No More Learning

Vitus himself, that
blessed patron of the dance, was figuring before you in person.
He was the admiration of all the negroes; who, having gathered,
of all ages and sizes, from the farm and the neighborhood, stood
forming a pyramid of shining black faces at every door and
window: gazing with delight at the scene; rolling their white
eyeballs, and showing grinning rows of ivory from ear to ear.
How could the flogger of urchins be otherwise than animated and
joyous ? the lady of his heart was his partner in the dance, and
smiling graciously in reply to all his amorous oglings; while
Brom Bones, sorely smitten with love and jealousy, sat brooding
by himself in one corner.
When the dance was at an end, Ichabod was attracted to a
knot of the sager folks, who with old Van Tassel sat smoking at
one end of the piazza, gossiping over former times, and drawling
out long stories about the war.
This neighborhood, at the time of which I am speaking, was
one of those highly favored places which abound with chronicle
and great men. The British and American line had run near it
during the war; it had therefore been the scene of marauding,
and infested with refugees, cow-boys, and all kinds of border
chivalry. Just sufficient time had elapsed to enable each story-
teller to dress up his tale with a little becoming fiction, and in
the indistinctness of his recollection to make himself the hero of
every exploit.
There was the story of Doffue Martling, a large blue-bearded
Dutchman, who had nearly taken a British frigate with an old
iron nine-pounder from a mud breastwork, only that his gun
burst at the sixth discharge. And there was an old gentleman
who shall be nameless, being too rich a mynheer to be lightly
mentioned, who in the battle of White Plains, being an excellent
master of defense, parried a musket-ball with a small-sword, inso-
much that he absolutely felt it whiz round the blade and glance
off at the hilt; in proof of which he was ready at any time to
show the sword, with the hilt a little bent. There were several
more that had been equally great in the field, not one of whom


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but was persuaded that he had a considerable hand in bringing
the war to a happy termination.
But all these were nothing to the tales of ghosts and appa-
ritions that succeeded. The neighborhood is rich in legendary
treasures of the kind. Local tales and superstitions thrive best
in these sheltered, long-settled retreats; but are trampled under
foot by the shifting throng that forms the population of most
of our country places. Besides, there is no encouragement for
ghosts in most of our villages; for they have scarcely had time
to finish their first nap and turn themselves in their graves,
before their surviving friends have traveled away from the neigh-
borhood; so that when they turn out at night to walk their
rounds, they have no acquaintance left to call upon. This is
perhaps the reason why we so seldom hear of ghosts except in
our long-established Dutch communities.
The immediate cause, however, of the prevalence of super-
natural stories in these parts, was doubtless owing to the vicinity
of Sleepy Hollow. There was a contagion in the very air that
blew from that haunted region: it breathed forth an atmosphere
of dreams and fancies infecting all the land. Several of the
Sleepy Hollow people were present at Van Tassel's, and as usual
were doling out their wild and wonderful legends. Many dismal
tales were told about funeral trains, and mourning cries and
wailings heard and seen about the great tree where the unfortu-
nate Major André was taken, and which stood in the neighbor-
hood.
Some mention was made also of the woman in white, that
haunted the dark glen at Raven Rock, and was often heard to
shriek on winter nights before a storm, having perished there in
the snow. The chief part of the stories, however, turned upon
the favorite spectre of Sleepy Hollow, the headless horseman,
who had been heard several times of late patrolling the country:
and it is said, tethered his horse nightly among the graves in
the church-yard.
The sequestered situation of this church seems always to have
made it a favorite haunt of troubled spirits. It stands on a knoll,
surrounded by locust-trees and lofty elms, from among which its
decent whitewashed walls shine modestly forth, like Christian
purity beaming through the shades of retirement.
A gentle
slope descends from it to a silver sheet of water, bordered by
high trees, between which peeps may be caught at the blue hills
of the Hudson. To look upon this grass-grown yard, where the


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WASHINGTON IRVING
sunbeams seem to sleep so quietly, one would think that there at
least the dead might rest in peace. On one side of the church
extends a wide woody dell, along which raves a large brook
among broken rocks and trunks of fallen trees. Over a deep
black part of the stream, not far from the church, was formerly
thrown a wooden bridge; the road that led to it, and the bridge
itself, were thickly shaded by overhanging trees, which cast a
gloom about it even in the daytime, but occasioned a fearful
darkness at night. Such was one of the favorite haunts of the
headless horseman, and the place where he was most frequently
encountered.
The tale was told of old Brouwer, a most heretical disbeliever
in ghosts, how he met the horseman returning from his foray
into Sleepy Hollow, and was obliged to get up behind him; how
they galloped over bush and brake, over hill and swamp, until
they reached the bridge; when the horseman suddenly turned
into a skeleton, threw old Brouwer into the brook, and sprang
away over the tree-tops with a clap of thunder.
This story was immediately matched by a thrice marvel-
ous adventure of Brom Bones, who made light of the galloping
Hessian as an arrant jockey. He affirmed that on returning one
night from the neighboring village of Sing Sing, he had been
overtaken by this midnight trooper ; that he offered to race with
him for a bowl of punch, and should have won it too, for Dare-
devil beat the goblin horse all hollow, but just as they came to
the church bridge the Hessian bolted and vanished in a flash of
fire.
All these tales, told in that drowsy undertone with which men
talk in the dark, — the countenances of the listeners only now
and then receiving a casual gleam from the glare of a pipe, -
sunk deep in the mind of Ichabod. He repaid them in kind
with large extracts from his invaluable author Cotton Mather,
and added many marvelous events that had taken place in his
native State of Connecticut, and fearful sights which he had seen
in his nightly walks about Sleepy Hollow.
The revel now gradually broke up. The old farmers gathered
together their families in their wagons, and were heard for some
time rattling along the hollow roads and over the distant hills.
Some of the damsels mounted on pillions behind their favorite
swains; and their light-hearted laughter, mingling with the clat-
ter of hoofs, echoed along the silent woodlands, sounding fainter


