrested from the Mohammedans after only a few weeks’ siege.”—The chains of these good Christians were sent to Toledo, in one of the churches of which city they may yet be seen.

Various other remarkable legends are related of this wonderful place; which, however, I will pass over, to say a few words of other objects worthy of observation in the vicinity of the city.

Of these, the most interesting to the Antiquary are the ruins of the Roman city of Acinippo,[97] which lie scattered on the side of a mountain on the left of the road to Seville by way of Olbera, and distant about ten miles N.W. from Ronda. Some of the Spanish Geographers persist in calling it Ronda la vieja, (old Ronda,) but certainly on no good grounds, since no place bearing the comparatively modern name of Ronda could well be of older date than the present city itself.

In the time of Carter, the venerable ruins of Acinippo could boast of containing an Amphitheatre and the foundations of several spacious temples, all in tolerable preservation; but these are now barely perceptible; and the statues, pavements, in fact, every thing considered worth removing, has long since been carried to Ronda.

Numerous Roman coins are daily turned up by the plough, as it passes over the streets of the ancient city, and Cameos, intaglios, and other more valuable relics, may be procured occasionally from the peasants dwelling in the neighbourhood.

But, though scarcely one stone of Acinippo now rests upon another, still the view from the site is of itself a sufficient reward for the trouble of scrambling to the summit of the mountain; whence, on a clear day, it is said that even Cadiz may be seen.

Deep in the valley, on the opposite or eastern side, flows the principal source of the Guadelete, (water of Lethe) which the Spaniards maintain is the real river of Oblivion of the ancients. Where the fertilizing stream flows amongst the vineyards of Xeres, it probably has often proved so without any fable.

On the bank of this rivulet stands the little castellated town of Setenil; famous in Moorish history, as having defied all the efforts of the Christians to subdue it, until the ponderous lombards of Ferdinand and Isabella were brought to bear with unerring aim upon its rock-based battlements. A.D. 1484.

Within another morning’s ride from Ronda is a very remarkable cavern, in the side of a lofty mountain, about five miles to the S.W. of the city, and known by the name of the Cueva del Gato (Cat’s cave). The entrance to it is some way up the face of a scarped wall of rock, that falls along the right bank of the Guadiaro, and can be gained only by those whose heads and feet are proof against the dizzy and slippery perils to be encountered; the ascent being over a pile of rough granite blocks, moistened by the spray of a foaming torrent that gushes out of the narrow cavity. These difficulties surmounted, the cavern itself is tolerably practicable, and the stream flows more tranquilly, though still here and there obstructed by blocks of stone. After penetrating some way into the interior, an opening of considerable width presents itself, where a ruined building of very ancient date is observable. It is said to owe its foundation to the Romans, and to have been a temple dedicated to the infernal deities. Rumour alleges that in later times it has served as a refuge for banditti. To proceed further, it is necessary to be well supplied with torches: with their aid I was informed the cavern is practicable for a great distance.

The stream to which this cavern gives a passage, takes its rise in a wooded basin, situated on the opposite side the mountain ridge, from whence the waters of all the other valleys are led off in a northerly direction to the Guadalete. This eccentric little rivulet directs its course, however, to the south, reaches the foot of a high-peaked mount that overlooks the village of Montejaque, and there, its course being obstructed by the solid rock, betakes itself once more to the earth, filtering its way for upwards of a mile through the mountain, and finally discharging itself into the Guadiaro[98] by the mouth of the Cueva del gato.

The Cavern is said to have received its name from the wonderful feat of a cat, which, put into the fissure by which the stream disappears from the surface of the ground, reached the other entrance with one of its lives yet unexhausted.

Numerous other delightful excursions may be made from Ronda, up the ravines in the surrounding mountains; and, should the sports of the field possess attractions, the country is noted for its abundance of game of all kinds; from quails and red-legged partridges, to wild boars, deer, and wolves.

In following this pursuit, chance one morning directed my footsteps along the edge of the precipice, that (as I have already mentioned,) bounds the New town to the west, and which, describing a wide circle, and gradually losing something of its height, once more closes upon the Guadiaro, about a mile below the city.

