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properly arranged, we mounted our horses, and were off. In spite of the bad reputation of the Spanish roads, we took no weapons, leaving even our pistols behind us.

The sun was shining with great power; but there was a cool breeze, which in some degree counteracted its effects, and often during our journey, when drenched by the rain which fell for hours without intermission, did we long for a sight of the great luminary. But I am anticipating. Passing along by the side of the Caños de Carmona, an aqueduct which supplies Seville with pure water, and which is, in some places, supported on high arches; forcing our horses through a deep layer of mud which covered the road, and winding for the last half mile along the banks of a picturesque stream, we reached Alcalá de Guadaira, a small town about eight miles from Seville. The ruins of an old Moorish castle at Alcalá are very fine; but we remained merely long enough to water our horses, and then proceeded on our way. The last two or three miles of our traveling that day led us through a very picturesque country, and afforded quite a relief from the monotonous fields through which we had previously passed. It was about seven in the evening when we rode into Carmona, our resting-place for the night. Glad were we to seat ourselves at dinner, and comfortable did we feel as we sat lazily puffing our cigars after sufficiently anathematizing the hard Moorish saddles on which we had ridden. The unaccustomed exercise had made us rather weary, and we retired early to our beds, after having looked through the city by starlight. Carmona possesses some fine Moorish ruins; the Alcazar is very fine, and her situation on the crest of a high hill, commanding an extensive view on both sides, makes this city a very pleasant residence. Early the next morning we rode forth through one of the graceful Moorish arches, which serves as a gateway, and, emerging from the narrow streets, were charmed with the beauty of the landscape beneath us. Directly in front of us was the morning sun, gilding with its rays the broad plain below; far off to the left was the Guadalquivir glancing in the sunlight, with the Suira Morena rising beyond; while behind, the old walls of Carmona rose grandly above us, crumbling, it is true, but still suggestive of pomp and glory, though past and gone.

We passed down a very steep descent to the plain below, and crossing this at a tearing gallop, toiled up the hill beyond, and then continued our journey through groves of olive-trees for many a mile. By twelve o'clock we had traveled quite far enough to be ready for luncheon, and entered a miserable venta to appease our appetite. We had providently filled our alforjas with bread, chicken, oranges, and other delicacies; and it was well that we were thus independent of the resources of the venta, for, on inquiring, we found that eggs constituted their sole provender. One can easily imagine the elegant cleanliness of the aforesaid venta, when I inform him that underneath our table, while we were eating, were two pigs, five cats, one dog, and several hens, all apparently in the last stage of starvation, if one might judge from the ravenous manner in which they devoured the crumbs which fell from our table. The hens actually amused themselves with leaping upon the table, until A. almost severed the head of one from her body with a back-handed stroke of the knife with which he was busily engaged in investigating the contents of an egg, for spoons were not to be obtained in that model hotel. In spite of all these obstacles, however, we managed to make a most substantial luncheon, and it was quite an agreeable episode on which to look back.

A very heavy shower had fallen while we were in this place, and we were congratulating ourselves on having escaped the rain and satisfied our hunger at the same time; but soon after our departure from that ever-to-be-remembered place, the clouds again gathered black and threatening, and the rain recommenced. For four hours we plodded on through deep mud, until we reached Ecija. The approach to Ecija, either from Cordova or Seville, is down a steep pitch, and as we neared the town and commenced the descent, the rain, which had been less violent for the preceding half hour, came down in torrents.

The population of Ecija is between thirty and forty thousand. It is situated in a valley through which pours the Ienil, a river which rises amid the snows of the Sierra Nevada, and on whose banks so many fierce conflicts took place between the Moors and Christians. From the extreme heat which is experienced in sum

mer at Ecija, it is called La Sartenilla, the "frying-pan" of Andalusia; and from this circumstance it derives its modest motto, "Una sola será clamada la Cuidad | del Sol:" "One alone shall be called the City of the Sun." Thus frying-pans assume the titles and decorations of a Heliopolis.

On our arrival at this aspiring place, Luis advised us to go to a posada, as being cheaper than a fonda. There are three classes of public houses in Spain, namely, fondas, posadas, and ventas. A fonda is like an ordinary hotel, where the traveler orders his meals as he wishes, and has no further trouble at a posada, he sends some one to buy what he wishes, and it is then cooked for him in the house, where he can also obtain a bed: a venta is an inferior posada, and there one must sleep on straw by the side of his horses amid harmonious brayings, unless he can persuade the owner to give up his own couch. The latter class of houses of entertainment are found in the country, while the two former are in towns and cities. Of the above distinctions we were not aware, and therefore took the advice of Luis. Dismounting, we desired him to order dinner, and were astonished at his asking for money to buy the raw material; on our expressing surprise, he informed us that one of the peculiarities of a posada was, that the traveler must procure his own provisions. We were obliged to yield to this ridiculous custom, and patiently waited until he purchased and then cooked the long-wished-for meal.