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8029
and fainter until they gradually died away, and the late scene
of noise and frolic was all silent and deserted. Ichabod only
lingered behind, according to the custom of country lovers, to
have a tête-à-tête with the heiress, fully convinced that he was
now on the high-road to success. What passed at this interview
I will not pretend to say, for in fact I do not know. Something,
however, I fear me, must have gone wrong; for he certainly sal-
lied forth, after no very great interval, with an air quite desolate
and chapfallen. - Oh these women! these women! Could that
girl have been playing off any of her coquettish tricks? Was her
encouragement of the poor pedagogue all a mere sham to secure
her conquest of his rival ? — Heaven only knows, not I! Let it
suffice to say, Ichabod stole forth with the air of one who had
been sacking a hen-roost rather than a fair lady's heart. With-
out looking to the right or left to notice the scene of rural
wealth on which he had so often gloated, he went straight to the
stable, and with several hearty cuffs and kicks roused his steed
most uncourteously from the comfortable quarters in which he
was soundly sleeping, dreaming of mountains of corn and oats,
and whole valleys of timothy and clover.
It was the very witching time of night that Ichabod, heavy-
hearted and crestfallen, pursued his travel homewards along the
sides of the lofty hills which rise above Tarry Town, and which
he had traversed so cheerily in the afternoon. The hour was as
dismal as himself. Far below him the Tappaan Zee spread its
dusky and indistinct waste of waters, with here and there the
tall mast of a sloop riding quietly at anchor under the land.
In
the dead hush of midnight he could even hear the barking of the
watch-dog from the opposite shore of the Hudson; but it was so
vague and faint as only to give an idea of his distance from this
faithful companion of man. Now and then too the long-drawn
crowing of a cock, accidentally awakened, would sound far, far
off, from some farm-house away among the hills but it was
like a dreaming sound in his ear. No signs of life occurred near
him but occasionally the melancholy chirp of a cricket, or per-
haps the guttural twang of a bull-frog from a neighboring marsh,
as if sleeping uncomfortably, and turning suddenly in his bed.
All the stories of ghosts and goblins that he had heard in
the afternoon now came crowding upon his recollection. The
night grew darker and darker; the stars seemed to sink deeper in
the sky, and driving clouds occasionally hid them from his sight.


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He was
He had never felt so lonely and dismal.
moreover
approaching the very place where many of the scenes of the
ghost stories had been laid. In the centre of the road stood an
enormous tulip-tree, which towered like a giant above all the
other trees of the neighborhood, and formed a kind of landmark.
Its limbs were gnarled and fantastic, large enough to form trunks
for ordinary trees, twisting down almost to the earth and rising
again into the air. It was connected with the tragical story of
the unfortunate André, who had been taken prisoner hard by;
and was universally known by the name of Major André's tree,
The common people regarded it with a mixture of respect and
superstition, partly out of sympathy for the fate of its ill-starred
namesake, and partly from the tales of strange sights and doleful
lamentations told concerning it.
As Ichabod approached this fearful tree, he began to whistle:
he thought his whistle was answered; it was but a blast sweeping
sharply through the dry branches. As he approached a little
nearer, he thought he saw something white hanging in the midst
of the tree: he paused, and ceased whistling; but on looking more
narrowly, perceived that it was a place where the tree had been
scathed by lightning and the white wood laid bare. Suddenly
he heard a groan
his teeth chattered and his knees smote
against the saddle: it was but the rubbing of one huge bough
upon another as they were swayed about by the breeze, He
passed the tree in safety, but new perils lay before him.
About two hundred yards from the tree, a small brook crossed
the road and ran into a marshy and thickly wooded glen known
by the name of Wiley's Swamp. A few rough logs laid side by
side served for a bridge over this stream. On that side of the
road where the brook entered the wood, a group of oaks and
chestnuts, matted thick with wild grape-vines, threw a cavernous
gloom over it. To pass this bridge was the severest trial. It
was at this identical spot that the unfortunate André was cap-
tured, and under the covert of those chestnuts and vines were
the sturdy yeomen concealed who surprised him.
This has ever
since been considered a haunted stream, and fearful are the feel-
ings of a schoolboy who has to pass it alone after dark.
As he approached the stream his heart began to thump: he
summoned up however all his resolution, gave his horse half a
score of kicks in the ribs, and attempted to dash briskly across
the bridge; but instead of starting forward, the perverse old


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8031
animal made a lateral movement, and ran broadside against the
fence. Ichabod, whose fears increased with the delay, jerked the
reins on the other side, and kicked lustily with the contrary foot:
it was all in vain; his steed started, it is true, but it was only
to plunge to the opposite side of the road into a thicket of bram-
bles and alder-bushes. The schoolmaster now bestowed both whip
and heel upon the starveling ribs of old Gunpowder, who dashed
forwards snuffling and snorting, but came to a stand just by the
bridge with a suddenness that had nearly sent his rider sprawl-
ing over his head. Just at this moment a plashy tramp by the
side of the bridge caught the sensitive ear of Ichabod. In the
dark shadow of the grove on the margin of the brook he beheld
something huge, misshapen, black, and towering.
It stirred not,
but seemed gathered up in the gloom, like some gigantic mon-
ster ready to spring upon the traveler.
The hair of the affrighted pedagogue rose upon his head with
terror. What was to be done ? To turn and fly was now too
late; and besides, what chance was there of escaping ghost or
goblin, if such it was, which could ride upon the wings of the
wind ? Summoning up therefore a show of courage, he demanded
in stammering accents, “Who are you? ” He received no reply.
He repeated his demand in a still more agitated voice. Still
there was no answer. Once more he cudgeled the sides of the
inflexible Gunpowder, and shutting his eyes, broke forth with
involuntary fervor into a psalm tune. Just then the shadowy
object of alarm put itself in motion, and with a scramble and a
bound stood at once in the middle of the road. Though the
night was dark and dismal, yet the form of the unknown might
now in some degree be ascertained. He appeared to be a horse-
man of large dimensions, and mounted on a black horse of pow-
erful frame. He made no offer of molestation or sociability, but
kept aloof on one side of the road, jogging along on the blind
side of old Gunpowder, who had now got over his fright and
waywardness.
Ichabod, who had no relish for this strange midnight compan-
ion, and bethought himself of the adventure of Brom Bones with
the galloping Hessian, now quickened his steed, in hopes of leav-
ing him behind. The stranger however quickened his horse to
an equal pace. Ichabod pulled up and fell into a walk, thinking
to lag behind; the other did the same. His heart began to sink
within him; he endeavored to resume his psalm tune, but his


