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Transcribed from the 1908 Cassell and Company edition by David Price,
email ccx074@coventry.ac.uk.
THE BIBLE IN SPAIN - GEORGE BORROW
AUTHOR’S PREFACE
It is very seldom that the preface of a work is read; indeed, of late
years, most books have been sent into the world without any. I
deem it, however, advisable to write a preface, and to this I humbly
call the attention of the courteous reader, as its perusal will not
a little tend to the proper understanding and appreciation of these
volumes.
The work now offered to the public, and which is styled The Bible
in Spain, consists of a narrative of what occurred to me during
a residence in that country, to which I was sent by the Bible Society,
as its agent for the purpose of printing and circulating the Scriptures.
It comprehends, however, certain journeys and adventures in Portugal,
and leaves me at last in “the land of the Corahai,” to which
region, after having undergone considerable buffeting in Spain, I found
it expedient to retire for a season.
It is very probable that had I visited Spain from mere curiosity, or
with a view of passing a year or two agreeably, I should never have
attempted to give any detailed account of my proceedings, or of what
I heard and saw. I am no tourist, no writer of books of travels;
but I went there on a somewhat remarkable errand, which necessarily
led me into strange situations and positions, involved me in difficulties
and perplexities, and brought me into contact with people of all descriptions
and grades; so that, upon the whole, I flatter myself that a narrative
of such a pilgrimage may not be wholly uninteresting to the public,
more especially as the subject is not trite; for though various books
have been published about Spain, I believe that the present is the only
one in existence which treats of missionary labour in that country.
Many things, it is true, will be found in the following volume which
have little connexion with religion or religious enterprise; I offer,
however, no apology for introducing them. I was, as I may say,
from first to last adrift in Spain, the land of old renown, the land
of wonder and mystery, with better opportunities of becoming acquainted
with its strange secrets and peculiarities than perhaps ever yet were
afforded to any individual, certainly to a foreigner; and if in many
instances I have introduced scenes and characters perhaps unprecedented
in a work of this description, I have only to observe, that, during
my sojourn in Spain, I was so unavoidably mixed up with such, that I
could scarcely have given a faithful narrative of what befell me had
I not brought them forward in the manner which I have done.
It is worthy of remark that, called suddenly and unexpectedly “to
undertake the adventure of Spain,” I was not altogether unprepared
for such an enterprise. In the daydreams of my boyhood, Spain
always bore a considerable share, and I took a particular interest in
her, without any presentiment that I should at a future time be called
upon to take a part, however humble, in her strange dramas; which interest,
at a very early period, led me to acquire her noble language, and to
make myself acquainted with her literature (scarcely worthy of the language),
her history and traditions; so that when I entered Spain for the first
time I felt more at home than I should otherwise have done.
In Spain I passed five years, which, if not the most eventful, were,
I have no hesitation in saying, the most happy years of my existence.
Of Spain, at the present time, now that the daydream has vanished, never,
alas! to return, I entertain the warmest admiration: she is the most
magnificent country in the world, probably the most fertile, and certainly
with the finest climate. Whether her children are worthy of their
mother, is another question, which I shall not attempt to answer; but
content myself with observing, that, amongst much that is lamentable
and reprehensible, I have found much that is noble and to be admired;
much stern heroic virtue; much savage and horrible crime; of low vulgar
vice very little, at least amongst the great body of the Spanish nation,
with which my mission lay; for it will be as well here to observe, that
I advance no claim to an intimate acquaintance with the Spanish nobility,
from whom I kept as remote as circumstances would permit me; en revanche,
however, I have had the honour to live on familiar terms with the
peasants, shepherds, and muleteers of Spain, whose bread and bacalao
I have eaten; who always treated me with kindness and courtesy, and
to whom I have not unfrequently been indebted for shelter and protection.
“The generous bearing of Francisco Gonzales, and the high deeds
of Ruy Diaz the Cid, are still sung amongst the fastnesses of the Sierra
Morena.” {0}
I believe that no stronger argument can be brought forward in proof
of the natural vigour and resources of Spain, and the sterling character
of her population, than the fact that, at the present day, she is still
a powerful and unexhausted country, and her children still, to a certain
extent, a high-minded and great people. Yes, notwithstanding the
misrule of the brutal and sensual Austrian, the doting Bourbon, and,
above all, the spiritual tyranny of the court of Rome, Spain can still
maintain her own, fight her own combat, and Spaniards are not yet fanatic
slaves and crouching beggars. This is saying much, very much:
she has undergone far more than Naples had ever to bear, and yet the
fate of Naples has not been hers. There is still valour in Astruria;
generosity in Aragon; probity in Old Castile; and the peasant women
of La Mancha can still afford to place a silver fork and a snowy napkin
beside the plate of their guest. Yes, in spite of Austrian, Bourbon,
and Rome, there is still a wide gulf between Spain and Naples.
Strange as it may sound, Spain is not a fanatic country. I know
something about her, and declare that she is not, nor has ever been;
Spain never changes. It is true that, for nearly two centuries,
she was the she-butcher, La Verduga, of malignant Rome; the chosen
instrument for carrying into effect the atrocious projects of that power;
yet fanaticism was not the spring which impelled her to the work of
butchery; another feeling, in her the predominant one, was worked upon
- her fatal pride. It was by humouring her pride that she was
induced to waste her precious blood and treasure in the Low Country
wars, to launch the Armada, and to many other equally insane actions.
Love of Rome had ever slight influence over her policy; but flattered
by the title of Gonfaloniera of the Vicar of Jesus, and eager to prove
herself not unworthy of the same, she shut her eyes and rushed upon
her own destruction with the cry of “Charge, Spain.”
But the arms of Spain became powerless abroad, and she retired within
herself. She ceased to be the tool of the vengeance and cruelty
of Rome. She was not cast aside, however. No! though she
could no longer wield the sword with success against the Lutherans,
she might still be turned to some account. She had still gold
and silver, and she was still the land of the vine and olive.
Ceasing to be the butcher, she became the banker of Rome; and the poor
Spaniards, who always esteem it a privilege to pay another person’s
reckoning, were for a long time happy in being permitted to minister
to the grasping cupidity of Rome, who during the last century, probably
extracted from Spain more treasure than from all the rest of Christendom.
But wars came into the land. Napoleon and his fierce Franks invaded
Spain; plunder and devastation ensued, the effects of which will probably
be felt for ages. Spain could no longer pay pence to Peter so
freely as of yore, and from that period she became contemptible in the
eyes of Rome, who has no respect for a nation, save so far as it can
minister to her cruelty or avarice. The Spaniard was still willing
to pay, as far as his means would allow, but he was soon given to understand
that he was a degraded being, - a barbarian; nay, a beggar. Now,
you may draw the last cuarto from a Spaniard, provided you will concede
to him the title of cavalier, and rich man, for the old leaven still
works as powerfully as in the time of the first Philip; but you must
never hint that he is poor, or that his blood is inferior to your own.
And the old peasant, on being informed in what slight estimation he
was held, replied, “If I am a beast, a barbarian, and a beggar
withal, I am sorry for it; but as there is no remedy, I shall spend
these four bushels of barley, which I had reserved to alleviate the
misery of the holy father, in procuring bull spectacles, and other convenient
diversions, for the queen my wife, and the young princes my children.
Beggar! carajo! The water of my village is better than the wine
of Rome.”
I see that in a late pastoral letter directed to the Spaniards, the
father of Rome complains bitterly of the treatment which he has received
in Spain at the hands of naughty men. “My cathedrals are
let down,” he says, “my priests are insulted, and the revenues
of my bishops are curtailed.” He consoles himself, however,
with the idea that this is the effect of the malice of a few, and that
the generality of the nation love him, especially the peasantry, the
innocent peasantry, who shed tears when they think of the sufferings
of their pope and their religion. Undeceive yourself, Batuschca,
undeceive yourself! Spain was ready to fight for you so long as
she could increase her own glory by doing so; but she took no pleasure
in losing battle after battle on your account. She had no objection
to pay money into your coffers in the shape of alms, expecting, however,
that the same would be received with the gratitude and humility which
becomes those who accept charity. Finding, however, that you were
neither humble nor grateful; suspecting, moreover, that you held Austria
in higher esteem than herself, even as a banker, she shrugged up her
shoulders, and uttered a sentence somewhat similar to that which I have
already put into the mouth of one of her children, “These four
bushels of barley,” etc.
It is truly surprising what little interest the great body of the Spanish
nation took in the late struggle, and yet it has been called, by some
who ought to know better, a war of religion and principle. It
was generally supposed that Biscay was the stronghold of Carlism, and
that the inhabitants were fanatically attached to their religion, which
they apprehended was in danger. The truth is, that the Basques
cared nothing for Carlos or Rome, and merely took up arms to defend
certain rights and privileges of their own. For the dwarfish brother
of Ferdinand they always exhibited supreme contempt, which his character,
a compound of imbecility, cowardice, and cruelty, well merited.
If they made use of his name, it was merely as a cri de guerre.
Much the same may be said with respect to his Spanish partisans,
at least those who appeared in the field for him. These, however,
were of a widely different character from the Basques, who were brave
soldiers and honest men. The Spanish armies of Don Carlos were
composed entirely of thieves and assassins, chiefly Valencians and Manchegans,
who, marshalled under two cut-throats, Cabrera and Palillos, took advantage
of the distracted state of the country to plunder and massacre the honest
part of the community. With respect to the Queen Regent Christina,
of whom the less said the better, the reins of government fell into
her hands on the decease of her husband, and with them the command of
the soldiery. The respectable part of the Spanish nation, and
more especially the honourable and toilworn peasantry, loathed and execrated
both factions. Oft when I was sharing at nightfall the frugal
fare of the villager of Old or New Castile, on hearing the distant shot
of the Christino soldier or Carlist bandit, he would invoke curses on
the heads of the two pretenders, not forgetting the holy father and
the goddess of Rome, Maria Santissima. Then, with the tiger energy
of the Spaniard when roused, he would start up and exclaim: “Vamos,
Don Jorge, to the plain, to the plain! I wish to enlist with you,
and to learn the law of the English. To the plain, therefore,
to the plain to-morrow, to circulate the gospel of Ingalaterra.”
Amongst the peasantry of Spain I found my sturdiest supporters: and
yet the holy father supposes that the Spanish labourers are friends
and lovers of his. Undeceive yourself, Batuschca!
But to return to the present work: it is devoted to an account of what
befell me in Spain whilst engaged in distributing the Scripture.
With respect to my poor labours, I wish here to observe, that I accomplished
but very little, and that I lay claim to no brilliant successes and
triumphs; indeed I was sent into Spain more to explore the country,
and to ascertain how far the minds of the people were prepared to receive
the truths of Christianity, than for any other object; I obtained, however,
through the assistance of kind friends, permission from the Spanish
government to print an edition of the sacred volume at Madrid, which
I subsequently circulated in that capital and in the provinces.
During my sojourn in Spain, there were others who wrought good service
in the Gospel cause, and of whose efforts it were unjust to be silent
in a work of this description. Base is the heart which would refuse
merit its meed, and, however insignificant may be the value of any eulogium
which can flow from a pen like mine, I cannot refrain from mentioning
with respect and esteem a few names connected with Gospel enterprise.
A zealous Irish gentleman, of the name of Graydon, exerted himself with
indefatigable diligence in diffusing the light of Scripture in the province
of Catalonia, and along the southern shores of Spain; whilst two missionaries
from Gibraltar, Messrs. Rule and Lyon, during one entire year, preached
Evangelic truth in a Church at Cadiz. So much success attended
the efforts of these two last brave disciples of the immortal Wesley,
that there is every reason for supposing that, had they not been silenced
and eventually banished from the country by the pseudo-liberal faction
of the Moderados, not only Cadiz, but the greater part of Andalusia,
would by this time have confessed the pure doctrines of the Gospel,
and have discarded for ever the last relics of popish superstition.
More immediately connected with the Bible Society and myself, I am most
happy to take this opportunity of speaking of Luis de Usoz y Rio, the
scion of an ancient and honourable family of Old Castile, my coadjutor
whilst editing the Spanish New Testament at Madrid. Throughout
my residence in Spain, I experienced every mark of friendship from this
gentleman, who, during the periods of my absence in the provinces, and
my numerous and long journeys, cheerfully supplied my place at Madrid,
and exerted himself to the utmost in forwarding the views of the Bible
Society, influenced by no other motive than a hope that its efforts
would eventually contribute to the peace, happiness, and civilisation
of his native land.
In conclusion, I beg leave to state that I am fully aware of the various
faults and inaccuracies of the present work. It is founded on
certain journals which I kept during my stay in Spain, and numerous
letters written to my friends in England, which they had subsequently
the kindness to restore: the greater part, however, consisting of descriptions
of scenery, sketches of character, etc., has been supplied from memory.
In various instances I have omitted the names of places, which I have
either forgotten, or of whose orthography I am uncertain. The
work, as it at present exists, was written in a solitary hamlet in a
remote part of England, where I had neither books to consult, nor friends
of whose opinion or advice I could occasionally avail myself, and under
all the disadvantages which arise from enfeebled health; I have, however,
on a recent occasion, experienced too much of the lenity and generosity
of the public, both of Britain and America, to shrink from again exposing
myself to its gaze, and trust that, if in the present volumes it finds
but little to admire, it will give me credit for good spirit, and for
setting down nought in malice.
Nov. 26, 1842.
CHAPTER I
Man Overboard - The Tagus - Foreign Languages - Gesticulation - Streets
of Lisbon - The Aqueduct - Bible tolerated in Portugal - Cintra - Don
Sebastian - John de Castro - Conversation with a Priest - Colhares -
Mafra - Its Palace - The Schoolmaster - The Portuguese - Their Ignorance
of Scripture - Rural Priesthood - The Alemtejo.
On the morning of the tenth of November, 1835, I found myself off the
coast of Galicia, whose lofty mountains, gilded by the rising sun, presented
a magnificent appearance. I was bound for Lisbon; we passed Cape
Finisterre, and standing farther out to sea, speedily lost sight of
land. On the morning of the eleventh the sea was very rough, and
a remarkable circumstance occurred. I was on the forecastle, discoursing
with two of the sailors: one of them, who had but just left his hammock,
said, “I have had a strange dream, which I do not much like, for,”
continued he, pointing up to the mast, “I dreamt that I fell into
the sea from the cross-trees.” He was heard to say this
by several of the crew besides myself. A moment after, the captain
of the vessel perceiving that the squall was increasing, ordered the
topsails to be taken in, whereupon this man with several others instantly
ran aloft; the yard was in the act of being hauled down, when a sudden
gust of wind whirled it round with violence, and a man was struck down
from the cross-trees into the sea, which was working like yeast below.
In a short time he emerged; I saw his head on the crest of a billow,
and instantly recognised in the unfortunate man the sailor who a few
moments before had related his dream. I shall never forget the
look of agony he cast whilst the steamer hurried past him. The
alarm was given, and everything was in confusion; it was two minutes
at least before the vessel was stopped, by which time the man was a
considerable way astern; I still, however, kept my eye upon him, and
could see that he was struggling gallantly with the waves. A boat
was at length lowered, but the rudder was unfortunately not at hand,
and only two oars could be procured, with which the men could make but
little progress in so rough a sea. They did their best, however,
and had arrived within ten yards of the man, who still struggled for
his life, when I lost sight of him, and the men on their return said
that they saw him below the water, at glimpses, sinking deeper and deeper,
his arms stretched out and his body apparently stiff, but that they
found it impossible to save him; presently after, the sea, as if satisfied
with the prey which it had acquired, became comparatively calm.
The poor fellow who perished in this singular manner was a fine young
man of twenty-seven, the only son of a widowed mother; he was the best
sailor on board, and was beloved by all who were acquainted with him.
This event occurred on the eleventh of November, 1835; the vessel was
the London Merchant steamship. Truly wonderful are the
ways of Providence!
That same night we entered the Tagus, and dropped anchor before the
old tower of Belem; early the next morning we weighed, and, proceeding
onward about a league, we again anchored at a short distance from the
Caesodré, or principal quay of Lisbon. Here we lay for
some hours beside the enormous black hulk of the Rainha Nao, a
man-of-war, which in old times so captivated the eye of Nelson, that
he would fain have procured it for his native country. She was,
long subsequently, the admiral’s ship of the Miguelite squadron,
and had been captured by the gallant Napier about three years previous
to the time of which I am speaking.
The Rainha Nao is said to have caused him more trouble than all
the other vessels of the enemy; and some assert that, had the others
defended themselves with half the fury which the old vixen queen displayed,
the result of the battle which decided the fate of Portugal would have
been widely different.
I found disembarkation at Lisbon to be a matter of considerable vexation;
the custom-house officers were exceedingly uncivil, and examined every
article of my little baggage with most provocating minuteness.
My first impression on landing in the Peninsula was by no means a favourable
one; and I had scarcely pressed the soil one hour before I heartily
wished myself back in Russia, a country which I had quitted about one
month previous, and where I had left cherished friends and warm affections.
After having submitted to much ill-usage and robbery at the custom-house,
I proceeded in quest of a lodging, and at last found one, but dirty
and expensive. The next day I hired a servant, a Portuguese, it
being my invariable custom on arriving in a country to avail myself
of the services of a native; chiefly with the view of perfecting myself
in the language; and being already acquainted with most of the principal
languages and dialects of the east and the west, I am soon able to make
myself quite intelligible to the inhabitants. In about a fortnight
I found myself conversing in Portuguese with considerable fluency.
Those who wish to make themselves understood by a foreigner in his own
language, should speak with much noise and vociferation, opening their
mouths wide. Is it surprising that the English are, in general,
the worst linguists in the world, seeing that they pursue a system diametrically
opposite? For example, when they attempt to speak Spanish, the
most sonorous tongue in existence, they scarcely open their lips, and
putting their hands in their pockets, fumble lazily, instead of applying
them to the indispensable office of gesticulation. Well may the
poor Spaniards exclaim, These English talk so crabbedly, that
Satan himself would not be able to understand them.
Lisbon is a huge ruinous city, still exhibiting in almost every
direction the vestiges of that terrific visitation of God, the earthquake
which shattered it some eighty years ago. It stands on seven hills,
the loftiest of which is occupied by the castle of Saint George, which
is the boldest and most prominent object to the eye, whilst surveying
the city from the Tagus. The most frequented and busy parts of
the city are those comprised within the valley to the north of this
elevation.
Here you find the Plaza of the Inquisition, the principal square in
Lisbon, from which run parallel towards the river three or four streets,
amongst which are those of the gold and silver, so designated from being
inhabited by smiths cunning in the working of those metals; they are
upon the whole very magnificent; the houses are huge and as high as
castles; immense pillars defend the causeway at intervals, producing,
however, rather a cumbrous effect. These streets are quite level,
and are well paved, in which respect they differ from all the others
in Lisbon. The most singular street, however, of all is that of
the Alemcrin, or Rosemary, which debouches on the Caesodré.
It is very precipitous, and is occupied on either side by the palaces
of the principal Portuguese nobility, massive and frowning, but grand
and picturesque, edifices, with here and there a hanging garden, overlooking
the streets at a great height.
With all its ruin and desolation, Lisbon is unquestionably the most
remarkable city in the Peninsula, and, perhaps, in the south of Europe.
It is not my intention to enter into minute details concerning it; I
shall content myself with remarking, that it is quite as much deserving
the attention of the artist as even Rome itself. True it is that
though it abounds with churches it has no gigantic cathedral, like St.
Peter’s, to attract the eye and fill it with wonder, yet I boldly
say that there is no monument of man’s labour and skill, pertaining
either to ancient or modern Rome, for whatever purpose designed, which
can rival the water-works of Lisbon; I mean the stupendous aqueduct
whose principal arches cross the valley to the north-east of Lisbon,
and which discharges its little runnel of cool and delicious water into
the rocky cistern within that beautiful edifice called the Mother of
the Waters, from whence all Lisbon is supplied with the crystal lymph,
though the source is seven leagues distant. Let travellers devote
one entire morning to inspecting the Arcos and the Mai das Agoas, after
which they may repair to the English church and cemetery, Pere-la-chaise
in miniature, where, if they be of England, they may well be excused
if they kiss the cold tomb, as I did, of the author of Amelia, the
most singular genius which their island ever produced, whose works it
has long been the fashion to abuse in public and to read in secret.
In the same cemetery rest the mortal remains of Doddridge, another English
author of a different stamp, but justly admired and esteemed.
I had not intended, on disembarking, to remain long in Lisbon, nor indeed
in Portugal; my destination was Spain, whither I shortly proposed to
direct my steps, it being the intention of the Bible Society to attempt
to commence operations in that country, the object of which should be
the distribution of the Word of God, for Spain had hitherto been a region
barred against the admission of the Bible; not so Portugal, where, since
the revolution, the Bible had been permitted both to be introduced and
circulated. Little, however, had been accomplished; therefore,
finding myself in the country, I determined, if possible, to effect
something in the way of distribution, but first of all to make myself
acquainted as to how far the people were disposed to receive the Bible,
and whether the state of education in general would permit them to turn
it to much account. I had plenty of Bibles and Testaments at my
disposal, but could the people read them, or would they? A friend
of the Society to whom I was recommended was absent from Lisbon at the
period of my arrival; this I regretted, as he could have afforded me
several useful hints. In order, however, that no time might be
lost, I determined not to wait for his arrival, but at once proceed
to gather the best information I could upon those points to which I
have already alluded. I determined to commence my researches at
some slight distance from Lisbon, being well aware of the erroneous
ideas that I must form of the Portuguese in general, should I judge
of their character and opinions from what I saw and heard in a city
so much subjected to foreign intercourse.
My first excursion was to Cintra. If there be any place in the
world entitled to the appellation of an enchanted region, it is surely
Cintra; Tivoli is a beautiful and picturesque place, but it quickly
fades from the mind of those who have seen the Portuguese Paradise.
