Washington Irving's The Legend of the Moor's Legacy, Explained: A Detailed Summary and Literary Analysis
- Michael Kellermeyer
- Jun 8
- 11 min read
One of the most celebrated selections from Tales of the Alhambra—and among the very few Irving stories outside The Sketch Book ever adapted into animation—“The Legend of the Moor’s Legacy” stands as one of his clearest homages to the wonder-tales of the East. Rhetorically, morally, and structurally, it shares much with the traditions embodied in the 1001 Arabian Nights. Much like “Ali Baba and the Forty Thieves” or “Aladdin and His Wonderful Lamp,” the story concerns the trials of an impoverished man who unexpectedly stumbles upon a hidden, subterranean treasure capable of delivering him from want and toil.
Yet, as in many of those beloved tales, miraculous fortune proves vulnerable to human weakness: greed, vanity, and worldly ambition quickly gather around the gift, threatening to corrupt what first appeared to be providential. Irving’s fascination with the Arabian Nights was neither incidental nor superficial. Throughout his career, he delighted in stories of enchanted chambers, concealed wealth, mysterious benefactors, and the uneasy boundary between the supernatural and the everyday world.
Such motifs found an especially fertile home in Spain, whose layered cultural history—Roman, Visigothic, Islamic, Jewish, and Christian—provided Irving with a setting already steeped in legends of buried Moorish treasure, sleeping kings, enchanted palaces, and spectral guardians. The ruins of the Alhambra themselves had long inspired local tales of hidden riches protected by magic, and Irving eagerly absorbed these folk traditions while residing there in 1829. In this sense, “The Moor’s Legacy” occupies a fascinating middle ground: part literary fairy tale, part folkloric preservation, and part Romantic meditation on the lingering afterlife of vanished civilizations.
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The story also bears a close kinship to earlier selections in the collection, particularly “The Two Discreet Statues,” in which humble virtue is similarly tested by proximity to wealth and power. Like many of Irving’s Spanish legends, it reinforces one of the volume’s recurring moral patterns: blessings tend to descend upon the modest and sincere, while corruption, arrogance, and avarice invite their own quiet punishments. Readers familiar with European folk literature may additionally detect echoes of traditional fairy tales in which common laborers are granted magical opportunities only to see them imperiled by pride or exploitation—a narrative pattern as old as folklore itself.
For Irving, however, such tales rarely remained merely moral fables. Beneath the fantasy lies a vein of social satire sharpened by long personal frustration with politics and bureaucracy. Across his literary career, Irving seldom conceived of a more satisfying villain than the petty schemer armed with legal technicalities, inflated self-importance, and just enough institutional authority to burden ordinary people. From officious magistrates to grasping functionaries, his fiction repeatedly expresses skepticism toward those who mistake rank or office for virtue.
“The Moor’s Legacy,” consequently, may be read not only as a charming fireside legend, but also as a quiet political parable—one in which generosity and innocence are endangered less by grand tyrants than by the familiar machinery of greed, status, and bureaucratic meddling. As with much of Tales of the Alhambra, readers are advised to approach the story less as historical fiction than as a literary dreamscape: a romantic vision of Spain where folklore, memory, superstition, and satire mingle freely. Its enduring charm lies not merely in its magical premise, but in Irving’s ability to blend humor, fantasy, and moral reflection into a tale that feels at once timelessly universal and unmistakably his own.
SUMMARY
“The Legend of the Moor’s Legacy” opens in the Alhambra at Granada, where a famous Moorish well serves as a gathering place for water-carriers and local gossips. Among the carriers is a cheerful Galician laborer named Pedro Gil, commonly called Peregil. He is known throughout Granada for his good nature, industry, and constant cry of “Who wants water—water colder than snow?” Though outwardly merry, he struggles beneath poverty, supporting a large family and an extravagant, gossip-loving wife who wastes much of his earnings.
