lain, covered with vineyards and fruit-trees; Ventas di Alcolea, on the
last hills of the Sierra Nevada, peopled with villas and gardens. We are
approaching Cordova, the train flies along, we see little stations half
hidden by trees and flowers, the wind carries the rose leaves into the
carriages, great butterflies fly near the windows, a delicious perfume
permeates the air, the travelers sing; we pass through an enchanted
garden, the aloes, oranges, palms, and villas grow more frequent; and at
last we hear a cry--"Here is Cordova!"

How many lovely pictures and grand recollections the sound of that name
awakens in one's mind! Cordova,--the ancient pearl of the East, as the
Arabian poets call it,--the city of cities; Cordova of the thirty
suburbs and three thousand mosques, which inclosed within her walls the
greatest temple of Islam! Her fame extended throughout the East, and
obscured the glory of ancient Damascus. The faithful came from the most
remote regions of Asia to banks of the Guadalquivir to prostrate
themselves in the marvelous Mihrab of her mosque, in the light of the
thousand bronze lamps cast from the bells of the cathedrals of Spain.
Hither flocked artists, savants, poets from every part of the Mahometan
world to her flourishing schools, immense libraries, and the magnificent
courts of her caliphs. Riches and beauty flowed in, attracted by the
fame of her splendor. From here they scattered, eager for knowledge,
along the coasts of Africa, through the schools of Tunis, Cairo, Bagdad,
Cufa, and even to India and China, in order to gather inspiration and
records; and the poetry sung on the slopes of the Sierra Morena flew
from lyre to lyre, as far as the valleys of the Caucasus, to excite the
ardor for pilgrimages. The beautiful, powerful, and wise Cordova,
crowned with three thousand villages, proudly raised her white minarets
in the midst of orange groves, and spread around the valley a voluptuous
atmosphere of joy and glory.

I leave the train, cross a garden, look around me. I am alone. The
travelers who were with me disappear here and there; I still hear the
noise of a carriage which is rolling off; then all is quiet. It is
midday, the sky is very clear, and the air suffocating. I see two white
houses; it is the opening of a street; I enter and go on. The street is
narrow, the houses as small as the little villas on the slopes of
artificial gardens, almost all one story in height, with windows a few
fe