When speaking of Cintra, it must not for a moment be supposed that nothing
more is meant than the little town or city; by Cintra must be understood
the entire region, town, palace, quintas, forests, crags, Moorish ruin,
which suddenly burst on the view on rounding the side of a bleak, savage,
and sterile-looking mountain. Nothing is more sullen and uninviting
than the south-western aspect of the stony wall which, on the side of
Lisbon, seems to shield Cintra from the eye of the world, but the other
side is a mingled scene of fairy beauty, artificial elegance, savage
grandeur, domes, turrets, enormous trees, flowers and waterfalls, such
as is met with nowhere else beneath the sun. Oh! there are strange
and wonderful objects at Cintra, and strange and wonderful recollections
attached to them. The ruin on that lofty peak, and which covers
part of the side of that precipitous steep, was once the principal stronghold
of the Lusitanian Moors, and thither, long after they had disappeared,
at a particular moon of every year, were wont to repair wild santons
of Maugrabie, to pray at the tomb of a famous Sidi, who slumbers amongst
the rocks. That grey palace witnessed the assemblage of the last
cortes held by the boy king Sebastian, ere he departed on his romantic
expedition against the Moors, who so well avenged their insulted faith
and country at Alcazarquibir, and in that low shady quinta, embowered
amongst those tall alcornoques, once dwelt John de Castro, the strange
old viceroy of Goa, who pawned the hairs of his dead son’s beard
to raise money to repair the ruined wall of a fortress threatened by
the heathen of Ind; those crumbling stones which stand before the portal,
deeply graven, not with “runes,” but things equally dark,
Sanscrit rhymes from the Vedas, were brought by him from Goa, the most
brilliant scene of his glory, before Portugal had become a base kingdom;
and down that dingle, on an abrupt rocky promontory, stand the ruined
halls of the English Millionaire, who there nursed the wayward fancies
of a mind as wild, rich, and variegated as the scenes around.
Yes, wonderful are the objects which meet the eye at Cintra, and wonderful
are the recollections attached to them.
The town of Cintra contains about eight hundred inhabitants. The
morning subsequent to my arrival, as I was about to ascend the mountain
for the purpose of examining the Moorish ruins, I observed a person
advancing towards me whom I judged by his dress to be an ecclesiastic;
he was in fact one of the three priests of the place. I instantly
accosted him, and had no reason to regret doing so; I found him affable
and communicative.
After praising the beauty of the surrounding scenery, I made some inquiry
as to the state of education amongst the people under his care.
He answered, that he was sorry to say that they were in a state of great
ignorance, very few of the common people being able either to read or
write; that with respect to schools, there was but one in the place,
where four or five children were taught the alphabet, but that even
this was at present closed; he informed me, however, that there was
a school at Colhares, about a league distant. Amongst other things,
he said that nothing more surprised him than to see Englishmen, the
most learned and intelligent people in the world, visiting a place like
Cintra, where there was no literature, science, nor anything of utility
(coisa que presta). I suspect that there was some covert
satire in the last speech of the worthy priest; I was, however, Jesuit
enough to appear to receive it as a high compliment, and, taking off
my hat, departed with an infinity of bows.
That same day I visited Colhares, a romantic village on the side of
the mountain of Cintra, to the north-west. Seeing some peasants
collected round a smithy, I inquired about the school, whereupon one
of the men instantly conducted me thither. I went upstairs into
a small apartment, where I found the master with about a dozen pupils
standing in a row; I saw but one stool in the room, and to that, after
having embraced me, he conducted me with great civility. After
some discourse, he showed me the books which he used for the instruction
of the children; they were spelling books, much of the same kind as
those used in the village schools in England. Upon my asking him
whether it was his practice to place the Scriptures in the hands of
the children, he informed me that long before they had acquired sufficient
intelligence to understand them they were removed by their parents,
in order that they might assist in the labours of the field, and that
the parents in general were by no means solicitous that their children
should learn anything, as they considered the time occupied in learning
as so much squandered away. He said, that though the schools were
nominally supported by the government, it was rarely that the schoolmasters
could obtain their salaries, on which account many had of late resigned
their employments. He told me that he had a copy of the New Testament
in his possession, which I desired to see, but on examining it I discovered
that it was only the epistles by Pereira, with copious notes.
I asked him whether he considered that there was harm in reading the
Scriptures without notes: he replied that there was certainly no harm
in it, but that simple people, without the help of notes, could derive
but little benefit from Scripture, as the greatest part would be unintelligible
to them; whereupon I shook hands with him, and on departing said that
there was no part of Scripture so difficult to understand as those very
notes which were intended to elucidate it, and that it would never have
been written if not calculated of itself to illume the minds of all
classes of mankind.
In a day or two I made an excursion to Mafra, distant about three leagues
from Cintra; the principal part of the way lay over steep hills, somewhat
dangerous for horses; however, I reached the place in safety.
Mafra is a large village in the neighbourhood of an immense building,
intended to serve as a convent and palace, and which is built somewhat
after the fashion of the Escurial. In this edifice exists the
finest library in Portugal, containing books on all sciences and in
all languages, and well suited to the size and grandeur of the edifice
which contains it. There were no monks, however, to take care
of it, as in former times; they had been driven forth, some to beg their
bread, some to serve under the banners of Don Carlos, in Spain, and
many, as I was informed, to prowl about as banditti. I found the
place abandoned to two or three menials, and exhibiting an aspect of
solitude and desolation truly appalling. Whilst I was viewing
the cloisters, a fine intelligent-looking lad came up and asked (I suppose
in the hope of obtaining a trifle) whether I would permit him to show
me the village church, which he informed me was well worth seeing; I
said no, but added, that it he would show me the village school I should
feel much obliged to him. He looked at me with astonishment, and
assured me that there was nothing to be seen at the school, which did
not contain more than half a dozen boys, and that he himself was one
of the number. On my telling him, however, that he should show
me no other place, he at length unwillingly attended me. On the
way I learned from him that the schoolmaster was one of the friars who
had lately been expelled from the convent, that he was a very learned
man, and spoke French and Greek. We passed a stone cross, and
the boy bent his head and crossed himself with much devotion.
I mention this circumstance, as it was the first instance of the kind
which I had observed amongst the Portuguese since my arrival.
When near the house where the schoolmaster resided, he pointed it out
to me, and then hid himself behind a wall, where he awaited my return.
On stepping over the threshold I was confronted by a short stout man,
between sixty and seventy years of age, dressed in a blue jerkin and
grey trousers, without shirt or waistcoat; he looked at me sternly,
and enquired in the French language what was my pleasure. I apologised
for intruding upon him, and stated that, being informed he occupied
the situation of schoolmaster, I had come to pay my respects to him
and to beg permission to ask a few questions respecting the seminary.
He answered that whoever told me he was a schoolmaster lied, for that
he was a friar of the convent and nothing else. “It is not
then true,” said I, “that all the convents have been broken
up and the monks dismissed?” “Yes, yes,” said
he with a sigh, “it is true; it is but too true.”
He then was silent for a minute, and his better nature overcoming his
angry feelings, he produced a snuff-box and offered it to me.
The snuff-box is the olive-branch of the Portuguese, and he who wishes
to be on good terms with them must never refuse to dip his finger and
thumb into it when offered. I took therefore a huge pinch, though
I detest the dust, and we were soon on the best possible terms.
He was eager to obtain news, especially from Lisbon and Spain.
I told him that the officers of the troops at Lisbon had, the day before
I left that place, gone in a body to the queen and insisted upon her
either receiving their swords or dismissing her ministers; whereupon
he rubbed his hands and said that he was sure matters would not remain
tranquil at Lisbon. On my saying, however, that I thought the
affairs of Don Carlos were on the decline (this was shortly after the
death of Zumalacarregui), he frowned, and cried that it could not possibly
be, for that God was too just to suffer it. I felt for the poor
man who had been driven out of his home in the noble convent close by,
and from a state of affluence and comfort reduced in his old age to
indigence and misery, for his present dwelling scarcely seemed to contain
an article of furniture. I tried twice or thrice to induce him
to converse about the school, but he either avoided the subject or said
shortly that he knew nothing about it. On my leaving him, the
boy came from his hiding-place and rejoined me; he said that he had
hidden himself through fear of his master’s knowing that he had
brought me to him, for that he was unwilling that any stranger should
know that he was a schoolmaster.
I asked the boy whether he or his parents were acquainted with the Scripture
and ever read it; he did not, however, seem to understand me.
I must here observe that the boy was fifteen years of age, that he was
in many respects very intelligent, and had some knowledge of the Latin
language; nevertheless he knew not the Scripture even by name, and I
have no doubt, from what I subsequently observed, that at least two-thirds
of his countrymen are on that important point no wiser than himself.
At the doors of village inns, at the hearths of the rustics, in the
fields where they labour, at the stone fountains by the wayside where
they water their cattle, I have questioned the lower class of the children
of Portugal about the Scripture, the Bible, the Old and New Testament,
and in no one instance have they known what I was alluding to, or could
return me a rational answer, though on all other matters their replies
were sensible enough; indeed, nothing surprised me more than the free
and unembarrassed manner in which the Portuguese peasantry sustain a
conversation, and the purity of the language in which they express their
thoughts, and yet few of them can read or write; whereas the peasantry
of England, whose education is in general much superior, are in their
conversation coarse and dull almost to brutality, and absurdly ungrammatical
in their language, though the English tongue is upon the whole more
simple in its structure than the Portuguese.
On my return to Lisbon I found our friend -, who received me very kindly.
The next ten days were exceedingly rainy, which prevented me from making
any excursions into the country: during this time I saw our friend frequently,
and had long conversations with him concerning the best means of distributing
the gospel. He thought we could do no better for the present than
put part of our stock into the hands of the booksellers of Lisbon, and
at the same time employ colporteurs to hawk the books about the streets,
receiving a certain profit off every copy they sold. This plan
was agreed upon and forthwith put in practice, and with some success.
I had thought of sending colporteurs into the neighbouring villages,
but to this our friend objected. He thought the attempt dangerous,
as it was very possible that the rural priesthood, who still possessed
much influence in their own districts, and who were for the most part
decided enemies to the spread of the gospel, might cause the men employed
to be assassinated or ill-treated.
I determined, however, ere leaving Portugal, to establish dépots
of Bibles in one or two of the provincial towns. I wished to visit
the Alemtejo, which I had heard was a very benighted region. The
Alemtejo means the province beyond the Tagus. This province is
not beautiful and picturesque, like most other parts of Portugal: there
are few hills and mountains, the greater part consists of heaths broken
by knolls, and gloomy dingles, and forests of stunted pine; these places
are infested with banditti. The principal city is Evora, one of
the most ancient in Portugal, and formerly the seat of a branch of the
Inquisition, yet more cruel and baneful than the terrible one of Lisbon.
Evora lies about sixty miles from Lisbon, and to Evora I determined
on going with twenty Testaments and two Bibles. How I fared there
will presently be seen.
CHAPTER II
Boatmen of the Tagus - Dangers of the Stream - Aldea Gallega - The Hostelry
- Robbers - Sabocha - Adventure of a Muleteer - Estalagem de Ladroes
- Don Geronimo - Vendas Novas - Royal Residence - Swine of the Alemtejo
- Monto Moro - Swayne Vonved - Singular Goatherd - Children of the Fields
- Infidels and Sadducees.
On the afternoon of the sixth of December I set out for Evora, accompanied
by my servant. I had been informed that the tide would serve for
the regular passage-boats, or felouks, as they are called, at about
four o’clock, but on reaching the side of the Tagus opposite to
Aldea Gallega, between which place and Lisbon the boats ply, I found
that the tide would not permit them to start before eight o’clock.
Had I waited for them I should have probably landed at Aldea Gallega
about midnight, and I felt little inclination to make my entrée
in the Alemtejo at that hour; therefore, as I saw small boats which
can push off at any time lying near in abundance, I determined upon
hiring one of them for the passage, though the expense would be thus
considerably increased. I soon agreed with a wild-looking lad,
who told me that he was in part owner of one of the boats, to take me
over. I was not aware of the danger in crossing the Tagus at its
broadest part, which is opposite Aldea Gallega, at any time, but especially
at close of day in the winter season, or I should certainly not have
ventured. The lad and his comrade, a miserable looking object,
whose only clothing, notwithstanding the season, was a tattered jerkin
and trousers, rowed until we had advanced about half a mile from the
land; they then set up a large sail, and the lad, who seemed to direct
everything and to be the principal, took the helm and steered.
The evening was now setting in; the sun was not far from its bourne
in the horizon, the air was very cold, the wind was rising, and the
waves of the noble Tagus began to be crested with foam. I told
the boy that it was scarcely possible for the boat to carry so much
sail without upsetting, upon which he laughed, and began to gabble in
a most incoherent manner. He had the most harsh and rapid articulation
that has ever come under my observation in any human being; it was the
scream of the hyena blended with the bark of the terrier, though it
was by no means an index of his disposition, which I soon found to be
light, merry, and anything but malevolent, for when I, in order to show
him that I cared little about him, began to hum “Eu que sou
Contrabandista,” he laughed heartily and said, clapping me
on the shoulder, that he would not drown us if he could help it.
The other poor fellow seemed by no means averse to go to the bottom;
he sat at the fore part of the boat looking the image of famine, and
only smiled when the waters broke over the weather side and soaked his
scanty habiliments. In a little time I had made up my mind that
our last hour was come; the wind was getting higher, the short dangerous
waves were more foamy, the boat was frequently on its beam, and the
water came over the lee side in torrents; but still the wild lad at
the helm held on laughing and chattering, and occasionally yelling out
part of the Miguelite air, “Quando el Rey chegou”
the singing of which in Lisbon is imprisonment.
The stream was against us, but the wind was in our favour, and we sprang
along at a wonderful rate, and I saw that our only chance of escape
was in speedily passing the farther bank of the Tagus where the bight
or bay at the extremity of which stands Aldea Gallega commences, for
we should not then have to battle with the waves of the stream, which
the adverse wind lashed into fury. It was the will of the Almighty
to permit us speedily to gain this shelter, but not before the boat
was nearly filled with water, and we were all wet to the skin.
At about seven o’clock in the evening we reached Aldea Gallega,
shivering with cold and in a most deplorable plight.
Aldea Gallega, or the Galician Village (for the two words are Spanish,
and have that signification), it a place containing, I should think,
about four thousand inhabitants. It was pitchy dark when we landed,
but rockets soon began to fly about in all directions, illuming the
air far and wide. As we passed along the dirty unpaved street
which leads to the Largo, or square in which the inn is situated, a
horrible uproar of drums and voices assailed our ears. On inquiring
the cause of all this bustle, I was informed that it was the eve of
the Conception of the Virgin.
As it was not the custom of the people at the inn to furnish provisions
for the guests, I wandered about in search of food; and at last seeing
some soldiers eating and drinking in a species of wine-house, I went
in and asked the people to let me have some supper, and in a short time
they furnished me with a tolerable meal, for which, however, they charged
three crowns.
Having engaged with a person for mules to carry us to Evora, which were
to be ready at five next morning, I soon retired to bed, my servant
sleeping in the same apartment, which was the only one in the house
vacant. I closed not my eyes during the whole night. Beneath
us was a stable, in which some almocreves, or carriers, slept with their
mules; at our back, in the yard, was a pigsty. How could I sleep?
The hogs grunted, the mules screamed, and the almocreves snored most
horribly. I heard the village clock strike the hours until midnight,
and from midnight till four in the morning, when I sprang up and began
to dress, and despatched my servant to hasten the man with the mules,
for I was heartily tired of the place and wanted to leave it.
An old man, bony and hale, accompanied by a barefooted lad, brought
the beasts, which were tolerably good. He was the proprietor of
them, and intended, with the lad, who was his nephew, to accompany us
to Evora.
When we started, the moon was shining brightly, and the morning was
piercingly cold. We soon entered on a sandy hollow way, emerging
from which we passed by a strange-looking and large edifice, standing
on a high bleak sand-hill on our left. We were speedily overtaken
by five or six men on horseback, riding at a rapid pace, each with a
long gun slung at his saddle, the muzzle depending about two feet below
the horse’s belly. I inquired of the old man what was the
reason of this warlike array. He answered, that the roads were
very bad (meaning that they abounded with robbers), and that they went
armed in this manner for their defence; they soon turned off to the
right towards Palmella.
We reached a sandy plain studded with stunted pine; the road was little
more than a footpath, and as we proceeded, the trees thickened and became
a wood, which extended for two leagues, with clear spaces at intervals,
in which herds of cattle and sheep were feeding; the bells attached
to their necks were ringing lowly and monotonously. The sun was
just beginning to show itself; but the morning was misty and dreary,
which, together with the aspect of desolation which the country exhibited,
had an unfavourable effect on my spirits. I got down and walked,
entering into conversation with the old man. He seemed to have
but one theme, “the robbers,” and the atrocities they were
in the habit of practising in the very spots we were passing.
The tales he told were truly horrible, and to avoid them I mounted again,
and rode on considerably in front.
In about an hour and a half we emerged from the forest, and entered
upon a savage, wild, broken ground, covered with mato, or brushwood.
The mules stopped to drink at a shallow pool, and on looking to the
right I saw a ruined wall. This, the guide informed me, was the
remains of Vendas Velhas, or the Old Inn, formerly the haunt of the
celebrated robber Sabocha. This Sabocha, it seems, had, some sixteen
years ago, a band of about forty ruffians at his command, who infested
these wilds, and supported themselves by plunder. For a considerable
time Sabocha pursued his atrocious trade unsuspected, and many an unfortunate
traveller was murdered in the dead of night at the solitary inn by the
wood-side, which he kept; indeed, a more fit situation for plunder and
murder I never saw. The gang were in the habit of watering their
horses at the pool, and perhaps of washing therein their hands stained
with the blood of their victims; the lieutenant of the troop was the
brother of Sabocha, a fellow of great strength and ferocity, particularly
famous for the skill he possessed in darting a long knife, with which
he was in the habit of transfixing his opponents. Sabocha’s
connection with the gang at length became known, and he fled, with the
greater part of his associates, across the Tagus to the northern provinces.
Himself and his brothers eventually lost their lives on the road to
Coimbra, in an engagement with the military. His house was razed
by order of the government.
The ruins are still frequently visited by banditti, who eat and drink
amidst them, and look out for prey, as the place commands a view of
the road. The old man assured me, that about two months previous,
on returning to Aldea Gallega with his mules from accompanying some
travellers, he had been knocked down, stripped naked, and all his money
taken from him, by a fellow whom he believed came from this murderers’
nest. He said that he was an exceedingly powerful young man, with
immense moustaches and whiskers, and was armed with an espingarda, or
musket. About ten days subsequently he saw the robber at Vendas
Novas, where we should pass the night. The fellow on recognising
him took him aside, and, with horrid imprecations, threatened that he
should never be permitted to return home if he attempted to discover
him; he therefore held his peace, as there was little to be gained and
everything to be risked in apprehending him, as he would have been speedily
set at liberty for want of evidence to criminate him, and then he would
not have failed to have had his revenge, or would have been anticipated
therein by his comrades.
I dismounted and went up to the place, and saw the vestiges of a fire
and a broken bottle. The sons of plunder had been there very lately.
I left a New Testament and some tracts amongst the ruins, and hastened
away.
The sun had dispelled the mists and was beaming very hot; we rode on
for about an hour, when I heard the neighing of a horse in our rear,
and our guide said there was a party of horsemen behind; our mules were
good, and they did not overtake us for at least twenty minutes.
The headmost rider was a gentleman in a fashionable travelling dress;
a little way behind were an officer, two soldiers, and a boy in livery.
I heard the principal horseman, on overtaking my servant, inquiring
who I was, and whether French or English. He was told I was an
English gentleman, travelling. He then asked whether I understood
Portuguese; the man said I understood it, but he believed that I spoke
French and Italian better. The gentleman then spurred on his horse
and accosted me, not in Portuguese, nor in French or Italian, but in
the purest English that I ever heard spoken by a foreigner; it had,
indeed, nothing of foreign accent or pronunciation in it; and had I
not known, by the countenance of the speaker, that he was no Englishman,
(for there is a peculiarity in the countenance, as everybody knows,
which, though it cannot be described, is sure to betray the Englishman),
I should have concluded that I was in company with a countryman.
We continued discoursing until we arrived at Pegoens.
Pegoens consists of about two or three houses and an inn; there is likewise
a species of barrack, where half a dozen soldiers are stationed.
In the whole of Portugal there is no place of worse reputation, and
the inn is nick-named Estalagem de Ladroes, or the hostelry of
thieves; for it is there that the banditti of the wilderness, which
extends around it on every side for leagues, are in the habit of coming
and spending the money, the fruits of their criminal daring; there they
dance and sing, eat fricasseed rabbits and olives, and drink the muddy
but strong wine of the Alemtejo. An enormous fire, fed by the
trunk of a cork tree, was blazing in a niche on the left hand on entering
the spacious kitchen. Close by it, seething, were several large
jars, which emitted no disagreeable odour, and reminded me that I had
not broken my fast, although it was now nearly one o’clock, and
I had ridden five leagues. Several wild-looking men, who if they
were not banditti might easily be mistaken for such, were seated on
logs about the fire. I asked them some unimportant questions,
to which they replied with readiness and civility, and one of them,
who said he could read, accepted a tract which I offered him.
My new friend, who had been bespeaking dinner, or rather breakfast,
now, with great civility, invited me to partake of it, and at the same
time introduced me to the officer who accompanied him, and who was his
brother, and also spoke English, though not so well as himself.
I found I had become acquainted with Don Geronimo Joze D’Azveto,
secretary to the government at Evora; his brother belonged to a regiment
of hussars, whose headquarters were at Evora, but which had outlying
parties along the road, - for example, the place where we were stopping.
Rabbits at Pegoens seem to be a standard article of food, being produced
in abundance on the moors around. We had one fried, the gravy
of which was delicious, and afterwards a roasted one, which was brought
up on a dish entire; the hostess, having first washed her hands, proceeded
to tear the animal to pieces, which having accomplished, she poured
over the fragments a sweet sauce. I ate heartily of both dishes,
particularly of the last; owing, perhaps, to the novel and curious manner
in which it was served up. Excellent figs, from the Algarves,
and apples concluded our repast, which we ate in a little side room
with a mud floor, which sent such a piercing chill into my system, as
prevented me from deriving that pleasure from my fare and my agreeable
companions that I should have otherwise experienced.
Don Geronimo had been educated in England, in which country he passed
his boyhood, which in a certain degree accounted for his proficiency
in the English language, the idiom and pronunciation of which can only
be acquired by residing in the country at that period of one’s
life. He had also fled thither shortly after the usurpation of
the throne of Portugal by Don Miguel, and from thence had departed to
the Brazils, where he had devoted himself to the service of Don Pedro,
and had followed him in the expedition which terminated in the downfall
of the usurper and the establishment of the constitutional government
in Portugal. Our conversation rolled chiefly on literary and political
subjects, and my acquaintance with the writings of the most celebrated
authors of Portugal was hailed with surprise and delight; for nothing
is more gratifying to a Portuguese than to observe a foreigner taking
an interest in the literature of his nation, of which, in many respects,
he is justly proud.
