It is wildly picturesque; built along the face of an arid
mountain. The ruins of a Moorish alcazar or citadel crown a rocky
mound which rises out of the centre of the town. The river Xenil
washes its base, winding among rocks, and groves, and gardens, and
meadows, and crossed by a Moorish bridge. Above the city all is savage
and sterile, below is the richest vegetation and the freshest verdure.
A similar contrast is presented by the river; above the bridge it is
placid and grassy, reflecting groves and gardens; below it is rapid,
noisy and tumultuous. The Sierra Nevada, the royal mountains of
Granada, crowned with perpetual snow, form the distant boundary to
this varied landscape; one of the most characteristic of romantic
Spain.
Alighting at the entrance of the city, we gave our horses to
Sancho to lead them to the inn, while we strolled about to enjoy the
singular beauty of the environs. As we crossed the bridge to a fine
alameda, or public walk, the bells tolled the hour of oration. At
the sound the wayfarers, whether on business or pleasure, paused, took
off their hats, crossed themselves, and repeated their evening prayer-
a pious custom still rigidly observed in retired parts of Spain.
Altogether it was a solemn and beautiful evening scene, and we
wandered on as the evening gradually closed, and the new moon began to
glitter between the high elms of the alameda.
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