of the library of the Jesuits’ College of St. Isidoro, I pass most of my mornings there.  You cannot think what a delight I feel in passing through its galleries, filled with old parchment-bound books.  It is a perfect wilderness of curiosity to me.  What a deep-felt, quiet luxury there is in delving into the rich ore of these old, neglected volumes!  How these hours of uninterrupted intellectual enjoyment, so tranquil and independent, repay one for the ennui and disappointment too often experienced in the intercourse of society!  How they serve to bring back the feelings into a harmonious tone, after being jarred and put out of tune by the collisions with the world!”

With the romantic period of Spanish history Irving was in ardent sympathy.  The story of the Saracens entranced his mind; his imagination disclosed its oriental quality while he pored over the romance and the ruin of that land of fierce contrasts, of arid wastes beaten by the burning sun, valleys blooming with intoxicating beauty, cities of architectural splendor and picturesque squalor.  It is matter of regret that he, who seemed to need the southern sun to ripen his genius, never made a pilgrimage into the East, and gave to the world pictures of the lands that he would have touched with the charm of their own color and the witchery of their own romance.

I will quote again from the letters, for they reveal the man quite as well as the more formal and better known writings.  His first sight of the Alhambra is given in a letter to Mademoiselle Bollviller: 

“Our journey through La Mancha was cold and uninteresting, excepting when we passed through the scenes of some of the exploits of Don Quixote.  We were repaid, however, by a night amidst the scenery of the Sierra Morena, seen by the light of the full moon.  I do not know how this scenery would appear in the daytime, but by moonlight it is wonderfully wild and romantic, especially after passing the summit of the Sierra.  As the day dawned we entered the stern and savage defiles of the Despena Perros, which equals the wild landscapes of Salvator Rosa.  For some time we continued winding along the brinks of precipices, overhung with cragged and fantastic rocks; and after a succession of such rude and sterile scenes we swept down to Carolina, and found ourselves in another climate.  The orange-trees, the aloes, and myrtle began to make their appearance; we felt the warm temperature of the sweet South, and began to breathe the balmy air of Andalusia.  At Andujar we were delighted with the neatness and cleanliness of the houses, the patios planted with orange and citron trees, and refreshed by fountains.  We passed a charming evening on the banks of the famous Guadalquivir, enjoying the mild, balmy air of a southern evening, and rejoicing in the certainty that we were at length in this land of promise . . . .

“But Granada, bellissima Granada!  Think what must have been our delight when, after