Jews and Moors in Spain. Joseph Krauskopf
V.
The Jews and Moors in Spain.
CHAPTER I.
A DAY IN CORDOVA.
SIX AND EIGHT AND TEN CENTURIES BACK IN THE WORLD'S HISTORY.—OUR ENTRANCE INTO SPAIN.—A MIRACLE.—THE BEAUTIFUL GUADALQUIVIR.—OUR BRONZE COMPLEXIONED OARSMAN.—FAIR CORDOVA.—THE CITY OF THE ARTS AND SCIENCES.—NIGHT.—A SERENADE.—OUR DEPARTURE.
It is with the past that we shall commune in these pages. Events and scenes, beautiful and loathsome, joyous and tearful, ennobling and degrading, will follow each other in rapid succession. There will be much that, despite the very best of historic sources, and most reliable and impartial authorities, will be accepted as fabulous or will be rejected as incredible or impossible. Achievements will be described, that will startle us for their peerless magnificence and lead us to suppose that we are not dealing with facts, but with the imaginations of some rich phantasy or with the fictitious colorings of a mind enthusiastic for an ideal society; and miseries and sufferings will be depicted that will strike terror into our very soul, and cause our heart to rise in rebellion against the mind, when asked to believe them as actual occurrences, and not as some distressing and revolting and blood-stained work of fiction, written by some hellish fiend for the amusement or for the schooling of the vicious indwellers of the bottomless pit of Tophet. And yet, it will be history, and true history, strange and incredible, marvelous and anomalous though it may appear. Six and eight and ten centuries have since passed by, and the most wonderful of all centuries they have been, centuries that chronicle the birth and prodigious growth of the sciences and inventions, the creation and successful continuance of republican and constitutional governments, the breaking down of castes and barriers between man and man, the suppression of political and religious terrorism and these blessed results have so tickled our conceit, have so raised our moral standard that it is almost impossible for us to properly conceive—either in all its grandeur or in all its baseness—that era of the past, which we are about to traverse.
But know we must, and therefore, what the mind refuses to believe, and what the heart refuses to credit, let the eye see. Let us think ourselves back six and eight and ten centuries. Let us enter upon a far and distant journey. Away we speed. Far, far across the wild Atlantic. We have reached the sunny land of Spain. Here let us pause for a hasty inspection. It will not take us long, for that country, that is among the poorest of all European countries to-day, whose reeking filth has recently made it a scene of revelry to the ravishing plague, whose stupendous ignorance, and appalling superstitions, have made it a by-word among the civilized people of the earth, that country, so backward now, will certainly have no attractiveness for us, ten centuries earlier in its history.
Lo! A miracle! The magic wand of some frolicksome fay must have suddenly transformed the land of expected filth and wretchedness into a beauteous fairyland. Amidst rapturous admiration of the indescribable beauties, which meet our gaze everywhere, we glide along upon the placid surface of the Guadalquivir, in which a wondrously clear blue sky glasses itself, and splendrous palaces and gorgeous parks are reflected. We have entered beautiful Andalusia. We glide along the southern declivity of the Sierra Morena. Suddenly there breaks upon our view a scene of beauty that mocks every attempt at description. We ask our black eyed, bronze complexioned and proud featured oarsman for the name of that magnificent city that lies stretched for miles along the right bank. He understands us not. We address him in French, in German, in Greek, in Latin. No answer. We are at our wits' end. We must know, and so we seek recourse, as a last resort, to our mother tongue, the language of the Hebrews, and his face brightens, and his tongue is loosened, and in accents as melodious and pure as it must have been spoken by David himself, when he sang to his harp, the words of his own heaven-inspired psalms he makes reply: "What ye behold, ye strangers, is the city of Cordova,