One hot summer night, after deciding to make “one more journey to the well” to earn money for his children’s Sunday meal, Peregil encounters a mysterious stranger dressed in Moorish clothing. The man appears desperately ill and asks for help returning to Granada. Peregil compassionately assists him, refusing any reward and declaring, “God forbid that I should ask fee or reward for doing a common act of humanity.”
The stranger admits he has neither home nor friends and asks for shelter. Peregil brings him to his humble dwelling despite his wife’s alarm. She fears attracting the attention of the Inquisition and angrily asks, “What infidel companion is this you have brought home at this late hour?” Nevertheless, Peregil insists on helping the suffering man.
Soon after arriving, the Moor is seized by violent convulsions. During a brief respite, he reveals a small sandalwood box strapped beneath his cloak and tells Peregil, “If I die, I bequeath you this box as a reward for your charity.” Before he can explain further, his convulsions return, and he dies.
Peregil and his wife panic. Fearing accusations of murder, they secretly remove the body before dawn and bury it beside the River Xenil. Unfortunately, their neighbor, the barber Pedrillo Pedrugo, observes everything. A notorious gossip, he follows Peregil, witnesses the burial, and immediately reports the matter to the alcalde, a corrupt magistrate.
The alcalde has Peregil arrested and accuses him of robbing and murdering the Moor. Although Peregil honestly recounts the events, the magistrate assumes there must be treasure involved. When Peregil mentions the sandalwood box, the alcalde eagerly seizes it, expecting jewels. Instead, he finds only “a parchment scroll, covered with Arabic characters, and an end of a waxen taper.”
Disappointed by the apparent lack of valuables, the alcalde reluctantly releases Peregil but confiscates his beloved donkey as payment for legal costs. This punishment hurts the poor water-carrier deeply. Reduced to carrying water himself once more, he laments, “Ah, donkey of my heart!” and grieves over the loss of his faithful companion.
At home, his wife constantly mocks him for his misplaced kindness. One evening, in frustration, Peregil throws the sandalwood box to the floor. The lid bursts open, and the Arabic scroll falls out. Wondering whether it may contain something valuable, he takes it to a Moorish merchant from Tangiers for translation.
The merchant explains that the scroll contains “a form of incantation for the recovery of hidden treasure, that is under the power of enchantment.” At first Peregil dismisses the idea. Later, however, after hearing stories at the Alhambra well about immense treasures hidden beneath the Tower of the Seven Floors, he becomes intrigued. He returns to the merchant and proposes that they test the spell together and divide any treasure equally.
The Moor agrees but explains that the incantation requires a special taper. Peregil suddenly realizes that the wax fragment from the sandalwood box is exactly what they need. Examining it, the merchant declares, “This is the kind of taper specified in the scroll.” He also warns that anyone remaining within the enchanted chambers after the taper burns out will become trapped forever.
That night the two men secretly visit the Tower of the Seven Floors. Descending through a series of underground chambers, they reach the deepest accessible vault. At midnight they light the taper and recite the incantation. Instantly, “the earth shook,” and a hidden staircase appears.
Descending further, they discover a magnificent treasure chamber. Two armored Moors sit motionless beside a great chest bound with seven steel bands. Around the room stand jars overflowing with “gold and silver and precious stones.” The two adventurers eagerly fill their pockets with coins, pearls, necklaces, and ornaments while nervously glancing at the enchanted guardians.
Overcome by fear, they eventually flee the vault, accidentally extinguishing the taper as they escape. Once outside, they divide their spoils and agree to keep the discovery secret until they can return. To ensure mutual trust, one keeps the scroll while the other retains the taper.
The merchant repeatedly warns Peregil to maintain secrecy, particularly from his wife. Peregil promises. Yet when he returns home, he finds her lamenting their poverty and imagining disaster. Unable to contain his excitement, he reveals several gold coins and eventually confesses the entire story after she suspects him of robbery and murder.
