GRANADA is the see of an archbishop, and the seat of one of the two high courts of Chancery of Spain. It is not a place of much trade, its inhabitants being chiefly employed in horticultural pursuits; but it contains manufactories of gunpowder, of silk and woollen goods on a small scale, and numerous tanneries.

The busiest part of the city is a narrow crooked street, which still retains its corrupted Moorish name, El Zacatin,[145] the little market. But the square where the market is now held (likewise a relique of the Moors,) presents also, at certain times, a scene of considerable bustle. The houses encompassing it are very lofty, and, at each successive story, have wide projecting galleries, wherein dwell the lowest classes of Granada’s inhabitants. The arches of these galleries are patched up with old pieces of board, canvas, and other materials, of all sizes and shapes, between the chinks, and crevices, and rents of which, smoke issues in every direction.

Towards the centre of the city is a bazaar, constructed, not like our London toy fairs so called, but on the oriental plan, each little gloomy stall being boarded off from the rest. The goods, also, as in the east, are offered for sale by smoking men, instead of being, as with us, handed to you by smiling houries. The modern merchants, however, enter their shops by a door, instead of clambering over the counter; and they occupy chairs instead of sitting in the cross-legged fashion of the founders of this remnant of Mohammedanism. At a certain hour in the evening the bazaar is closed, and given over to the care of three or four large dogs, which, shut into the building for the night, will not suffer any one to enter but him whose office it is to feed them, and to unlock the gates.

The population of Granada may be reckoned at 60,000 souls; and I think the female portion of it the least good looking, not to speak harshly, of all the dark complexioned natives of southern Spain. The Granadinas have not the carriage of either the Sevillanas, or Gaditanas, nor even of the MalagueÑas, who are celebrated rather for beauty than gracia; and, consequently, the lovely Alameda, on the banks of the Genil, has no attraction for strangers beyond that of its own intrinsic beauty.

The ladies of Granada lose somewhat, perhaps, in the comparison with the fair of other places, from having adopted, in a greater degree, a harlequin French costume, that but ill becomes them,—or, more correctly speaking, perhaps, that they do not become. Thus, the admirable set of their well poised heads is lost under a huge silk chapeau and groves of Roses de Meaux, clematis, and woodbine; their lustrous eyes no longer range, en barbette, as it were, over three quarters of a circle, but, pointed through a narrow embrasure, can only carry destruction in one direction. Their fans, too,—telegraphs of their slightest wishes or commands,—can no longer be flirted with the wonted effect; and their stately, though somewhat peculiar gait, does not receive its just tribute of admiration, unless set off by the black silk basquiÑa, under whose graceful folds their well tutored limbs have been accustomed to move.

The Granadinas of all classes are passionately fond of masked balls; which circumstance may partly be accounted for by one of the above-named disadvantages under which they labour-want of beauty; and all the masquerades at which I “assisted” seemed expressly got up for carrying on intrigues. No character, in any sense of the word, appeared to be maintained; and the whole amusement seemed to consist in the ladies going about to the gentlemen, who were almost all unmasked, and asking in a screaming voice, “mi conoces?”[146]

Although every body went to these balls, which were held at the theatre, yet, amongst the elite, it was deemed fashionable (now quite a Spanish word) for the ladies to have a box and receive masks. But the temptation of the waltz was too strong to be resisted, and all, I observed, descended occasionally, putting on a mask and domino, to join in its fascinating circumgyrations.

A letter of introduction to Madame Martinez de la Rosa,[147] equally noted for her accomplishments and her hospitality, gave us an opportunity of seeing the best society of Granada. The same want of beauty was observable amongst the beau monde at her Tertulia, as on the paseo on the banks of the river; but, to make amends, the music and waltzing were particularly good. The Spaniards may certainly be reckoned the best waltzers in Europe, now that the Germans have converted that graceful dance into a mere bear’s hug.

I afforded some amusement in the course of the first evening passed at Madame Martinez’ house, by asking a Spanish gentleman the name of a most laborious performance, which all appeared to be engaged in with great delight, to the total sacrifice of the graces. He started back with astonishment. “What description of dance? why it is an English country dance!” He thought it too good a joke to keep to himself, and, the performance concluded, went about telling all the ladies they had so disguised an English country dance that one of its countrymen did not recognise it. This information occasioned great dismay, contra danzas Inglesas being, at that particular juncture, “muy facionables;” and all the SeÑoritas crowded round with exclamatory “Jesuses!” to gather the appalling truth from my own lips, and ask instructions as to their future proceedings.