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WASHINGTON IRVING
parched tongue clove to the roof of his mouth, and he could not
utter a stave. There was something in the moody and dogged
silence of this pertinacious companion that was mysterious and
appalling It was soon fearfully accounted for. On mounting a
rising ground which brought the figure of his fellow-traveler in
relief against the sky, gigantic in height and muffled in a cloak,
Ichabod was horror-struck on perceiving that he was headless!
but his horror was still more increased on observing that the
head, which should have rested on his shoulders, was carried
before him on the pommel of his saddle! His terror rose to
desperation; he rained a shower of kicks and blows upon Gun-
powder, hoping by a sudden movement to give his companion
the slip - but the spectre started full jump with him. Away
then they dashed through thick and thin; stones flying and sparks
flashing at every bound. Ichabod's flimsy garments fluttered in
the air, as he stretched his long lank body away over his horse's
head, in the eagerness of his flight.
They had now reached the road which turns off to Sleepy
Hollow; but Gunpowder, who seemed possessed with a demon,
instead of keeping up it made an opposite turn, and plunged
headlong down-hill to the left. This road leads through a sandy
hollow, shaded by trees for about a quarter of a mile, where it
crosses the bridge famous in goblin story; and just beyond, swells
the green knoll on which stands the whitewashed church.
As yet the panic of the steed had given his unskillful rider an
apparent advantage in the chase; but just as he had got half-
way through the hollow the girths of the saddle gave way, and
he felt it slipping from under him. He seized it by the pommel
and endeavored to hold it firm, but in vain; and had just time
to save himself by clasping old Gunpowder round the neck, when
the saddle fell to the earth, and he heard it trampled under foot
by his pursuer. For a moment the terror of Hans Van Ripper's
wrath passed across his mind — for it was his Sunday saddle:
but this was no time for petty fears; the goblin was hard on his
haunches; and (unskillful rider that he was! ) he had much ado
to maintain his seat, sometimes slipping on one side, sometimes
on another, and sometimes jolted on the high ridge of his horse's
backbone with a violence that he verily feared would cleave him
asunder.
An opening in the trees now cheered him with the hopes that
the church bridge was at hand. The wavering reflection of a


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8033
silver star in the busom of the brook told him that he was not
mistaken. He saw the walls of the church dimly glaring under
the trees beyond. He recollected the place where Brom Bones's
ghostly competitor had disappeared. If I can but reach that
bridge,” thought Ichabod, “I am safe. ” Just then he heard the
black steed panting and blowing close behind him; he even
fancied that he felt his hot breath. Another convulsive kick in
the ribs, and old Gunpowder sprang upon the bridge; he thun-
dered over the resounding planks; he gained the opposite side:
and now Ichabod cast a look behind to see if his pursuer should
vanish according to rule, in a flash of fire and brimstone. Just
then he saw the goblin rising in his stirrups, and in the very
act of hurling his head at him. Ichabod endeavored to dodge
the horrible missile, but too late. It encountered his cranium
with a tremendous crash — he was tumbled headlong into the
dust; and Gunpowder, the black steed, and the goblin rider,
passed by like a whirlwind.
The next morning the old horse was found without his saddle,
and with the bridle under his feet, soberly cropping the grass
at his master's gate. Ichabod did not make his appearance at
breakfast; dinner hour came, but no Ichabod. The boys assem-
bled at the schoolhouse, and strolled idly about the banks of the
brook; but no schoolmaster. Hans Van Ripper now began to feel
some uneasiness about the fate of poor Ichabod and his saddle.
An inquiry was set on foot, and after diligent investigation they
came upon his traces. In one part of the road leading to the
church was found the saddle trampled in the dirt; the tracks
of horses' hoofs, deeply dented in the road, and evidently at
furious speed, were traced to the bridge; beyond which, on the
bank of a broad part of the brook where the water ran deep and
black, was found the hat of the unfortunate Ichabod, and close
beside it a shattered pumpkin.
The brook was searched, but the body of the schoolmaster
was not to be discovered. Hans Van Ripper, as executor of
his estate, examined the bundle which contained all his worldly
effects. They consisted of two shirts and a half; two stocks for
the neck; a pair or two of worsted stockings; an old pair of cor-
duroy small-clothes; a rusty razor; a book of psalm tunes full of
dog's-ears; and a broken pitch-pipe. As to the books and furni-
ture of the schoolhouse, they belonged to the community, except-
ing Cotton Mather's History of Witchcraft,' a New England
XIV-503


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WASHINGTON IRVING
Almanac, and a book of dreams and fortune-telling; in which
last was a sheet of foolscap, much scribbled and blotted by sev-
eral fruitless attempts to make a copy of verses in honor of
the heiress of Van Tassel. These magic books and the poetic
scrawl were forth with consigned to the flames by Hans Van
Ripper; who from that time forward determined to send his child-
ren no more to school, observing that he never knew any good
come of this same reading and writing. Whatever money the
schoolmaster possessed - and he had received his quarter's pay
but a day or two before — he must have had about his person at
the time of his disappearance.
The mysterious event caused much speculation at the church
on the following Sunday. Knots of gazers and gossips were col-
lected in the church-yard, at the bridge, and at the spot where
the hat and pumpkin had been found. The stories of Brouwer,
of Bones, and a whole budget of others, were called to mind; and
when they had diligently considered them all, and compared them
with the symptoms of the present case, they shook their heads,
and came to the conclusion that Ichabod had been carried off by
the galloping Hessian. As he was a bachelor and in nobody's
debt, nobody troubled his head any more about him; the school
was removed to a different quarter of the Hollow, and another
pedagogue reigned in his stead.
It is true, an old farmer who had been down to New York on
a visit several years after, and from whom this account of the
ghostly adventure was received, brought home the intelligence
Ichabod Crane was still alive; that he had left the neighbor-
hood partly through fear of the goblin and Hans Van Ripper,
and partly in mortification at having been suddenly dismissed by
the heiress; that he had changed his quarters to a distant part of
the country; had kept school and studied law at the same time;
had been admitted to the bar; turned politician; electioneered;
written for the newspapers; and finally had been made a Justice
of the Ten Pound Court. Brom Bones, too, who shortly after his
rival's disappearance conducted the blooming Katrina in triumph
to the altar, was observed to look exceedingly knowing whenever
the story of Ichabod was related, and always burst into a hearty
laugh at the mention of the pumpkin; which led some to sus-
pect that he knew more about the matter than he chose to tell.
The old country wives, however, who are the best judges of
these matters, maintain to this day that Ichabod was spirited