At about two o’clock we were once more in the saddle, and pursued
our way in company through a country exactly resembling that which we
had previously been traversing, rugged and broken, with here and there
a clump of pines. The afternoon was exceedingly fine, and the
bright rays of the sun relieved the desolation of the scene. Having
advanced about two leagues, we caught sight of a large edifice towering
majestically in the distance, which I learnt was a royal palace standing
at the farther extremity of Vendas Novas, the village in which we were
to pass the night; it was considerably more than a league from us, yet,
seen through the clear transparent atmosphere of Portugal it appeared
much nearer.
Before reaching it we passed by a stone cross, on the pedestal of which
was an inscription commemorating a horrible murder of a native of Lisbon,
which had occurred on that spot; it looked ancient, and was covered
with moss, and the greater part of the inscription was illegible, at
least it was to me, who could not bestow much time on its deciphering.
Having arrived at Vendas Novas, and bespoken supper, my new friend and
myself strolled forth to view the palace; it was built by the late king
of Portugal, and presents little that is remarkable in its exterior;
it is a long edifice with wings, and is only two stories high, though
it can be seen afar off, from being situated on elevated ground; it
has fifteen windows in the upper, and twelve in the lower story, with
a paltry-looking door, something like that of a barn, to which you ascend
by one single step; the interior corresponds with the exterior, offering
nothing which can gratify curiosity, if we except the kitchens, which
are indeed magnificent, and so large that food enough might be cooked
in them, at one time, to serve as a repast for all the inhabitants of
the Alemtejo.
I passed the night with great comfort in a clean bed, remote from all
those noises so rife in a Portuguese inn, and the next morning at six
we again set out on our journey, which we hoped to terminate before
sunset, as Evora is but ten leagues from Vendas Novas. The preceding
morning had been cold, but the present one was far colder, so much so,
that just before sunrise I could no longer support it on horseback,
and therefore dismounting, ran and walked until we reached a few houses
at the termination of these desolate moors. It was in one of these
houses that the commissioners of Don Pedro and Miguel met, and it was
there agreed that the latter should resign the crown in favour of Donna
Maria, for Evora was the last stronghold of the usurper, and the moors
of the Alemtejo the last area of the combats which so long agitated
unhappy Portugal. I therefore gazed on the miserable huts with
considerable interest, and did not fail to scatter in the neighbourhood
several of the precious little tracts with which, together with a small
quantity of Testaments, my carpet bag was provided.
The country began to improve; the savage heaths were left behind, and
we saw hills and dales, cork trees, and azinheiras, on the last of which
trees grows that kind of sweet acorn called bolotas, which is pleasant
as a chestnut, and which supplies in winter the principal food on which
the numerous swine of the Alemtejo subsist. Gallant swine they
are, with short legs and portly bodies of a black or dark red colour;
and for the excellence of their flesh I can vouch, having frequently
luxuriated upon it in the course of my wanderings in this province;
the lombo, or loin, when broiled on the live embers, is delicious, especially
when eaten with olives.
We were now in sight of Monte Moro, which, as the name denotes, was
once a fortress of the Moors; it is a high steep hill, on the summit
and sides of which are ruined walls and towers; at its western side
is a deep ravine or valley, through which a small stream rushes, traversed
by a stone bridge; farther down there is a ford, over which we passed
and ascended to the town, which, commencing near the northern base,
passes over the lower ridge towards the north-east. The town is
exceedingly picturesque, and many of the houses are very ancient, and
built in the Moorish fashion. I wished much to examine the relics
of Moorish sway on the upper part of the mountain, but time pressed,
and the short period of our stay at this place did not permit me to
gratify my inclination.
Monte Moro is the head of a range of hills which cross this part of
the Alemtejo, and from hence they fork east and south-east, towards
the former of which directions lies the direct road to Elvas, Badajos,
and Madrid; and towards the latter that to Evora. A beautiful
mountain, covered to the top with cork trees, is the third of the chain
which skirts the way in the direction of Elvas. It is called Monte
Almo; a brook brawls at its base, and as I passed it the sun was shining
gloriously on the green herbage on which flocks of goats were feeding,
with their bells ringing merrily, so that the tout ensemble resembled
a fairy scene; and that nothing might be wanted to complete the picture,
I here met a man, a goatherd, beneath an azinheira, whose appearance
recalled to my mind the Brute Carle, mentioned in the Danish ballad
of Swayne Vonved:-
“A wild swine on his shoulders he kept,
And upon his bosom a black bear slept;
And about his fingers with hair o’erhung,
The squirrel sported and weasel clung.”
Upon the shoulder of the goatherd was a beast, which he told me was
a lontra, or otter, which he had lately caught in the neighbouring brook;
it had a string round its neck which was attached to his arm.
At his left side was a bag, from the top of which peered the heads of
two or three singular-looking animals, and at his right was squatted
the sullen cub of a wolf, which he was endeavouring to tame; his whole
appearance was to the last degree savage and wild. After a little
conversation such as those who meet on the road frequently hold, I asked
him if he could read, but he made me no answer. I then inquired
if he knew anything of God or Jesus Christ; he looked me fixedly in
the face for a moment, and then turned his countenance towards the sun,
which was beginning to sink in the west, nodded to it, and then again
looked fixedly upon me. I believe that I understood the mute reply;
which probably was, that it was God who made that glorious light which
illumes and gladdens all creation; and gratified with that belief, I
left him and hastened after my companions, who were by this time a considerable
way in advance.
I have always found in the disposition of the children of the fields
a more determined tendency to religion and piety than amongst the inhabitants
of towns and cities, and the reason is obvious, they are less acquainted
with the works of man’s hands than with those of God; their occupations,
too, which are simple, and requiring less of ingenuity and skill than
those which engage the attention of the other portion of their fellow-creatures,
are less favourable to the engendering of self-conceit and sufficiency
so utterly at variance with that lowliness of spirit which constitutes
the best foundation of piety. The sneerers and scoffers at religion
do not spring from amongst the simple children of nature, but are the
excrescences of overwrought refinement, and though their baneful influence
has indeed penetrated to the country and corrupted man there, the source
and fountainhead was amongst crowded houses, where nature is scarcely
known. I am not one of those who look for perfection amongst the
rural population of any country; perfection is not to be found amongst
the children of the fall, wherever their abodes may happen to be; but,
until the heart discredits the existence of a God, there is still hope
for the soul of the possessor, however stained with crime he may be,
for even Simon the magician was converted; but when the heart is once
steeled with infidelity, infidelity confirmed by carnal wisdom, an exuberance
of the grace of God is required to melt it, which is seldom manifested;
for we read in the blessed book that the Pharisee and the wizard became
receptacles of grace, but where is there mention made of the conversion
of the sneering Sadducee, and is the modern infidel aught but a Sadducee
of later date?
It was dark night before we reached Evora, and having taken leave of
my friends, who kindly requested me to consider their house my home,
I and my servant went to the Largo de San Francisco, in which the muleteer
informed me was the best hostelry of the town. We rode into the
kitchen, at the extreme end of which was the stable, as is customary
in Portugal. The house was kept by an aged gypsy-like female and
her daughter, a fine blooming girl about eighteen years of age.
The house was large; in the upper storey was a very long room, like
a granary, which extended nearly the whole length of the house; the
farther part was partitioned off and formed a chamber tolerably comfortable
but very cold, and the floor was of tiles, as was also that of the large
room in which the muleteers were accustomed to sleep on the furniture
of the mules. After supper I went to bed, and having offered up
my devotions to Him who had protected me through a dangerous journey,
I slept soundly till the morning.
CHAPTER III
Shopkeeper at Evora - Spanish Contrabandistas - Lion and Unicorn - The
Fountain - Trust in the Almighty - Distribution of Tracts - Library
at Evora - Manuscript - The Bible as a Guide - The Infamous Mary - The
Man of Palmella - The Charm - The Monkish System - Sunday - Volney -
An Auto-Da-Fé - Men from Spain - Reading of a Tract - New Arrival
- The Herb Rosemary.
Evora is a small city, walled, but not regularly fortified, and could
not sustain a siege of a day. It has five gates; before that to
the south-west is the principal promenade of its inhabitants: the fair
on St. John’s day is likewise held there; the houses are in general
very ancient, and many of them unoccupied. It contains about five
thousand inhabitants, though twice that number would be by no means
disproportionate to its size. The two principal edifices are the
See, or cathedral, and the convent of San Francisco, in the square before
the latter of which was situated the posada where I had taken up my
abode. A large barrack for cavalry stands on the right-hand side,
on entering the south-west gate. To the south-east, at the distance
of six leagues, is to be seen a blue chain of hills, the highest of
which is called Serra Dorso; it is picturesquely beautiful, and contains
within its recesses wolves and wild boars in numbers. About a
league and a half on the other side of this hill is Estremos.
I passed the day succeeding my arrival principally in examining the
town and its environs, and, as I strolled about, entering into conversation
with various people that I met; several of these were of the middle
class, shopkeepers and professional men; they were all Constitutionalists,
or pretended to be so, but had very little to say except a few commonplace
remarks on the way of living of the friars, their hypocrisy and laziness.
I endeavoured to obtain some information respecting the state of instruction
in the place, and from their answers was led to believe that it must
be at the lowest ebb, for it seemed that there was neither book-shop
nor school. When I spoke of religion, they exhibited the utmost
apathy for the subject, and making their bows left me as soon as possible.
Having a letter of introduction to a person who kept a shop in the market-place,
I went thither and delivered it to him as he stood behind his counter.
In the course of conversation, I found that he had been much persecuted
whilst the old system was in its vigour, and that he entertained a hearty
aversion for it. I told him that the ignorance of the people in
religious matters had served to nurse that system, and that the surest
way to prevent its return was to enlighten their minds: I added that
I had brought a small stock of Bibles and Testaments to Evora, which
I wished to leave for sale in the hands of some respectable merchant,
and that it he were anxious to help to lay the axe to the root of superstition
and tyranny, he could not do so more effectually than by undertaking
the charge of these books. He declared his willingness to do so,
and I went away determined to entrust to him half of my stock.
I returned to the hostelry, and sat down on a log of wood on the hearth
within the immense chimney in the common apartment; two surly looking
men were on their knees on the stones; before them was a large heap
of pieces of old iron, brass, and copper; they were assorting it, and
stowing it away in various bags. They were Spanish contrabandistas
of the lowest class, and earned a miserable livelihood by smuggling
such rubbish from Portugal into Spain. Not a word proceeded from
their lips, and when I addressed them in their native language, they
returned no other answer than a kind of growl. They looked as
dirty and rusty as the iron in which they trafficked; their four miserable
donkeys were in the stable in the rear.
The woman of the house and her daughter were exceedingly civil to me,
and coming near crouched down, asking various questions about England.
A man dressed somewhat like an English sailor, who sat on the other
side of the hearth confronting me, said, “I hate the English,
for they are not baptized, and have not the law,” meaning the
law of God. I laughed, and told him that according to the law
of England, no one who was unbaptized could be buried in consecrated
ground; whereupon he said, “Then you are stricter than we.”
He then said, “What is meant by the lion and the unicorn which
I saw the other day on the coat of arms over the door of the English
consul at St. Ubes?” I said they were the arms of England!
“Yes,” he replied, “but what do they represent?”
I said I did not know. “Then,” said he, “you
do not know the secrets of your own house.” I said, “Suppose
I were to tell you that they represent the Lion of Bethlehem, and the
horned monster of the flaming pit in combat, as to which should obtain
the mastery in England, what would you say?” He replied,
“I should say that you gave a fair answer.” This man
and myself became great friends; he came from Palmella, not far from
St. Ubes; he had several mules and horses with him, and dealt in corn
and barley. I again walked out and roamed in the environs of the
town.
About half a mile from the southern wall is a stone fountain, where
the muleteers and other people who visit the town are accustomed to
water their horses. I sat down by it, and there I remained about
two hours, entering into conversation with every one who halted at the
fountain; and I will here observe, that during the time of my sojourn
at Evora, I repeated my visit every day, and remained there the same
time; and by following this plan, I believe that I spoke to at least
two hundred of the children of Portugal upon matters relating to their
eternal welfare. I found that very few of those whom I addressed
had received any species of literary education, none of them had seen
the Bible, and not more than half a dozen had the slightest inkling
of what the holy book consisted. I found that most of them were
bigoted Papists and Miguelites at heart. I therefore, when they
told me they were Christians, denied the possibility of their being
so, as they were ignorant of Christ and His commandments, and placed
their hope of salvation on outward forms and superstitious observances,
which were the invention of Satan, who wished to keep them in darkness
that at last they might stumble into the pit which he had dug for them.
I said repeatedly that the Pope, whom they revered, was an arch deceiver,
and the head minister of Satan here on earth, and that the monks and
friars, whose absence they so deplored, and to whom they had been accustomed
to confess themselves, were his subordinate agents. When called
upon for proofs, I invariably cited the ignorance of my auditors respecting
the Scriptures, and said that if their spiritual guides had been really
ministers of Christ, they would not have permitted their flocks to remain
unacquainted with His Word.
Since this occurred, I have been frequently surprised that I experienced
no insult and ill-treatment from the people, whose superstitions I was
thus attacking; but I really experienced none, and am inclined to believe
that the utter fearlessness which I displayed, trusting in the Protection
of the Almighty, may have been the cause. When threatened by danger,
the best policy is to fix your eye steadily upon it, and it will in
general vanish like the morning mist before the sun; whereas, if you
quail before it, it is sure to become more imminent. I have fervent
hope that the words of my mouth sank deep into the hearts of some of
my auditors, as I observed many of them depart musing and pensive.
I occasionally distributed tracts amongst them; for although they themselves
were unable to turn them to much account, I thought that by their means
they might become of service at some future time, and fall into the
hands of others, to whom they might be of eternal interest. Many
a book which is abandoned to the waters is wafted to some remote shore,
and there proves a blessing and a comfort to millions, who are ignorant
from whence it came.
The next day, which was Friday, I called at the house of my friend Don
Geronimo Azveto. I did not find him there, but was directed to
the see, or episcopal palace, in an apartment of which I found him,
writing, with another gentleman, to whom he introduced me; it was the
governor of Evora, who welcomed me with every mark of kindness and affability.
After some discourse, we went out together to examine an ancient edifice,
which was reported to have served, in bygone times, as a temple to Diana.
Part of it was evidently of Roman architecture, for there was no mistaking
the beautiful light pillars which supported a dome, under which the
sacrifices to the most captivating and poetical divinity of the heathen
theocracy had probably been made; but the original space between the
pillars had been filled up with rubbish of a modern date, and the rest
of the building was apparently of the architecture of the latter end
of the Middle Ages. It was situated at one end of the building
which had once been the seat of the Inquisition, and had served, before
the erection of the present see, as the residence of the bishop.
Within the see, where the governor now resides, is a superb library,
occupying an immense vaulted room, like the aisle of a cathedral, and
in a side apartment is a collection of paintings by Portuguese artists,
chiefly portraits, amongst which is that of Don Sebastian. I sincerely
hope it did not do him justice, for it represents him in the shape of
an awkward lad of about eighteen, with a bloated booby face with staring
eyes, and a ruff round a short apoplectic neck.
I was shown several beautifully illuminated missals and other manuscripts;
but the one which most arrested my attention, I scarcely need say why,
was that which bore the following title:-
“Forma sive ordinatio Capelli illustrissimi et xianissimi principis
Henvici Sexti Regis Anglie et Francie am dm Hibernie descripta serenissio
principi Alfonso Regi Portugalie illustri per humilem servitorem sm
Willm. Sav. Decanu capelle supradicte.”
It seemed a voice from the olden times of my dear native land!
This library and picture gallery had been formed by one of the latter
bishops, a person of much learning and piety.
In the evening I dined with Don Geronimo and his brother; the latter
soon left us to attend to his military duties. My friend and myself
had now much conversation of considerable interest; he lamented the
deplorable state of ignorance in which his countrymen existed at present.
He said that his friend the governor and himself were endeavouring to
establish a school in the vicinity, and that they had made application
to the government for the use of an empty convent, called the Espinheiro,
or thorn tree, at about a league’s distance, and that they had
little doubt of their request being complied with. I had before
told him who I was, and after expressing joy at the plan which he had
in contemplation, I now urged him in the most pressing manner to use
all his influence to make the knowledge of the Scripture the basis of
the education which the children were to receive, and added, that half
the Bibles and Testaments which I had brought with me to Evora were
heartily at his service; he instantly gave me his hand, said he accepted
my offer with the greatest pleasure, and would do all in his power to
forward my views, which were in many respects his own. I now told
him that I did not come to Portugal with the view of propagating the
dogmas of any particular sect, but with the hope of introducing the
Bible, which is the well-head of all that is useful and conducive to
the happiness of society, - that I cared not what people called themselves,
provided they followed the Bible as a guide; for that where the Scriptures
were read, neither priestcraft nor tyranny could long exist, and instanced
the case of my own country, the cause of whose freedom and prosperity
was the Bible, and that only, as the last persecutor of this book, the
bloody and infamous Mary, was the last tyrant who had sat on the throne
of England. We did not part till the night was considerably advanced,
and the next morning I sent him the books, in the firm and confident
hope that a bright and glorious morning was about to rise over the night
which had so long cast its dreary shadows over the regions of the Alemtejo.
The day after this interesting event, which was Saturday, I had more
conversation with the man from Palmella. I asked him if in his
journeys he had never been attacked by robbers; he answered no, for
that he generally travelled in company with others. “However,”
said he, “were I alone I should have little fear, for I am well
protected.” I said that I supposed he carried arms with
him. “No other arms than this,” said he, pulling out
one of those long desperate looking knives, of English manufacture,
with which every Portuguese peasant is usually furnished. This
knife serves for many purposes, and I should consider it a far more
efficient weapon than a dagger. “But,” said he, “I
do not place much confidence in the knife.” I then inquired
in what rested his hope of protection. “In this,”
said he: and unbuttoning his waistcoat, he showed me a small bag, attached
to his neck by a silken string. “In this bag is an oracam,
or prayer, written by a person of power, and as long as I carry it about
with me, no ill can befall me.” Curiosity is the leading
feature of my character, and I instantly said, with eagerness, that
I should feel great pleasure in being permitted to read the prayer.
“Well,” he replied, “you are my friend, and I would
do for you what I would for few others, I will show it you.”
He then asked for my penknife, and having unripped the bag, took out
a large piece of paper closely folded up. I hurried to my apartment
and commenced the examination of it. It was scrawled over in a
very illegible hand, and was moreover much stained with perspiration,
so that I had considerable difficulty in making myself master of its
contents, but I at last accomplished the following literal translation
of the charm, which was written in bad Portuguese, but which struck
me at the time as being one of the most remarkable compositions that
had ever come to my knowledge.
THE CHARM
“Just Judge and divine Son of the Virgin Maria, who wast born
in Bethlehem, a Nazarene, and wast crucified in the midst of all Jewry,
I beseech thee, O Lord, by thy sixth day, that the body of me be not
caught, nor put to death by the hands of justice at all; peace be with
you, the peace of Christ, may I receive peace, may you receive peace,
said God to his disciples. If the accursed justice should distrust
me, or have its eyes on me, in order to take me or to rob me, may its
eyes not see me, may its mouth not speak to me, may it have ears which
may not hear me, may it have hands which may not seize me, may it have
feet which may not overtake me; for may I be armed with the arms of
St. George, covered with the cloak of Abraham, and shipped in the ark
of Noah, so that it can neither see me, nor hear me, nor draw the blood
from my body. I also adjure thee, O Lord, by those three blessed
crosses, by those three blessed chalices, by those three blessed clergymen,
by those three consecrated hosts, that thou give me that sweet company
which thou gavest to the Virgin Maria, from the gates of Bethlehem to
the portals of Jerusalem, that I may go and come with pleasure and joy
with Jesus Christ, the Son of the Virgin Maria, the prolific yet nevertheless
the eternal virgin.”
The woman of the house and her daughter had similar bags attached to
their necks, containing charms, which, they said, prevented the witches
having power to harm them. The belief in witchcraft is very prevalent
amongst the peasantry of the Alemtejo, and I believe of other provinces
of Portugal. This is one of the relies of the monkish system,
the aim of which, in all countries where it has existed, seems to have
been to beset the minds of the people, that they might be more easily
misled. All these charms were fabrications of the monks, who had
sold them to their infatuated confessants. The monks of the Greek
and Syrian churches likewise deal in this ware, which they know to be
poison, but which they would rather vend than the wholesome balm of
the gospel, because it brings them a large price, and fosters the delusion
which enables them to live a life of luxury.
The Sunday morning was fine, and the plain before the church of the
convent of San Francisco was crowded with people hastening to or returning
from the mass. After having performed my morning devotion, and
breakfasted, I went down to the kitchen; the girl Geronima was seated
by the fire. I inquired if she had heard mass? She replied
in the negative, and that she did not intend to hear it. Upon
my inquiring her motive for absenting herself, she replied, that since
the friars had been expelled from their churches and convents she had
ceased to attend mass, or to confess herself; for that the government
priests had no spiritual power, and consequently she never troubled
them. She said the friars were holy men and charitable; for that
every morning those of the convent over the way fed forty poor persons
with the relics of the meals of the preceding day, but that now these
people were allowed to starve. I replied, that the friars, who
lived on the fat of the land, could well afford to bestow a few bones
upon their poor, and that their doing so was merely a part of their
policy, by which they hoped to secure to themselves friends in time
of need. The girl then observed, that as it was Sunday, I should
perhaps like to see some books, and without waiting for a reply she
produced them. They consisted principally of popular stories,
with lives and miracles of saints, but amongst them was a translation
of Volney’s Ruins of Empires. I expressed a wish
to know how she became possessed of this book. She said that a
young man, a great Constitutionalist, had given it to her some months
previous, and had pressed her much to read it, for that it was one of
the best books in the world. I replied, that the author of it
was an emissary of Satan, and an enemy of Jesus Christ and the souls
of mankind; that it was written with the sole aim of bringing all religion
into contempt, and that it inculcated the doctrine that there was no
future state, nor reward for the righteous nor punishment for the wicked.
