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, the government seat of the valiant and chivalrous, and scholarly and liberal, and art-loving Caliph Abderrahman III." We are burning with a desire to see that city, whose simple outlines display such bewildering elegance. With our courteous oarsman as guide, we advance along the street that leads from the river bank. We gaze and gaze in awe-stricken silence. Amazement is expressed on every countenance. Our eyes are dazzled with the enchanting magnificence that abounds. We have reached the palace of the Caliph. Are we dreaming? Are we under the power of some magic spell? Is this a whim of some sportive, mischief-loving fay? Have we not thought ourselves some ten centuries back? Are we in the midst of the Dark Ages; in European lands, and among the people of the tenth century, concerning whose stupendous ignorance and loathsome filth historians have had so much to say? Has history deceived us in its teaching that the people of Europe, six and eight centuries back had scarcely emerged from the savage state, that they inhabited floorless, chimneyless, windowless huts, those of princes and monarchs differing only in their having rushes on the floor and straw mats against the walls, that they fed on roots and vetches and bark of trees, clothed in garments of untanned skin which remained on the body till they dropped in pieces, that there existed scarcely a city, everywhere pathless forest and howling wastes?