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away by supernatural means; and it is a favorite story often
told about the neighborhood round the winter evening fire. The
bridge became more than ever an object of superstitious awe; and
that may be the reason why the road has been altered of late
years, so as to approach the church by the border of the mill-
pond. The schoolhouse, being deserted, soon fell to decay, and
was reported to be haunted by the ghost of the unfortunate
pedagogue; and the plow-boy, loitering homeward of a still sum-
mer evening, has often fancied his voice at a distance, chanting a
melancholy psalm tune among the tranquil solitudes of Sleepy
Hollow.
A MOORISH PALACE
From The Alhambra)
THE
HE Alhambra is an ancient fortress or castellated palace of
the Moorish kings of Granada, where they held dominion
over this their boasted terrestrial paradise, and made their
last stand for empire in Spain. The palace occupies but a por-
tion of the fortress; the walls of which, studded with towers,
stretch irregularly round the whole crest of a lofty hill that over-
looks the city, and forms a spire of the Sierra Nevada or Snowy
Mountain.
In the time of the Moors the fortress was capable of contain-
ing an army of forty thousand men within its precincts, and served
occasionally as a stronghold of the sovereigns against their rebel-
lious subjects. After the kingdom had passed into the hands of
the Christians, the Alhambra continued a royal demesne, and was
occasionally inhabited by the Castilian monarchs. The Emperor
Charles V. began a sumptuous palace within its walls, but was
deterred from completing it by repeated shocks of earthquakes.
The last royal residents were Philip V. and his beautiful Queen
Elizabetta of Parma, early in the eighteenth century.
Leaving our posada of La Espada, we traversed the renowned
square of the Vivarrambla, once the scene of Moorish jousts and
tournaments, now
a crowded market-place. From thence
proceeded along the Zacatin, the main street of what was the
great Bazaar in the time of the Moors, where the small shops
and narrow alleys still retain their Oriental character. Cross-
ing an open place in front of the palace of the captain-general,
we ascended a confined and winding street, the name of which
we


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1
1
reminded us of the chivalric days of Granada. It is called the
Calle, or street, of the Gomeres, from a Moorish family famous in
chronicle and song. This street led up to a mansion gateway of
Grecian architecture, built by Charles V. , forming the entrance
to the domains of the Alhambra.
At the gate were two or three ragged and superannuated sol.
diers dozing on a stone bench, the successors of the Zegris and
the Abencerrages; while a tall meagre varlet, whose rusty brown
cloak was evidently intended to conceal the ragged state of his
nether garments, was lounging in the sunshine, and gossiping
with an ancient sentinel on duty.
We now found ourselves in a deep narrow ravine filled with
beautiful groves, with a steep avenue and various foot-paths wind-
ing through it, bordered with stone seats and ornamented with
fountains. To our left we beheld the towers of the Alhambra
beetling above us; to our right on the opposite side of the ravine
we were equally dominated by rival towers on a rocky eminence.
These, we were told, were the Torres Vermejos or V'ermilion
Towers, so called from their ruddy hue. No one knows their
origin. They are of a date much anterior to the Alhambra.
Some suppose them to have been built by the Romans; others
by some wandering colony of Phænicians. Ascending the steep
and shady avenue, we arrived at the foot of a huge square Moor-
ish tower, forming a kind of barbican, through which passed the
main entrance to the fortress. Within the barbican was another
group of veteran invalids; one mounting guard at the portal,
while the rest, wrapped in their tattered cloaks, slept on the stone
benches. This portal is called the Gate of Justice, from the tri-
bunal held within its porch during the Moslem domination, for the
immediate trial of petty causes; a custom common to the Oriental
nations, and occasionally alluded to in the sacred Scriptures.
The great vestibule or porch of the gate is formed by an
immense Arabian arch of the horseshoe form, which springs to
half the height of the tower. On the keystone of this arch is
engraven a gigantic hand. Within the vestibule, on the keystone
of the portal, is engraven in like manner a gigantic key. Those
who pretend to some knowledge of Mahometan symbols affirm
that the hand is the emblem of doctrine, and the key of faith;
the latter, they add, was emblazoned on the standard of the Mos-
lems when they subdued Andalusia, in opposition to the Christian
emblem of the cross.


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After passing through the Barbican we ascended a narrow
lane winding between walls, and came on an open esplanade
within the fortress, called the Plaza de los Algibes, or Place of
the Cisterns, from great reservoirs which undermine it, cut in the
living rock by the Moors for the supply of the fortress. Here
also is a well of immense depth, furnishing the purest and
coldest of water, - another monument of the delicate taste of the
Moors, who were indefatigable in their exertions to obtain that
element in its crystal purity.
In front of this esplanade is the splendid pile commenced by
Charles V. , intended it is said to eclipse the residence of the
Moslem kings. With all its grandeur and architectural merit, it
appeared to us like an arrogant intrusion; and passing by it, we
entered a simple unostentatious portal opening into the interior
of the Moorish palace.
The transition was almost magical; it seemed as if we were
at once transported into other times and another realm, and
were treading the scenes of Arabian story. We found ourselves
in a great court, paved with white marble and decorated at each
end with light Moorish peristyles. It is called the Court of the
Alberca. In the centre was an immense basin or fish-pool, a
hundred and thirty feet in length by thirty in breadth, stocked
with gold-fish and bordered by hedges of roses.
At the upper
end of this court rose the great tower of Comares.
From the lower end we passed through a Moorish archway
into the renowned Court of Lions. There is no part of the
edifice that gives us a more complete idea of its original beauty
and magnificence than this; for none has suffered so little from
the ravages of time. In the centre stands the fountain famous
in song and story. The alabaster basins still shed their diamond
drops, and the twelve lions which support them cast forth their
crystal streams as in the days of Boabdil. The court is laid
out in flower-beds, and surrounded by light Arabian arcades of
open filigree work, supported by slender pillars of white marble.
The architecture, like that of all the other parts of the palace,
is characterized by elegance rather than grandeur, bespeaking a
delicate and graceful taste and a disposition to indolent enjoy-
ment. When we look upon the fairy tracery of the peristyles,
and the apparently fragile fretwork of the walls, it is difficult
to believe that so much has survived the wear and tear of cen-
turies, the shocks of earthquakes, the violence of war, and the