She made no reply, but going into another room, returned with her apron
full of dry sticks and brushwood, all which she piled upon the fire,
and produced a bright blaze. She then took the book from my hand
and placed it upon the flaming pile; then sitting down, took her rosary
out of her pocket and told her beads till the volume was consumed.
This was an auto da fé in the best sense of the word.
On the Monday and Tuesday I paid my usual visits to the fountain, and
likewise rode about the neighbourhood on a mule, for the purpose of
circulating tracts. I dropped a great many in the favourite walks
of the people of Evora, as I felt rather dubious of their accepting
them had I proffered them with my own hand, whereas, should they be
observed lying on the ground, I thought that curiosity might cause them
to be picked up and examined. I likewise, on the Tuesday evening,
paid a farewell visit to my friend Azveto, as it was my intention to
leave Evora on the Thursday following and return to Lisbon; in which
view I had engaged a calash of a man who informed me that he had served
as a soldier in the grande armée of Napoleon, and been present
in the Russian campaign. He looked the very image of a drunkard.
His face was covered with carbuncles, and his breath impregnated with
the fumes of strong waters. He wished much to converse with me
in French, in the speaking of which language it seemed he prided himself,
but I refused, and told him to speak the language of the country, or
I would hold no discourse with him.
Wednesday was stormy, with occasional rain. On coming down, I
found that my friend from Palmella had departed: but several contrabandistas
had arrived from Spain. They were mostly fine fellows, and unlike
the two I had seen the preceding week, who were of much lower degree,
were chatty and communicative; they spoke their native language, and
no other, and seemed to hold the Portuguese in great contempt.
The magnificent tones of the Spanish sounded to great advantage amidst
the shrill squeaking dialect of Portugal. I was soon in deep conversation
with them, and was much pleased to find that all of them could read.
I presented the eldest, a man of about fifty years of age, with a tract
in Spanish. He examined it for some time with great attention;
he then rose from his seat, and going into the middle of the apartment,
began reading it aloud, slowly and emphatically; his companions gathered
around him, and every now and then expressed their approbation of what
they heard. The reader occasionally called upon me to explain
passages which, as they referred to particular texts of Scripture, he
did not exactly understand, for not one of the party had ever seen either
the Old or New Testament.
He continued reading for upwards of an hour, until he had finished the
tract; and, at its conclusion, the whole party were clamorous for similar
ones, with which I was happy to be able to supply them.
Most of these men spoke of priestcraft and the monkish system with the
utmost abhorrence, and said that they should prefer death to submitting
again to the yoke which had formerly galled their necks. I questioned
them very particularly respecting the opinion of their neighbours and
acquaintances on this point, and they assured me that in their part
of the Spanish frontier all were of the same mind, and that they cared
as little for the Pope and his monks as they did for Don Carlos; for
the latter was a dwarf (chicotito) and a tyrant, and the others
were plunderers and robbers. I told them they must beware of confounding
religion with priestcraft, and that in their abhorrence of the latter
they must not forget that there is a God and a Christ to whom they must
look for salvation, and whose word it was incumbent upon them to study
on every occasion; whereupon they all expressed a devout belief in Christ
and the Virgin.
These men, though in many respects more enlightened than the surrounding
peasantry, were in others as much in the dark; they believed in witchcraft
and in the efficacy of particular charms. The night was very stormy,
and at about nine we heard a galloping towards the door, and then a
loud knocking; it was opened, and in rushed a wild-looking man mounted
on a donkey; he wore a ragged jacket of sheepskin, called in Spanish
zamarra, with breeches of the same as far down as his knees; his legs
were bare. Around his sombrero, or shadowy hat, was tied a large
quantity of the herb which in English is called rosemary, in Spanish
romero, and in the rustic language of Portugal, alecrim; which last
is a word of Scandinavian origin (ellegren), signifying the elfin
plant, and was probably carried into the south by the Vandals.
The man seemed frantic with terror, and said that the witches had been
pursuing him and hovering over his head for the last two leagues.
He came from the Spanish frontier with meal and other articles; he said
that his wife was following him and would soon arrive, and in about
a quarter of an hour she made her appearance, dripping with rain, and
also mounted on a donkey.
I asked my friends the contrabandistas why he wore the rosemary in his
hat; whereupon they told me that it was good against witches and the
mischances on the road. I had no time to argue against this superstition,
for, as the chaise was to be ready at five the next morning, I wished
to make the most of the short time which I could devote to sleep.
CHAPTER IV
Vexatious Delays - Drunken Driver - The Murdered Mule - The Lamentation
- Adventure on the Heath - Fear of Darkness - Portuguese Fidalgo - The
Escort - Return to Lisbon.
I rose at four, and after having taken some refreshment, I descended
and found the strange man and his wife sleeping in the chimney corner
by the fire, which was still burning; they soon awoke and began preparing
their breakfast, which consisted of salt sardinhas, broiled upon the
embers. In the meantime the woman sang snatches of the beautiful
hymn, very common in Spain, which commences thus:-
“Once of old upon a mountain, shepherds overcome with sleep,
Near to Bethlem’s holy tower, kept at dead of night their sheep;
Round about the trunk they nodded of a huge ignited oak,
Whence the crackling flame ascending bright and clear the darkness broke.”
On hearing that I was about to depart, she said, “You shall have
some of my husband’s rosemary, which will keep you from danger,
and prevent any misfortune occurring.” I was foolish enough
to permit her to put some of it in my hat; and the man having by this
time arrived with his mules, I bade farewell to my friendly hostesses,
and entered the chaise with my servant.
I remarked at the time, that the mules which drew us were the finest
I had ever seen; the largest could be little short of sixteen hands
high; and the fellow told me in his bad French that he loved them better
than his wife and children. We turned round the corner of the
convent and proceeded down the street which leads to the south-western
gate. The driver now stopped before the door of a large house,
and having alighted, said that it was yet very early, and that he was
afraid to venture forth, as it was very probable we should be robbed,
and himself murdered, as the robbers who resided in the town would be
apprehensive of his discovering them, but that the family who lived
in this house were going to Lisbon, and would depart in about a quarter
of an hour, when we might avail ourselves of an escort of soldiers which
they would take with them, and in their company we should run no danger.
I told him I had no fear, and commanded him to drive on; but he said
he would not, and left us in the street. We waited an hour, when
two carriages came to the door of the house, but it seems the family
were not yet ready, whereupon the coachman likewise got down and went
away. At the expiration of about half an hour the family came
out, and when their luggage had been arranged they called for the coachman,
but he was nowhere to be found. Search was made for him, but ineffectually,
and an hour more was spent before another driver could be procured;
but the escort had not yet made its appearance, and it was not before
a servant had been twice despatched to the barracks that it arrived.
At last everything was ready, and they drove off.
All this time I had seen nothing of our own coachman, and I fully expected
that he had abandoned us altogether. In a few minutes I saw him
staggering up the street in a state of intoxication, attempting to sing
the Marseillois hymn. I said nothing to him, but sat observing
him. He stood for some time staring at the mules and talking incoherent
nonsense in French. At last he said, “I am not so drunk
but I can ride,” and proceeded to lead his mules towards the gate.
When out of the town he made several ineffectual attempts to mount the
smallest mule which bore the saddle; he at length succeeded, and instantly
commenced spurring at a furious rate down the road. We arrived
at a place where a narrow rocky path branched off, by taking which we
should avoid a considerable circuit round the city wall, which otherwise
it would be necessary to make before we could reach the road to Lisbon,
which lay at the north-east; he now said, “I shall take this path,
for by so doing we shall overtake the family in a minute”; so
into the path we went; it was scarcely wide enough to admit the carriage,
and exceedingly steep and broken; we proceeded; ascending and descending,
the wheels cracked, and the motion was so violent that we were in danger
of being cast out as from a sling. I saw that if we remained in
the carriage it must be broken in pieces, as our weight must insure
its destruction. I called to him in Portuguese to stop, but he
flogged and spurred the beasts the more. My man now entreated
me for God’s sake to speak to him in French, for, if anything
would pacify him, that would. I did so, and entreated him to let
us dismount and walk, till we had cleared this dangerous way.
The result justified Antonio’s anticipation. He instantly
stopped and said, “Sir, you are master, you have only to command
and I shall obey.” We dismounted and walked on till we reached
the great road, when we once more seated ourselves.
The family were about a quarter of a mile in advance, and we were no
sooner reseated, than he lashed the mules into full gallop for the purpose
of overtaking it; his cloak had fallen from his shoulder, and, in endeavouring
to readjust it, he dropped the string from his hand by which he guided
the large mule, it became entangled in the legs of the poor animal,
which fell heavily on its neck, it struggled for a moment, and then
lay stretched across the way, the shafts over its body. I was
pitched forward into the dirt, and the drunken driver fell upon the
murdered mule.
I was in a great rage, and cried, “You drunken renegade, who are
ashamed to speak the language of your own country, you have broken the
staff of your existence, and may now starve.” “Paciencia,”
said he, and began kicking the head of the mule, in order to make it
rise; but I pushed him down, and taking his knife, which had fallen
from his pocket, cut the bands by which it was attached to the carriage,
but life had fled, and the film of death had begun to cover its eyes.
The fellow, in the recklessness of intoxication, seemed at first disposed
to make light of his loss, saying, “The mule is dead, it was God’s
will that she should die, what more can be said? Paciencia.”
Meanwhile, I despatched Antonio to the town for the purpose of hiring
mules, and, having taken my baggage from the chaise, waited on the roadside
until he should arrive.
The fumes of the liquor began now to depart from the fellow’s
brain; he clasped his hands and exclaimed, “Blessed Virgin, what
is to become of me? How am I to support myself? Where am
I to get another mule! For my mule, my best mule is dead, she
fell upon the road, and died of a sudden! I have been in France,
and in other countries, and have seen beasts of all kinds, but such
a mule as that I have never seen; but she is dead - my mule is dead
- she fell upon the road and died of a sudden!” He continued
in this strain for a considerable time, and the burden of his lamentation
was always, “My mule is dead, she fell upon the road, and died
of a sudden.” At length he took the collar from the creature’s
neck, and put it upon the other, which with some difficulty he placed
in the shafts.
A beautiful boy of about thirteen now came from the direction of the
town, running along the road with the velocity of a hare: he stopped
before the dead mule and burst into tears: it was the man’s son,
who had heard of the accident from Antonio. This was too much
for the poor fellow: he ran up to the boy, and said, “Don’t
cry, our bread is gone, but it is God’s will; the mule is dead!”
He then flung himself on the ground, uttering fearful cries. “I
could have borne my loss,” said he, “but when I saw my child
cry, I became a fool.” I gave him two or three crowns, and
added some words of comfort; assuring him I had no doubt that, if he
abandoned drink, the Almighty God would take compassion on him and repair
his loss. At length he became more composed, and placing my baggage
in the chaise, we returned to the town, where I found two excellent
riding mules awaiting my arrival at the inn. I did not see the
Spanish woman, or I should have told her of the little efficacy of rosemary
in this instance.
I have known several drunkards amongst the Portuguese, but, without
one exception, they have been individuals who, having travelled abroad,
like this fellow, have returned with a contempt for their own country,
and polluted with the worst vices of the lands which they have visited.
I would strongly advise any of my countrymen who may chance to read
these lines, that, if their fate lead them into Spain or Portugal, they
avoid hiring as domestics, or being connected with, individuals of the
lower classes who speak any other language than their own, as the probability
is that they are heartless thieves and drunkards. These gentry
are invariably saying all they can in dispraise of their native land;
and it is my opinion, grounded upon experience, that an individual who
is capable of such baseness would not hesitate at the perpetration of
any villainy, for next to the love of God, the love of country is the
best preventive of crime. He who is proud of his country, will
be particularly cautious not to do anything which is calculated to disgrace
it.
We now journeyed towards Lisbon, and reached Monte Moro about two o’clock.
After taking such refreshment as the place afforded, we pursued our
way till we were within a quarter of a league of the huts which stand
on the edge of the savage wilderness we had before crossed. Here
we were overtaken by a horseman; he was a powerful, middle-sized man,
and was mounted on a noble Spanish horse. He had a broad, slouching
sombrero on his head, and wore a jerkin of blue cloth, with large bosses
of silver for buttons, and clasps of the same metal; he had breeches
of yellow leather, and immense jackboots: at his saddle was slung a
formidable gun. He inquired if I intended to pass the night at
Vendas Novas, and on my replying in the affirmative, he said that he
would avail himself of our company. He now looked towards the
sun, whose disk was rapidly sinking beneath the horizon, and entreated
us to spur on and make the most of its light, for that the moor was
a horrible place in the dusk. He placed himself at our head, and
we trotted briskly on, the boy or muleteer who attended us running behind
without exhibiting the slightest symptom of fatigue.
We entered upon the moor, and had advanced about a mile when dark night
fell around us; we were in a wild path, with high brushwood on either
side, when the rider said that he could not confront the darkness, and
begged me to ride on before, and he would follow after: I could hear
him trembling. I asked the reason of his terror, and he replied
that at one time darkness was the same thing to him as day, but that
of late years he dreaded it, especially in wild places. I complied
with his request, but I was ignorant of the way, and as I could scarcely
see my hand, was continually going wrong. This made the man impatient,
and he again placed himself at our head. We proceeded so for a
considerable way, when he again stopped, and said that the power of
the darkness was too much for him. His horse seemed to be infected
with the same panic, for it shook in every limb. I now told him
to call on the name of the Lord Jesus, who was able to turn the darkness
into light, but he gave a terrible shout, and, brandishing his gun aloft,
discharged it in the air. His horse sprang forward at full speed,
and my mule, which was one of the swiftest of its kind, took fright
and followed at the heels of the charger. Antonio and the boy
were left behind. On we flew like a whirlwind, the hoofs of the
animals illuming the path with the sparks of fire they struck from the
stones. I knew not whither we were going, but the dumb creatures
were acquainted with the way, and soon brought us to Vendas Novas, where
we were rejoined by our companions.
I thought this man was a coward, but I did him injustice, for during
the day he was as brave as a lion, and feared no one. About five
years since, he had overcome two robbers who had attacked him on the
moors, and, after tying their hands behind them, had delivered them
up to justice; but at night the rustling of a leaf filled him with terror.
I have known similar instances of the kind in persons of otherwise extraordinary
resolution. For myself, I confess I am not a person of extraordinary
resolution, but the dangers of the night daunt me no more than those
of midday. The man in question was a farmer from Evora, and a
person of considerable wealth.
I found the inn at Vendas Novas thronged with people, and had some difficulty
in obtaining accommodation and refreshment. It was occupied by
the family of a certain Fidalgo, from Estremoz; he was on the way to
Lisbon, conveying a large sum of money, as was said - probably the rents
of his estates. He had with him a body guard of four-and-twenty
of his dependants, each armed with a rifle; they consisted of his swineherds,
shepherds, cowherds, and hunters, and were commanded by two youths,
his son and nephew, the latter of whom was in regimentals; nevertheless,
notwithstanding the number of his troop, it appeared that the Fidalgo
laboured under considerable apprehension of being despoiled upon the
waste which lay between Vendas Novas and Pegoens, as he had just requested
a guard of four soldiers from the officer who commanded a detachment
stationed here: there were many females in his company, who, I was told,
were his illegitimate daughters - for he bore an infamous moral character,
and was represented to me as a staunch friend of Don Miguel. It
was not long before he came up to me and my new acquaintance, as we
sat by the kitchen fire: he was a tall man of about sixty, but stooped
much. His countenance was by no means pleasing: he had a long
hooked nose, small twinkling cunning eyes, and, what I liked worst of
all, a continual sneering smile, which I firmly believe to be the index
of a treacherous and malignant heart. He addressed me in Spanish,
which, as he resided not far from the frontier, he spoke with fluency,
but contrary to my usual practice, I was reserved and silent.
On the following morning I rose at seven, and found that the party from
Estremoz had started several hours previously. I breakfasted with
my acquaintance of the preceding night, and we set out to accomplish
what remained of our journey. The sun had now arisen; and all
his fears had left him - he breathed defiance against all the robbers
of the Alemtejo. When we had advanced about a league, the boy
who attended us said he saw heads of men amongst the brushwood.
Our cavalier instantly seized his gun, and causing his horse to make
two or three lofty bounds, held it in one hand, the muzzle pointed in
the direction indicated, but the heads did not again make their appearance,
and it was probably but a false alarm.
We resumed our way, and the conversation turned, as might be expected,
upon robbers. My companion, who seemed to be acquainted with every
inch of ground over which we passed, had a legend to tell of every dingle
and every pine-clump. We reached a slight eminence, on the top
of which grew three stately pines: about half a league farther on was
another similar one: these two eminences commanded a view of the road
from Pegoens and Vendas Novas, so that all people going and coming could
be descried, whilst yet at a distance. My friend told me that
these heights were favourite stations of robbers. Some two years
since, a band of six mounted banditti remained there three days, and
plundered whomsoever approached from either quarter: their horses, saddled
and bridled, stood picqueted at the foot of the trees, and two scouts,
one for each eminence, continually sat in the topmost branches and gave
notice of the approach of travellers: when at a proper distance the
robbers below sprang upon their horses, and putting them to full gallop,
made at their prey, shouting Rendete, Picaro! Rendete, Picaro!
(Surrender, scoundrel, surrender!) We, however, passed unmolested,
and, about a quarter of a mile before we reached Pegoens, overtook the
family of the Fidalgo.
Had they been conveying the wealth of Ind through the deserts of Arabia,
they could not have travelled with more precaution. The nephew,
with drawn sabre, rode in front; pistols at his holsters, and the usual
Spanish gun slung at his saddle. Behind him tramped six men in
a rank, with muskets shouldered, and each of them wore at his girdle
a hatchet, which was probably intended to cleave the thieves to the
brisket should they venture to come to close quarters. There were
six vehicles, two of them calashes, in which latter rode the Fidalgo
and his daughters; the others were covered carts, and seemed to be filled
with household furniture; each of these vehicles had an armed rustic
on either side; and the son, a lad about sixteen, brought up the rear
with a squad equal to that of his cousin in the van. The soldiers,
who by good fortune were light horse, and admirably mounted, were galloping
about in all directions, for the purpose of driving the enemy from cover,
should they happen to be lurking in the neighbourhood.
I could not help thinking as I passed by, that this martial array was
very injudicious, for though it was calculated to awe plunderers, it
was likewise calculated to allure them, as it seemed to hint that immense
wealth was passing through their territories. I do not know how
the soldiers and rustics would have behaved in case of an attack; but
am inclined to believe that if three such men as Richard Turpin had
suddenly galloped forth from behind one of the bush-covered knolls,
neither the numbers nor resistance opposed to them would have prevented
them from bearing away the contents of the strong box jingling in their
saddlebags.
From this moment nothing worthy of relating occurred till our arrival
at Aldea Gallega, where we passed the night, and next morning at three
o’clock embarked in the passage-boat for Lisbon, where we arrived
at eight - and thus terminates my first wandering in the Alemtejo.
CHAPTER V
The College - The Rector - Shibboleth - National Prejudices - Youthful
Sports - Jews of Lisbon - Bad Faith - Crime and Superstition - Strange
Proposal.
One afternoon Antonio said to me, “It has struck me, Senhor, that
your worship would like to see the college of the English - .”
“By all means,” I replied, “pray conduct me thither.”
So he led me through various streets until we stopped before the gate
of a large building in one of the most elevated situations in Lisbon;
upon our ringing, a kind of porter presently made his appearance, and
demanded our business. Antonio explained it to him. He hesitated
for a moment; but presently, bidding us enter, conducted us to a large
gloomy-looking stone hall, where, begging us to be seated, he left us.
We were soon joined by a venerable personage, seemingly about seventy,
in a kind of flowing robe or surplice, with a collegiate cap upon his
head. Notwithstanding his age there was a ruddy tinge upon his
features, which were perfectly English. Coming slowly up he addressed
me in the English tongue, requesting to know how he could serve me.
I informed him that I was an English traveller, and should be happy
to be permitted to inspect the college, provided it were customary to
show it to strangers. He informed me that there could be no objection
to accede to my request, but that I came at rather an unfortunate moment,
it being the hour of refection. I apologised, and was preparing
to retire, but he begged me to remain, as, in a few minutes, the refection
would be over, when the principals of the college would do themselves
the pleasure of waiting on me.
We sat down on the stone bench, when he commenced surveying me attentively
for some time, and then cast his eyes on Antonio. “Whom
have we here?” said he to the latter; “surely your features
are not unknown to me.” “Probably not, your reverence,”
replied Antonio, getting up and bowing most profoundly. “I
lived in the family of the Countess -, at Cintra, when your venerability
was her spiritual guide.” “True, true,” said
the old gentleman, sighing, “I remember you now. Ah, Antonio,
things are strangely changed since then. A new government - a
new system - a new religion, I may say.” Then looking again
at me, he demanded whither I was journeying? “I am going
to Spain,” said I, “and have stopped at Lisbon by the way.”
“Spain, Spain!” said the old man; “surely you have
chosen a strange time to visit Spain; there is much bloodshedding in
Spain at present, and violent wars and tumults.” “I
consider the cause of Don Carlos as already crushed,” I replied;
“he has lost the only general capable of leading his armies to
Madrid. Zumalacarregui, his Cid, has fallen.” “Do
not flatter yourself; I beg your pardon, but do not think, young man,
that the Lord will permit the powers of darkness to triumph so easily;
the cause of Don Carlos is not lost; its success did not depend on the
life of a frail worm like him whom you have mentioned.”
We continued in discourse some little time, when he arose, saying that
by this time he believed the refection was concluded.
He had scarcely left me five minutes when three individuals entered
the stone hall, and advanced slowly towards me; - the principals of
the college, said I to myself! and so indeed they were. The first
of these gentlemen, and to whom the other two appeared to pay considerable
deference, was a thin spare person, somewhat above the middle height;
his complexion was very pale, his features emaciated but fine, his eyes
dark and sparkling; he might be about fifty - the other two were men
in the prime of life. One was of rather low stature; his features
were dark, and wore that pinched and mortified expression so frequently
to be observed in the countenance of the English -: the other was a
bluff, ruddy, and rather good-looking young man; all three were dressed
alike in the usual college cap and silk gown. Coming up, the eldest
of the three took me by the hand and thus addressed me in clear silvery
tones:-
“Welcome, Sir, to our poor house; we are always happy to see in
it a countryman from our beloved native land; it will afford us extreme
satisfaction to show you over it; it is true that satisfaction is considerably
diminished by the reflection that it possesses nothing worthy of the
attention of a traveller; there is nothing curious pertaining to it
save perhaps its economy, and that as we walk about we will explain
to you. Permit us, first of all, to introduce ourselves to you;
I am rector of this poor English house of refuge; this gentleman is
our professor of humanity, and this (pointing to the ruddy personage)
is our professor of polite learning, Hebrew, and Syriac.”