I explained, in the best manner I could, that, though the ladies and gentlemen in our national dance were deployed in two long opposing lines; in the same way that their sexes had respectively been drawn up, yet that various preliminary evolutions were performed by us, ere the parties began racing up and down the middle at full speed, in which their imitation entirely consisted; and, moreover, that we did not hurry the matter over, by beginning at both ends, as they did.

Before leaving Granada, a favourable opportunity presenting itself, I will enable my readers to form some idea of the taste and style in which the Spanish aristocracy fit up their country houses, taking as my pattern that of the Marques de Montijo, which, combining the comforts of the English with the classic taste of the French, I was assured I should find a very choice specimen. It is situated on a slightly elevated hill, rising from and commanding a lovely view over the wide vega. For the selection of the site, small praise is due, however, to the Marquis, as he would have had difficulty in fixing on any spot within the same distance of the city, that did not afford equally as fine a view. But the embellishments of the house and grounds are “all his own;” to these, therefore, I shall confine my description.

The grounds are laid out in stiff parterres, intersected with twisting footpaths, “À la Inglesa,” as they call it; a portion being hedged off as a labyrinth, which is thickly studded with rustic arbours, furnished with modern sofas. On the summit of an artificial hillock is a shallow fish-pond, from the centre of which rises a cave, or grotto (built, I believe, in imitation of the Giant’s Causeway), composed of fragments of stalactites, brought at a great expense from a cavern in a distant mountain.

A whirligig, with two horses and two coches—such as may be seen at Bartholomew fair—weathercocks of all sizes and devices, sun-dials innumerable, hedge-rows of zoophytes, &c. are scattered tastefully about, and in fact nothing is wanting but “the sucking pig in lavender,” and “Adam and Eve in juniper,” of the inimitable Mr. Drugget, to complete the long catalogue of absurdities.

The show-suite of apartments consists of a succession of small carpetless rooms on the ground-floor, each furnished with a bed, a few shabby gilt chairs, a sofa, some yet more Monmouth-street-looking chintz window curtains, a profusion of miserly little mirrors, and two or three old family pictures.

In the library, which contained some hundreds of ill-bound books, chiefly French, sat the Marquis himself—the genius of the place—a grandee of Spain of the first class, a reputed scholar, dilettante, and patron of the fine arts; a distinguished statesman, and at one time a pretender to the regency of Spain; now, alas! the victim of paralysis, disappointed intrigues, inordinate vanity, and insane ambition.[148]

Whilst at Malaga I had become slightly acquainted with the Marquis’s brother, the Conde de Teba, who, by turns, a violent Legitimista, Afrancesado, and Exaltado, was then, in the latter character, doing duty as corporal in the City Light Horse, and bore about on his crippled person the just reward of his treason to his country, having received a wound which disfigured him for life, whilst serving in the French ranks.

The Conde married a Miss K——, “the beautiful and accomplished daughter” (as the newspapers say) of one of the first British merchants of Malaga. His union with this lady had been forbidden by the late king of Spain, on the grounds that the pure blood of a Spanish grandee was not to be contaminated by admixture with the grosser current flowing in plebeian veins. To overcome this objection, reference was made to the heraldic records of Scotland (the country of the lady’s family), and a genealogical tree was shipped off to Spain, which proved without flaw, cross-bar, or blemish, that the family of K—— was an offset from the great Fingal himself. Ferdinand, who, morose as he has usually been represented, enjoyed a joke as much as most people, burst into a hearty laugh on this document being placed before him, exclaiming at length, “In God’s name, let Teba marry the Scotch king’s daughter!”

This speech, though made in perfect good humour, was not soon forgotten by the lady, who, when I had the pleasure of meeting her, wore round her king-hating person (forgetting her high descent) the terrific words, constitucion Ò muerte, embroidered on a green sash ribbon.