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WASHINGTON IRVING
quiet though no less baneful pilferings of the tasteful traveler.
It is almost sufficient to excuse the popular tradition that the
whole is protected by a magic charm.
On one side of the court, a portal richly adorned opens into
a lofty hall paved with white marble, and called the Hall of the
Two Sisters. A cupola or lantern admits a tempered light from
above, and a free circulation of air. The lower part of the walls
is incrusted with beautiful Moorish tiles, on some of which are
emblazoned the escutcheons of the Moorish monarchs; the upper
part is faced with the fine stucco work invented at Damascus,
consisting of large plates cast in molds and artfully joined, so as
to have the appearance of having been laboriously sculptured by
the hand into light relievos and fanciful arabesques, intermingled
with texts of the Koran and poetical inscriptions in Arabian and
Celtic characters. These decorations of the walls and cupolas
are richly gilded, and the interstices paneled with lapis lazuli and
other brilliant and enduring colors. On each side of the wall
are recesses for ottomans and arches. Above an inner porch is
a balcony which communicated with the women's apartment.
The latticed balconies still remain from whence the dark-eyed
beauties of the harem might gaze unseen upon the entertain-
ments of the hall below.
From the Court of Lions we retraced our steps through the
Court of the Alberca, or great fish-pool; crossing which we pro-
ceeded to the Tower of Comares, so called from the name of the
Arabian architect. It is of massive strength and lofty height,
domineering over the rest of the edifice, and overhanging the
steep hillside which descends abruptly to the banks of the Darro.
A Moorish archway admitted us into a vast and lofty hall which
occupies the interior of the tower, and was the grand audience
chamber of the Moslem monarchs; thence called the Hall of
Ambassadors. It still bears the traces of past magnificence. The
walls are richly stuccoed, and decorated with arabesques; the
vaulted ceilings of cedar-wood, almost lost in obscurity from its
height, still gleam with rich gilding and the brilliant tints of the
Arabian pencil. On three sides of the saloon are deep windows,
cut through the immense thickness of the walls, the balconies of
which look down upon the verdant valley of the Darro, the streets
and convents of the Albaycin, and command a prospect of the
distant Vega. I might go on to describe the other delightful
apartments of this side of the palace: the Tocador or toilet of


## p. 8039 (#235) ###########################################

WASHINGTON IRVING
8039
the queen, an open belvedere on the summit of the tower, where
the Moorish sultanas enjoyed the pure breezes from the mountain
and the prospect of the surrounding paradise; the secluded little
patio or garden of Lindaraxa, with its alabaster fountain, its
thickets of roses and myrtles, of citrons and oranges; the cool
halls and grottoes of the baths, where the glare and heat of day
are tempered into a self-mysterious light and a pervading fresh-
ness: but I appear to dwell minutely on these scenes. My object
is merely to give the reader a general introduction into an abode
where, if disposed, he may linger and loiter with me through the
remainder of this work, gradually becoming familiar with all its
beauties.
An abundant supply of water, brought from the mountains by
old Moorish aqueducts, circulates throughout the palace, supplying
its baths and fish-pools, sparkling in jets within its halls, or mur-
muring in channels along the marble pavements. When it has
paid its tribute to the royal pile, and visited its gardens and
pastures, it flows down the long avenue leading to the city, tin-
kling in rills, gushing in fountains, and maintaining a perpetual
verdure in those groves that embower and beautify the whole hill
of the Alhambra.
The peculiar charm of this old dreamy palace is its power of
calling up vague reveries and picturings of the past, and thus
clothing naked realities with the illusions of the memory and the
imagination. As I delight to walk in these vain shadows,” I
am prone to seek those parts of the Alhambra which are most
favorable to this phantasmagoria of the mind; and none are more
so than the Court of Lions and its surrounding halls. Here the
hand of time has fallen the lightest, and the traces of Moorish
elegance and splendor exist in almost their original brilliancy.
Earthquakes have shaken the foundations of this pile, and rent
its rudest towers, yet see— not one of those slender columns
has been displaced; not an arch of that light and fragile colon-
nade has given way; and all the fairy fretwork of these domes,
apparently as unsubstantial as the crystal fabrics of a morning's
frost, yet exist after the lapse of centuries, almost as fresh as
if from the hand of the Moslem artist.
I write in the midst of these mementos of the past, in the
fresh hour of early morning, in the fated hall of the Abencer-
rages. The blood-stained fountain, the legendary monument of
their massacre, is before me; the lofty jet almost casts its dew


## p. 8040 (#236) ###########################################

8040
WASHINGTON IRVING
upon my paper.
How difficult to reconcile the ancient tale of
violence and blood with the gentle and peaceful scene around.
Everything here appears calculated to inspire kind and happy
feelings, for everything is delicate and beautiful. The very light
falls tenderly from above through the lantern of a dome tinted
and wrought as if by fairy hands. Through the ample and
fretted arch of the portal I behold the Court of Lions, with
brilliant sunshine gleaming along its colonnades and sparkling in
its fountains. The lively swallow dives into the court, and then,
surging upwards, darts away twittering over the roof; the busy
bee toils humming among the flower-beds, and painted butterflies
hover from plant to plant, and flutter up and sport with each
other in the sunny air. It needs but a slight exertion of the
fancy to picture some pensive beauty of the harem, loitering in
these secluded haunts of Oriental luxury.
He however who would behold this scene under an aspect
more in unison with its fortunes, let him come when the shadows
of evening temper the brightness of the court, and throw a gloom
into the surrounding halls: then nothing can be more serenely
melancholy, or more in harmony with the tale of departed
grandeur.
At such times I am apt to seek the Hall of Justice, whose
deep shadowy arcades extend across the upper end of the court.
Here were performed, in presence of Ferdinand and Isabella and
their triumphant court, the pompous ceremonies of high mass on
taking possession of the Alhambra. The very cross is still to
be seen upon the wall where the altar was erected, and where
officiated the grand cardinal of Spain and others of the highest
religious dignitaries of the land.
I picture to myself the scene when this place was filled with
the conquering host, - that mixture of mitred prelate, and shorn
monk, and steel-clad knight, and silken courtier; when crosses
and crosiers and religious standards were mingled with proud
armorial ensigns and the banners of the haughty chiefs of Spain,
and flaunted in triumph through these Moslem halls. I picture
to myself Columbus, the future discoverer of a world, taking his
modest stand in a remote corner, the humble and neglected spec-
tator of the pageant. I see in imagination the Catholic sovereigns
prostrating themselves before the altar and pouring forth thanks
for their victory, while the vaults resound with sacred minstrelsy
and the deep-toned Te Deum.


