Tales of the Alhambra | Page 7

from our repasts at the inns, to supply these junketings
by the road-side, which were his delight.
[2] It may be as well to note here, that the alforjas are square pockets at
each end of a long cloth about a foot and a half wide, formed by turning
up its extremities. The cloth is then thrown over the saddle, and the
pockets hang on each side like saddle-bags. It is an Arab invention. The
bota is a leathern bag or bottle, of portly dimensions, with a narrow
neck. It is also oriental. Hence the scriptural caution, which perplexed
me in my boyhood, not to put new wine into old bottles.
On the present occasion he spread quite a sumptuous variety of
remnants on the green-sward before us, graced with an excellent ham
brought from Seville; then, taking his seat at a little distance, he solaced
himself with what remained in the alforjas. A visit or two to the bota
made him as merry and chirruping as a grasshopper filled with dew. On
my comparing his contents of the alforjas to Sancho's skimming of the
flesh-pots at the wedding of Camacho, I found he was well versed in
the history of Don Quixote, but, like many of the common people of
Spain, firmly believed it to be a true history.
"All that happened a long time ago, senor," said he, with an inquiring
look.
"A very long time," I replied.

"I dare say more than a thousand years"--still looking dubiously.
"I dare say not less."
The squire was satisfied. Nothing pleased the simple-hearted varlet
more than my comparing him to the renowned Sancho for devotion to
the trencher, and he called himself by no other name throughout the
journey.
Our repast being finished, we spread our cloaks on the green-sward
under the tree, and took a luxurious siesta in the Spanish fashion. The
clouding up of the weather, however, warned us to depart, and a harsh
wind sprang up from the southeast. Towards five o'clock we arrived at
Osuna, a town of fifteen thousand inhabitants, situated on the side of a
hill, with a church and a ruined castle. The posada was outside of the
walls; it had a cheerless look. The evening being cold, the inhabitants
were crowded round a brasero in a chimney corner; and the hostess was
a dry old woman, who looked like a mummy. Every one eyed us
askance as we entered, as Spaniards are apt to regard strangers; a
cheery, respectful salutation on our part, caballeroing them and
touching our sombreros, set Spanish pride at ease; and when we took
our seat among them, lit our cigars, and passed the cigar-box round
among them, our victory was complete. I have never known a Spaniard,
whatever his rank or condition, who would suffer himself to be outdone
in courtesy; and to the common Spaniard the present of a cigar (puro) is
irresistible. Care, however, must be taken never to offer him a present
with an air of superiority and condescension; he is too much of a
caballero to receive favors at the cost of his dignity.
Leaving Osuna at an early hour the next morning, we entered the sierra
or range of mountains. The road wound through picturesque scenery,
but lonely; and a cross here and there by the road side, the sign of a
murder, showed that we were now coming among the "robber haunts."
This wild and intricate country, with its silent plains and valleys
intersected by mountains, has ever been famous for banditti. It was here
that Omar Ibn Hassan, a robber-chief among the Moslems, held
ruthless sway in the ninth century, disputing dominion even with the
caliphs of Cordova. This too was a part of the regions so often ravaged

during the reign of Ferdinand and Isabella by Ali Atar, the old Moorish
alcayde of Loxa, father-in-law of Boabdil, so that it was called Ali
Atar's garden, and here "Jose Maria," famous in Spanish brigand story,
had his favorite lurking places.
In the course of the day we passed through Fuente la Piedra near a little
salt lake of the same name, a beautiful sheet of water, reflecting like a
mirror the distant mountains. We now came in sight of Antiquera, that
old city of warlike reputation, lying in the lap of the great sierra which
runs through Andalusia. A noble vega spread out before it, a picture of
mild fertility set in a frame of rocky mountains. Crossing a gentle river
we approached the city between hedges and gardens, in which
nightingales were pouring forth their evening song. About nightfall we
arrived at the gates. Every thing in this venerable city has a decidedly
Spanish stamp. It lies too much out of the frequented track of foreign
travel to have its old