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COWEVER far Spain is fallen from the high position that she once occupied,

she is, and must always remain, one of the most interesting of countries. The natural beauty of her landscapes, the splendour of her cities, adorned as they are with noble cathedrals and palaces; above all, the remarkable events in her history naturally attract the mind to her. Unfortunately, much of the interest of this last is dark and bloody. On Spanish soil was fought a conflict of centuries between the Cross and the Crescent; it was here that the Inquisition flourished most rankly; it was here that despotic power was most openly displayed. Something of joy in cruelty seems to corrode at the present day the very hearts of the people. Their chief amusement is the bull-fight, and our illustration, which represents ladies as well as populace gazing on the cruel play just about to commence, is, unfortunately, only too true.

OF

GRANADA.

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Turning to the past history of the country, we shall now lay before our readers a brief account of one of the most remarkable events in the contest between Cross and Crescent, that is to say, of the history of the Moors in Spainwe refer to the siege of Granada, which, in the fifteenth century, was the last place of importance which the Moors held against the Christians. Ferdinand and Isabella besieged it for a long time, and at last forced Boabdil, its intrepid defender, to surrender possession on January 2nd,

1492.

This was not till after many efforts, and sometimes matters seemed to go the other way, when Boabdil, collecting his forces, "had," says Bulwer Lytton, "taken the field at the head of a numerous army. Rapidly scouring the country, he had descended, one after one, upon the principal fortresses, which Ferdinand had left, strongly garrisoned, in the immediate neighbourhood. His success was as immediate as it was signal; the terror of his arms began, once more, to spread far and wide; every day swelled his ranks with new recruits; from the snow-clad summits of the Sierra Nevada poured down, in

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wild hordes, the fierce mountain race, who, accustomed to eternal winter, made a strange contrast, in their rugged appearance and shaggy clothing, to the glittering and civilised soldiery of Granada,

Moorish towns, which had submitted to Ferdinand, broke from the allegiance, and sent their ardent youth and experienced veterans to the standard of the Keys and Crescent. To add to the sudden panic of the Spaniards, it went forth that a formidable magician, who seemed inspired rather with the fury of a demon than the valour of man, had made an abrupt appearance in the ranks of the Moslems. Wherever the Moors shrank back from wall or tower, down which poured the boiling pitch, or rolled the deadly artillery of the besieged, this sorcerer-rushing into the midst of the flagging force, and waving, with wild gestures, a white banner, supposed, by both Moor and Christian, to be the work of magic and preternatural spells-dared every danger, and escaped every weapon: with voice, with prayer, with example, he fired the Moors to an enthusiasm that revived the first days of Mahometan conquest; and tower after tower, along the mighty range of the mountain chain of fortresses, was polluted by the wave and glitter of the ever victorious banner. The veteran, Mendo de Quexada, who, with a garrison of two hundred and fifty men, held the castle of Alhendin, was, however, undaunted by the unprecedented successes of Boabdil. Aware of the approaching storm, he spent the days of peace yet accorded to him in making every preparation for the siege that he foresaw; messengers were despatched to Ferdinand; new outworks were added to the castle; ample store of provisions laid in; and no precaution omitted that could still preserve to the Spaniards a fortress, that, from its vicinity to Granada, its command of the Vega and the valleys of the Alpuxarras,

was the bitterest thorn in the side of the Moorish power.

But the efforts of the Moors were in vain. They were at last forced to evacuate the city. Bulwer Lytton has well told us the story of the concluding episode. Day dawned upon Granada: the populace had sought their homes, and a profound quiet wrapped the streets, save where, from the fires committed in the late tumult, was yet heard the crash of roofs, or the crackle of the light and fragrant timber employed in those pavilions of the summer. The manner in which the mansions of Granada were built, each separated from the other by extensive gardens, fortunately prevented the flames from extending. But the inhabitants cared so little for the hazard, that not a single guard remained to watch the result. Now and then, some miserable forms in the Jewish gown might be seen cowering by the ruins of their houses, like the souls that, according to Plato, watch in charnels over their own mouldering bodies. Day dawned, and the beams of the winter sun, smiling away the clouds of the past night, played cheerily on the murmuring waves of the Xenil and the Darro.