## p. 8041 (#237) ###########################################

WASHINGTON IRVING
8041
The transient illusion is over; the pageant melts from the
fancy; monarch, priest, and warrior return into oblivion with the
poor Moslems over whom they exulted. The hall of their triumph
is waste and desolate. The bat flits about its twilight vaults, and
the owl hoots from the neighboring tower of Comares.
THE STAGE-COACH
From The Sketch Book)
Omne bene
Sine pænâ
Tempus est ludendi
Venit hora
Absque mora
Libros deponendi.
- OLD HOLIDAY SCHOOL SONG.
IN
N THE course of a December tour in Yorkshire, I rode for a
long distance in one of the public coaches, on the day pre-
ceding Christmas. The coach was crowded both inside and
out with passengers, who by their talk seemed principally bound
to the mansions of relations or friends, to eat the Christmas
dinner. It was loaded also with hampers of game, and baskets
and boxes of delicacies; and hares hung dangling their long ears
about the coachman's box, presents from distant friends for the
impending feast. I had three fine rosy-cheeked boys for my
fellow passengers inside, full of the buxom health and manly
spirit which I have observed in the children of this country.
They were returning home for the holidays in high glee, and
promising themselves a world of enjoyment. It was delightful to
hear the gigantic plans of the little rogues, and the impracticable
feats they were to perform during their six-weeks' emancipation
from the abhorred thralldom of book, birch, and pedagogue,
They were full of anticipations of the meeting with the family
and household, down to the very cat and dog; and of the joy
they were to give their little sisters by the presents with which
their pockets were crammed: but the meeting to which they
seemed to look forward with the greatest impatience was with
Bantam, which I found to be a pony, and according to their
talk, possessed of more virtues than any steed since the days of
Bucephalus. How he could trot! how he could run! and then
such leaps as he would take! there was not a hedge in the
whole country that he could not clear.


## p. 8042 (#238) ###########################################

8042
WASHINGTON IRVING
They were under the particular guardianship of the coachman,
to whom whenever an opportunity presented they addressed a
host of questions, and pronounced him one of the best fellows in
the world. Indeed, I could not but notice the more than ordinary
air of bustle and importance of the coachman, who wore his hat
a little on one side, and had a large bunch of Christmas greens
stuck in the buttonhole of his coat. He is always a personage
full of mighty care and business; but he is particularly so during
this season, having so many commissions to execute in conse-
quence of the great interchange of presents. And here perhaps
it may not be unacceptable to my untraveled readers to have
a sketch that may serve as a general representation of this very
numerous and important class of functionaries, who have a dress,
a manner, a language, an air, peculiar to themselves and preva-
lent throughout the fraternity; so that wherever an English stage-
coachman may be seen, he cannot be mistaken for one of any
other craft or mystery.
He has commonly a broad full face, curiously mottled with
red, as if the blood had been forced by hard feeding into every
vessel of the skin; he is swelled into jolly dimensions by fre-
quent potations of malt liquors, and his bulk is still further
increased by a multiplicity of coats, in which he is buried like
a cauliflower, the upper one reaching to his heels. He wears a
broad-brimmed low-crowned hat, a huge roll of colored handker-
chief about his neck, knowingly knotted and tucked in at the
bosom; and has in summer-time a large bouquet of flowers in his
buttonhole, the present most probably of some enamored country
lass. His waistcoat is commonly of some bright color striped,
and his small-clothes extend far below the knees, to meet a pair
of jockey boots which reach about half-way up his legs.
All this costume is maintained with much precision; he has a
pride in having his clothes of excellent materials, and notwith-
standing the seeming grossness of his appearance, there is still
discernible that neatness and propriety of person which is almost
inherent in an Englishman. He enjoys great consequence and
.
consideration along the road; has frequent conferences with the
village housewives, who look upon him as a man of great trust
and dependence; and he seems to have a good understanding
with every bright-eyed country lass. The moment he arrives
where the horses are to be changed, he throws down the reins
with something of an air and abandons the cattle to the care of
the hostler, his duty being merely to drive from one stage to


## p. 8043 (#239) ###########################################

WASHINGTON IRVING
8043
another. When off the box his hands are thrust into the pockets
of his greatcoat, and he rolls about the inn-yard with an air of
the most absolute lordliness. Here he is generally surrounded
by an admiring throng of hostlers, stable-boys, shoeblacks, and
those nameless hangers-on that infest inns and taverns, and run
errands, and do all kind of odd jobs for the privilege of batten-
ing on the drippings of the kitchen and the leakage of the tap-
room. These all look up to him as to an oracle; treasure up
his cant phrases; echo his opinions about horses and other topics
of jockey lore; and above all, endeavor to imitate his air and
carriage. Every ragamuffin that has a coat to his back thrusts
his hands in the pockets, rolls in his gait, talks slang, and is an
embryo Coachey.
Perhaps it might be owing to the pleasing serenity that
reigned in my own mind, that I fancied I saw cheerfulness in
every countenance throughout the journey. A stage-coach, how-
ever, carries animation always with it, and puts the world in
motion as it whirls along. The horn sounded at the entrance of
a village produces a general bustle. Some hasten forth to meet
friends; some with bundles and bandboxes to secure places, and
in the hurry of the moment can hardly take leave of the group
that accompanies them. In the mean time the coachman has a
world of small commissions to execute. Sometimes he delivers
a hare or pheasant; sometimes jerks a small parcel or news-
paper to the door of a public-house; and sometimes, with knowing
leer and words of sly import, hands to some half blushing, half
laughing housemaid an odd-shaped billet-doux from some rustic
admirer. As the coach rattles through the village every one
runs to the window, and you have glances on every side, of fresh
country faces and blooming giggling girls. At the corners are
assembled juntos of village idlers and wise men, who take their
stations there for the important purpose of seeing company pass;
but the sagest knot is generally at the blacksmith's, to whom the
passing of the coach is an event fruitful of much speculation.
The smith, with the horse's heel in his lap, pauses as the vehicle
whirls by; the cyclops round the anvil suspend their ringing
hammers and suffer the iron to grow cool; and the sooty spectre
in brown-paper cap laboring at the bellows leans on the handle
for a moment, and permits the asthmatic engine to heave a long-
drawn sigh, while he glares through the murky smoke and sul-
phureous gleams of the smithy.