After a comfortable night's rest, we left Ecija early in the morning of March 27th, on our way to Cordova. The storm had passed away for the time, and we anticipated a pleasant journey in spite of a cold wind then blowing. Our hopes were disappointed, however, for the rain soon commenced, and the muddy roads grew muddier. We stopped at a village posada to lunch and feed our horses; and here again Luis displayed his culinary abilities, and then we pushed on. At about six P. M., while yet two leagues distant from Cordova, we caught a glimpse of that city, as we reached the summit of a high hill. The clouds were breaking, and we rode rapidly forward in hopes of enjoying the fine view of Cordova, of which we had heard so much, before the sun had disappeared. We were not disappointed; de

scending from our first point of view, we crossed a narrow plain, pressed eagerly up the last hill, and beneath us was Cordova. Just as we reached the top of the hill, the sun burst forth from the clouds, which had hitherto obscured it, and its golden radiance cast an evanescent halo over all; then the shadows crept up the face of the Sierra Morena, and twilight reigned. The view for those few moments that the sunlight lasted, was too glorious to continue long; but while its brilliancy tinged the landscape, we were lost in silent admiration. Cordova, with queenly magnificence, her feathery palms waving amid the spires like the plumes of royalty, sat peacefully gazing on her fair possessions. The Guadalquivir rolled its tide at her very feet, foaming and leaping as its waters struck the piers of a noble bridge; a broad plain stretched out on the opposite side of the river from the city, glowing with the early shoots of grain; while the Sierra Morena loomed up majestically behind the monarch city; its convent-covered summits standing out boldly against the pale sky beyond. One last look, and we mounted, hurried on, and reached the city just in time to enter before the gates were closed.

The beauty of Cordova is not that of an ordinary city; the tall palms waving their light branches as each breath of wind sweeps over them, impart an Oriental appearance, and one feels as if he had left the commonplace towns of Europe to gaze upon the glories of some eastern city, of whose traditions Schehezerade might weave the web of many a romantic tale. Within the city walls all, alas! is decay. We crossed the river over a massive stone bridge, and all our romantic ideas were lost for the moment immediately on entering the dirty, narrow streets of this once proud capital.

Next morning we sallied forth to see the lions. Cordova is soon seen, for besides the Mosque there is little else to interest the traveler. The Mosque La Mezquita is one of the most singular remains of Moorish grandeur now existing in Spain. It should be entered through the Court of Orange Trees, El Patio de Naranjos, which is a large rectangular inclosure planted with orange trees and enlivened by fountains. On entering this the delicious fragrance of the orange blossom stole over us, and this, aided by the

harmonious plash of falling water, prepared us for any beauty however great. Here the devout Moors performed their ablutions before entering the Mosque, and strove thereby to render their orisons more acceptable to their God. Now, alas! the scene is changed; in place of turbaned Moors we saw the stalwart Spanish beggars, whose eager importunities drove away each bright illusion, and whose harsh voices broke the fragrance-freighted air.

Crossing El Patio de Naranjos, we passed through a small door into the interior of the Mosque, and were immediately lost in a forest of pillars. The Cathedral, as it now is, although it still retains its ancient name, is a huge square building, but thirtyfive feet in height, the ceiling supported by a vast number of stone columns, some of jasper, some of porphyry, verd-antique, and other choice marbles, which France, Spain, Constantinople, and even Carthage and other cities of Africa have contributed to furnish; there were formerly twelve hundred of them, but many have disappeared, and the number is now given as eight hundred and fifty-four, and I have heard that there are but three hundred and sixty-five, although the latter figure would seem too low. The Mosque was built toward the end of the eighth century of our era. One of the most singular objects shown in the building is an irregular cross, said to have been made by a Christian captive with repeated scratchings of his nail. The inscription beneath it reads, "Hizo el Cautivo con la Uña," "The captive made this with his nail.'" "Credat Judæus Apella;" although if we read "Clavo," " an iron nail," it might easily be true, for it is not very deeply cut, and the upright stroke is not more than seven inches in length, and the cross piece but three or four.

