BIDDING adieu to Ronda,—its fruitful groves, crystal springs, snow-white bread, and jet-black eyes,—we will take the road to Malaga.

At about a mile and a half from the town, the road arrives at and passes under a long aqueduct, by means of which a stream is conveyed across the valley, for the supply of the fountains of the Mercadillo; thereby saving to its inhabitants the expense of sinking deep wells in the rocky hill.

At the end of another half league, the road having gained a slight acclivity, commands a fine view of the venerable old city and its fertile plain; but diving thence into a dark and narrow ravine, a contrast of the wildest character presents itself, and the road winds for many miles amongst the rugged roots of the old women’s teeth, already noticed.—These have certainly not had the effect of grinding the path smooth—for a more execrable trocha it never has been my fate to ride over. Part of it is so bad,—resembling a petrified honeycomb of Brobdignag dimensions,—that our horses had to pause at every step, and consider into which of the holes presented to their choice they should next venture to put their feet.

The scenery is splendid. It consists of terrific precipices and impending mountains—foaming torrents and rustic bridges—umbrageous oaks and wide-spreading cork trees. But our enjoyment of these wild beauties was considerably diminished, as well by the torrents of rain that fell without ceasing from the time of our entering the mountains, as from the attention it was necessary to give our horses.

Our progress, necessarily slow over this camino de perdices,[109] was yet further retarded by numberless trains of loaded mules, which, having left Ronda with the earliest dawn, had gained an advance upon us over the plain, and, labouring under the bulky produce of the fair, were filing slowly along the same narrow track as ourselves, restricting our pace to an average rate of something less than three miles an hour. Vain were all our endeavours to gain the head of the lengthened column;—for though we seized every opportunity the rugged road presented of pushing on with our less burthened animals, yet no sooner had we succeeded in passing one string of mules, than we found ourselves in contact with the tail of another.

Gradually, however, the Cafilas[110] became wider and wider apart; and on arriving within a few miles of the town of El Burgo, an open and comparatively level space presenting itself, unobstructed by man or beast, we began to indulge the hope that our perseverance had earned its reward, and that thenceforth a clear road lay before us. Our impatient steeds gladly availed themselves of the permission to quicken their pace; but five minutes’ canter carried us across the verdant glade, when we again found ourselves immured within a rocky ravine, shadowed by the dark forest, and—to our disappointment—in contact with yet another string of mules and boricos.

The pass was more rugged than any we had hitherto met with, and the sure-footed animals, with noses almost touching the stony path, were scrambling down the rough descent with caprinine agility; though sometimes—thrown off their equilibrium by the size rather than the weight of their burthens,—they would stagger from side to side, so as to make their destruction appear inevitable. Righting themselves, however, in the most scientific manner, and making a short pause, as if to recover their self-possession, they would resume their perilous undertaking, without further incitement than an “arre!”[111] glad enough not to feel the usual accompaniment on their houghs or ribs.

Considering it advisable to follow the muleteers’ example, we too allowed our beasts to use their own discretion in the selection of their stepping-places by giving them their heads; and, folding our cloaks about us, so as to afford the utmost possible protection against the pelting storm, we resigned ourselves to fate; there being nothing for it, as the philosophic Sancho says, but patience and a shrug of the shoulders.

Whilst proceeding with our necks thus in chancery—sliding, stumbling, and dripping along, in rear of the closely formed column—we came most unexpectedly upon a peasant, mounted on a sleek mule, who, taking advantage of a favourable spot, had drawn up on the road side to allow the train to pass. The circumstance of his being the only person we had met journeying towards Ronda, would of itself have caused us to notice him, but there was something in the man’s deportment that peculiarly attracted observation. In the first place, he suffered all his fellow-countrymen to pass without deigning to return their usual courteous salutation; in the next, he was smoking a tabaco[112] instead of a papelito; and, lastly, he was muffled up so completely in his manta that every part of his dress was concealed, and of his face little more than the eyes could be seen. These were dark, piercing, and inquisitive, and their sidelong glances, evidently following their owner’s thoughts, were directed with searching scrutiny on the tempting bales that passed successively before him.