Myself. - I humbly salute you all; excuse me if I inquire who
was the venerable gentleman who put himself to the inconvenience of
staying with me whilst I was awaiting your leisure.
Rector. - O! a most admirable personage, our almoner, our chaplain;
he came into this country before any of us were born, and here he has
continued ever since. Now let us ascend that we may show you our
poor house: but how is this, my dear Sir, how is it that I see you standing
uncovered in our cold damp hall?
Myself. - I can easily explain that to you; it is a custom which
has become quite natural to me. I am just arrived from Russia,
where I have spent some years. A Russian invariably takes off
his hat whenever he enters beneath a roof, whether it pertain to hut,
shop, or palace. To omit doing so would be considered as a mark
of brutality and barbarism, and for the following reason: in every apartment
of a Russian house there is a small picture of the Virgin stuck up in
a corner, just below the ceiling - the hat is taken off out of respect
to her.
Quick glances of intelligence were exchanged by the three gentlemen.
I had stumbled upon their shibboleth, and proclaimed myself an Ephraimite,
and not of Gilead. I have no doubt that up to that moment they
had considered me as one of themselves - a member, and perhaps a priest,
of their own ancient, grand, and imposing religion, for such it is,
I must confess - an error into which it was natural that they should
fall. What motives could a Protestant have for intruding upon
their privacy? What interest could he take in inspecting the economy
of their establishment? So far, however, from relaxing in their
attention after this discovery, their politeness visibly increased,
though, perhaps, a scrutinizing observer might have detected a shade
of less cordiality in their manner.
Rector. - Beneath the ceiling in every apartment? I think
I understood you so. How delightful - how truly interesting; a
picture of the Blessed Virgin beneath the ceiling in every apartment
of a Russian house! Truly, this intelligence is as unexpected
as it is delightful. I shall from this moment entertain a much
higher opinion of the Russians than hitherto - most truly an example
worthy of imitation. I wish sincerely that it was our own practice
to place an image of the Blessed Virgin beneath the ceiling
in every corner of our houses. What say you, our professor of
humanity? What say you to the information so obligingly communicated
to us by this excellent gentleman?
Humanity Professor. - It is, indeed, most delightful, most cheering,
I may say; but I confess that I was not altogether unprepared for it.
The adoration of the Blessed Virgin is becoming every day more extended
in countries where it has hitherto been unknown or forgotten.
Dr. W-, when he passed through Lisbon, gave me some most interesting
details with respect to the labours of the propaganda in India.
Even England, our own beloved country. . . .
My obliging friends showed me all over their “poor house,”
it certainly did not appear a very rich one; it was spacious, and rather
dilapidated. The library was small, and possessed nothing remarkable;
the view, however, from the roof, over the greater part of Lisbon and
the Tagus, was very grand and noble; but I did not visit this place
in the hope of seeing busts, or books, or fine prospects, - I visited
this strange old house to converse with its inmates, for my favourite,
I might say, my only study, is man. I found these gentlemen much
what I had anticipated, for this was not the first time that I had visited
an English - establishment in a foreign land. They were full of
amiability and courtesy to their heretic countryman, and though the
advancement of their religion was with them an object of paramount importance,
I soon found that, with ludicrous inconsistency, they cherished, to
a wonderful degree, national prejudices almost extinct in the mother
land, even to the disparagement of those of their own darling faith.
I spoke of the English -, of their high respectability, and of the loyalty
which they had uniformly displayed to their sovereign, though of a different
religion, and by whom they had been not unfrequently subjected to much
oppression and injustice.
Rector. - My dear Sir, I am rejoiced to hear you; I see that
you are well acquainted with the great body of those of our faith in
England. They are as you have well described them, a most respectable
and loyal body; from loyalty, indeed, they never swerved, and though
they have been accused of plots and conspiracies, it is now well known
that such had no real existence, but were merely calumnies invented
by their religious enemies. During the civil wars the English
- cheerfully shed their blood and squandered their fortunes in the cause
of the unfortunate martyr, notwithstanding that he never favoured them,
and invariably looked upon them with suspicion. At present the
English - are the most devoted subjects to our gracious sovereign.
I should be happy if I could say as much for our Irish brethren; but
their conduct has been - oh! detestable. Yet what can you expect?
The true - blush for them. A certain person is a disgrace to the
church of which he pretends to be a servant. Where does he find
in our canons sanction for his proceedings, his undutiful expressions
towards one who is his sovereign by divine right, and who can do no
wrong? And above all, where does he find authority for inflaming
the passions of a vile mob against a nation intended by nature and by
position to command them?
Myself. - I believe there is an Irish college in this city?
Rector. - I believe there is; but it does not flourish, there
are few or no pupils. Oh!
I looked through a window, at a great height, and saw about twenty or
thirty fine lads sporting in a court below. “This is as
it should be,” said I; “those boys will not make worse priests
from a little early devotion to trap-ball and cudgel playing.
I dislike a staid, serious, puritanic education, as I firmly believe
that it encourages vice and hypocrisy.”
We then went into the Rector’s room, where, above a crucifix,
was hanging a small portrait.
Myself. - That was a great and portentous man, honest withal.
I believe the body of which he was the founder, and which has been so
much decried, has effected infinitely more good than it has caused harm.
Rector. - What do I hear? You an Englishman, and a Protestant,
and yet an admirer of Ignatius Loyola?
Myself. - I will say nothing with respect to the doctrine of
the Jesuits, for, as you have observed, I am a Protestant: but I am
ready to assert that there are no people in the world better qualified,
upon the whole, to be intrusted with the education of youth. Their
moral system and discipline are truly admirable. Their pupils,
in after life, are seldom vicious and licentious characters, and are
in general men of learning, science, and possessed of every elegant
accomplishment. I execrate the conduct of the liberals of Madrid
in murdering last year the helpless fathers, by whose care and instruction
two of the finest minds of Spain have been evolved - the two ornaments
of the liberal cause and modern literature of Spain, for such are Toreno
and Martinez de la Rosa. . . .
Gathered in small clusters about the pillars at the lower extremities
of the gold and silver streets in Lisbon, may be observed, about noon
in every day, certain strange looking men, whose appearance is neither
Portuguese nor European. Their dress generally consists of a red
cap, with a blue silken tassel at the top of it, a blue tunic girded
at the waist with a red sash, and wide linen pantaloons or trousers.
He who passes by these groups generally hears them conversing in broken
Spanish or Portuguese, and occasionally in a harsh guttural language,
which the oriental traveller knows to be the Arabic, or a dialect thereof.
These people are the Jews of Lisbon. Into the midst of one of
these groups I one day introduced myself, and pronounced a beraka, or
blessing. I have lived in different parts of the world, much amongst
the Hebrew race, and am well acquainted with their ways and phraseology.
I was rather anxious to become acquainted with the state of the Portuguese
Jews, and I had now an opportunity. “The man is a powerful
rabbi,” said a voice in Arabic; “it behoves us to treat
him kindly.” They welcomed me. I favoured their mistake,
and in a few days I knew all that related to them and their traffic
in Lisbon.
I found them a vile, infamous rabble, about two hundred in number.
With a few exceptions, they consist of escapados from the Barbary shore,
from Tetuan, from Tangier, but principally from Mogadore; fellows who
have fled to a foreign land from the punishment due to their misdeeds.
Their manner of life in Lisbon is worthy of such a goodly assemblage
of amis reunis. The generality of them pretend to work
in gold and silver, and keep small peddling shops; they, however, principally
depend for their livelihood on an extensive traffic in stolen goods
which they carry on. It is said that there is honour amongst thieves,
but this is certainly not the case with the Jews of Lisbon, for they
are so greedy and avaricious, that they are constantly quarrelling about
their ill-gotten gain, the result being that they frequently ruin each
other. Their mutual jealousy is truly extraordinary. If
one, by cheating and roguery, gains a cruzado in the presence of another,
the latter instantly says I cry halves, and if the first refuse he is
instantly threatened with an information. The manner in which
they cheat each other has, with all its infamy, occasionally something
extremely droll and ludicrous. I was one day in the shop of a
Swiri, or Jew of Mogadore, when a Jew from Gibraltar entered, with a
Portuguese female, who held in her hand a mantle, richly embroidered
with gold.
Gibraltar Jew (speaking in broken Arabic). - Good-day, O Swiri;
God has favoured me this day; here is a bargain by which we shall both
gain. I have bought this mantle of the woman almost for nothing,
for it is stolen; but I am poor, as you know, I have not a cruzado;
pay her therefore the price, that we may then forthwith sell the mantle
and divide the gain.
Swiri. - Willingly, brother of Gibraltar; I will pay the woman
for the mantle; it does not appear a bad one.
Thereupon he flung two cruzados to the woman, who forthwith left the
shop.
Gibraltar Jew. - Thanks, brother Swirl, this is very kind of
you; now let us go and sell the mantle, the gold alone is well worth
a moidore; but I am poor and have nothing to eat, give me, therefore,
the half of that sum and keep the mantle; I shall be content.
Swiri. - May Allah blot out your name, you thief. What
mean you by asking me for money? I bought the mantle of the woman
and paid for it. I know nothing of you. Go out of my doors,
dog of a Nazarene, if not I will pay you with a kick.
The dispute was referred to one of the sabios, or priests; but the sabio,
who was also from Mogadore, at once took the part of the Swiri, and
decided that the other should have nothing. Whereupon the Gibraltar
Jew cursed the sabio, his father, mother, and all his family.
The sabio replied, “I put you in ndui,” a kind of purgatory
or hell. “I put you in seven nduis,” retorted the
incensed Jew, over whom, however, superstitious fear speedily prevailed;
he faltered, became pale, and dropping his voice, retreated, trembling
in every limb.
The Jews have two synagogues in Lisbon, both are small; one is, however,
tolerably well furnished, it has its reading desk, and in the middle
there is a rather handsome chandelier; the other is little better than
a sty, filthy to a degree, without ornament of any kind. The congregation
of this last are thieves to a man; no Jew of the slightest respectability
ever enters it.
How well do superstition and crime go hand in hand. These wretched
beings break the eternal commandments of their Maker without scruple;
but they will not partake of the beast of the uncloven foot, and the
fish which has no scales. They pay no regard to the denunciations
of holy prophets against the children of sin, but they quake at the
sound of a dark cabalistic word, pronounced by one perhaps their equal,
or superior, in villainy, as if God would delegate the exercise of his
power to the workers of iniquity.
I was one day sauntering on the Caesodré, when a Jew, with whom
I had previously exchanged a word or two, came up and addressed me.
Jew. - The blessing of God upon you, brother; I know you to be
a wise and powerful man, and I have conceived much regard for you; it
is on that account that I wish to put you in the way of gaining much
money. Come with me, and I will conduct you to a place where there
are forty chests of tea. It is a seréka (a robbery), and
the thieves are willing to dispose of it for a trifle, for there is
search being made, and they are in much fear. I can raise one
half of what they demand, do you supply the other, we will then divide
it, each shall go his own way and dispose of his portion.
Myself. - Wherefore, O son of Arbat, do you propose this to me,
who am a stranger? Surely you are mad. Have you not your
own people about you whom you know, and in whom you can confide?
Jew. - It is because I know our people here that I do not confide
in them; we are in the galoot of sin. Were I to confide in my
brethren there would be a dispute, and perhaps they would rob me, and
few of them have any money. Were I to apply to the sabio he might
consent, but when I ask for my portion he would put me in ndui!
You I do not fear; you are good and would do me no harm, unless I attempted
to deceive you, and that I dare not do, for I know you are powerful.
Come with me, master, for I wish to gain something, that I may return
to Arbat, where I have children . . .
Such are Jews in Lisbon.
CHAPTER VI
Cold of Portugal - Extortion prevented - Sensation of Loneliness - The
Dog - The Convent - Enchanting Landscape - Moorish Fortresses - Prayer
for the Sick.
About a fortnight after my return from Evora, having made the necessary
preparations, I set out on my journey for Badajoz, from which town I
intended to take the diligence to Madrid. Badajoz lies about a
hundred miles distant from Lisbon, and is the principal frontier town
of Spain in the direction of the Alemtejo. To reach this place,
it was necessary to retravel the road as far as Monte More, which I
had already passed in my excursion to Evora; I had therefore very little
pleasure to anticipate from novelty of scenery. Moreover, in this
journey I should be a solitary traveller, with no other companion than
the muleteer, as it was my intention to take my servant no farther than
Aldea Gallega, for which place I started at four in the afternoon.
Warned by former experience, I did not now embark in a small boat, but
in one of the regular passage felouks, in which we reached Aldea Gallega,
after a voyage of six hours; for the boat was heavy, there was no wind
to propel it, and the crew were obliged to ply their huge oars the whole
way. In a word, this passage was the reverse of the first, - safe
in every respect, - but so sluggish and tiresome, that I a hundred times
wished myself again under the guidance of the wild lad, galloping before
the hurricane over the foaming billows. From eight till ten the
cold was truly terrible, and though I was closely wrapped in an excellent
fur “shoob,” with which I had braved the frosts of Russian
winters, I shivered in every limb, and was far more rejoiced when I
again set my foot on the Alemtejo, than when I landed for the first
time, after having escaped the horrors of the tempest.
I took up my quarters for the night at a house to which my friend who
feared the darkness had introduced me on my return from Evora, and where,
though I paid mercilessly dear for everything, the accommodation was
superior to that of the common inn in the square. My first care
now was to inquire for mules to convey myself and baggage to Elvas,
from whence there are but three short leagues to the Spanish town of
Badajoz. The people of the house informed me that they had an
excellent pair at my disposal, but when I inquired the price, they were
not ashamed to demand four moidores. I offered them three, which
was too much, but which, however, they did not accept, for knowing me
to be an Englishman, they thought they had an excellent opportunity
to practise imposition, not imagining that a person so rich as an Englishman
must be, would go out in a cold night for the sake of obtaining
a reasonable bargain. They were, however, much mistaken, as I
told them that rather than encourage them in their knavery, I should
be content to return to Lisbon; whereupon they dropped their demand
to three and a half, but I made them no answer, and going out with Antonio,
proceeded to the house of the old man who had accompanied us to Evora.
We knocked a considerable time, for he was in bed; at length he arose
and admitted us, but on hearing our object, he said that his mules were
again gone to Evora, under the charge of the boy, for the purpose of
transporting some articles of merchandise. He, however, recommended
us to a person in the neighbourhood who kept mules for hire, and there
Antonio engaged two fine beasts for two moidores and a half. I
say he engaged them, for I stood aloof and spoke not, and the proprietor,
who exhibited them, and who stood half-dressed, with a lamp in his hand
and shivering with cold, was not aware that they were intended for a
foreigner till the agreement was made, and he had received a part of
the sum in earnest. I returned to the inn well pleased, and having
taken some refreshment went to rest, paying little attention to the
people, who glanced daggers at me from their small Jewish eyes.
At five the next morning the mules were at the door; a lad of some nineteen
or twenty years of age attended them; he was short but exceedingly strong
built, and possessed the largest head which I ever beheld upon mortal
shoulders; neck he had none, at least I could discern nothing which
could be entitled to that name. His features were hideously ugly,
and upon addressing him I discovered that he was an idiot. Such
was my intended companion in a journey of nearly a hundred miles, which
would occupy four days, and which lay over the most savage and ill noted
track in the whole kingdom. I took leave of my servant almost
with tears, for he had always served me with the greatest fidelity,
and had exhibited an assiduity and a wish to please which afforded me
the utmost satisfaction.
We started, my uncouth guide sitting tailor-fashion on the sumpter mule
upon the baggage. The moon had just gone down, and the morning
was pitchy dark, and, as usual, piercingly cold. He soon entered
the dismal wood, which I had already traversed, and through which we
wended our way for some time, slowly and mournfully. Not a sound
was to be heard save the trampling of the animals, not a breath of air
moved the leafless branches, no animal stirred in the thickets, no bird,
not even the owl, flew over our heads, all seemed desolate and dead,
and during my many and far wanderings, I never experienced a greater
sensation of loneliness, and a greater desire for conversation and an
exchange of ideas than then. To speak to the idiot was useless,
for though competent to show the road, with which he was well acquainted,
he had no other answer than an uncouth laugh to any question put to
him. Thus situated, like many other persons when human comfort
is not at hand, I turned my heart to God, and began to commune with
Him, the result of which was that my mind soon became quieted and comforted.
We passed on our way uninterrupted; no thieves showed themselves, nor
indeed did we see a single individual until we arrived at Pegoens, and
from thence to Vendas Novas our fortune was the same. I was welcomed
with great kindness by the people of the hostelry of the latter place,
who were well acquainted with me on account of my having twice passed
the night under their roof. The name of the keeper of this is,
or was, Jozé Dias Azido, and unlike the generality of those of
the same profession as himself in Portugal, he is an honest man, and
a stranger and foreigner who takes up his quarters at his inn, may rest
assured that he will not be most unmercifully pillaged and cheated when
the hour of reckoning shall arrive, as he will not be charged a single
ré more than a native Portuguese on a similar occasion.
I paid at this place exactly one half of the sum which was demanded
from me at Arroyolos, where I passed the ensuing night, and where the
accommodation was in every respect inferior.
At twelve next day we arrived at Monte More, and, as I was not pressed
for time, I determined upon viewing the ruins which cover the top and
middle part of the stately hill which towers above the town. Having
ordered some refreshment at the inn where we dismounted, I ascended
till I arrived at a large wall or rampart, which, at a certain altitude
embraces the whole hill. I crossed a rude bridge of stones, which
bestrides a small hollow or trench; and passing by a large tower, entered
through a portal into the enclosed part of the hill. On the left
hand stood a church, in good preservation, and still devoted to the
purposes of religion, but which I could not enter, as the door was locked,
and I saw no one at hand to open it.
I soon found that my curiosity had led me to a most extraordinary place,
which quite beggars the scanty powers of description with which I am
gifted. I stumbled on amongst ruined walls, and at one time found
I was treading over vaults, as I suddenly started back from a yawning
orifice into which my next step, as I strolled musing along, would have
precipitated me. I proceeded for a considerable way by the eastern
wall, till I heard a tremendous bark, and presently an immense dog,
such as those which guard the flocks in the neighbourhood against the
wolves, came bounding to attack me “with eyes that glowed and
fangs that grinned.” Had I retreated, or had recourse to
any other mode of defence than that which I invariably practise under
such circumstances, he would probably have worried me; but I stooped
till my chin nearly touched my knee, and looked him full in the eyes,
and as John Leyden says, in the noblest ballad which the Land of Heather
has produced:-
“The hound he yowled and back he fled,
As struck with fairy charm.”
It is a fact known to many people, and I believe it has been frequently
stated, that no large and fierce dog or animal of any kind, with the
exception of the bull, which shuts its eyes and rushes blindly forward,
will venture to attack an individual who confronts it with a firm and
motionless countenance. I say large and fierce, for it is much
easier to repel a bloodhound or bear of Finland in this manner than
a dunghill cur or a terrier, against which a stick or a stone is a much
more certain defence. This will astonish no one who considers
that the calm reproving glance of reason, which allays the excesses
of the mighty and courageous in our own species, has seldom any other
effect than to add to the insolence of the feeble and foolish, who become
placid as doves upon the infliction of chastisements, which if attempted
to be applied to the former would only serve to render them more terrible,
and like gunpowder cast on a flame, cause them in mad desperation to
scatter destruction around them.
The barking of the dog brought out from a kind of alley an elderly man,
whom I supposed to be his master, and of whom I made some inquiries
respecting the place. The man was civil, and informed me that
he served as a soldier in the British army, under the “great lord,”
during the Peninsular war. He said that there was a convent of
nuns a little farther on, which he would show me, and thereupon led
the way to the south-east part of the wall, where stood a large dilapidated
edifice.
We entered a dark stone apartment, at one corner of which was a kind
of window occupied by a turning table, at which articles were received
into the convent or delivered out. He rang the bell, and, without
saying a word, retired, leaving me rather perplexed; but presently I
heard, though the speaker was invisible, a soft feminine voice demanding
who I was, and what I wanted. I replied that I was an Englishman
travelling into Spain, and that passing through Monte Moro I had ascended
the hill for the purpose of seeing the ruins. The voice then said,
“I suppose you are a military man going to fight against the king,
like the rest of your countrymen.” “No,” said
I, “I am not a military man, but a Christian, and I go not to
shed blood but to endeavour to introduce the gospel of Christ into a
country where it is not known;” whereupon there was a stifled
titter, I then inquired if there were any copies of the Holy Scriptures
in the convent, but the friendly voice could give me no information
on that point, and I scarcely believe that its possessor understood
the purport of my question. It informed me, that the office of
lady abbess of the house was an annual one, and that every year there
was a fresh superior; on my inquiring whether the nuns did not frequently
find the time exceedingly heavy on their hands, it stated that, when
they had nothing better to do, they employed themselves in making cheesecakes,
which were disposed of in the neighbourhood. I thanked the voice
for its communications, and walked away. Whilst proceeding under
the wall of the house towards the south-west, I heard a fresh and louder
tittering above my head, and looking up, saw three or four windows crowded
with dusky faces, and black waving hair; these belonged to the nuns,
anxious to obtain a view of the stranger. After kissing my hand
repeatedly, I moved on, and soon arrived at the south-west end of this
mountain of curiosities. There I found the remains of a large
building, which seemed to have been originally erected in the shape
of a cross. A tower at its eastern entrance was still entire;
the western side was quite in ruins, and stood on the verge of the hill
overlooking the valley, at the bottom of which ran the stream I have
spoken of on a former occasion.