His wife swears secrecy and is overjoyed. Peregil sells a single gold coin, purchases clothes and food for his family, and enjoys a brief period of happiness. Although his wife initially keeps silent, she cannot resist showing signs of unexpected wealth. She hints about buying expensive clothing, speaks of retiring from poverty, and secretly adorns herself with pearls, bracelets, and diamonds.
Eventually she displays her jewelry near the window. The ever-watchful barber notices immediately and reports everything to the alcalde. Once again Peregil is arrested and dragged before the magistrate.
Facing threats and accusations, Peregil reveals the story of the treasure. The merchant is summoned, and his account matches Peregil’s exactly. The alcalde, greedy for the treasure, pretends to cooperate. Following the advice of his equally unscrupulous alguazil, he agrees to accompany them to the vault while secretly planning to seize everything.
Late that night the party travels to the tower. The incantation is performed again, and the hidden chamber opens. Peregil and the merchant retrieve two large jars filled with gold and gems, enough to burden even the recovered donkey.
The merchant suggests that they leave with what they have. “Enough is enough for a reasonable man—more is superfluous,” he says. Peregil agrees, declaring that he will carry “no further burden to break the back of my poor donkey.” The alcalde, however, becomes obsessed with the enormous chest still remaining below. Ignoring all warnings, he descends with the alguazil and the barber to claim it.
The moment they are safely underground, the merchant extinguishes the enchanted taper. The hidden staircase closes instantly, sealing the three greedy men inside forever.
Peregil is horrified and asks whether they should be released. The merchant calmly replies, “It is written in the book of fate that they shall remain enchanted until some future adventurer arrive to break the charm.” He then throws away the last fragment of the magical taper.
The two partners depart with the treasure and the donkey. Peregil is delighted not only by his wealth but also by the recovery of his faithful animal companion. They divide the treasure fairly, though the merchant keeps most of the jewels while compensating Peregil with heavy gold ornaments.
Determined to avoid further danger, the merchant returns to Tangiers, while Peregil relocates with his wife, children, and donkey to Portugal. There he rises in social standing, adopting the more dignified title of Don Pedro Gil. His descendants prosper, while his wife becomes famous for her extravagant fashion and finery.
As for the alcalde, the barber, and the alguazil, they remain imprisoned beneath the Tower of the Seven Floors. The story concludes that they may be released whenever Spain lacks “pimping barbers, sharking alguazils, and corrupt alcaldes.” Since such a day seems unlikely, their enchantment may well endure until the end of time.
ANALYSIS
Like the Arabian Astrologer (and—until Sanchica’s intervention—the enchanted Gothic princess), the tale’s schemers ultimately become prisoners of the very wealth they sought to control, sealed within the subterranean vault as permanent custodians of their own avarice. It is a fittingly folkloric punishment: a classic case of be careful what you wish for. Their obsession with possession, status, and control leaves them immobilized, spiritually and physically trapped by the object of their desires.
By contrast, the humble Peregil and his Moorish companion—having weathered temptation without surrendering their essential decency—part company in mutual prosperity, liberated at last from poverty, legal harassment, and the meddling ambitions of opportunists. The conclusion offers a moral distinction common throughout Irving’s fiction: happiness belongs not to those who clutch at power, but to those who remain contented, generous, and quietly industrious.
As suggested in the opening notes, Irving almost certainly had the political climate of his own day somewhere in mind while shaping this story. During the period in which Tales of the Alhambra was composed and published, the United States was embroiled in the bitter factionalism of the Jacksonian Era, with political loyalties split between supporters of John Quincy Adams and Andrew Jackson. The rhetoric of the age could be astonishingly personal and vindictive, and Irving—temperamentally allergic to ideological hostility and public rancor—found much of the spectacle deeply distasteful.