So thoroughly was the attention of this person devoted to this interesting examination, that, concealed as we were by the moving mountains of Manchester goods which preceded us, our military cortÈge, bringing up the rear of the column, took him completely by surprise. For the moment all presence of mind forsook him. His left arm, by an instinctive jerk, removed the hat from his head; disclosing a most sinister countenance, and a brace of pistols stuck in his worsted sash; whilst, with the other, he hurriedly made the cruz de admirado,[113] muttering, at the same time, the usual passing benediction. With the flurry of a person exerting himself to appear composed, he then, to our great amusement and astonishment, began singing one of the peculiar ditties of the arrieros, at the very extent of his voice.

These sudden transitions, first from arrogance to servility, then from alarm to merriment, struck us all very forcibly; and each was pondering to himself,—for it rained too hard to render talking agreeable,—what could possibly have given rise to them, when, reaching the bottom of the descent, a sharp turn in the road brought us in view of a party of some twelve or fifteen persons, who, partially concealed in a thicket of underwood, were assembled under the shelter of a huge cork tree, about fifty paces off the road. Though habited as Contrabandistas, they were armed up to the teeth, and had a far more offensive than defensive appearance. Most of the party were grouped round the stem of the huge tree, under protection of which a fire was struggling for existence against the storm and rain; but some of the men were scattered amongst the brushwood, and seemed to be girthing up and preparing their horses for a start.

All eyes were anxiously fixed upon us the moment we came in sight, showing that the muleteer’s song had not been a spontaneous outbreak of hilarity; and the examination of our persons was evidently productive of some little distrust and apprehension; for though the folds of our capacious cloaks screened our persons most effectually from view, yet the glazed caps that protruded above, and the steel scabbards that peeped out below, sufficiently showed our military calling.

A short and hurried consultation was the result of their scrutiny. That ended, one of the party, who seemed to be its chief, stepped a few paces towards us, whilst the rest, as if wishing to avoid observation, resumed their interrupted occupation at the fire.

The person who thus put himself forward was a handsome, jolly-looking fellow, who, despite the heat of some fifty Andalusian summers, was bordering on corpulency. Richly dressed and well armed (as well with assurance as with blunderbuss and pistols), he was, in every sense of the word, un hombre de bigote;[114] and, saluting our party most courteously, he requested our knightships would alight and warm ourselves at their fire; and, if we could put up with road-way fare, partake of their poor breakfast.

Treating this invitation as—that which no doubt it was meant to be,—a mere compliment d’usage, we politely, but with the brevity which the Spanish language admits of, excused ourselves (for the weather was anti-ceremonious), and passed on without even exchanging a single word amongst ourselves.

That fatal effects are frequently the consequence of too great loquacity, no one will venture to dispute; but that similar results should spring from over-taciturnity, many may be disposed to controvert. Voltaire (I think) relates a ludicrous story of some drowning Dutchmen, who would not part with their pipes to cry help; but the fact may be doubted. In the present case, however, several luckless wights were actually throttled for want of one saving word of English!—But I am anticipating the catastrophe of our adventure, if so it deserve to be called.

We had no sooner passed beyond hearing of the suspicious-looking troop, than a peasant, who had stuck close to our heels all the morning, rode up to inform us that the persons we had just met were muy mala gente,[115] and that we had had a most fortunate escape.—We too were pretty well convinced that the party had halted at that retired spot with the intention of taking something more substantial than breakfast; but we did not feel surprised at their allowing us to pass without molestation, since our party was strong and our baggage light.

On our arrival at Malaga next day, we learnt that a sharp affair had taken place near El Burgo, between some of the government troops and a gang of robbers; and the following afternoon, when riding on the Alameda, whom should we meet but our quondam friend, and two of his companions, proceeding under an escort to the city gaol. He recognized us immediately, but his breeding was by no means improved by the air of the city;—the friendly greeting of the Sierra being changed into a torrent of maledictions.

Curious to learn the particulars of the case, and cause of his abuse of the malditos Ingleses, we made particular inquiries on the subject, and learnt, to our surprise, that we had ourselves been mainly instrumental in causing the apprehension of the robbers. Deceived by our being muffled up in our cloaks, they had taken us for one of the detachments of Spanish troops, which, at the breaking up of the fair, are sent from Ronda to patrole all the principal roads leading through the SerranÍa. The vidette whom we came upon so unexpectedly had not been able to give the bandits sufficient time, either to prepare for action, or to conceal themselves; which accounted for the confusion so perceptible when we first discovered them; as, expecting to have easy work with the muleteers, they had secured their horses in the thicket, to have all hands ready for the ransack.