## p. 8044 (#240) ###########################################

8044
WASHINGTON IRVING
Perhaps the impending holiday might have given a more than
usual animation to the country; for it seemed to me as if every-
body was in good looks and good spirits. Game, poultry, and
other luxuries of the table were in brisk circulation in the vil-
lages; the grocers', butchers', and fruiterers' shops were thronged
with customers. The housewives were stirring briskly about, put-
ting their dwellings in order; and the glossy branches of holly
with their bright-red berries began to appear at the windows.
The scene brought to mind an old writer's account of Christmas
preparations. «Now capons and hens, besides turkeys, geese, and
ducks, with beef and mutton, must all die—for in twelve days
a multitude of people will not be fed with a little. Now plums
and spice, sugar and honey, square it among pies and broth.
Now or never must music be in tune, for the youth must dance
and sing to get them a heat, while the aged sit by the fire.
The country maid leaves half her market, and must be sent
again if she forgets a pack of cares on Christmas eve. Great is
the contention of Holly and Ivy, whether master or dame wears
the breeches. Dice and cards benefit the butler; and if the cook
do not lack wit, he will sweetly lick his fingers.
I was roused from this fit of luxurious meditation by a shout
from my little traveling companions. They had been looking out
of the coach-windows for the last few miles, recognizing every
tree and cottage as they approached home; and now there was a
general burst of joy — “There's John! and there's old Carlo! and
there's Bantam! ” cried the happy little rogues clapping their
hands.
At the end of a lane there was an old sober-looking servant
in livery looking for them; he was accompanied by a super-
annuated pointer, and by the redoubtable Bantam, a little old rat
of a pony with a shaggy mane and long rusty tail, who stood
dozing quietly by the roadside, little dreaming of the bustling
times that awaited him.
I was pleased to see the fondness with which the little fellows
leaped about the steady old footman, and hugged the pointer,
who wriggled his whole body for joy. But Bantam was the great
object of interest; all wanted to mount at once, and it was with
some difficulty that John arranged that they should ride by turns,
and the eldest should ride first.
Off they set at last; one on the pony with the dog bounding
and barking before him, and the others holding John's hands;
»


## p. 8045 (#241) ###########################################

WASHINGTON IRVING
8045
both talking at once, and overpowering him with questions about
home and with school anecdotes. I looked after them with a
feeling in which I do not know whether pleasure or melancholy
predominated; for I was reminded of those days when like them
I had neither known care nor sorrow, and a holiday was the
summit of earthly felicity. We stopped a few moments after-
wards to water the horses; and on resuming our route, a turn
of the road brought us in sight of a neat country-seat. I could
just distinguish the forms of a lady and two young girls in the
portico; and I saw my little comrades with Bantam, Carlo, and
old John, trooping along the carriage road. I leaned out of the
coach window in hopes of witnessing the happy meeting, but a
grove of trees shut it from my sight.
In the evening we reached a village where I had determined
to pass the night. As we drove into the great gateway of the
inn, I saw on one side the light of a rousing kitchen fire beam-
ing through a window. I entered, and admired for the hun-
dredth time that picture of convenience, neatness, and broad
honest enjoyment, the kitchen of an English inn. It was of
spacious dimensions, hung round with copper and tin vessels
highly polished, and decorated here and there with a Christmas
green. Hams, tongues, and flitches of bacon were suspended
from the ceiling; a smoke-jack made its ceaseless clanking beside
the fireplace, and a clock ticked in one corner.
A well-scoured deal table extended along one side of the
kitchen, with a cold round of beef and other hearty viands upon
it, over which two foaming tankards of ale seemed mounting
guard. Travelers of inferior order were preparing to attack this
stout repast, whilst others sat smoking and gossiping over their
ale on
two high-backed oaken settles beside the fire. Trim
housemaids were hurrying backwards and forwards, under the
directions of a fresh bustling landlady; but still seizing an occas-
ional moment to exchange a flippant word, and have a rallying
laugh with the group round the fire. The scene completely real-
ized Poor Robin's humble idea of the comforts of midwinter:
“Now trees their leafy hats do bare
To reverence Winter's silver hair;
A handsome hostess, merry host,
A pot of ale now and a toast,
Tobacco and a good coal fire,
Are things this season doth require. ”


## p. 8046 (#242) ###########################################

8046
JORGE ISAAKS
(1843-)
v 1890 there appeared in English dress the South-American
romance entitled Maria. ' Author and work were alike un-
known, but the book attained an instant and wide-spread
popularity. Until then the English-speaking people of the north had
not heard of a story which for a quarter of a century had been a
chief favorite among their Spanish-speaking neighbors at the south.
Indeed, the literature of South America has until recently been neg-
lected alınost as much in Spain as in England and in the United
States; and yet it is a fact that American literature was born at the
south, and spoke the Spanish tongue. The first book printed in the
New World was printed in Spanish, in the year 1537, antedating by
more than a century the Bay Psalm Book. More than one hundred
books had been printed in Spanish before 1600, and a long line of
poets extending down to the present day testifies to the vigor of the
literary traditions. Thomas A. Janvier quotes an American merchant
as saying that “At Bogotá the people think a great deal more of
literary pursuits than of manufacturing. ”
It was at Bogotá that Jorge Isaaks began his literary career. His
father was an English Jew who married a woman of Spanish blood,
and Isaaks was born in the town of Cali in the State of Cauca: but
he was taken to Bogotá when still a lad, and it became his home for
life; the Bogotanos claim him with justice as their own. There in
1864 he published his first literary venture, a volume of verses. His
second work appeared three years later; this was María,' and it
found its way at once into the hearts of all the Spanish-speaking
people.
(María' is a tale of domestic life in Colombia, told with the con-
vincing simplicity of a consummate artist. A vein of true and tender
sentiment runs through the story, which lends it an idyllic charm;
but it is free from the unreality and sentimentality of Châteaubriand's
(Atala' and St. Pierre's (Paul and Virginia,' with which it has been
compared. Those romances move in idealized realms both as to
scenery and character; this portrays with absolute faithfulness the
actual life of to-day in a well-to-do Colombian home. This convin-
cing fidelity of treatment gives the work a character that is almost
autobiographic. The plot is simple, and its pivot is love. The young