The day was intensely hot, notwithstanding the coldness of the preceding
nights; and the brilliant sun of Portugal now illumined a landscape
of entrancing beauty. Groves of cork trees covered the farther
side of the valley and the distant acclivities, exhibiting here and
there charming vistas, where various flocks of cattle were feeding;
the soft murmur of the stream, which was at intervals chafed and broken
by huge stones, ascended to my ears and filled my mind with delicious
feelings. I sat down on the broken wall and remained gazing, and
listening, and shedding tears of rapture; for, of all the pleasures
which a bountiful God permitteth his children to enjoy, none are so
dear to some hearts as the music of forests, and streams, and the view
of the beauties of his glorious creation. An hour elapsed, and
I still maintained my seat on the wall; the past scenes of my life flitting
before my eyes in airy and fantastic array, through which every now
and then peeped trees and hills and other patches of the real landscape
which I was confronting; the sun burnt my visage, but I heeded it not;
and I believe that I should have remained till night, buried in these
reveries, which, I confess, only served to enervate the mind, and steal
many a minute which might be most profitably employed, had not the report
of the gun of a fowler in the valley, which awakened the echoes of the
woods, hills, and ruins, caused me to start on my feet, and remember
that I had to proceed three leagues before I could reach the hostelry
where I intended to pass the night.
I bent my steps to the inn, passing along a kind of rampart: shortly
before I reached the portal, which I have already mentioned, I observed
a kind of vault on my right hand, scooped out of the side of the hill;
its roof was supported by three pillars, though part of it had given
way towards the farther end, so that the light was admitted through
a chasm in the top. It might have been intended for a chapel,
a dungeon, or a cemetery, but I should rather think for the latter;
one thing I am certain of, that it was not the work of Moorish hands,
and indeed throughout my wanderings in this place I saw nothing which
reminded me of that most singular people. The hill on which the
ruins stand was doubtless originally a strong fortress of the Moors,
who, upon their first irruption into the peninsula, seized and fortified
most of the lofty and naturally strong positions, but they had probably
lost it at an early period, so that the broken walls and edifices, which
at present cover the hill, are probably remains of the labours of the
Christians after the place had been rescued from the hands of the terrible
enemies of their faith. Monte Moro will perhaps recall Cintra
to the mind of the traveller, as it exhibits a distant resemblance to
that place; nevertheless, there is something in Cintra wild and savage,
to which Monte Moro has no pretension; its scathed and gigantic crags
are piled upon each other in a manner which seems to menace headlong
destruction to whatever is in the neighbourhood; and the ruins which
still cling to those crags seem more like eagles’ nests than the
remains of the habitations even of Moors; whereas those of Monte Moro
stand comparatively at their ease on the broad back of a hill, which,
though stately and commanding, has no crags nor precipices, and which
can be ascended on every side without much difficulty: yet I was much
gratified by my visit, and I shall wander far indeed before I forget
the voice in the dilapidated convent, the ruined walls amongst which
I strayed, and the rampart where, sunk in dreamy rapture, I sat during
a bright sunny hour at Monte Moro.
I returned to the inn, where I refreshed myself with tea and very sweet
and delicious cheesecakes, the handiwork of the nuns in the convent
above. Observing gloom and unhappiness on the countenances of
the people of the house, I inquired the reason of the hostess, who sat
almost motionless, on the hearth by the fire; whereupon she informed
me that her husband was deadly sick with a disorder which, from her
description, I supposed to be a species of cholera; she added, that
the surgeon who attended him entertained no hopes of his recovery.
I replied that it was quite in the power of God to restore her husband
in a few hours from the verge of the grave to health and vigour, and
that it was her duty to pray to that Omnipotent Being with all fervency.
I added, that if she did not know how to pray upon such an occasion,
I was ready to pray for her, provided she would join in the spirit of
the supplication. I then offered up a short prayer in Portuguese,
in which I entreated the Lord to remove, if he thought proper, the burden
of affliction under which the family was labouring.
The woman listened attentively, with her hands devoutly clasped, until
the prayer was finished, and then gazed at me seemingly with astonishment,
but uttered no word by which I could gather that she was pleased or
displeased with what I had said. I now bade the family farewell,
and having mounted my mule, set forward to Arroyolos.
CHAPTER VII
The Druids’ Stone - The Young Spaniard - Ruffianly Soldiers -
Evils of War - Estremoz - The Brawl - Ruined Watch Tower - Glimpse of
Spain - Old Times and New.
After proceeding about a league and a half, a blast came booming from
the north, rolling before it immense clouds of dust; happily it did
not blow in our faces, or it would have been difficult to proceed, so
great was its violence. We had left the road in order to take
advantage of one of those short cuts, which, though possible for a horse
or a mule, are far too rough to permit any species of carriage to travel
along them. We were in the midst of sands, brushwood, and huge
pieces of rock, which thickly studded the ground. These are the
stones which form the sierras of Spain and Portugal; those singular
mountains which rise in naked horridness, like the ribs of some mighty
carcass from which the flesh has been torn. Many of these stones,
or rocks, grew out of the earth, and many lay on its surface unattached,
perhaps wrested from their bed by the waters of the deluge. Whilst
toiling along these wild wastes, I observed, a little way to my left,
a pile of stones of rather a singular appearance, and rode up to it.
It was a druidical altar, and the most perfect and beautiful one of
the kind which I had ever seen. It was circular, and consisted
of stones immensely large and heavy at the bottom, which towards the
top became thinner and thinner, having been fashioned by the hand of
art to something of the shape of scollop shells. These were surmounted
by a very large flat stone, which slanted down towards the south, where
was a door. Three or four individuals might have taken shelter
within the interior, in which was growing a small thorn tree.
I gazed with reverence and awe upon the pile where the first colonies
of Europe offered their worship to the unknown God. The temples
of the mighty and skilful Roman, comparatively of modern date, have
crumbled to dust in its neighbourhood. The churches of the Arian
Goth, his successor in power, have sunk beneath the earth, and are not
to be found; and the mosques of the Moor, the conqueror of the Goth,
where and what are they? Upon the rock, masses of hoary and vanishing
ruin. Not so the Druids’ stone; there it stands on the hill
of winds, as strong and as freshly new as the day, perhaps thirty centuries
back, when it was first raised, by means which are a mystery.
Earthquakes have heaved it, but its copestone has not fallen; rain floods
have deluged it, but failed to sweep it from its station; the burning
sun has flashed upon it, but neither split nor crumbled it; and time,
stern old time, has rubbed it with his iron tooth, and with what effect
let those who view it declare. There it stands, and he who wishes
to study the literature, the learning, and the history of the ancient
Celt and Cymbrian, may gaze on its broad covering, and glean from that
blank stone the whole known amount. The Roman has left behind
him his deathless writings, his history, and his songs; the Goth his
liturgy, his traditions, and the germs of noble institutions; the Moor
his chivalry, his discoveries in medicine, and the foundations of modern
commerce; and where is the memorial of the Druidic races? Yonder:
that pile of eternal stone!
We arrived at Arroyolos about seven at night. I took possession
of a large two-bedded room, and, as I was preparing to sit down to supper,
the hostess came to inquire whether I had any objection to receive a
young Spaniard for the night. She said he had just arrived with
a train of muleteers, and that she had no other room in which she could
lodge him. I replied that I was willing, and in about half an
hour he made his appearance, having first supped with his companions.
He was a very gentlemanly, good-looking lad of seventeen. He addressed
me in his native language, and, finding that I understood him, he commenced
talking with astonishing volubility. In the space of five minutes
he informed me that, having a desire to see the world, he had run away
from his friends, who were people of opulence at Madrid, and that he
did not intend to return until he had travelled through various countries.
I told him that if what he said was true, he had done a very wicked
and foolish action; wicked, because he must have overwhelmed those with
grief whom he was bound to honour and love, and foolish, inasmuch as
he was going to expose himself to inconceivable miseries and hardships,
which would shortly cause him to rue the step he had taken; that he
would be only welcome in foreign countries so long as he had money to
spend, and when he had none, he would be repulsed as a vagabond, and
would perhaps be allowed to perish of hunger. He replied that
he had a considerable sum of money with him, no less than a hundred
dollars, which would last him a long time, and that when it was spent
he should perhaps be able to obtain more. “Your hundred
dollars,” said I, “will scarcely last you three months in
the country in which you are, even if it be not stolen from you; and
you may as well hope to gather money on the tops of the mountains as
expect to procure more by honourable means.” But he had
not yet sufficiently drank of the cup of experience to attend much to
what I said, and I soon after changed the subject. About five
next morning he came to my bedside to take leave, as his muleteers were
preparing to depart. I gave him the usual Spanish valediction
(Vaya usted con Dios), and saw no more of him.
At nine, after having paid a most exorbitant sum for slight accommodation,
I started from Arroyolos, which is a town or large village situated
on very elevated ground, and discernible afar off. It can boast
of the remains of a large ancient and seemingly Moorish castle, which
stands on a hill on the left as you take the road to Estremoz.
About a mile from Arroyolos I overtook a train of carts escorted by
a number of Portuguese soldiers, conveying stores and ammunition into
Spain. Six or seven of these soldiers marched a considerable way
in front; they were villainous looking ruffians upon whose livid and
ghastly countenances were written murder, and all the other crimes which
the decalogue forbids. As I passed by, one of them, with a harsh,
croaking voice, commenced cursing all foreigners. “There,”
said he, “is this Frenchman riding on horseback” (I was
on a mule), “with a man” (the idiot) “to take care
of him, and all because he is rich; whilst I, who am a poor soldier,
am obliged to tramp on foot. I could find it in my heart to shoot
him dead, for in what respect is he better than I? But he is a
foreigner, and the devil helps foreigners and hates the Portuguese.”
He continued shouting his remarks until I got about forty yards in advance,
when I commenced laughing; but it would have been more prudent in me
to have held my peace, for the next moment, with bang - bang, two bullets,
well aimed, came whizzing past my ears. A small river lay just
before me, though the bridge was a considerable way on my left.
I spurred my animal through it, closely followed by my terrified guide,
and commenced galloping along a sandy plain on the other side, and so
escaped with my life.
These fellows, with the look of banditti, were in no respect better;
and the traveller who should meet them in a solitary place would have
little reason to bless his good fortune. One of the carriers (all
of whom were Spaniards from the neighbourhood of Badajoz, and had been
despatched into Portugal for the purpose of conveying the stores), whom
I afterwards met in the aforesaid town, informed me that the whole party
were equally bad, and that he and his companions had been plundered
by them of various articles, and threatened with death if they attempted
to complain. How frightful to figure to oneself an army of such
beings in a foreign land, sent thither either to invade or defend; and
yet Spain, at the time I am writing this, is looking forward to armed
assistance from Portugal. May the Lord in his mercy grant that
the soldiers who proceed to her assistance may be of a different stamp:
and yet, from the lax state of discipline which exists in the Portuguese
army, in comparison with that of England and France, I am afraid that
the inoffensive population of the disturbed provinces will say that
wolves have been summoned to chase away foxes from the sheepfold.
O! may I live to see the day when soldiery will no longer be tolerated
in any civilized, or at least Christian, country!
I pursued my route to Estremoz, passing by Monte Moro Novo, which is
a tall dusky hill, surmounted by an ancient edifice, probably Moorish.
The country was dreary and deserted, but offering here and there a valley
studded with cork trees and azinheiras. After midday the wind,
which during the night and morning had much abated, again blew with
such violence as nearly to deprive me of my senses, though it was still
in our rear.
I was heartily glad when, on ascending a rising ground, at about four
o’clock, I saw Estremoz on its hill at something less than a league’s
distance. Here the view became wildly interesting; the sun was
sinking in the midst of red and stormy clouds, and its rays were reflected
on the dun walls of the lofty town to which we were wending. Nor
far distant to the south-west rose Serra Dorso, which I had seen from
Evora, and which is the most beautiful mountain in the Alemtejo.
My idiot guide turned his uncouth visage towards it, and becoming suddenly
inspired, opened his mouth for the first time during the day, I might
almost say since we had left Aldea Gallega, and began to tell me what
rare hunting was to be obtained in that mountain. He likewise
described with great minuteness a wonderful dog, which was kept in the
neighbourhood for the purpose of catching the wolves and wild boars,
and for which the proprietor had refused twenty moidores.
At length we reached Estremoz, and took up our quarters at the principal
inn, which looks upon a large plain or market-place occupying the centre
of the town, and which is so extensive that I should think ten thousand
soldiers at least might perform their evolutions there with case.
The cold was far too terrible to permit me to remain in the chamber
to which I had been conducted; I therefore went down to a kind of kitchen
on one side of the arched passage, which led under the house to the
yard and stables. A tremendous withering blast poured through
this passage, like the water through the flush of a mill. A large
cork tree was blazing in the kitchen beneath a spacious chimney; and
around it were gathered a noisy crew of peasants and farmers from the
neighbourhood, and three or four Spanish smugglers from the frontier.
I with difficulty obtained a place amongst them, as a Portuguese or
a Spaniard will seldom make way for a stranger, till called upon or
pushed aside, but prefers gazing upon him with an expression which seems
to say, I know what you want, but I prefer remaining where I am.
I now first began to observe an alteration in the language spoken; it
had become less sibilant, and more guttural; and, when addressing each
other, the speakers used the Spanish title of courtesy usted,
or your worthiness, instead of the Portuguese high flowing vossem
se, or your lordship. This is the result of constant communication
with the natives of Spain, who never condescend to speak Portuguese,
even when in Portugal, but persist in the use of their own beautiful
language, which, perhaps, at some future period, the Portuguese will
generally adopt. This would greatly facilitate the union of the
two countries, hitherto kept asunder by the natural waywardness of mankind.
I had not been seated long before the blazing pile, when a fellow, mounted
on a fine spirited horse, dashed from the stables through the passage
into the kitchen, where he commenced displaying his horsemanship, by
causing the animal to wheel about with the velocity of a millstone,
to the great danger of everybody in the apartment. He then galloped
out upon the plain, and after half an hour’s absence returned,
and having placed his horse once more in the stable, came and seated
himself next to me, to whom he commenced talking in a gibberish of which
I understood very little, but which he intended for French. He
was half intoxicated, and soon became three parts so, by swallowing
glass after glass of aguardiente. Finding that I made him no answer,
he directed his discourse to one of the contrabandistas, to whom he
talked in bad Spanish. The latter either did not or would not
understand him; but at last, losing patience, called him a drunkard,
and told him to hold his tongue. The fellow, enraged at this contempt,
flung the glass out of which he was drinking at the Spaniard’s
head, who sprang up like a tiger, and unsheathing instantly a snick
and snee knife, made an upward cut at the fellow’s cheek, and
would have infallibly laid it open, had I not pulled his arm down just
in time to prevent worse effects than a scratch above the lower jawbone,
which, however, drew blood.
The smuggler’s companions interfered, and with much difficulty
led him off to a small apartment in the rear of the house, where they
slept, and kept the furniture of their mules. The drunkard then
commenced singing, or rather yelling, the Marseillois hymn; and after
having annoyed every one for nearly an hour, was persuaded to mount
his horse and depart, accompanied by one of his neighbours. He
was a pig merchant of the vicinity, but had formerly been a trooper
in the army of Napoleon, where, I suppose, like the drunken coachman
of Evora, he had picked up his French and his habits of intoxication.
From Estremoz to Elvas the distance is six leagues. I started
at nine next morning; the first part of the way lay through an enclosed
country, but we soon emerged upon wild bleak downs, over which the wind,
which still pursued us, howled most mournfully. We met no one
on the route; and the scene was desolate in the extreme; the heaven
was of a dark grey, through which no glimpse of the sun was to be perceived.
Before us, at a great distance, on an elevated ground, rose a tower
- the only object which broke the monotony of the waste. In about
two hours from the time when we first discovered it, we reached a fountain,
at the foot of the hill on which it stood; the water, which gushed into
a long stone trough, was beautifully clear and transparent, and we stopped
here to water the animals.
Having dismounted, I left the guide, and proceeded to ascend the hill
on which the tower stood. Though the ascent was very gentle I
did not accomplish it without difficulty; the ground was covered with
sharp stones, which, in two or three instances, cut through my boots
and wounded my feet; and the distance was much greater than I had expected.
I at last arrived at the ruin, for such it was. I found it had
been one of those watch towers or small fortresses called in Portuguese
atalaias; it was square, and surrounded by a wall, broken down
in many places. The tower itself had no door, the lower part being
of solid stone work; but on one side were crevices at intervals between
the stones, for the purpose of placing the feet, and up this rude staircase
I climbed to a small apartment, about five feet square, from which the
top had fallen. It commanded an extensive view from all sides,
and had evidently been built for the accommodation of those whose business
it was to keep watch on the frontier, and at the appearance of an enemy
to alarm the country by signals - probably by a fire. Resolute
men might have defended themselves in this little fastness against many
assailants, who must have been completely exposed to their arrows or
musketry in the ascent.
Being about to leave the place, I heard a strange cry behind a part
of the wall which I had not visited, and hastening thither, I found
a miserable object in rags, seated upon a stone. It was a maniac
- a man about thirty years of age, and I believe deaf and dumb; there
he sat, gibbering and mowing, and distorting his wild features into
various dreadful appearances. There wanted nothing but this object
to render the scene complete; banditti amongst such melancholy desolation
would have been by no means so much in keeping. But the maniac,
on his stone, in the rear of the wind-beaten ruin, overlooking the blasted
heath, above which scowled the leaden heaven, presented such a picture
of gloom and misery as I believe neither painter nor poet ever conceived
in the saddest of their musings. This is not the first instance
in which it has been my lot to verify the wisdom of the saying, that
truth is sometimes wilder than fiction.
I remounted my mule, and proceeded till, on the top of another hill,
my guide suddenly exclaimed, “there is Elvas.” I looked
in the direction in which he pointed, and beheld a town perched on the
top of a lofty hill. On the other side of a deep valley towards
the left rose another hill, much higher, on the top of which is the
celebrated fort of Elvas, believed to be the strongest place in Portugal.
Through the opening between the fort and the town, but in the background
and far in Spain, I discerned the misty sides and cloudy head of a stately
mountain, which I afterwards learned was Albuquerque, one of the loftiest
of Estremadura.
We now got into a cultivated country, and following the road, which
wound amongst hedgerows, we arrived at a place where the ground began
gradually to shelve down. Here, on the right, was the commencement
of an aqueduct by means of which the town on the opposite hill was supplied;
it was at this point scarcely two feet in altitude, but, as we descended,
it became higher and higher, and its proportions more colossal.
Near the bottom of the valley it took a turn to the left, bestriding
the road with one of its arches. I looked up, after passing under
it; the water must have been flowing near a hundred feet above my head,
and I was filled with wonder at the immensity of the structure which
conveyed it. There was, however, one feature which was no slight
drawback to its pretensions to grandeur and magnificence; the water
was supported not by gigantic single arches, like those of the aqueduct
of Lisbon, which stalk over the valley like legs of Titans, but by three
layers of arches, which, like three distinct aqueducts, rise above each
other. The expense and labour necessary for the erection of such
a structure must have been enormous; and, when we reflect with what
comparative ease modern art would confer the same advantage, we cannot
help congratulating ourselves that we live in times when it is not necessary
to exhaust the wealth of a province to supply a town on a hill with
one of the first necessaries of existence.
CHAPTER VIII
Elvas - Extraordinary Longevity - The English Nation - Portuguese Ingratitude
- Illiberality - Fortifications - Spanish Beggar - Badajoz - The Custom
House.
Arrived at the gate of Elvas, an officer came out of a kind of guard
house, and, having asked me some questions, despatched a soldier with
me to the police office, that my passport might be viséed, as
upon the frontier they are much more particular with respect to passports
than in other parts. This matter having been settled, I entered
an hostelry near the same gate, which had been recommended to me by
my host at Vendas Novas, and which was kept by a person of the name
of Joze Rosado. It was the best in the town, though, for convenience
and accommodation, inferior to a hedge alehouse in England. The
cold still pursued me, and I was glad to take refuge in an inner kitchen,
which, when the door was not open, was only lighted by a fire burning
somewhat dimly on the hearth. An elderly female sat beside it
in her chair, telling her beads: there was something singular and extraordinary
in her look, as well as I could discern by the imperfect light of the
apartment. I put a few unimportant questions to her, to which
she replied, but seemed to be afflicted to a slight degree with deafness.
Her hair was becoming grey, and I said that I believed she was older
than myself, but that I was confident she had less snow on her head.
“How old may you be, cavalier?” said she, giving me that
title which in Spain is generally used when an extraordinary degree
of respect is wished to be exhibited. I answered that I was near
thirty. “Then,” said she, “you were right in
supposing that I am older than yourself; I am older than your mother,
or your mother’s mother: it is more than a hundred years since
I was a girl, and sported with the daughters of the town on the hillside.”
“In that case,” said I, “you doubtless remember the
earthquake.” “Yes,” she replied, “if there
is any occurrence in my life that I remember, it is that: I was in the
church of Elvas at the moment, hearing the mass of the king, and the
priest fell on the ground, and let fall the Host from his hands.
I shall never forget how the earth shook; it made us all sick; and the
houses and walls reeled like drunkards. Since that happened I
have seen fourscore years pass by me, yet I was older then than you
are now.”
I looked with wonder at this surprising female, and could scarcely believe
her words. I was, however, assured that she was in fact upwards
of a hundred and ten years of age, and was considered the oldest person
in Portugal. She still retained the use of her faculties in as
full a degree as the generality of people who have scarcely attained
the half of her age. She was related to the people of the house.
As the night advanced, several persons entered for the purpose of enjoying
the comfort of the fire and for the sake of conversation, for the house
was a kind of news room, where the principal speaker was the host, a
man of some shrewdness and experience, who had served as a soldier in
the British army. Amongst others was the officer who commanded
at the gate. After a few observations, this gentleman, who was
a good-looking young man of five-and-twenty, began to burst forth in
violent declamation against the English nation and government, who,
he said, had at all times proved themselves selfish and deceitful, but
that their present conduct in respect to Spain was particularly infamous,
for though it was in their power to put an end to the war at once, by
sending a large army thither, they preferred sending a handful of troops,
in order that the war might be prolonged, for no other reason than that
it was of advantage to them. Having paid him an ironical compliment
for his politeness and urbanity, I asked whether he reckoned amongst
the selfish actions of the English government and nation, their having
expended hundreds of millions of pounds sterling, and an ocean of precious
blood, in fighting the battles of Spain and Portugal against Napoleon.
“Surely,” said I, “the fort of Elvas above our heads,
and still more the castle of Badajoz over the water, speak volumes respecting
English selfishness, and must, every time you view them, confirm you
in the opinion which you have just expressed. And then, with respect
to the present combat in Spain, the gratitude which that country evinced
to England after the French, by means of English armies, had been expelled,
- gratitude evinced by discouraging the trade of England on all occasions,
and by offering up masses in thanksgiving when the English heretics
quitted the Spanish shores, - ought now to induce England to exhaust
and ruin herself, for the sake of hunting Don Carlos out of his mountains.