Trusting that our suspicions had not been excited, and relieved from all apprehension of encountering another patrole for some hours, they had stopped, and were in the act of plundering one of the richly-laden trains that we had passed in the morning, when the real gens d’armes came to the rescue. In their fancied security, the robbers had gone so deliberately to work, that the notice of their scout had not given them time to regain their tethered horses; and in the scuffle that ensued, three of the gang were captured, whose necks, as we were afterwards informed, were in the due course of justice submitted to the garrote.

I must now return to El Burgo,—which place we were five hours in reaching, although its distance from Ronda is scarcely eleven miles; indeed, in the measure of the country, it is reckoned but two leagues.

El Burgo de Ronda (as it is generally called) is a miserable village, containing about 200 Vecinos; but it is most romantically situated, in a fertile plain encompassed with magnificent woods and mountains, and watered by numerous springs. We arrived thoroughly drenched, and were glad to halt for a short time, to breathe our horses and dry our cloaks. Towards noon, the weather becoming more propitious, we continued our journey to Casarabonela. The road is very bad all the way, though somewhat better than we had gone over in the morning. The scenery is not by any means so fine.

The direct road to Malaga avoids Casarabonela, leaving it, perched on the side of a steep mountain, some thousand feet above, and about half a mile off, on the right; but the view from the summit of the ridge overlooking the town is so grand, that I would strongly recommend all travellers to ascend the rugged mountain, even at the cost of an hour’s delay, and risk of a displaced collar-bone.

The little town, embosomed in groves of fruit-trees, lies about half way down the southern side of the mountain. On its right, and somewhat overlooking it, an old Moorish fortress occupies a cragged eminence; its smoked and shattered walls seeming, after the manner of its founders, to be mourning with dirt and ashes the loss of the rich plain spread out beneath; over which, in former days, they held despotic dominion.

This vast plain stretches south, to where the winding Guadaljorce discharges itself into the ocean; the Sierra GibalgalÍa rising “like a huge incumbrance” from its centre, and sheltering the mouldering walls of the famed city of CartÁma. Along the eastern side of the valley, the mountains of Alhama, the Alpujarras, and snowy ridge of Granada, successively overtop the rugged ramifications of the Sierra of Almoxia, which bound it in that direction. To the west, the Sierras of Alhaurin and Mijas present themselves, rising abruptly from the plain. Between these two masses of mountains, and beyond the plain, a wide expanse of the blue and glassy Mediterranean is visible, studded with white sails, bearing the rich produce of Malaga to every part of the world.

The descent to the town is good, but tedious,—winding through luxuriant vineyards and orchards. The vines are here trained on frames raised about five feet from the ground; a method by no means general in Spain, and which, though certainly more pleasing to the eye, is not considered so favourable to the fruit as that usually adopted.

The Inn looked dirty and comfortless, and its keeper was so imbued with the constitutional doctrines of liberty and equality,—then much in vogue,—that he would hardly condescend to answer our questions concerning accommodation, and was perfectly indignant at our suggesting the expediency of his rising from his seat, and showing us the way to his stable.—“There was the door of his house if we chose to enter; if not, we had but to suit ourselves elsewhere.”

Aware that the town did not possess another posada, and that the nearest Venta on the road was at a distance of several leagues, the dignified innkeeper trusted, from the lateness of the hour, that we should necessarily be obliged to place ourselves at his mercy. We, on the other hand, determined, if possible, to obtain accommodation elsewhere, and seeing the lady-owner of the adjoining house standing at her door, asked her if she knew any one who, for a handsome consideration, would furnish us with a night’s lodging.