## p. 8047 (#243) ###########################################

JORGE ISAAKS
8047
hero loves his father's ward Maria; his studies necessitate long ab-
sences from home; during one of these María dies. This is all. The
story moves gently through emotional experiences, and the agony
of the final separation through death is portrayed with a touch at
once powerful and tender. It is in the episodes that the local color
of South-American life is to be found. Prieto has called María
"a reliquary of pure sentiment,” and through the translation of Mr.
Rollo Ogden it has become a part of our own literature.
THE JAGUAR HUNT
From María): Translation of Rollo Ogden. Copyright 1890, by Harper &
Brothers
T"
He following morning at daybreak I took the mountain road,
accompanied by Juan Ángel, who was loaded down with
presents sent by my mother to Luisa and the girls. Mayo
followed us: his faithfulness was too much for his prudence, for
he had received many injuries in expeditions of this sort, and was
far too old to go upon them.
Once across the bridge, we met José and his nephew Braulio,
who were coming to find me. The former at once broached to
me his plan for the hunt, which was to try for a shot at a famous
jaguar of the neighborhood that had killed some of his lambs.
He had followed the creature's trail, and had discovered one of
his lairs at the head-waters of the river, more than half a league
above his cabin.
Juan Ángel was in a cold sweat on hearing these details, and
putting down on the fallen leaves the hamper which he was car-
rying, looked at us with staring eyes as if he were hearing of a
plan to commit a murder.
José kept on talking of his scheme of attack:-
You may cut off my ears if he gets away. Now we'll see if
that boastful Lucas is only the braggart they say. Tiburcio l'11
answer for. Have you got large bullets ? »
“Yes," I replied, "and my long rifle. ”
« This will be a great day for Braulio. He wants very much
to see you shoot; for I have told him that you and I consider
shots very poor that do not hit a bear square between the eyes. ”
He laughed boisterously, clapping his nephew on the shoulder.
"Well, let's be off,” he continued; “but let the boy carry this
garden-stuff to the Señora, and I'll go back. ' He caught up Juan
(
(C


## p. 8048 (#244) ###########################################

8048
JORGE ISAAKS
((
« Mind you
Ángel's hamper, saying, «Are these sweetmeats that María is
sending for her cousin ? »
“That's something my mother is sending Luisa. ”
“But what can be the matter with the girl ? I saw her go by
yesterday looking out of sorts. She was as white as a Castile
rose-bud. ”
«She's well again. ”
"Here, you young nigger, what are you doing here? ” said
José to Juan Ángel. “Be off with that bag, and come back
quickly, for it won't be safe for you to pass by here alone after
a while.
Not a word of this down at the house. "
come back! ” I shouted to him after he had
crossed the bridge. He disappeared in the reeds like a frightened
partridge.
Braulio was of about my age. Two months before, he had
come from Antioquía to live with his uncle, and was already
madly in love with his cousin Tránsito. The nephew's face had
all of that nobility which made that of the older man so interest-
ing; but the most striking thing in it was a beautiful mouth, not
bearded as yet, whose feminine smile was in strong contrast with
the manly energy expressed in the other features.
Of a gentle
and yielding nature, he was an indefatigable worker, a real treas-
ure for José, and just the husband for Tránsito.
Luisa and the girls came out to welcome me at the door of
the cabin, smiling and affectionate as ever. Frequent sight of
me in the last few months had made the girls less timid with
me. José himself in our hunting expeditions - that is, upon the
field of battle - exercised a paternal authority over me; but this
disappeared when he entered his house, as if our true and simple
friendship were a secret.
"At last! at last! » said Luisa, taking me by the arm to
lead me into the humble parlor. “It's all of seven days! We
have counted them one by one. ”
The girls looked at me with mischievous smiles.
Dear me," exclaimed Luisa, observing me more closely, how
pale you are! That won't do. If you would only come oftener
it would fatten you up like anything. "
“And you, what do you think of me? " asked I of the girls.
“Why,” replied Tránsito, “what must we think of you if by
staying off there studying – ”
“We have had such lovely things for you,” interrupted Lucía.
« We let the first melon of the new crop spoil, waiting for you;
»
(
>


## p. 8049 (#245) ###########################################

JORGE ISAAKS
8049
« Don't you
and last Thursday, thinking you were coming, we had such de-
licious cream for you —
«What a cunning flatterer she is ! ” said José. "Ah, Luisa,"
he added, “there's good judgment for you! we don't understand
such things. But he had a good reason for not coming," he
went on in a serious tone, “a good reason; and as you are soon
going to invite him to spend a whole day with us — isn't it so,
Braulio ? ”
"Yes, yes; please let us talk about that. When will that
great day come, Señora Luisa ? when will it, Tránsito ? »
She turned scarlet, and would not have lifted her eyes to look
at her betrothed for all the gold in the world.
«It will be a good while yet,” answered Luisa.
see that we must first get your little house whitewashed, and the
doors hung? It will be the day of Our Lady of Guadalupe, for
she is Tránsito's patron saint. ”
"And when is that ? »
“Don't you know? Why, the twelfth of December. Haven't
these children told you that they want you to be their grooms-
man ? »
"No; and I shall not pardon Tránsito for her delay in giving
me such good news. ”
“Well, I told Braulio that he ought to tell you, for my father
used to say that was the way.