Granada, by the way, is reckoned a most constitutional city. I first visited it a few months previous to the invasion of the Duc d’AngoulÊme, when every one breathed the most deadly hate against the French, and every thing promised a most sanguinary struggle. The streets of Granada, if the vile Gavachos ever got so far, were to be their burial place; the city was to be another Zaragoza; the contest another “guerra hasta el cuchillo.”[149] I pictured to myself the beauteous groves of the Generalife formed into abattis to defend the town; the pure streams of the Darro and Genil reddened with the gore of its brave inhabitants; the tottering towers of the elevated Alhambra pounded into dust; the venerable deputy-governor[150] of the royal palace exposed to the insults of a licentious soldiery! Happily, however, all my anticipated fears were groundless. The French troops marched quietly into the city long after the garrison had left it by an opposite gate, and the invaders were received by the inhabitants with every outward mark of neighbourly esteem and affection.

During the first days of the constitutional portion of the reign of Ferdinand “the beloved,” military schools were established in most of the principal cities of the kingdom. That of Granada was on a scale proportioned to the “exaltacion” of the place, 90 students being maintained at it. A large monastery, which, ever since the expulsion of the Moslems, had been under the protecting care of St. Jerome, was handed over to the more bellicose Santiago,[151] for the purpose of training up the youthful Granadinos to deeds of arms; and if the saint-militant attended to their studies as well as he did to their feeding and clothing, no complaint could possibly be brought against him.

The attempt to regenerate the national army by the infusion of a body of educated officers, whose advancement should depend entirely upon their own conduct and acquirements, was a praiseworthy effort to break through the barriers of presumption, ignorance, and vice, with which the pampered nobles of Spain had, until then, closed the door of promotion against every kind of merit; reserving for themselves all the most influential and lucrative posts, and placing in the inferior, the illegitimate branches of their houses, their numerous hangers-on and menials, and, even yet worse, the debased panders to their vices.

But venality is so strictly entailed upon all public departments in Spain, that the same gross corruption and glaring favouritism continued, as before, to regulate the distribution of favour and promotion. The patronage had passed into other hands, but the new hands were not more delicate than the old; “aunque vistan À la mona de seda, mona se queda.”[152] Legitimists and liberals were both equally corrupt; their object was the same, namely, to fill their pockets from the public purse. The difference between them consisted merely in the means by which they effected their purpose. The intrigues that had formerly been employed to manage the court were now directed to influence the political clubs, and, under their dictation, the constitutional ministers (to retain their places) were obliged to nominate the noisiest braggarts to the command of their armies, and select for all the minor posts such as were most vociferous in their cries of “constitution or death.” These, as might naturally have been expected, were, for the most part, lawyers’ clerks, tavern waiters, and barbers’ apprentices—self-imagined Gracchi and Bruti, who thought they would be doing a great public good by bettering their own particular condition. The youths, who, under the new system, crowded the military schools, were all chosen under the same influence, and mostly from the same class. But whatever germs of future Cids and Gonzalvos these seminaries may have cherished, not any were destined to reach maturity, for, Santiago not being so quick in his operations as San Anton, the French army cut up the tree of liberty, root and branch, ere these seeds of military greatness had even sprung up.

The extraordinary deterioration that has taken place in the Spanish army, since the days of Philip II., is only to be accounted for by the demoralized state of the upper ranks of society, and the consequent corruption that pervades every department of the state. The soldiers, who now run away, are chosen from the same race of men, that fought so gallantly under the Dukes of Alba and Parma; the religion they profess is the same that it was then, nay is stript in some slight degree of its bigotry and superstition. The last king to whom they swore obedience, was not a whit more despotic than any of his predecessors; so that it is futile to say, that tyranny or liberty had any weight in the matter. Could any sway be more absolute than that of the Spanish sovereigns of the House of Hapsburg? and yet under them the Spaniards behaved most nobly. Would it be possible to frame a more liberal constitution than that of 1820? and yet no troops ever conducted themselves more shamefully than those ranged under its standard.

Nor can this marked change be attributed to any inferiority of theoretical military knowledge on the part of the Spanish nation; for their schools of artillery and engineers are indisputably good, and their military writers by no means behind the age. Indeed, the “reflexiones militares” of the Marques de Santa Cruz may be traced throughout the scientific pages of Jomini and Dumas, and are, in fact, the groundwork of some tactical compilations of recent date in our own language.

The experience of the War of Independence proved, however, that very few officers of superior rank in the Spanish army were qualified to command;[153] and, at the same time, one cannot but be struck at the very small number amongst the inferior grades, who rose to distinction during the long period of its continuance.