The tomb of the chivalric Don Alonzo de Aquilar is shown in one of the churches at Cordova, and this city has given its name to the Great Commander, the brother of Don Alonzo, Gonsalvo de Cordova. Cordova, too, was once famed for the literary men whose birthplace it was. Lucan and the two Senecas, born here, but writing in Latin, sustained for a time the decline of Roman poetry and literatare. Under the Moors, also, Cordova flourished, but they were driven forth from Spain, carrying away with them science, art, and literature. The convents which,

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once rich in the wealth of this world, looked down from the Sierra Morena, afford another instance of the decay of all things Spanish. No longer do pampered monks dream away their manhood edicts have stripped them of most of their within the walls of San Jeronimo; royal possessions, leaving them but a scanty pittance for their support: stone is falling from stone; their end is near at hand.

Cordova, and early in the morning of the We had passed Friday, the 28th, in 29th we were in the saddle and on our to pass the night. At two leagues from way to Ardea del Rio, where we proposed Cordova we crossed the Guadalquivir over the noble bridge of dark marble at Alcolea; this is one of the finest bridges in Spain, saw it, asked if it were not made in France, and it is said that the French, when they so puffed up were they with success that they affected to believe that nothing of note could be constructed without the borders of their own land. Corpio, a small town with a ruined MoorLunching at emerging just at sunset from a fine wood ish castle, we rode on toward Ardea, and through which we had been passing for half an hour, we saw the town at the distance of a mile, situated in a plain at the foot of high hills with the Guadalquivir rushing through it. The view was very

pretty, and the soft tinkling of bells from the flocks on the hillside, mingling with the gush of the river, called to mind scenes of home when the summer's day is over.

We left Ardea, at which place we arrived the previous evening, in a drizzling rain, and for ten long hours walked our horses through the deep mud, while the pitiless rain never ceased, sometimes pelting down with violence, sometimes oozing between the mackintosh and the coat colwith most revivifying effect. lar, and meandering gently down the back

mer and cloudless skies were discarded All romantic notions of everlasting sumfrom our ideas of Spain and washed away by that charming rain. We stopped to rest and lunch at Andujar, a town on the Guadalquivir, which we crossed just before reaching the walls. This town was once surrounded by strong walls, but these of time. After luncheon we mounted and are now crumbling away beneath the hand splashed on through the mud until 4 P.M., when the clouds began to break away. Up to this time we had been passing

through dull and uninteresting scenery, but now we were entering a wild, romantic gorge, through which the Rumblar was dashing, and on whose precipitous sides many flowers were blooming, among which I observed the pale harebell, which called to mind the azure blossoms of our own mountain glens. Now, too, the sun came beaming forth, driving away the murky clouds, and with them, alas for the frailty of human nature! all our gloomy thoughts. For two hours after the rain had ceased we pursued our journey, passing the scene of the battle of Bailen, that foundation of so much Spanish boasting, and at length reached our destination. Imagine the accumulated filth of weeks concentrated in one long street, lined by rows of dirty whitewashed houses, and you can form a fair idea of Bailen. New York, with its heaps of conglomerated snow and dirt, the clinging mud of New Jersey, and every other disgusting mass of uncleanliness, were entirely eclipsed by that single street. At Bailen we passed the night, and early on Monday, March 31st, started off without any very definite idea as to where we should pass the night. We had only a few showers during the day, and as the sun came out at intervals we rode on in good spirits, crossing the Guadalquivir over a suspension bridge, and after gazing longingly at Jaen, as it appeared high up on the hills, and thinking for some time that a few moments more would bring us to it, we at length rode into that city. The cathedral must have been in sight for over two hours, and yet when we first saw it we would never have dreamed that it was more than two miles distant. The bareness of the ground and the clearness of the atmosphere.diminished the apparent distance and most effectually deceived us, and we afterward discovered that we were eight miles from the city when we first caught sight of it.

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The position of Jaen is very picturesque, lying under a castle crowned hill, while long lines of Moorish walls and towers creep up the irregular slopes. The city itself is far above the level of the plain through which the road approaches it. The Cathedral is a very fine building externally, but the interior is all glare and whitewash, and has none of the solemnity of appearance which characterizes the noble one at Seville. Issuing from the city and passing down a deep descent, we

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rode for some time through a well-watered valley full of fig, apricot, and pomegranate trees. A very heavy shower passed over us shortly after leaving Jaen, and we endeavored to get in at several miserable ventas along the road; but in most of them there were no beds, and where they had them they were occupied. These ventas are merely prepared for the reception of arrieros or muleteers, who sleep on straw by their mules.

