estate, at its base; and beyond it the Mountain of Parapanda, the weather-guage of Granada, still covered with clouds.  There is an old Granadian proverb which says:—­“When Parapanda wears his bonnet, it will rain whether God wills it or no.”  From the chapel of San Miguel, above the Albaycin, there is a very striking view of the deep gorge of the Darro, at one’s feet, with the gardens and white walls of the Generalife rising beyond, and the Silla del Moro and the Mountain of the Sun towering above it.  The long, irregular lines of the Alhambra, with the huge red towers rising here and there, reminded me somewhat of a distant view of Karnak; and, like Karnak, the Alhambra is picturesque from whatever point it is viewed.

We descended through wastes of cactus to the Darro, in whose turbid stream a group of men were washing for gold.  I watched one of them, as he twirled his bowl in precisely the California style, but got nothing for his pains.  Mateo says that they often make a dollar a day, each.  Passing under the Tower of Comares and along the battlements of the Alhambra, we climbed up to the Generalife.  This charming villa is still in good preservation, though its exquisite filigree and scroll-work have been greatly injured by whitewash.  The elegant colonnades surround gardens rich in roses, myrtles and cypresses, and the fountains that lulled the Moorish Kings in their summer idleness still pour their fertilizing streams.  In one of the rooms is a small and bad portrait gallery, containing a supposed portrait of Boabdil.  It is a mild, amiable face, but wholly lacks strength of character.

To-day I devoted to the Alhambra.  The storm, which, as the people say, has not been equalled for several years, showed no signs of breaking up, and in the midst of a driving shower I ascended to the Vermilion Towers, which are supposed to be of Phoenician origin.  They stand on the extremity of a long, narrow ledge, which stretches out like an arm from the hill of the Alhambra.  The paseo lies between, and is shaded by beautiful elms, which the Moors planted.

I entered the Alhambra by the Gate of Justice, which is a fine specimen of Moorish architecture, though of common red brick and mortar.  It is singular what a grace the horse-shoe arch gives to the most heavy and lumbering mass of masonry.  The round arches of the Christian edifices of Granada seem tame and inelegant, in comparison.  Over the arch of the vestibule of this gate is the colossal hand, and over the inner entrance the key, celebrated in the tales of Washington Irving and the superstitions of the people.  I first ascended the Torre de la Vela, where the Christian flag was first planted on the 2d of January, 1492.  The view of the Vega and City of Granada was even grander than from the Albaycin.  Parapanda was still bonneted in clouds, but patches of blue sky began to open above the mountains of Loxa.  A little boy accompanied us, to see that I did not pull the bell, the sound of which would call together all the troops in the city.  While we stood there, the funeral procession of the man murdered two nights before came up the street of Gomerez, and passed around the hill under the Vermilion Towers.