The civil war that followed brought forward no new men of military talent; and the invasion of the French, in 1823, proved the utter incapacity of all the leaders who had been transformed into generals under the constitutional government.

The bombast of these latter worthies rendered their imbecility the more ridiculous. I heard one say to the late Sir George Don, just before the entry of the Duc d’AngoulÊme into Spain, “If we Spaniards drove the French across the Pyrenees, like a flock of sheep (!) when commanded by Napoleon’s best generals, with how much greater ease shall we now do so, being led only by a despotic Bourbon!”

Not very long after, I witnessed an act of imbecility yet more laughable. In ascending the staircase of the government house at Gibraltar one morning, I saw, on the landing place, a Spanish general officer (then, as at this moment, holding a most important command) explaining to an officer of the governor’s staff how, by “una grande combinacion,” he, Riego, and other “inclitos heroes,” proposed cutting off Marshal Molitor’s division of the French army, then marching on Granada. As the success of their combined operations depended entirely upon the secrecy and celerity with which they were to be conducted, it could not but be extremely amusing to hear the gallant general explain the “whole progress” of the affair, before a host of orderly serjeants, messengers, and servants; who, attracted to the spot by his loquacity and gesticulations, were listening with open-mouthed astonishment, to the elucidation of his cunningly devised plan. Ere I passed on, I too was fortunate enough to witness the hypothetical termination of “his marchings and counter-marchings,” in the most complete success; as, suiting the action to the word, he described a wide circle with his outstretched arms and gold-headed cane, and enclosed the outmanoeuvered French marshal and his entire corps d’armÉe.

The result of this “grande combinacion” turned out, however, to be that the Marshal effected the passage of the mountains between Guadiz and Granada, ere the Spanish captain general had yet fully explained the impossibility of his escaping from the strategical toils about to be spread for him.

Return we now to Granada—from which city, having announced at Madame Martinez’ tertulia that it was our intention to depart on the following morning, taking the road to Cordoba, certain symptoms of uneasy curiosity were manifested, attended with sundry mysterious hints, that led us to fancy some extraordinary perils were to be encountered on that particular road. Less communicative than the Spanish captain general, however, the utmost we could elicit from our various acquaintances was, that the country round about the city whither we were about to proceed, was in a very volcanic state, and that a political explosion might be daily expected.

As none of our party had professed an over-boiling admiration of the existing state of things, I believe we were set down as aiders and abettors in the revolt of the troops which shortly afterwards took place—though not until we had safely returned to the shelter of the British fortress.

We left Granada as proposed, taking the direct road to Cordoba, by AlcalÀ la real. As far as that town, the road, at the period of which I write, was the only carriage route leading from Granada towards Madrid. Another by way of Jaen has been opened within the last few years. If ocular demonstration of this first-named road being practicable for carriages had not, however, been afforded us, we should certainly have doubted the possibility of any thing less fragile than a bullock’s cart getting over some parts of it; but as far as PiÑos de la Puente, that is, for the first twelve miles, it is tolerably good, traversing the north-eastern portion of the Vega, and leaving the Sierra de Elvira at some little distance on the right. The village of PiÑos stands on the right bank of the river Cubillas, and inscriptions, which have been found and are preserved there, prove it to have been the town of Ilurco, mentioned by Pliny. It is celebrated, in more recent times, as a spot where many a fierce struggle took place between the Moors and Christians; for, in their forays into each other’s country, the bridge of PiÑos was generally the point chosen for effecting a passage across the impracticable little stream that, in this direction, bounds the Vega.

The hilly country begins immediately on leaving PiÑos de la puente, and a fine view is obtained from the heights above the village: Granada, and the line of mountains beyond, are seen to great advantage, and to the right lies the rich vega, stretching westward as far as Loja. The Soto de Roma[154] occupies the very heart of the fruitful plain; appearing from hence to be thickly wooded. Such, however, is not the case, although some well grown timber is upon one part of it.

Proceeding onwards, over a very hilly country, and crossing the little river Moclin, in an hour and a half we reached the Venta del puerto Lope, (pass of Lopez) distant six miles from PiÑos de la puente. About three miles beyond the Venta, a view of the most romantic kind presents itself. The Sierra Nevada, and part of the plain of Granada, are seen through a tremendous rent that intersects the lofty mountains which now encircle the traveller; the entrance of the rugged defile being defended by two towers, standing on bold, and almost inaccessible, rocks.