At length we succeeded in finding one, at which several arrieros with their mules had arrived before us, and the only bed in the house was that of the landlord and his wife, who gave it up to us. We had no provisions with us, and the long ride had given us a most voracious appetite; but all that the venta could produce were some pork chops, which had been partly cooked with garlic, and a few eggs. It was amusing to witness the wild-looking arrieros, and to hear them arguing while their supper was in course of preparation, and the old hostess and her daughter bustling hither and thither, and pouring every horrible ingredient that was ever imagined into the mess which was stewing over the fire. Garlic, oil, codfish very far gone, potatoes, and many other Spanish bonnes bouches, whose names I knew not, were promiscuously mixed, stirred, and stewed, until all were reduced to one glutinous mass. The room was about eighteen feet square, and its inhabitants were distributed as follows: pigs and children in one corner, children and pigs in another, the remaining corners being filled with groups composed of the same interesting materials, the several piles radiating from the middle of the room as a common center. This room, with its living furniture, was the ante-room of our own apartment, to which we retired. Next morning we arose and sallied forth to find some water wherewith to perform our ablutions; not a basin was to be found in the venta, and we were obliged to go down to a stream which ran near the house, and then and there bathe our faces and hands in its pure waters. Somewhat refreshed thereby, we mounted our horses, and were off for Granada, from which we were distant fourteen "leguas largas." A Spanish league is called three miles, but even a "legua corta" is more than that, and a "legua larga" is fully four miles. Again an intense dis

gust for all "Cosas de España" took possession of us, but this feeling was soon dispelled by the beautiful weather and the splendid scenery through which we were passing. Gigantic rocks towered up on cach side of the road, and a stream, the same in whose waters we had laved that morning, ran gayly near us, and with its babbling melody drove away all recollection of our former troubles. The road through this cleft in the rock is very well laid out, shielded from the encroachments of the stream by strong masonry, and in one place tunneled through the solid rock. About two hours after leaving the venta we began to ascend, and in this agreeable employment we were engaged for nearly five hours, at the end of which time we commenced the descent toward the plains leading to Granada. Stopping for an hour to refresh the horses, not forgetting to perform the same kind office for ourselves, we continued the descent for about two hours and a half, and then traveled for an apparently interminable distance over a road which had been almost destroyed by the heavy rains, and which was not improved for present traveling by the quantities of broken stone with which they were mending it. A shower, too, came up, and rendered the roads even worse than they were before. At length, at eight o'clock | P. M. we saw the lights of Granada; but it was not until after an hour and a half had been consumed in painfully slow traveling over the newly Macadamized roads that we entered the town, and rested for the night.

Such was our experience of a week's travel on horseback in Spain. It is true there had been many contretemps, but still the pleasure far outweighed them, and in the contemplation of the many beauties of nature that we had seen, and in recalling all the singular incidents of our trip, our time was regarded as well spent. We had seen the Spaniards in their true light; not those of towns, although we saw enough of them also, in whose breasts each sordid feeling has as strong a sway as in the paupers of other lands; but those of the open country, who always strove to be hospitable and kind. Not a peasant did we meet but touched his hat and wished us Godspeed: Baga Usted con Dios Caballoro was their never-failing greeting, and we always felt at home. On one occasion we passed a

family seated by the roadside, eating their frugal meal, and as soon as they beheld us they invited us, in the kindest manner, to partake of what they had; it was not much, it is true, but it proved their generosity. It required but slight favors to make them communicative, and the gift of a cigar always opened their hearts. One cannot give the Andalusians much credit for energy; but their fertile land has been their curse. Within their own province they have every vegetable product, from the tropical fruits of the torrid zone to the lichen of the Polar regions. They need little exertion to win its rich stores of grain from the bosom of the earth; and, like the Baotians of old, who contrasted in mental prowess as strongly with their active neighbors in Attica as did their fertile land with the latter's sterile soil; like the Romans when wealth and luxury had sapped the iron frames that had borne the eagle from east to west, from north to south, throughout the known world; so they, too, have fallen. Gone now is the glory of the great Ferdinand; no longer does the warlike spirit of a Cid Campeador urge them on to victory or death: Spain's glory is dead.

There is a striking similarity between the fate of Italy and Spain. Both were divided in the earliest times into many petty kingdoms; both united by the wisdom of successive princes; both were poor and industrious in a day of weakness; both rich and indolent as their empire grew; both sent their legions forth to conquer worlds, and when their work of conquest and rapine was ended, sank down, wearied with success, and could not keep what they had gained. "Panem ac Circendem," cried the effeminate Roman, thirsting for blood, yet daring not to draw his own sword from the sheath to strike the invader of his native land. toros," shrieks the Andalusian, degenerate son of him who drove forth the Moor from the sunny land of Spain, who quelled the fierce Indian in his Western wilds, and bore the proud standard of Castile far over the dark waters. One by one fell the wide-spread colonies of Rome before the sterner spirit of another race; so, too, were Spain's western conquests torn from her avaricious rule, not, like those of Rome, by the might of foreign elements, but striking for themselves and conquering.

"Pan y

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