Before It Runs The Guadalquivir, Which, Though In
This Part Shallow And Full Of Sandbanks, Is Still A Delightful
Stream; Whilst Behind It Rise The Steep Sides Of The Sierra Morena,
Planted Up To The Top With Olive Groves.
The town or city is
surrounded on all sides by lofty Moorish walls, which may measure
about three quarters of a league in circumference; unlike Seville,
and most other towns in Spain, it has no suburbs.
I have said that Cordova has no remarkable edifices, save its
cathedral; yet this is perhaps the most extraordinary place of
worship in the world. It was originally, as is well known, a
mosque, built in the brightest days of Arabian dominion in Spain;
in shape it was quadrangular, with a low roof, supported by an
infinity of small and delicately rounded marble pillars, many of
which still remain, and present at first sight the appearance of a
marble grove; the greater part, however, were removed when the
Christians, after the expulsion of the Moslems, essayed to convert
the mosque into a cathedral, which they effected in part by the
erection of a dome, and by clearing an open space for a choir. As
it at present exists, the temple appears to belong partly to
Mahomet, and partly to the Nazarene; and though this jumbling
together of massive Gothic architecture with the light and delicate
style of the Arabians produces an effect somewhat bizarre, it still
remains a magnificent and glorious edifice, and well calculated to
excite feelings of awe and veneration within the bosoms of those
who enter it.
The Moors of Barbary seem to care but little for the exploits of
their ancestors: their minds are centred in the things of the
present day, and only so far as those things regard themselves
individually. Disinterested enthusiasm, that truly distinguishing
mark of a noble mind, and admiration for what is great, good, and
grand, they appear to be totally incapable of feeling. It is
astonishing with what indifference they stray amongst the relics of
ancient Moorish grandeur in Spain. No feelings of exultation seem
to be excited by the proof of what the Moor once was, nor of regret
at the consciousness of what he now is. More interesting to them
are their perfumes, their papouches, their dates, and their silks
of Fez and Maraks, to dispose of which they visit Andalusia; and
yet the generality of these men are far from being ignorant, and
have both heard and read of what was passing in Spain in the old
time. I was once conversing with a Moor at Madrid, with whom I was
very intimate, about the Alhambra of Granada, which he had visited.
"Did you not weep," said I, "when you passed through the courts,
and thought of the, Abencerrages?" "No," said he, "I did not weep;
wherefore should I weep?" "And why did you visit the Alhambra?" I
demanded. "I visited it," he replied, "because being at Granada on
my own affairs, one of your countrymen requested me to accompany
him thither, that I might explain some of the inscriptions. I
should certainly not have gone of my own accord, for the hill on
which it stands is steep." And yet this man could compose verses,
and was by no means a contemptible poet. Once at Cordova, whilst I
was in the cathedral, three Moors entered it, and proceeded slowly
across its floor in the direction of a gate, which stood at the
opposite side; they took no farther notice of what was around them
than by slightly glancing once or twice at the pillars, one of them
exclaiming, "Huaije del Mselmeen, huaije del Mselmeen" (things of
the Moors, things of the Moors); and showed no other respect for
the place where Abderrahman the Magnificent prostrated himself of
old, than facing about on arriving at the farther door and making
their egress backwards; yet these men were hajis and talebs, men
likewise of much gold and silver, men who had read, who had
travelled, who had seen Mecca, and the great city of Negroland.
I remained in Cordova much longer than I had originally intended,
owing to the accounts which I was continually hearing of the unsafe
state of the roads to Madrid. I soon ransacked every nook and
cranny of this ancient town, formed various acquaintances amongst
the populace, which is my general practice on arriving at a strange
place. I more than once ascended the side of the Sierra Morena, in
which excursions I was accompanied by the son of my host, - the tall
lad of whom I have already spoken. The people of the house, who
had imbibed the idea that I was of the same way of thinking as
themselves, were exceedingly courteous; it is true, that in return
I was compelled to listen to a vast deal of Carlism, in other
words, high treason against the ruling powers in Spain, to which,
however, I submitted with patience. "Don Jorgito," said the
landlord to me one day, "I love the English; they are my best
customers. It is a pity that there is not greater union between
Spain and England, and that more English do not visit us. Why
should there not be a marriage? The king will speedily be at
Madrid. Why should there not be bodas between the son of Don
Carlos and the heiress of England?"
"It would certainly tend to bring a considerable number of English
to Spain," said I, "and it would not be the first time that the son
of a Carlos has married a Princess of England."
The host mused for a moment, and then exclaimed, "Carracho, Don
Jorgito, if this marriage could be brought about, both the king and
myself should have cause to fling our caps in the air."
The house or posada in which I had taken up my abode was
exceedingly spacious, containing an infinity of apartments, both
large and small, the greater part of which were, however,
unfurnished.
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