Some miles up this impracticable tajo, is situated the crag-based fortress of Moclin, which, from the command it possessed of the principal pass through this mountain range, was called by the Moors, “the Shield of Granada.” The celebrated Conde de Cabra experienced a signal defeat in attempting to surprise this fortress; which, a few years after, (A.D. 1487) fell into the hands of Ferdinand the Catholic, by the accidental explosion of its powder-magazine.

About a league from the Puerto de Lope, the town of Illora, erroneously placed on the road in most maps, is seen two miles off, on the left. It stands on a rocky eminence, crowned by an old castle, and overlooking a fertile plain. The ancient name of the place is lost; but it was one of the strongholds of the Moors, and fell to the Christian arms only a few weeks prior to the capture of Moclin, when the renowned Gonzalvo was appointed its Alcaide.

The country henceforth becomes more open and cultivated, but the soil looks cold and ungrateful after that of the plain of Granada. The hills bordering the road are studded with towers at the distance of about a league asunder, which, in the days of the Moslems, must have formed a very perfect line of telegraphic communication between the capital and the northern frontier towns of the kingdom of Granada.

The old castle of AlcalÀ la real, situated on an eminence, is seen at a considerable distance, and, on a near approach, some modern works thrown up by the French give it rather an imposing appearance. The town is so pent in by hills as not to be seen until one has passed under the triumphal arch by which it is entered. It was called by the Moors AlcalÀ Abenzaide, the Castle (Al Kala) of Abenzaide, and received its present distinguished name on falling to the victorious arms of Alfonzo XI. A.D. 1340. From this date it became the principal bulwark of the Christian frontier, and the base of most of the offensive operations undertaken against Granada. A remarkable brick tower, built by the Conde de Tendilla as a night beacon, to assist the erring footsteps of the Christians in escaping from captivity, still stands on an elevated knoll, clear of all the other hills, on the opposite side of the town to the castle.

Antiquaries are at issue as to what Roman town stood in this important position. Some imagine it to be the situation of the Agla menor of Pliny; whilst others—as it appears to me with more reason, considering the order in which that methodical writer enumerated the cities of note lying between Boetis and the Sea—are of opinion that it is the site of Ebura Cerealis.

AlcalÀ la real has always been considered a military post of importance, and many a desperate conflict has been witnessed from its walls. The last (not a very desperate one, however) was in January, 1810, between a division of the French army, commanded by General Sebastiani, and a disorganized mob of Spaniards, under Areizaga,—by turns the most rash, and most desponding, and always the least successful, of all the Spanish generals. By the defeat of the Spanish host, the road to Granada was thrown open to the invaders.

The Old Castle, called La Mota, is a Moorish work, which the French strengthened by some interior retrenchments. The city, though sunk in a deep hollow, stands high as compared with the surrounding country; the springs on the opposite sides of the chain on which it is situated falling to the Guadalquivir and Genil respectively. The streets are tolerably wide and well paved, but steep; the plaza is spacious, and rather handsome; the Alameda is shady, and abounding in fountains; and the Posada vile, and overrun with vermin. The population may be estimated at 4000 vecinos escasos,[155] or 20,000 souls, including the inmates of six large convents.

On our next day’s journey, to CastrÒ el Rio, we were most disagreeably convinced of the little dependence that can be placed on the information of the peasantry respecting distance. They invariably compute space by time; an hour’s ride being reckoned one league. As, however, the rate at which their animals travel is by no means the same, their computation of distance varies accordingly; so that a man possessed of a good mule reckons that distance seven leagues, which the owner of the more tardy burro estimates at nine. To exemplify this by our own case—we set out from AlcalÀ under the impression, received overnight from information obtained from a party of arrieros—that the distance to Baena was seven leagues. After riding an hour we overtook two peasants, mounted on sorry animals, who told us it was still seven leagues. Ten minutes after, (fancying we must have taken a wrong road) we questioned a priest, bestriding a sleek mule, and learnt that it was four leagues to Baena, or five from a knoll some hundred yards behind us. In another hour the distance had increased to four leagues and three quarters; but for the next hour and a half, we proceeded in the proper descending progression, until we had reduced the distance to three leagues, and a shrug of the shoulders, implying good measure.

