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                 A Ramble Among the Hills。



  I USED frequently to amuse myself towards the close of the day; when

the heat had subsided; with taking long rambles about the

neighboring hills and the deep umbrageous valleys; accompanied by my

historiographic squire; Mateo; to whose passion for gossiping I on

such occasions gave the most unbounded license; and there was scarce a

rock; or ruin; or broken fountain; or lonely glen; about which he

had not some marvellous story; or; above all; some golden legend;

for never was poor devil so munificent in dispensing hidden treasures。

  In the course of one of these strolls Mateo was more than usually

communicative。 It was toward sunset that we sallied forth from the

great Gate of Justice; and ascended an alley of trees until we came to

a clump of figs and pomegranates at the foot of the Tower of the Seven

Floors (de los Siete Suelos); the identical tower whence Boabdil is

said to have issued; when he surrendered his capital。 Here; pointing

to a low archway in the foundation; Mateo informed me of a monstrous

sprite or hobgoblin; said to infest this tower; ever since the time of

the Moors; and to guard the treasures of a Moslem king。 Sometimes it

issues forth in the dead of the night; and scours the avenues of the

Alhambra; and the streets of Granada; in the shape of a headless

horse; pursued by six dogs with terrible yells and howlings。

  〃But have you ever met with it yourself; Mateo; in any of your

rambles?〃 demanded I。

  〃No; senor; God be thanked! but my grandfather; the tailor; knew

several persons that had seen it; for it went about much oftener in

his time than at present; sometimes in one shape; sometimes in

another。 Every body in Granada has heard of the Belludo; for the old

women and the nurses frighten the children with it when they cry。 Some

say it is the spirit of a cruel Moorish king; who killed his six

sons and buried them in these vaults; and that they hunt him at nights

in revenge。〃

  I forbear to dwell upon the marvellous details given by the

simple…minded Mateo about this redoubtable phantom; which has; in

fact; been time out of mind a favorite theme of nursery tales and

popular tradition in Granada; and of which honorable mention is made

by an ancient and learned historian and topographer of the place。

  Leaving this eventful pile; we continued our course; skirting the

fruitful orchards of the Generalife; in which two or three

nightingales were pouring forth a rich strain of melody。 Behind

these orchards we passed a number of Moorish tanks; with a door cut

into the rocky bosom of the hill; but closed up。 These tanks; Mateo

informed me; were favorite bathing…places of himself and his

comrades in boyhood; until frightened away by a story of a hideous

Moor; who used to issue forth from the door in the rock to entrap

unwary bathers。

  Leaving these haunted tanks behind us; we pursued our ramble up a

solitary mule…path winding among the hills; and soon found ourselves

amidst wild and melancholy mountains; destitute of trees; and here and

there tinted with scanty verdure。 Every thing within sight was

severe and sterile; and it was scarcely possible to realize the idea

that but a short distance behind us was the Generalife; with its

blooming orchards and terraced gardens; and that we were in the

vicinity of delicious Granada; that city of groves and fountains。

But such is the nature of Spain; wild and stern the moment it

escapes from cultivation; the desert and the garden are ever side by

side。

  The narrow defile up which we were passing is called; according to

Mateo; el Barranco de la tinaja; or the ravine of the jar; because a

jar full of Moorish gold was found here in old times。 The brain of

poor Mateo was continually running upon these golden legends。

  〃But what is the meaning of the cross I see yonder upon a heap of

stones; in that narrow part of the ravine?〃

  〃Oh; that's nothing… a muleteer was murdered there some years

since。〃


  〃So then; Mateo; you have robbers and murderers even at the gates of

the Alhambra?〃

  〃Not at present; senor; that was formerly; when there used to be

many loose fellows about the fortress; but they've all been weeded

out。 Not but that the gipsies who live in caves in the hillsides; just

out of the fortress; are many of them fit for any thing; but we have

had no murder about here for a long time past。 The man who murdered

the muleteer was hanged in the fortress。〃

  Our path continued up the barranco; with a bold; rugged height to

our left; called the 〃Silla del Moro;〃 or Chair of the Moor; from

the tradition already alluded to; that the unfortunate Boabdil fled

thither during a popular insurrection; and remained all day seated

on the rocky summit; looking mournfully down on his factious city。

  We at length arrived on the highest part of the promontory above

Granada; called the mountain of the sun。 The evening was

approaching; the setting sun just gilded the loftiest heights。 Here

and there a solitary shepherd might be descried driving his flock down

the declivities; to be folded for the night; or a muleteer and his

lagging animals; threading some mountain path; to arrive at the city

gates before nightfall。

  Presently the deep tones of the cathedral bell came swelling up

the defiles; proclaiming the hour of 〃oration〃 or prayer。 The note was

responded to from the belfry of every church; and from the sweet bells

of the convents among the mountains。 The shepherd paused on the fold

of the hill; the muleteer in the midst of the road; each took off

his hat and remained motionless for a time; murmuring his evening

prayer。 There is always something pleasingly solemn in this custom; by

which; at a melodious signal; every human being throughout the land

unites at the same moment in a tribute of thanks to God for the

mercies of the day。 It spreads a transient sanctity over the land; and

the sight of the sun sinking in all his glory; adds not a little to

the solemnity of the scene。

  In the present instance the effect was heightened by the wild and

lonely nature of the place。 We were on the naked and broken summit

of the haunted mountain of the sun; where ruined tanks and cisterns;

and the mouldering foundations of extensive buildings; spoke of former

populousness; but where all was now silent and desolate。

  As we were wandering about among these traces of old times; we

came to a circular pit; penetrating deep into the bosom of the

mountain; which Mateo pointed out as one of the wonders and

mysteries of the place。 I supposed it to be a well dug by the

indefatigable Moors; to obtain their favorite element in its

greatest purity。 Mateo; however; had a different story; and one much

more to his humor。 According to a tradition; in which his father and

grandfather firmly believed; this was an entrance to the

subterranean caverns of the mountain; in which Boabdil and his court

lay bound in magic spell; and whence they sallied forth at night; at

allotted times; to revisit their ancient abodes。

  〃Ah; senor; this mountain is full of wonders of the kind。 In another

place there was a hole somewhat like this; and just within it hung

an iron pot by a chain; nobody knew what was in that pot; for it was

always covered up; but every body supposed it full of Moorish gold。

Many tried to draw it forth; for it seemed just within reach; but

the moment it was touched it would sink far; far down; and not come up

again for some time。 At last one who thought it must be enchanted

touched it with the cross; by way of breaking the charm; and faith

he did break it; for the pot sank out of sight and never was seen

any more。

  〃All this is fact; senor; for my grandfather was an eye…witness。〃

  〃What! Mateo; did he see the pot?〃

  〃No; senor; but he saw the hole where the pot had hung。〃

  〃It's the same thing; Mateo。〃

  The deepening twilight; which; in this climate; is of short

duration; admonished u

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