Alone, upon a balcony commanding that stately landscape, stood the last of the Moorish kings. He had sought to bring to his aid all the lessons of the philosophy he had cultivated.

'What are we,' thought the musing prince, 'that we should fill the world with ourselves-we kings! Earth resounds with the crash of my falling throne: on the ear of races unborn the echo will live prolonged. But what have I lost ?— nothing that was necessary to my happiness, my repose; nothing save the source of all my wretchedness, the Marah of my life! Shall I less enjoy heaven and earth, or thought or action, or man's more material luxuries of food or sleep-the common and the cheap desires of all? Arouse thee, then, O

heart within me! many and deep emotions of sorrow or of joy are yet left to break the monotony of existence.'

He paused; and, at the distance, his eye fell upon the lonely minarets of the distant and deserted palace of the sage Muza Ben Abil Gazan.

'Thou wert right, then,' resumed the king-thou wert right, brave spirit, not to pity Boabdil: but not because death was in his power; man's soul is greater than his fortunes, and there is majesty in a life that towers above the ruins that fall around its path.' He turned away, and his cheek suddenly grew pale; for he heard, in the courts below, the tread of hoofs, the bustle of preparation : it was the hour for his departure. His philosophy vanished: he groaned aloud, and re-entered the chamber, just as his vizier and the chief of his guard broke upon his solitude.

The old vizier attempted to speak, but his voice failed him.

'It is time, then, to depart,' said Boabdil, with calmness: 'let it be so; render up the palace and the fortress, and join thy friend, no more thy monarch, in his new home.'

He stayed not for reply; he hurried on, descended to the court, flung himself on his barb, and, with a small and saddened train, passed through the gate which we yet survey, by a blackened and crumbling tower, overgrown with vines and ivy; thence, amidst gardens, now appertaining to the convent of the victor faith, he took his mournful and unwitnessed way. When he came to the middle of the hill that rises above those gardens, the steel of the Spanish armour gleamed upon him, as the detachment sent to occupy the palace marched over the summit in steady order and profound silence.

At the head of this vanguard rode, upon a snow-white palfrey, the Bishop of Avila, followed by a long train of barefooted monks. They halted as Boabdil approached, and the grave bishop saluted

him with an air of one who addresses an infidel and an inferior. With the quick sense of dignity common to the great, and yet more to the fallen, Boabdil felt, but resented not, the pride of the ecclesiastic. Go, Christian,' said he mildly, 'the gates of the Alhambra are open, and Allah has bestowed the palace and the city upon your king: may his virtues atone the faults of Boabdil!' So saying, and waiting no answer, he rode on, without looking to the right or left. The Spaniards also pursued their way. The sun had fairly risen above the mountains when Boabdil and his train beheld, from the eminence on which they were, the whole armament of Spain; and at the same moment, louder than the tramp of horse, or the flash of arms, was heard distinctly the solemn chant of Te Deum, which preceded the blaze of the unfurled and lofty standards. Boabdil, himself still silent, heard the groans and exclamations of his train; he turned to cheer or chide them, and then saw, from his own watch-tower, with the sun shining full upon its pure and dazzling surface, the silver cross of Spain. His Alhambra was already in the hands of the foe; while, beside that badge of the holy war, waved the gay and flaunting flag of St. Iago, the canonised Mars of the chivalry of Spain.

At that sight, the king's voice died within him he gave the rein to his barb, impatient to close the fatal ceremonial, and he did not slacken his speed til almost within bow-shot of the first ranks of the army. Never had Christian war assumed a more splendid and imposing aspect. Far as the eye could reach, extended the glittering and gorgeous lines of that goodly power, bristling with sunlit spears and blazoned banners; while beside, murmured, and glowed, and danced, the silver and laughing Xenil, careless what lord should possess, for his little day, the banks that bloomed by its everlasting course. By a small mosque halted the flower of

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