With this radius, and Baena as a centre, we were doomed to describe the arc of a circle for two tedious hours; and at length, by a figure which it would be difficult to explain geometrically, found ourselves suddenly within a league and a half of our destination. From this stage, our journey diminished pretty regularly to its end, excepting that we were a quarter of a league from that desideratum before we were half of one!

I think the real distance may be reckoned twenty-four English miles; for it occupied us seven hours to accomplish. The country is rough and intricately broken, without being elevated; and it is devoid of much interest. The road is a mere mule track, (for from AlcalÀ the Madrid road proceeds to Alcaudete) and must be almost impassable in winter, as well from the stiff, clayey nature of the soil, as from the depth of the mountain rivulets which have to be forded, and which are very numerous. The plains, which here and there present themselves, are well, that is generally, cultivated; producing corn chiefly. The line of beacon-towers is continued along the points of the distant hills.

The town of Alcaudete (distant three leagues from AlcalÀ) lies about six miles off the road on the right; and Luque (some little distance farther on) stands on a slight eminence, about a mile and a half off, on the left.

On drawing near Baena, the country becomes wooded with olives, and the hills lose somewhat of their asperity. It is a large town, containing 1000 Vecinos, and stands on the side of a rugged mound, overhanging the right bank of the little river Marbella. The summit of the crag, in the usual Moorish fashion, is crowned by an old castle, the enceinte of which is rather extensive. The walls of the town are also standing, and, within the last few years, have been plastered up and loop-holed, to enable them to resist a coup de main, or an attack of cholera.

Baena is another town to which antiquaries are puzzled to affix a Roman name. By some it is imagined to be Ulia; but this I do not think at all likely, for, in the first place, the Itinerary of Antoninus makes Ulia distant but eighteen Roman miles from Cordoba, whereas Baena is, at least, thirty two; and, in the next, because CÆsar, who, on his second coming to Spain, found his own army assembled at Obulco, (Porcuna) and that of his adversaries besieging Ulia,[156] would scarcely have ventured to make a flank movement on Cordoba, to draw Cneus Pompey from the siege of Ulia, leaving his own magazines exposed to the enemy within half a day’s march of that place. Had he been strong enough to act in the bold manner this would imply, it seems more probable that he would have marched at once with his whole army to the relief of the beleaguered fortress. It strikes me, as being more probable, that Baena is the Baebro of Pliny, enumerated by that author (amongst the towns of note on the left bank of the Guadalquivir) next in order to Castra Vinaria, now CastrÒ el Rio.

The last Moslem King of Granada, the “luckless” Boabdil, made prisoner at the battle of Lucena, (A.D. 1483), was confined for some time in the castle of Baena; in which also the banners and other trophies, taken on the field of battle, were deposited by the victor, the enterprising Conde de Cabra.

The accommodation of the Posada we found very hard; so, after exploring the place, and attempting to take a Siesta, we proceeded on to CastrÒ El Rio. The distance from Baena to this place is two very short leagues—scarcely more than six miles. The road, during the greater part of the way, is along the confined valley of the Marbella; but, on approaching CastrÒ, the bounding hills gradually lose themselves in an extensive plain, that stretches along the winding course of the River Badajocillo.

CastrÒ El Rio has all the appearance of a very ancient place, and almost all accounts agree in placing at this spot the Roman city of Castra Vinaria, called, in some authors, Castra Postumii.[157] It is now an insignificant and thinly populated place, having little or no trade; and most of the land in its vicinity is laid out in pasture. The River Badajocillo, or Guadajoz, washes its walls, and, by many, is supposed to be the Salsus, so frequently mentioned in the “Spanish war” of Hirtius; but without any reason, that I have been able to discover, if we are to place reliance in that author’s description of the river and adjacent country.