After a short parley, it was agreed that her house and stable should be placed at our “disposicion” for the night, and sundry of our hard dollars at her’s in perpetuity. The publican—who, pending the negociation, sat at his portal puffing a cigar, affecting the utmost indifference to its result, but in reality listening impatiently to every word that passed—no sooner found how good a thing had slipped through his fingers, than he started up in the most ungovernable passion, venting his rage upon our buxom hostess, somewhat in the following strain—“Mala Pascua te dÉ Dios! Hija de puta ruin![116]—May you be burnt for a witch before the year’s over, for taking the bread out of a neighbour’s mouth!—May the ghost of your cuckold husband appear at your bedside this night, you shameless wanton!—May”—“Que chusco es el tuerto!”[117] interrupted the incensed fair one, in a scream that completely drowned the rest of his good wishes, to whatever extent they may have been carried—“Look at home, Cabron,[118] ere you call an honest man cuckold, and a virtuous woman wanton.”—“Virtuous woman, indeed!” resumed he of the Venta; “and admits four smooth-chinned Ingleses into her house, to say nothing of their two stout grooms, and that monkey-faced Portuguese, their guide; whom I know right well, though he has grown fat under English feeding; and whom, fat or lean, no virtuous woman would suffer within reach of her nostrils.”

This unlooked-for attack on “lazy Antonio” drew a furious cross-fire upon the irritated Ventero; for whilst our hostess flinched not one inch from his direct and somewhat scandalous assault—par pari referens—“Vosse mercÉ” opened a fire of loud, nasal Portuguese-Spanish upon his flank, that exceeded in noise the braying of a whole troop of asses.

This, in its turn, unkennelled the publican’s Cara Sposa. The combat recovered its equilibrium, and seemed likely to be terminated only by the coming night; for all our endeavours to withdraw the valorous Antonio proved unavailing. But, in the words of the Manchegan Knight, “siempre deja la ventura, una puerta abierta.”[119] The publican and his wife, though proof against the reputation-killing batteries of their open enemies, could not stand before an insidious covert attack that was now about to open upon them.

The town’s people, amongst whom the liberal ventero did not appear to be in good odour, flocked in crowds to the scene of action, and, though professing to take no part in the fray, yet, by whooping, hollowing, and laughing, whenever the widow and her Portuguese ally fired a successful shot at their adversaries, they gave the former a “moral support,” that, in its results, proved quite as efficacious as an active interference.

The Innkeeper—who hitherto had manfully confronted his opponents—now saw that victory was no longer attainable, and abandoned the field; leaving his light-tongued helpmate to cover his retreat. This task she performed with consummate ability, supporting her nearly exhausted volleys of words by screams of defiance, and various offensive gesticulations. The last distinguishable turn of reproach that reached our ears, was Alarbes![120] which she seemed to consider the ne plus ultra of vituperation, and certainly was the very last epithet we had any right to expect would be applied to fair-skinned mortals like ourselves, by such a bronze-complexioned semi-morisco.

The battle over, and stable door unlocked,—the key of which, firmly grasped in her right hand, had been the standard under which our hostess had fought and conquered,—we led our tired horses in, leaving her to fire a round of taunts in celebration of the victory.

Casarabonela is a clean and well-paved town. For the former quality, it is principally indebted to a stream of limpid water that, issuing from the side of the mountain, rushes down the steep streets, carrying every thing offensive before it. Its supply is so bountiful that, besides doing the scavenging duty of the town, and turning a number of mill-wheels, it is led off in irrigating channels through all the gardens and orchards in the neighbourhood.

The inhabitants are celebrated for their comeliness, and I willingly bear witness to the truth of common report in this particular instance; having seldom seen more lovely faces than amongst those of the bright-eyed, fair-complexioned damsels of this mountain town. Nor are their figures unworthy of note, albeit, their limbs are something too muscular for Naiades and Oreades.

It is meet, by the way, that I should explain how I became acquainted with this latter fact relating to their secret history, lest scandal should blight the fair fame of the Casarabonelian maidens. The truth is, then, we arrived at the town upon a washing day, and in taking our evening stroll, chanced to come upon the congregated village nymphs engaged knee-deep at their lavatory vocation in the mill stream; jumping and stamping with all their might upon the soiled garments of the preceding week; and certainly displaying more of their fair skins than might reasonably have been expected to meet the eyes of strangers. So they appeared to think also; for our sudden advent created an extraordinary sensation amongst them. Some had sufficient presence of mind to get on dry ground ere they loosened the bandage that confined their petticoats at the knee; others, regardless of consequences, let them drop in the water; and some few were so completely bewildered as to fancy their only chance of obtaining concealment was by squatting down, even in the midst of the stream.—All laughed, but there was nothing either immodest or rude in their merriment. They were evidently ashamed that their bare legs (albeit not to be ashamed of) had been exposed to our gaze; but, at the same time, they could not but be amused at the various extraordinary expedients resorted to to conceal them.