Although he later distanced himself from Jackson and his increasingly tribalist brand of extreme populism, Irving initially regarded the frontier-born general as an outsider unfairly maligned by entrenched elites: a self-made man besieged by aristocratic insiders and political gatekeepers. Such sympathies do not necessarily mean that Peregil should be read as a direct caricature of Jackson, but the comparison is difficult to resist entirely. Like Jackson’s public image, Peregil is humble in origin, practical in temperament, suspicious of pretension, and repeatedly endangered by grasping men who seek to manipulate institutions for personal advantage.
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Yet to read “The Moor’s Legacy” solely as political allegory risks overlooking one of its richest and most enduring dimensions: Irving’s unusually generous vision of intercultural cooperation. Among modern readers, one increasingly popular interpretation of the tale emphasizes the friendship between Peregil and the Moorish figure as a symbolic expression of convivencia—the long, if imperfect, period of coexistence among Muslims, Christians, and Jews in medieval Spain, especially under Andalusian rule. The Alhambra itself, towering above Granada as both a monument to Islamic civilization and a relic absorbed into Christian Spain, embodies this layered inheritance.
For Irving, it was never merely an exotic ruin; it represented a place where cultures overlapped, histories conversed, and identities blurred into something richer than simple conquest narratives allowed. Seen through this lens, the story’s moral architecture becomes especially revealing. Prosperity emerges not through domination or exclusion, but through trust, hospitality, and cooperation across lines of culture and religion. Peregil—a poor Christian laborer—does not flourish by exploiting or fearing the Moorish stranger, nor by attempting to claim superiority over him.
Instead, the two men succeed precisely because they work together with mutual respect and straightforward goodwill. Irving repeatedly imagines harmony springing from common humanity rather than rigid tribalism, and in this regard “The Moor’s Legacy” aligns with some of his deepest recurring concerns. Across his writings, from The Sketch Book to the Spanish romances, Irving tends to reward characters who embody tolerance, moderation, and an easy sociability, while reserving his sharpest satire for zealots, opportunists, and petty tyrants.
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This dynamic becomes clearer when contrasted with the story’s three antagonists. Though differing in personality and station, the schemers collectively represent a constellation of social vices Irving distrusted throughout his life: greed, bureaucratic corruption, cronyism, and prejudice disguised as respectability. Their instinct is not to cooperate, but to hoard; not to build community, but to manipulate systems of authority for private gain. They are incapable of genuine fellowship because they approach every human relationship transactionally, viewing others either as rivals to suppress or tools to exploit.
Significantly, their failure stems not merely from wickedness, but from their inability to imagine trust across boundaries—social, cultural, or personal. In a story set amid the layered inheritances of Moorish Spain, such narrowness becomes its own form of imprisonment. Irving’s heroes, by contrast, often possess what might best be described as a humane looseness of spirit. Whether it is the sleepy geniality of Rip Van Winkle, the cheerful hospitality of Dutch villagers, or the romantic dreamers wandering through Spanish ruins, Irving repeatedly privileges contentment over ambition and fellowship over competition. His ideal society is rarely energetic, efficient, or politically triumphant; instead, it is neighborly, tolerant, and leisurely—a world in which ordinary people are permitted to flourish free from needless interference by ideologues, social climbers, or officious administrators. Peregil’s triumph thus reflects an enduring Irvingian conviction: happiness lies not in mastery, but in modest sufficiency shared among friends.
For this reason, the ending of “The Moor’s Legacy” resonates as something more hopeful than a simple fairy-tale reward system. In a world fractured by suspicion and self-interest, Irving imagines the possibility of flourishing through cooperation across divisions of class, religion, and cultural inheritance. The treasure, ultimately, may be less important than the lesson surrounding it: communities thrive when generosity triumphs over greed, when strangers become allies rather than enemies, and when people meet one another not with fear or envy, but with patience, humor, and good faith.
That such a vision emerges from the shadow of the Alhambra—a monument born of cultural entanglement and historical complexity—feels entirely fitting for an author who consistently championed cosmopolitan goodwill over factional bitterness.