We found CastrÒ occupied by the head-quarters and greater part of one of the royal regiments of Carbineers; and every stable in the place being crowded with the troopers’ horses, we had the greatest difficulty in obtaining accommodation for our own wearied animals. Indeed, but for the interference of a Caballero, muffled up in a capacious cloak (who seemed to possess extraordinary influence over the Innkeeper), we should have been obliged to proceed on, or bivouac outside the walls of the town. His interference, however, caused a small shed, crowded with mules and borricos, to be cleared for the reception of our horses, into which, after some little trouble, they were all squeezed. A room for ourselves we were assured was quite out of the question;—and, as for beds, every mattress, bolster, manta, and blanket, that the posada afforded, had been secured by the Spanish officers. The same civil and influential personage again, however, befriended us, for, after a short time, whilst we were consulting where we should spread our cloaks for the night, the Innkeeper came to acquaint us that “ese Caballero EspaÑol”[158] had resigned in our favour “una pequeÑissima sala,”[159] which had been reserved for his use; and that he had further directed it to be furnished with four sacks of chopped straw for our accommodation.

The Spanish officers, who had entered into conversation with us whilst standing at the portal of the posada, evinced great curiosity to know whence we had come, whither we were going, and what was the motive for our travelling, and very civilly invited us to pass the evening with them at some house where they were in the habit of assembling nightly. But being both hungry and weary, we made the latter an excuse for declining their invitation. They then plied us with questions touching the state of Granada; asked our opinion of the political condition of the kingdom in general; and, complaining of the difficulty experienced in obtaining news of any kind that could be relied on, begged to be informed if we had recently heard of any thing stirring at Madrid, and whether we purposed visiting that capital. To all these queries we replied that, our object being merely amusement, we had not troubled ourselves much by inquiring into the state of parties—that every thing seemed to be quiet wherever we had been—and that our future plans were undetermined.

With numerous offers of service, they then wished us good night, and we betook ourselves to the Sala, sending a message to the Caballero, who had so kindly given it up, to request he would do us the pleasure of joining his smoke with our’s; an invitation that did not require pressing.

Our visitor, whom we now had an opportunity of inspecting more closely and critically, was a tall, powerful man, with marked but good features, though the general expression of his countenance was decidedly bad. His brows were dark and shaggy, his cheeks covered with a forest of whisker, and his fierce, uneasy eyes intimated that he was one who had stopped and would stop at nothing to effect his purpose.

His curiosity concerning the object of our travels was not less, though more guardedly expressed, than that of the Spanish officers; and, by degrees, a kind of distrust, with which at first he evidently regarded us, wore off, and he expressed his unbounded love for and admiration of the English nation, collectively and individually. “I have seen much of your compatriots,” he proceeded, filling himself a bumper of wine, “though of late years my opportunities of mixing with them have been but few. I have ever found them to be true lovers of liberty—ever ready to lend a helping hand to neighbours in distress; yes, yes! whenever an oppressed people stand up for their rights, carajo![160] an Englishman has a G—d—n in his mouth, and a musket on his shoulder in a credo.—Pardiez, SeÑores! but these are excellent cigars! They are indeed legitimos,[161] and, entre nous, they are the only things being legitimas that I have any great taste for. To you Englishmen I may say as much. You, like myself, are lovers of constitutional liberty—detesters of absolutism, of a domineering aristocracy, of religious bigotry, and priestly mummery. These things are all very well for the ignorant; but we, who have read, and studied, and reflected, know the just value to set upon them.”

We gave a ready assent.

“This wine is sad trash,” he continued, after a flask of execrable black strap had been disposed of, “and I know that you English like a good glass of Xeres seco. I will therefore take the liberty, con licencia, of sending for some that I think will please your palate.” Upon which, calling the mozo charged with the care of the stables, he directed him to go to the house of a certain Don Hilario, and request su merced to send some bottles of wine.

“Say it is for me, Juan,” added our guest, or rather our host, with a marked emphasis on the personal pronoun; “say it is for me, and he will be sure to give you the right sort; but cuida’o![162] Tell him I have some friends with me—English officers; is it not so?” turning interrogatively to us, “and that half a dozen bottles will not be too many.”

Juan took his departure with a knowing glance at our friend, and in less than the “fumar de un cigarro,”[163] returned with the wine. It was excellent—the real “Sherris sack.” Bottle after bottle was drained, and every draught of the “fertile” liquor seemed, in the words of Shakspeare’s droughty knight, to have a “two-fold operation” upon our convivial entertainer; “drying him up the crudy vapours” that environed his suspicious brain concerning us, and rendering him extremely communicative respecting his own affairs: so that long before even the second bottle was emptied, he had pronounced us to be gente with whom he saw he could converse “con toda confianza,”[164] and had awakened much curiosity on our parts, with regard to himself.

