This bridge was the scene of many conflicts during the Moorish occupancy of the city. Long before it was built, when Cæsar came to attack Cordova, he constructed a temporary bridge across the Guadalquivir, by placing large baskets of stones in the river and laying timber upon them. The Moorish water-mills, which can be seen from the bridge, are interesting relics. The river, the mills, the bell-tower of the Mosque, and the walls form a picture which lives in the memory. The view lacks the stern grandeur of that from the Bridge of Toledo, but it is nevertheless beautiful. In flood-time the river seethes by the buttresses, and tumbles through the arches to spend itself below in a wide and imposing stream. And at night, when the moon gleams on the Guadalquivir, and lights the Mosque, and lingers upon the ancient walls and towers, the scene is one of fairy-like enchantment. Men fish above and below the bridge, employing curious lever nets and other quaint tackle for the capture of shad and eels. Along the verge of the swirling stream busy women kneel to rinse and wring their linen, and to spread the garments upon the green banks to dry in the hot sun. The devout pause before the shrine in the centre of the bridge, and pay their reverence to St. Raphael. Here, too, loiter the idlers of Cordova; they lounge and blink at the water, and smoke their cigarettes in the sunshine. And on market-days there is a stream of pack-mules and asses, heavy wains with teams of horses, and droves of cattle across the long Puente. The spell of Cordova holds one long after leaving the city. One recalls the white, tortuous alleys, and the luminous blue shadows of the Mosque at noonday. The odours of orange-bloom and of roses are wafted to the nostrils, as one thinks of the silent patios, where the footstep echoes, and the huerta by the river, where there are trees and plants of the tropics. One hears the rattle of the mule-wagon upon the stony thoroughfares, the first streets that were ever paved in Spain; the nightly cry of the watchman, in his mediæval garb; the jangling of church bells the call of the water-seller, carrying his tall Oriental jar; the rich liquid tones of the nightingales in the gardens and the thickets of the Guadalquivir; the early morning scream of the hawk floating over the bell-tower, and the bleating of the wandering herds of goats. Cordova is Moorish, Spanish, Andalusian, but, still more than all, Oriental. Wonderful Moors! Marvellous city of light, colour, beauty, and romantic memories! IX ILLUSTRIOUS NATIVES OF CORDOVA The ‘holy and learned’ city of Cordova has ever produced sons worthy of its renown. There were, no doubt, many philosophers, teachers, and poets during the Mohammedan dominion, whose names have not been preserved, and whose works have perished. Corduba was the birthplace of Seneca, the relative and the contemporary of Lucan, and one of the greatest men that the city produced.