In deference to your superior judgment,” continued I to the officer,
“I will endeavour to believe that it would be for the advantage
of England were the war prolonged for an indefinite period; nevertheless,
you would do me a particular favour by explaining by what process in
chemistry blood shed in Spain will find its way into the English treasury
in the shape of gold.”
As he was not ready with his answer, I took up a plate of fruit which
stood on the table beside me, and said, “What do you call these
fruits?” “Pomegranates and bolotas,” he replied.
“Right,” said I, “a home-bred Englishman could not
have given me that answer; yet he is as much acquainted with pomegranates
and bolotas as your lordship is with the line of conduct which it is
incumbent upon England to pursue in her foreign and domestic policy.”
This answer of mine, I confess, was not that of a Christian, and proved
to me how much of the leaven of the ancient man still pervaded me; yet
I must be permitted to add, that I believe no other provocation would
have elicited from me a reply so full of angry feeling: but I could
not command myself when I heard my own glorious land traduced in this
unmerited manner. By whom? A Portuguese! A native
of a country which has been twice liberated from horrid and detestable
thraldom by the hands of Englishmen. But for Wellington and his
heroes, Portugal would have been French at this day; but for Napier
and his mariners, Miguel would now be lording it in Lisbon. To
return, however, to the officer; every one laughed at him, and he presently
went away.
The next day I became acquainted with a respectable tradesman of the
name of Almeida, a man of talent, though rather rough in his manners.
He expressed great abhorrence of the papal system, which had so long
spread a darkness like that of death over his unfortunate country, and
I had no sooner informed him that I had brought with me a certain quantity
of Testaments, which it was my intention to leave for sale at Elvas,
than he expressed a great desire to undertake the charge, and said that
he would do the utmost in his power to procure a sale for them amongst
his numerous customers. Upon showing him a copy, I remarked, your
name is upon the title page; the Portuguese version of the Holy Scriptures,
circulated by the Bible Society, having been executed by a Protestant
of the name of Almeida, and first published in the year 1712; whereupon
he smiled, and observed that he esteemed it an honour to be connected
in name at least with such a man. He scoffed at the idea of receiving
any remuneration, and assured me that the feeling of being permitted
to co-operate in so holy and useful a cause as the circulation of the
Scriptures was quite a sufficient reward.
After having accomplished this matter, I proceeded to survey the environs
of the place, and strolled up the hill to the fort on the north side
of the town. The lower part of the hill is planted with azinheiras,
which give it a picturesque appearance, and at the bottom is a small
brook, which I crossed by means of stepping stones. Arrived at
the gate of the fort, I was stopped by the sentry, who, however, civilly
told me, that if I sent in my name to the commanding officer he would
make no objection to my visiting the interior. I accordingly sent
in my card by a soldier who was lounging about, and, sitting down on
a stone, waited his return. He presently appeared, and inquired
whether I was an Englishman; to which, having replied in the affirmative,
he said, “In that case, sir, you cannot enter; indeed, it is not
the custom to permit any foreigners to visit the fort.”
I answered that it was perfectly indifferent to me whether I visited
it or not; and, having taken a survey of Badajoz from the eastern side
of the hill, descended by the way I came.
This is one of the beneficial results of protecting a nation and squandering
blood and treasure in its defence. The English, who have never
been at war with Portugal, who have fought for its independence on land
and sea, and always with success, who have forced themselves by a treaty
of commerce to drink its coarse and filthy wines, which no other nation
cares to taste, are the most unpopular people who visit Portugal.
The French have ravaged the country with fire and sword, and shed the
blood of its sons like water; the French buy not its fruits and loathe
its wines, yet there is no bad spirit in Portugal towards the French.
The reason of this is no mystery; it is the nature not of the Portuguese
only, but of corrupt and unregenerate man, to dislike his benefactors,
who, by conferring benefits upon him, mortify in the most generous manner
his miserable vanity.
There is no country in which the English are so popular as in France;
but, though the French have been frequently roughly handled by the English,
and have seen their capital occupied by an English army, they have never
been subjected to the supposed ignominy of receiving assistance from
them.
The fortifications of Elvas are models of their kind, and, at the first
view, it would seem that the town, if well garrisoned, might bid defiance
to any hostile power; but it has its weak point: the western side is
commanded by a hill, at the distance of half a mile, from which an experienced
general would cannonade it, and probably with success. It is the
last town in this part of Portugal, the distance to the Spanish frontier
being barely two leagues. It was evidently built as a rival to
Badajoz, upon which it looks down from its height across a sandy plain
and over the sullen waters of the Guadiana; but, though a strong town,
it can scarcely be called a defence to the frontier, which is open on
all sides, so that there would not be the slightest necessity for an
invading army to approach within a dozen leagues of its walls, should
it be disposed to avoid them. Its fortifications are so extensive
that ten thousand men at least would be required to man them, who, in
the event of an invasion, might be far better employed in meeting the
enemy in the open field. The French, during their occupation of
Portugal, kept a small force in this place, who, at the approach of
the British, retreated to the fort, where they shortly after capitulated.
Having nothing farther to detain me at Elvas, I proceeded to cross the
frontier into Spain. My idiot guide was on his way back to Aldea
Gallega; and, on the fifth of January, I mounted a sorry mule without
bridle or stirrups, which I guided by a species of halter, and followed
by a lad who was to attend me on another, I spurred down the hill of
Elvas to the plain, eager to arrive in old chivalrous romantic Spain.
But I soon found that I had no need to quicken the beast which bore
me, for though covered with sores, wall-eyed, and with a kind of halt
in its gait, it cantered along like the wind.
In little more than half an hour we arrived at a brook, whose waters
ran vigorously between steep banks. A man who was standing on
the side directed me to the ford in the squeaking dialect of Portugal;
but whilst I was yet splashing through the water, a voice from the other
bank hailed me, in the magnificent language of Spain, in this guise:
“O Senor Caballero, que me de usted una limosna por amor de
Dios, una limosnita para que io me compre un traguillo de vino
tinto” (Charity, Sir Cavalier, for the love of God,
bestow an alms upon me, that I may purchase a mouthful of red wine).
In a moment I was on Spanish ground, as the brook, which is called Acaia,
is the boundary here of the two kingdoms, and having flung the beggar
a small piece of silver, I cried in ecstasy “Santiago y cierra
Espana!” and scoured on my way with more speed than before,
paying, as Gil Blas says, little heed to the torrent of blessings which
the mendicant poured forth in my rear: yet never was charity more unwisely
bestowed, for I was subsequently informed that the fellow was a confirmed
drunkard, who took his station every morning at the ford, where he remained
the whole day for the purpose of extorting money from the passengers,
which he regularly spent every night in the wine-shops of Badajoz.
To those who gave him money he returned blessings, and to those who
refused, curses; being equally skilled and fluent in the use of either.
Badajoz was now in view, at the distance of little more than half a
league. We soon took a turn to the left, towards a bridge of many
arches across the Guadiana, which, though so famed in song and ballad,
is a very unpicturesque stream, shallow and sluggish, though tolerably
wide; its banks were white with linen which the washer-women had spread
out to dry in the sun, which was shining brightly; I heard their singing
at a great distance, and the theme seemed to be the praises of the river
where they were toiling, for as I approached, I could distinguish Guadiana,
Guadiana, which reverberated far and wide, pronounced by the clear and
strong voices of many a dark-checked maid and matron. I thought
there was some analogy between their employment and my own: I was about
to tan my northern complexion by exposing myself to the hot sun of Spain,
in the humble hope of being able to cleanse some of the foul stains
of Popery from the minds of its children, with whom I had little acquaintance,
whilst they were bronzing themselves on the banks of the river in order
to make white the garments of strangers: the words of an eastern poet
returned forcibly to my mind.
“I’ll weary myself each night and each day,
To aid my unfortunate brothers;
As the laundress tans her own face in the ray,
To cleanse the garments of others.”
Having crossed the bridge, we arrived at the northern gate, when out
rushed from a species of sentry box a fellow wearing on his head a high-peaked
Andalusian hat, with his figure wrapped up in one of those immense cloaks
so well known to those who have travelled in Spain, and which none but
a Spaniard can wear in a becoming manner: without saying a word, he
laid hold of the halter of the mule, and began to lead it through the
gate up a dirty street, crowded with long-cloaked people like himself.
I asked him what he meant, but he deigned not to return an answer, the
boy, however, who waited upon me said that it was one of the gate-keepers,
and that he was conducting us to the Custom House or Alfandega, where
the baggage would be examined. Having arrived there, the fellow,
who still maintained a dogged silence, began to pull the trunks off
the sumpter mule, and commenced uncording them. I was about to
give him a severe reproof for his brutality, but before I could open
my mouth a stout elderly personage appeared at the door, who I soon
found was the principal officer. He looked at me for a moment
and then asked me, in the English language, if I was an Englishman.
On my replying in the affirmative, he demanded of the fellow how he
dared to have the insolence to touch the baggage, without orders, and
sternly bade him cord up the trunks again and place them on the mule,
which he performed without uttering a word. The gentleman then
asked what the trunks contained: I answered clothes and linen; when
he begged pardon for the insolence of the subordinate, and informed
him that I was at liberty to proceed where I thought proper. I
thanked him for his exceeding politeness, and, under guidance of the
boy, made the best of my way to the Inn of the Three Nations, to which
I had been recommended at Elvas.
CHAPTER IX
Badajoz - Antonio the Gypsy - Antonio’s Proposal - The Proposal
Accepted - Gypsy Breakfast - Departure from Badajoz - The Gypsy Donkey
- Merida - The Ruined Wall - The Crone - The Land of the Moor - The
Black Men - Life in the Desert - The Supper.
I was now at Badajoz in Spain, a country which for the next four years
was destined to be the scene of my labour: but I will not anticipate.
The neighbourhood of Badajoz did not prepossess me much in favour of
the country which I had just entered; it consists chiefly of brown moors,
which bear little but a species of brushwood, called in Spanish carrasco;
blue mountains are however seen towering up in the far distance, which
relieve the scene from the monotony which would otherwise pervade it.
It was at this town of Badajoz, the capital of Estremadura, that I first
fell in with those singular people, the Zincali, Gitanos, or Spanish
gypsies. It was here I met with the wild Paco, the man with the
withered arm, who wielded the cachas (shears) with his left hand;
his shrewd wife, Antonia, skilled in hokkano baro, or the great trick;
the fierce gypsy, Antonio Lopez, their father-in-law; and many other
almost equally singular individuals of the Errate, or gypsy blood.
It was here that I first preached the gospel to the gypsy people, and
commenced that translation of the New Testament in the Spanish gypsy
tongue, a portion of which I subsequently printed at Madrid.
After a stay of three weeks at Badajoz, I prepared to depart for Madrid:
late one afternoon, as I was arranging my scanty baggage, the gypsy
Antonio entered my apartment, dressed in his zamarra and high-peaked
Andalusian hat.
Antonio. - Good evening, brother; they tell me that on the callicaste
(day after to-morrow) you intend to set out for Madrilati.
Myself. - Such is my intention; I can stay here no longer.
Antonio. - The way is far to Madrilati: there are, moreover,
wars in the land and many chories (thieves) walk about; are you
not afraid to journey?
Myself. - I have no fears; every man must accomplish his destiny:
what befalls my body or soul was written in a gabicote (book)
a thousand years before the foundation of the world.
Antonio. - I have no fears myself, brother; the dark night is
the same to me as the fair day, and the wild carrascal as the market-place
or the chardy (fair); I have got the bar lachi in my bosom, the
precious stone to which sticks the needle.
Myself. - You mean the loadstone, I suppose. Do you believe
that a lifeless stone can preserve you from the dangers which occasionally
threaten your life?
Antonio. - Brother, I am fifty years old, and you see me standing
before you in life and strength; how could that be unless the bar lachi
had power? I have been soldier and contrabandista, and I have
likewise slain and robbed the Busné. The bullets of the
Gabiné (French) and of the jara canallis (revenue officers)
have hissed about my ears without injuring me, for I carried the
bar lachi. I have twenty times done that which by Busnée
law should have brought me to the filimicha (gallows), yet my
neck has never yet been squeezed by the cold garrote. Brother,
I trust in the bar lachi, like the Caloré of old: were I in the
midst of the gulph of Bombardo (Lyons), without a plank to float
upon, I should feel no fear; for if I carried the precious stone, it
would bring me safe to shore: the bar lachi has power, brother.
Myself. - I shall not dispute the matter with you, more especially
as I am about to depart from Badajoz: I must speedily bid you farewell,
and we shall see each other no more.
Antonio. - Brother, do you know what brings me hither?
Myself. - I cannot tell, unless it be to wish me a happy journey:
I am not gypsy enough to interpret the thoughts of other people.
Antonio. - All last night I lay awake, thinking of the affairs
of Egypt; and when I arose in the morning I took the bar lachi from
my bosom, and scraping it with a knife, swallowed some of the dust in
aguardiente, as I am in the habit of doing when I have made up my mind;
and I said to myself, I am wanted on the frontiers of Castumba (Castile)
on a certain matter. The strange Caloro is about to proceed
to Madrilati; the journey is long, and he may fall into evil hands,
peradventure into those of his own blood; for let me tell you, brother,
the Calés are leaving their towns and villages, and forming themselves
into troops to plunder the Busné, for there is now but little
law in the land, and now or never is the time for the Caloré
to become once more what they were in former times; so I said, the strange
Caloro may fall into the hands of his own blood and be ill-treated by
them, which were shame: I will therefore go with him through the Chim
del Manro (Estremadura) as far as the frontiers of Castumba,
and upon the frontiers of Castumba I will leave the London Caloro to
find his own way to Madrilati, for there is less danger in Castumba
than in the Chim del Manro, and I will then betake me to the affairs
of Egypt which call me from hence.
Myself. - This is a very hopeful plan of yours, my friend; and
in what manner do you propose that we shall travel?
Antonio. - I will tell you, brother; I have a gras in the stall,
even the one which I purchased at Olivenças, as I told you on
a former occasion; it is good and fleet, and cost me, who am a gypsy,
fifty chulé (dollars); upon that gras you shall ride.
As for myself, I will journey upon the macho.
Myself. - Before I answer you, I shall wish you to inform me
what business it is which renders your presence necessary in Castumba;
your son-in-law, Paco, told me that it was no longer the custom of the
gypsies to wander.
Antonio. - It is an affair of Egypt, brother, and I shall not
acquaint you with it; peradventure it relates to a horse or an ass,
or peradventure it relates to a mule or a macho; it does not relate
to yourself, therefore I advise you not to inquire about it - Dosta
(enough). With respect to my offer, you are free to decline
it; there is a drungruje (royal road) between here and Madrilati,
and you can travel it in the birdoche (stage-coach) or with the
dromale (muleteers); but I tell you, as a brother, that there
are chories upon the drun, and some of them are of the Errate.
Certainly few people in my situation would have accepted the offer of
this singular gypsy. It was not, however, without its allurements
for me; I was fond of adventure, and what more ready means of gratifying
my love of it than by putting myself under the hands of such a guide.
There are many who would have been afraid of treachery, but I had no
fears on this point, as I did not believe that the fellow harboured
the slightest ill intention towards me; I saw that he was fully convinced
that I was one of the Errate, and his affection for his own race, and
his hatred for the Busné, were his strongest characteristics.
I wished, moreover, to lay hold of every opportunity of making myself
acquainted with the ways of the Spanish gypsies, and an excellent one
here presented itself on my first entrance into Spain. In a word,
I determined to accompany the gypsy. “I will go with you,”
I exclaimed; “as for my baggage, I will despatch it to Madrid
by the birdoche.” “Do so, brother,” he replied,
“and the gras will go lighter. Baggage, indeed! - what need
of baggage have you? How the Busné on the road would laugh
if they saw two Calés with baggage behind them.”
During my stay at Badajoz, I had but little intercourse with the Spaniards,
my time being chiefly devoted to the gypsies, with whom, from long intercourse
with various sections of their race in different parts of the world,
I felt myself much more at home than with the silent, reserved men of
Spain, with whom a foreigner might mingle for half a century without
having half a dozen words addressed to him, unless he himself made the
first advances to intimacy, which, after all, might be rejected with
a shrug and a no intendo; for, among the many deeply rooted prejudices
of these people, is the strange idea that no foreigner can speak their
language; an idea to which they will still cling though they hear him
conversing with perfect ease; for in that case the utmost that they
will concede to his attainments is, Habla quatro palabras y nada
mas (he can speak four words, and no more).
Early one morning, before sunrise, I found myself at the house of Antonio;
it was a small mean building, situated in a dirty street. The
morning was quite dark; the street, however, was partially illumined
by a heap of lighted straw, round which two or three men were busily
engaged, apparently holding an object over the flames. Presently
the gypsy’s door opened, and Antonio made his appearance; and,
casting his eye in the direction of the light, exclaimed, “The
swine have killed their brother; would that every Busno was served as
yonder hog is. Come in, brother, and we will eat the heart of
that hog.” I scarcely understood his words, but, following
him, he led me into a low room in which was a brasero, or small pan
full of lighted charcoal; beside it was a rude table, spread with a
coarse linen cloth, upon which was bread and a large pipkin full of
a mess which emitted no disagreeable savour. “The heart
of the balichow is in that puchera,” said Antonio; “eat,
brother.” We both sat down and ate, Antonio voraciously.
When we had concluded he arose:- “Have you got your li?”
he demanded. “Here it is,” said I, showing him my
passport. “Good,” said he, “you may want it;
I want none, my passport is the bar lachi. Now for a glass of
repani, and then for the road.”
We left the room, the door of which he locked, hiding the key beneath
a loose brick in a corner of the passage. “Go into the street,
brother, whilst I fetch the caballerias from the stable.”
I obeyed him. The sun had not yet risen, and the air was piercingly
cold; the grey light, however, of dawn enabled me to distinguish objects
with tolerable accuracy; I soon heard the clattering of the animals’
feet, and Antonio presently stepped forth leading the horse by the bridle;
the macho followed behind. I looked at the horse and shrugged
my shoulders: as far as I could scan it, it appeared the most uncouth
animal I had ever beheld. It was of a spectral white, short in
the body, but with remarkably long legs. I observed that it was
particularly high in the cruz or withers. “You are looking
at the grasti,” said Antonio; “it is eighteen years old,
but it is the very best in the Chim del Manro; I have long had my eye
upon it; I bought it for my own use for the affairs of Egypt.
Mount, brother, mount and let us leave the foros - the gate is about
being opened.”
He locked the door, and deposited the key in his faja. In less
than a quarter of an hour we had left the town behind us. “This
does not appear to be a very good horse,” said I to Antonio, as
we proceeded over the plain. “It is with difficulty that
I can make him move.”
“He is the swiftest horse in the Chim del Manro, brother,”
said Antonio; “at the gallop and at the speedy trot there is no
one to match him; but he is eighteen years old, and his joints are stiff,
especially of a morning; but let him once become heated and the genio
del viejo (spirit of the old man) comes upon him and there is
no holding him in with bit or bridle. I bought that horse for
the affairs of Egypt, brother.”
About noon we arrived at a small village in the neighbourhood of a high
lumpy hill. “There is no Calo house in this place,”
said Antonio; “we will therefore go to the posada of the Busné,
and refresh ourselves, man and beast.” We entered the kitchen
and sat down at the boards, calling for wine and bread. There
were two ill-looking fellows in the kitchen, smoking cigars; I said
something to Antonio in the Calo language.
“What is that I hear?” said one of the fellows, who was
distinguished by an immense pair of moustaches. “What is
that I hear? is it in Calo that you are speaking before me, and I a
Chalan and national? Accursed gypsy, how dare you enter this posada
and speak before me in that speech? Is it not forbidden by the
law of the land in which we are, even as it is forbidden for a gypsy
to enter the mercado? I tell you what, friend, if I hear another
word of Calo come from your mouth, I will cudgel your bones and send
you flying over the house-tops with a kick of my foot.”
“You would do right,” said his companion; “the insolence
of these gypsies is no longer to be borne. When I am at Merida
or Badajoz I go to the mercado, and there in a corner stand the accursed
gypsies jabbering to each other in a speech which I understand not.
‘Gypsy gentleman,’ say I to one of them, ‘what will
you have for that donkey?’ ‘I will have ten dollars
for it, Caballero nacional,’ says the gypsy; ‘it is the
best donkey in all Spain.’ ‘I should like to see its
paces,’ say I. ‘That you shall, most valorous!’
says the gypsy, and jumping upon its back, he puts it to its paces,
first of all whispering something into its ears in Calo, and truly the
paces of the donkey are most wonderful, such as I have never seen before.
‘I think it will just suit me,’ and after looking at it
awhile, I take out the money and pay for it. ‘I shall go
to my house,’ says the gypsy; and off he runs. ‘I
shall go to my village,’ say I, and I mount the donkey.
‘Vamonos,’ say I, but the donkey won’t move.
I give him a switch, but I don’t get on the better for that.
‘How is this?’ say I, and I fall to spurring him.
What happens then, brother? The wizard no sooner feels the prick
than he bucks down, and flings me over his head into the mire.
I get up and look about me; there stands the donkey staring at me, and
there stand the whole gypsy canaille squinting at me with their filmy
eyes. ‘Where is the scamp who has sold me this piece of
furniture?’ I shout. ‘He is gone to Granada, Valorous,’
says one. ‘He is gone to see his kindred among the Moors,’
says another. ‘I just saw him running over the field, in
the direction of -, with the devil close behind him,’ says a third.
In a word, I am tricked. I wish to dispose of the donkey; no one,
however, will buy him; he is a Calo donkey, and every person avoids
him. At last the gypsies offer thirty rials for him; and after
much chaffering I am glad to get rid of him at two dollars. It
is all a trick, however; he returns to his master, and the brotherhood
share the spoil amongst them. All which villainy would be prevented,
in my opinion, were the Calo language not spoken; for what but the word
of Calo could have induced the donkey to behave in such an unaccountable
manner?”
Both seemed perfectly satisfied with the justness of this conclusion,
and continued smoking till their cigars were burnt to stumps, when they
arose, twitched their whiskers, looked at us with fierce disdain, and
dashing the tobacco-ends to the ground, strode out of the apartment.