Although he had appeared to us to be on a friendly footing with the officers of Carbineers, he now abused them in most unmeasured terms; asking if they had not evinced very impertinent curiosity, (how much sooner are the faults of others seen than our own!) to know all about our movements. “Those alacranes,”[165] said he, “are all traitors to their country, enemies to our glorious charter of liberty, and—whatever professions they may make to the contrary—have as little liking for a free-born Englishman as Sancho Panza had for unadulterated water.” “Indeed,” we replied;—truly enough, though somewhat jesuitically perhaps, wishing to draw him out;—truly, “from some observations they let fall, it is evident they are no great admirers of the present constitutional government.” “Admirers!” he exclaimed; “no, indeed, it brings them down to their proper level. But, carajo! if I had my way I would bring them down something lower; for I’d shoot every mother’s son of them, without the benefit of a dying confession. I’ll tell you how I would set about establishing a constitutional government, caballeros. I would first hang up the king; then give the garrote to all your dukes, marquisses, and condes; and lastly, to make things sure, root every bishop, priest, cura, and fraile, out of their snug hiding-places. That would be——” “But your religion?” interrupted we. “Qu ... e Religion! disparate![166] That would be the way to keep the French on their own side the Pyrenees! But let them come! they will find us ready to receive and able to beat them, in spite of the defection of our dastardly nobles. As for these carbineer officers, they are a set of fanfarrones, who are only fit to pavonearse por las calles.[167] I have done more service to my country than the whole of them put together. Look here,” he added, removing the handkerchief bound across his forehead,[168] and exhibiting a formidable scar; “this was not obtained in a brothel brawl; nor this,” showing a mutilated hand. “No, no, caballeros, my skin would not serve to carry wine in.”

“You have seen much service then,” we observed.—“Wherever any was to be seen,” he replied. A fresh supply of cigars was brought, another cork drawn, and before the bottle was finished, we had persuaded our visitor to give us his whole history.

The narration occupied the best part of the night, and will consequently require a proportionate space in these pages. Not therefore to detain my readers in a miserable country venta, and break the thread of my journey, I will reserve it for future chapters, concluding this with a brief description of the remaining portion of the road between Granada and Cordoba.

We left CastrÒ at dawn, (minus the curb chains, valise straps, and divers other little detachable articles of our equipment, which are serviceable to cavalry soldiers); taking leave of our new acquaintance, who, though he had impressed us with no great feeling of admiration for his character or principles, had, nevertheless, greatly interested us by the narration of his adventures.

The road to Cordoba is dreary in the extreme; being principally across extensive plains of pasture, uninterrupted by a single tree, uncheered by a solitary cottage, or even rancha, and after leaving the banks of the Guadajoz, unrefreshed by a single drop of water. It does not, however, leave the river immediately on quitting CastrÒ; on the contrary, so eccentrically does the stream wind, that it is twice crossed (by fords) within a very short distance of the town, and then continues for a considerable distance along its right bank. Indeed, until arrived within a league and a half of Cordoba, the road does not altogether lose sight of the winding river.

The quality of the route depends upon the season. In summer it is carriageable;[169] in winter, knee-deep in mud, and liable to be flooded. The distance between the two towns is reckoned six leguas regulares, i. e. about 24 miles.

On reaching some high table land, about five miles from Cordoba, the glorious capital of the western caliphs, and the splendid valley of the Guadalquiver, first burst upon the sight. The view is less extensive, perhaps, but far more striking than that on approaching Granada from Alhama; and when arrived at the edge of the range of hills bordering the rich valley, it becomes perfectly enchanting. The bright city, with its venerable cathedral, its Moorish bridge, its castle and royal palace, is offered to the spectator’s close inspection. The gracefully winding Guadalquiver, bathing its mouldering walls, may be traced for miles along the spacious plain that stretches to the East; its flat and fertile banks covered with the varied foliage of the olive, pomegranate, and citron. Beyond the city, a range of wooded mountains, studded with numerous cortijos, convents, and quintas, rises abruptly from the plain; presenting a fine relief to the sun-lit edifices of the city; and behind this, again, successive ranges of wild mountains show themselves, terminating at length in the cloud-capped ridge of the Sierra Morena.