The space that nature has thus singularly walled in, and sunk beneath the rest of the vale of Ronda, is richly clad with gardens and vineyards; and the little stream, having disengaged itself from the dark chasm that divides the two towns, here once more slackens its pace, to luxuriate under refreshing groves of orange, citron, and pomegranate trees. Arrived, however, at the southern extremity of this basin, the rocky ledge on which I found myself standing again presents an obstacle to the tranquil flow of the crystal stream, and it hurries fretfully through a narrow defile, of the same wild character as that in which it received its birth; the banks being thickly clothed with the endless varieties of the cistus, and shadowed by the dense and sombre foliage of the ilex and wild olive.

Beyond this, a glen of somewhat more easy access presents itself, and the river is spanned by a light but firmly-knit arch, that bears the romantic name of the Puente del Duende, or, the Bridge of the Fairy. So sequestered is this spot—for it is some distance from any public road—that the little bridge, though well known to the country people, is seldom visited by strangers; and indeed its leafy canopy is so impervious, that, until arrived at the very brink of the precipice overlooking the dell, it is not possible either to discover the bridge or to trace the further progress of the river itself, which, by its tortuous course, seems loth to leave the lovely valley that has grown rich under its fostering care.

The mountains beyond appear equally unwilling that the beauteous basin should lose its benefactor; presenting themselves in such confused and successive masses, and in such intricate forms, as seem to preclude the possibility of the little stream ever finding its way through them to the Mediterranean.

Conspicuous above all the other points of this serrated range, is the Pico de San Cristoval,—said in the country to be the first land made by Columbus on his return from the discovery of the New World. Certain it is, that this peak,—called also La Cabeza del Moro (Moor’s head)—can be seen at an immense distance. I myself, from the blue Atlantic, have traced its faint outline reaching far above the horizon, when the low land about Cadiz, though comparatively near, could not even be discerned.

In following the course of the stream, however, I have been carried far below the Fairy’s Bridge, to which it is time I should retrace my steps. The narrow little structure serves, at this day, merely as a point of passage to a mill, situated on the left bank of the rivulet; from whence long trains of pig-skin laded mules convey almost as constant, if not so copious a stream, of oil and wine, over the bridge, as that of water which flows beneath it. The hills that rise at the back of the mill—and which in our more level country would be called mountains—are clad to their very summits with vineyards and olive groves—the sources of this gladdening and fattening stream. There was, nevertheless, an air of solitude, and even of mystery, about the spot, that greatly excited my curiosity. The reckless muleteers devoutly crossed themselves ere they ventured to pass over the little bridge; some even prostrated themselves before a crucifix rudely carved in wood that stood overhanging it. The more timid goatherds drove their flocks far away from the holy spot; and those whom I questioned concerning it gave me to understand, that the less they said and I inquired on the subject, the better for all parties.

The owner of the mill, without being quite so reserved, was equally mysterious; saying that, though in this sceptical age many persons were disposed to regard the wonderful things related of the place as mere cuentas de viejas—i. e. old women’s tales—yet that he could vouch for their truth, and, whilst it would be unbecoming in him (as Herodotus said before him) to disclose all he knew, this much he could say,—that it would be dangerous for most people to dwell as near the enchanted spot as he did. “But,” added he, throwing open his shirt and exposing what I learnt was a piece of a black dog’s skin, that he wore suspended from a rosary at his breast, “this is a sovereign charm against all manner of witchcraft.”

I afterwards discovered that the olive-grinding rogue was a notorious smuggler, and kept his contraband goods concealed in what are supposed to be haunted caverns, under his habitation, secure from the search of superstitious Aduaneros.[99]

My curiosity still further excited by the difficulty experienced in gratifying it, I applied for information touching the Fairy’s Bridge to my friend Don —— ——, who referred me to El Padre Canonigo, Don Apodo Fulano, adding laughingly, “You will be amused at the worthy father’s serious manner of relating the story; but I can assure you,—divesting it of the marvellous,—it is not todo cisco y carbon, como tesoro de duende.”[100]

To the Padre I forthwith bent my steps; and the following chapter contains his account of the Puente del Duende, which I give as nearly as possible in his own words.