As we could not accuse ourselves of any indiscreet curiosity in this matter—for we had followed a beaten path leading to the old castle—we had but to compliment them on their fair skins and sound understandings, and pass on. Indeed, I suspect it was merely our being strangers that had occasioned their modesty to be so put to the blush; for their own countrymen must have been passing to and fro the whole day, in proceeding to their work in the fields. Such is the force of habit.

The view from the Old Castle, looking towards Malaga, is nearly equal to that from the top of the mountain; and in the opposite direction, the outline of the Sierra itself is very bold, and is set off to great advantage by the rich foliage of well-grown forest trees that clothe its rough side.

Our landlady’s will was better than her accommodation. Our beds, which (so careful was she of her reputation) were all in one small room, looked well enough; but the somnifugeous animals domesticated therein were so numerous, so vigorous, and so insatiable, that we gladly hailed the dawn of day to escape from their persevering attentions.

The road down the side of the mountain (in its windings upwards of a mile) is far from good, and it is only tolerable after gaining the plain, until it passes by a ford to the left bank of the Guadaljorce, when it becomes practicable for carriages all the way to Malaga.

The course of this river (Guada al jars—River of the Guard) is most eccentric. It rises considerably to the eastward of the city of Antequera, almost, it may be said, on the margin of the Genil, and running, during the early part of its course, nearly parallel to that river, seems, like it, to be directing itself to the GuadalquivÍr. But, after following this westerly course for upwards of thirty miles, it turns abruptly from the level country, in a southerly direction; pierces its way through a most intricate country to Alora; washes the base of the rock on which that ancient city is perched; and then, entering the vale of Malaga, winds round to the eastward, fertilizing that spacious plain; and discharges itself into the Mediterranean:—thus, from its source to its mouth, describing a perfect semicircle.

In the centre of the extensive vale of Malaga, the volume of the Guadaljorce is increased by the junction of the Rio Grande—a far less considerable stream, which comes down from the mountains encircling Toloz, Monda, and other Roman-Moorish fortresses, that guard the passes on the western side of the plain.

Carter, describing this latter river from its source to its embouchure, states it to be the Sigila of the Romans. Should this be the case, (though it seems probable that the larger stream of the two would have carried its name to the sea) we have yet to learn by what name the Guadaljorce was known in former days.—I mention this, as I shall hereafter refer to the subject in speaking of the Salsus, which, it strikes me forcibly, was the name given formerly to the upper portion of the Guadaljorce—i. e. before it was lost in the rocky defiles to the north of Alora.

The Guadaljorce—jore—joz—and—quivirejo, (for it is equally known by all those names) runs in a wide, pebbly bed, and is readily enough forded at all seasons, excepting when heavy rains happen to have caused it to overflow its banks. Under any circumstances, however, Malaga may be reached by making a dÉtour to the westward; crossing the Rio Grande at Casa Palma, and from thence, following the road by Cartama, down the right bank of the Guadaljorce, until arrived abreast of the village of Aljaurinejo, where a bridge presents itself.

The direct Road from Casarabonela crosses the River, previous to its confluence with the Rio Grande; and about a mile beyond the ford, reaches the Venta de CartÁma. This is often made the resting-place between Ronda and Malaga. Now, as I write with the view of tempting others to ride after me, I feel called upon, despite the poor accommodation of Casarabonela, to advise future travellers to put up with it; for certainly a more wretched hovel than the Venta of CartÁma I never looked into. A single glance produces an irritation of the skin, and a sympathetic restlessness of the fingers.

Proceeding onwards, a view of the town of CartÁma is obtained on the right. It lies somewhat removed from the bank of the Guadaljorce, upon the north side of the Sierra GibalgalÍa. The harvest of statues, pavements, coins, &c. gathered amongst the ruins of this ancient Roman city, has been very abundant. A few years back it possessed a Forum, Porticoes, and Temples, in a very perfect state. But, though the Spaniards talk much of their antiquities, they trouble themselves but little about their preservation; and CartÁma contains now scarcely any thing worthy of note.

From the Venta de CartÁma to Malaga the road is practicable for carriages to an extent of thirteen miles and a half; making the total distance from Casarabonela twenty-five miles;—from Ronda, forty-five.