“Those people seem no friends to the gypsies,” said I to
Antonio, when the two bullies had departed, “nor to the Calo language
either.”
“May evil glanders seize their nostrils,” said Antonio;
“they have been jonjabadoed by our people. However, brother,
you did wrong to speak to me in Calo, in a posada like this; it is a
forbidden language; for, as I have often told you, the king has destroyed
the law of the Calés. Let us away, brother, or those juntunes
(sneaking scoundrels) may set the justicia upon us.”
Towards evening we drew near to a large town or village. “That
is Merida,” said Antonio, “formerly, as the Busné
say, a mighty city of the Corahai. We shall stay here to-night,
and perhaps for a day or two, for I have some business of Egypt to transact
in this place. Now, brother, step aside with the horse, and wait
for me beneath yonder wall. I must go before and see in what condition
matters stand.”
I dismounted from the horse, and sat down on a stone beneath the ruined
wall to which Antonio had motioned me; the sun went down, and the air
was exceedingly keen; I drew close around me an old tattered gypsy cloak
with which my companion had provided me, and being somewhat fatigued,
fell into a doze which lasted for nearly an hour.
“Is your worship the London Caloro?” said a strange voice
close beside me.
I started and beheld the face of a woman peering under my hat.
Notwithstanding the dusk, I could see that the features were hideously
ugly and almost black; they belonged, in fact, to a gypsy crone, at
least seventy years of age, leaning upon a staff.
“Is your worship the London Caloro?” repeated she.
“I am he whom you seek,” said I; “where is Antonio?”
“Curelando, curelando, baribustres curelos terela,”
{1} said the
crone: “come with me, Caloro of my garlochin, come with me to
my little ker, he will be there anon.”
I followed the crone, who led the way into the town, which was ruinous
and seemingly half deserted; we went up the street, from which she turned
into a narrow and dark lane, and presently opened the gate of a large
dilapidated house; “Come in,” said she.
“And the gras?” I demanded.
“Bring the gras in too, my chabo, bring the gras in too; there
is room for the gras in my little stable.” We entered a
large court, across which we proceeded till we came to a wide doorway.
“Go in, my child of Egypt,” said the hag; “go in,
that is my little stable.”
“The place is as dark as pitch,” said I, “and may
be a well for what I know; bring a light or I will not enter.”
“Give me the solabarri (bridle),” said the hag, “and
I will lead your horse in, my chabo of Egypt, yes, and tether him to
my little manger.” She led the horse through the doorway,
and I heard her busy in the darkness; presently the horse shook himself:
“Grasti terelamos,” said the hag, who now made her
appearance with the bridle in her hand; “the horse has shaken
himself, he is not harmed by his day’s journey; now let us go
in, my Caloro, into my little room.”
We entered the house and found ourselves in a vast room, which would
have been quite dark but for a faint glow which appeared at the farther
end; it proceeded from a brasero, beside which were squatted two dusky
figures.
“These are Callees,” said the hag; “one is my daughter
and the other is her chabi; sit down, my London Caloro, and let us hear
you speak.”
I looked about for a chair, but could see none; at a short distance,
however, I perceived the end of a broken pillar lying on the floor;
this I rolled to the brasero and sat down upon it.
“This is a fine house, mother of the gypsies,” said I to
the hag, willing to gratify the desire she had expressed of hearing
me speak; “a fine house is this of yours, rather cold and damp,
though; it appears large enough to be a barrack for hundunares.”
“Plenty of houses in this foros, plenty of houses in Merida, my
London Caloro, some of them just as they were left by the Corahanoes;
ah, a fine people are the Corahanoes; I often wish myself in their chim
once more.”
“How is this, mother,” said I, “have you been in the
land of the Moors?”
“Twice have I been in their country, my Caloro, - twice have I
been in the land of the Corahai; the first time is more than fifty years
ago, I was then with the Sese (Spaniards), for my husband was
a soldier of the Crallis of Spain, and Oran at that time belonged to
Spain.”
“You were not then with the real Moors,” said I, “but
only with the Spaniards who occupied part of their country.”
“I have been with the real Moors, my London Caloro. Who
knows more of the real Moors than myself? About forty years ago
I was with my ro in Ceuta, for he was still a soldier of the king, and
he said to me one day, ‘I am tired of this place where there is
no bread and less water, I will escape and turn Corahano; this night
I will kill my sergeant and flee to the camp of the Moor.’
‘Do so,’ said I, ‘my chabo, and as soon as may be
I will follow you and become a Corahani.’ That same night
he killed his sergeant, who five years before had called him Calo and
cursed him, then running to the wall he dropped from it, and amidst
many shots he escaped to the land of the Corahai, as for myself, I remained
in the presidio of Ceuta as a suttler, selling wine and repani to the
soldiers. Two years passed by and I neither saw nor heard from
my ro; one day there came a strange man to my cachimani (wine-shop),
he was dressed like a Corahano, and yet he did not look like one,
he looked like more a callardo (black), and yet he was not a
callardo either, though he was almost black, and as I looked upon him
I thought he looked something like the Errate, and he said to me, ‘Zincali;
chachipé!’ and then he whispered to me in queer language,
which I could scarcely understand, ‘Your ro is waiting, come with
me, my little sister, and I will take you unto him.’ ‘Where
is he?’ said I, and he pointed to the west, to the land of the
Corahai, and said, ‘He is yonder away; come with me, little sister,
the ro is waiting.’ For a moment I was afraid, but I bethought
me of my husband and I wished to be amongst the Corahai; so I took the
little parné (money) I had, and locking up the cachimani
went with the strange man; the sentinel challenged us at the gate, but
I gave him repani (brandy) and he let us pass; in a moment we
were in the land of the Corahai. About a league from the town
beneath a hill we found four people, men and women, all very black like
the strange man, and we joined ourselves with them and they all saluted
me and called me little sister. That was all I understood of their
discourse, which was very crabbed; and they took away my dress and gave
me other clothes, and I looked like a Corahani, and away we marched
for many days amidst deserts and small villages, and more than once
it seemed to me that I was amongst the Errate, for their ways were the
same: the men would hokkawar (cheat) with mules and asses, and
the women told baji, and after many days we came before a large town,
and the black man said, ‘Go in there, little sister, and there
you will find your ro;’ and I went to the gate, and an armed Corahano
stood within the gate, and I looked in his face, and lo! it was my ro.
“O what a strange town it was that I found myself in, full of
people who had once been Candoré (Christians) but had
renegaded and become Corahai. There were Sese and Laloré
(Portuguese), and men of other nations, and amongst them were
some of the Errate from my own country; all were now soldiers of the
Crallis of the Corahai and followed him to his wars; and in that town
I remained with my ro a long time, occasionally going out with him to
the wars, and I often asked him about the black men who had brought
me thither, and he told me that he had had dealings with them, and that
he believed them to be of the Errate. Well, brother, to be short,
my ro was killed in the wars, before a town to which the king of the
Corahai laid siege, and I became a piuli (widow), and I returned
to the village of the renegades, as it was called, and supported myself
as well as I could; and one day as I was sitting weeping, the black
man, whom I had never seen since the day he brought me to my ro, again
stood before me, and he said, ‘Come with me, little sister, come
with me, the ro is at hand’; and I went with him, and beyond the
gate in the desert was the same party of black men and women which I
had seen before. ‘Where is my ro?’ said I. ‘Here
he is, little sister,’ said the black man, ‘here he is;
from this day I am the ro and you the romi; come, let us go, for there
is business to be done.’
“And I went with him, and he was my ro, and we lived amongst the
deserts, and hokkawar’d and choried and told baji; and I said
to myself, this is good, sure I am amongst the Errate in a better chim
than my own; and I often said that they were of the Errate, and then
they would laugh and say that it might be so, and that they were not
Corahai, but they could give no account of themselves.
“Well, things went on in this way for years, and I had three chai
by the black man, two of them died, but the youngest, who is the Calli
who sits by the brasero, was spared; so we roamed about and choried
and told baji; and it came to pass that once in the winter time our
company attempted to pass a wide and deep river, of which there are
many in the Chim del Corahai, and the boat overset with the rapidity
of the current and all our people were drowned, all but myself and my
chabi, whom I bore in my bosom. I had now no friends amongst the
Corahai, and I wandered about the despoblados howling and lamenting
till I became half lili (mad), and in this manner I found my
way to the coast, where I made friends with the captain of a ship and
returned to this land of Spain. And now I am here, I often wish
myself back again amongst the Corahai.”
Here she commenced laughing loud and long, and when she had ceased,
her daughter and grandchild took up the laugh, which they continued
so long that I concluded they were all lunatics.
Hour succeeded hour, and still we sat crouching over the brasero, from
which, by this time, all warmth had departed; the glow had long since
disappeared, and only a few dying sparks were to be distinguished.
The room or hall was now involved in utter darkness; the women were
motionless and still; I shivered and began to feel uneasy. “Will
Antonio be here to-night?” at length I demanded.
“No tenga usted cuidao, my London Caloro,” said the
Gypsy mother, in an unearthly tone; “Pepindorio {2}
has been here some time.”
I was about to rise from my seat and attempt to escape from the house,
when I felt a hand laid upon my shoulder, and in a moment I heard the
voice of Antonio.
“Be not afraid, ’tis I, brother; we will have a light anon,
and then supper.”
The supper was rude enough, consisting of bread, cheese, and olives.
Antonio, however, produced a leathern bottle of excellent wine; we despatched
these viands by the light of an earthen lamp which was placed upon the
floor.
“Now,” said Antonio to the youngest female, “bring
me the pajandi, and I will sing a gachapla.”
The girl brought the guitar, which, with some difficulty, the Gypsy
tuned, and then strumming it vigorously, he sang:
“I stole a plump and bonny fowl,
But ere I well had dined,
The master came with scowl and growl,
And me would captive bind.
“My hat and mantle off I threw,
And scour’d across the lea,
Then cried the beng {3}
with loud halloo,
Where does the Gypsy flee?”
He continued playing and singing for a considerable time, the two younger
females dancing in the meanwhile with unwearied diligence, whilst the
aged mother occasionally snapped her fingers or beat time on the ground
with her stick. At last Antonio suddenly laid down the instrument:-
“I see the London Caloro is weary; enough, enough, to-morrow more
thereof - we will now to the charipé (bed).”
“With all my heart,” said I; “where are we to sleep?”
“In the stable,” said he, “in the manger; however
cold the stable may be we shall be warm enough in the bufa.”
CHAPTER X
The Gypsy’s Granddaughter - Proposed Marriage - The Algnazil -
The Assault - Speedy Trot - Arrival at Trujillo - Night and Rain - The
Forest - The Bivouac - Mount and Away! - Jaraicejo - The National -
The Cavalier Balmerson - Among the Thicket - Serious Discourse - What
is Truth? - Unexpected Intelligence.
We remained three days at the Gypsies’ house, Antonio departing
early every morning, on his mule, and returning late at night.
The house was large and ruinous, the only habitable part of it, with
the exception of the stable, being the hall, where we had supped, and
there the Gypsy females slept at night, on some mats and mattresses
in a corner.
“A strange house is this,” said I to Antonio, one morning
as he was on the point of saddling his mule and departing, as I supposed,
on the affairs of Egypt; “a strange house and strange people;
that Gypsy grandmother has all the appearance of a sowanee (sorceress).”
“All the appearance of one!” said Antonio; “and is
she not really one? She knows more crabbed things and crabbed
words than all the Errate betwixt here and Catalonia. She has
been amongst the wild Moors, and can make more drows, poisons, and philtres
than any one alive. She once made a kind of paste, and persuaded
me to taste, and shortly after I had done so my soul departed from my
body, and wandered through horrid forests and mountains, amidst monsters
and duendes, during one entire night. She learned many things
amidst the Corahai which I should be glad to know.”
“Have you been long acquainted with her?” said I; “you
appear to be quite at home in this house.”
“Acquainted with her!” said Antonio. “Did not
my own brother marry the black Calli, her daughter, who bore him the
chabi, sixteen years ago, just before he was hanged by the Busné?”
In the afternoon I was seated with the Gypsy mother in the hall, the
two Callees were absent telling fortunes about the town and neighbourhood,
which was their principal occupation. “Are you married,
my London Caloro?” said the old woman to me. “Are
you a ro?”
Myself. - Wherefore do you ask, O Dai de los Cales?
Gypsy Mother. - It is high time that the lacha of the chabi were
taken from her, and that she had a ro. You can do no better than
take her for romi, my London Caloro.
Myself. - I am a stranger in this land, O mother of the Gypsies,
and scarcely know how to provide for myself, much less for a romi.
Gypsy Mother. - She wants no one to provide for her, my London
Caloro, she can at any time provide for herself and her ro. She
can hokkawar, tell baji, and there are few to equal her at stealing
a pastesas. Were she once at Madrilati, where they tell me you
are going, she would make much treasure; therefore take her thither,
for in this foros she is nahi (lost), as it were, for there is
nothing to be gained; but in the foros baro it would be another matter;
she would go dressed in lachipi and sonacai (silk and gold),
whilst you would ride about on your black-tailed gra; and when you had
got much treasure, you might return hither and live like a Crallis,
and all the Errate of the Chim del Manro should bow down their heads
to you. What, say you, my London Caloro, what say you to my plan?
Myself. - Your plan is a plausible one, mother, or at least some people
would think so; but I am, as you are aware, of another chim, and have
no inclination to pass my life in this country.
Gypsy Mother. - Then return to your own country, my Caloro, the
chabi can cross the pani. Would she not do business in London
with the rest of the Caloré? Or why not go to the land
of the Corahai? In which case I would accompany you; I and my
daughter, the mother of the chabi.
Myself. - And what should we do in the land of the Corahai?
It is a poor and wild country, I believe.
Gypsy Mother. - The London Caloro asks me what we could do in
the land of the Corahai! Aromali! I almost think that I
am speaking to a lilipendi (simpleton). Are there not horses
to chore? Yes, I trow there are, and better ones than in this
land, and asses and mules. In the land of the Corahai you must
hokkawar and chore even as you must here, or in your own country, or
else you are no Caloro. Can you not join yourselves with the black
people who live in the despoblados? Yes, surely; and glad they
would be to have among them the Errate from Spain and London.
I am seventy years of age, but I wish not to die in this chim, but yonder,
far away, where both my roms are sleeping. Take the chabi, therefore,
and go to Madrilati to win the parné, and when you have got it,
return, and we will give a banquet to all the Busné in Merida,
and in their food I will mix drow, and they shall eat and burst like
poisoned sheep. . . . And when they have eaten we will leave them, and
away to the land of the Moor, my London Caloro.
During the whole time that I remained at Merida I stirred not once from
the house; following the advice of Antonio, who informed me that it
would not be convenient. My time lay rather heavily on my hands,
my only source of amusement consisting in the conversation of the women,
and in that of Antonio when he made his appearance at night. In
these tertulias the grandmother was the principal spokeswoman, and astonished
my ears with wonderful tales of the Land of the Moors, prison escapes,
thievish feats, and one or two poisoning adventures, in which she had
been engaged, as she informed me, in her early youth.
There was occasionally something very wild in her gestures and demeanour;
more than once I observed her, in the midst of much declamation, to
stop short, stare in vacancy, and thrust out her palms as if endeavouring
to push away some invisible substance; she goggled frightfully with
her eyes, and once sank back in convulsions, of which her children took
no farther notice than observing that she was only lili, and would soon
come to herself.
Late in the afternoon of the third day, as the three women and myself
sat conversing as usual over the brasero, a shabby looking fellow in
an old rusty cloak walked into the room: he came straight up to the
place where we were sitting, produced a paper cigar, which he lighted
at a coal, and taking a whiff or two, looked at me: “Carracho,”
said he, “who is this companion?”
I saw at once that the fellow was no Gypsy: the women said nothing,
but I could hear the grandmother growling to herself, something after
the manner of an old grimalkin when disturbed.
“Carracho,” reiterated the fellow, “how came this
companion here?”
“No le penela chi min chaboro,” said the black Callee
to me, in an undertone; “sin un balicho de los chineles
{4};” then looking
up to the interrogator she said aloud, “he is one of our people
from Portugal, come on the smuggling lay, and to see his poor sisters
here.”
“Then let him give me some tobacco,” said the fellow, “I
suppose he has brought some with him.”
“He has no tobacco,” said the black Callee, “he has
nothing but old iron. This cigar is the only tobacco there is
in the house; take it, smoke it, and go away!”
Thereupon she produced a cigar from out her shoe, which she presented
to the alguazil.
“This will not do,” said the fellow, taking the cigar, “I
must have something better; it is now three months since I received
anything from you; the last present was a handkerchief, which was good
for nothing; therefore hand me over something worth taking, or I will
carry you all to the Carcel.”
“The Busno will take us to prison,” said the black Callee,
“ha! ha! ha!”
“The Chinel will take us to prison,” giggled the young girl
“he! he! he!”
“The Bengui will carry us all to the estaripel,” grunted
the Gypsy grandmother, “ho! ho! ho!”
The three females arose and walked slowly round the fellow, fixing their
eyes steadfastly on his face; he appeared frightened, and evidently
wished to get away. Suddenly the two youngest seized his hands,
and whilst he struggled to release himself, the old woman exclaimed:
“You want tobacco, hijo - you come to the Gypsy house to frighten
the Callees and the strange Caloro out of their plako - truly, hijo,
we have none for you, and right sorry I am; we have, however, plenty
of the dust a su servicio.”
Here, thrusting her hand into her pocket, she discharged a handful of
some kind of dust or snuff into the fellow’s eyes; he stamped
and roared, but was for some time held fast by the two Callees; he extricated
himself, however, and attempted to unsheath a knife which he bore at
his girdle; but the two younger females flung themselves upon him like
furies, while the old woman increased his disorder by thrusting her
stick into his face; he was soon glad to give up the contest, and retreated,
leaving behind him his hat and cloak, which the chabi gathered up and
flung after him into the street.
“This is a bad business,” said I, “the fellow will
of course bring the rest of the justicia upon us, and we shall all be
cast into the estaripel.”
“Ca!” said the black Callee, biting her thumb nail, “he
has more reason to fear us than we him, we could bring him to the filimicha;
we have, moreover, friends in this town, plenty, plenty.”
“Yes,” mumbled the grandmother, “the daughters of
the baji have friends, my London Caloro, friends among the Busnees,
baributre, baribu (plenty, plenty).”
Nothing farther of any account occurred in the Gypsy house; the next
day, Antonio and myself were again in the saddle, we travelled at least
thirteen leagues before we reached the Venta, where we passed the night;
we rose early in the morning, my guide informing me that we had a long
day’s journey to make. “Where are we bound to?”
I demanded. “To Trujillo,” he replied.
When the sun arose, which it did gloomily and amidst threatening rain-clouds,
we found ourselves in the neighbourhood of a range of mountains which
lay on our left, and which, Antonio informed me, were called the Sierra
of San Selvan; our route, however, lay over wide plains, scantily clothed
with brushwood, with here and there a melancholy village, with its old
and dilapidated church. Throughout the greater part of the day,
a drizzling rain was falling, which turned the dust of the roads into
mud and mire, considerably impeding our progress. Towards evening
we reached a moor, a wild place enough, strewn with enormous stones
and rocks. Before us, at some distance, rose a strange conical
hill, rough and shaggy, which appeared to be neither more nor less than
an immense assemblage of the same kind of rocks which lay upon the moor.
The rain had now ceased, but a strong wind rose and howled at our backs.
Throughout the journey, I had experienced considerable difficulty in
keeping up with the mule of Antonio; the walk of the horse was slow,
and I could discover no vestige of the spirit which the Gypsy had assured
me lurked within him. We were now upon a tolerably clear spot
of the moor: “I am about to see,” I said, “whether
this horse has any of the quality which you have described.”
“Do so,” said Antonio, and spurred his beast onward, speedily
leaving me far behind. I jerked the horse with the bit, endeavouring
to arouse his dormant spirit, whereupon he stopped, reared, and refused
to proceed. “Hold the bridle loose and touch him with your
whip,” shouted Antonio from before. I obeyed, and forthwith
the animal set off at a trot, which gradually increased in swiftness
till it became a downright furious speedy trot; his limbs were now thoroughly
lithy, and he brandished his fore legs in a manner perfectly wondrous;
the mule of Antonio, which was a spirited animal of excellent paces,
would fain have competed with him, but was passed in a twinkling.
This tremendous trot endured for about a mile, when the animal, becoming
yet more heated, broke suddenly into a gallop. Hurrah! no hare
ever ran so wildly or blindly; it was, literally, ventre a terre;
and I had considerable difficulty in keeping him clear of rocks,
against which he would have rushed in his savage fury, and dashed himself
and rider to atoms.
This race brought me to the foot of the hill, where I waited till the
Gypsy rejoined me: we left the hill, which seemed quite inaccessible,
on our right, passing through a small and wretched village. The
sun went down, and dark night presently came upon us; we proceeded on,
however, for nearly three hours, until we heard the barking of dogs,
and perceived a light or two in the distance. “That is Trujillo,”
said Antonio, who had not spoken for a long time. “I am
glad of it,” I replied; “I am thoroughly tired; I shall
sleep soundly in Trujillo.” “That is as it may be,”
said the Gypsy, and spurred his mule to a brisker pace. We soon
entered the town, which appeared dark and gloomy enough; I followed
close behind the Gypsy, who led the way I knew not whither, through
dismal streets and dark places, where cats were squalling. “Here
is the house,” said he at last, dismounting before a low mean
hut; he knocked, no answer was returned; - he knocked again, but still
there was no reply; he shook the door and essayed to open it, but it
appeared firmly locked and bolted. “Caramba!” said
he, “they are out - I feared it might be so. Now what are
we to do?”
“There can be no difficulty,” said I, “with respect
to what we have to do; if your friends are gone out, it is easy enough
to go to a posada.”
“You know not what you say,” replied the Gypsy, “I
dare not go to the mesuna, nor enter any house in Trujillo save this,
and this is shut; well, there is no remedy, we must move on, and, between
ourselves, the sooner we leave this place the better; my own planoro
(brother) was garroted at Trujillo.”
He lighted a cigar, by means of a steel and yesca, sprang on his mule,
and proceeded through streets and lanes equally dismal as those which
we had already traversed till we again found ourselves out of the, town.
I confess I did not much like this decision of the Gypsy; I felt very
slight inclination to leave the town behind and to venture into unknown
places in the dark night: amidst rain and mist, for the wind had now
dropped, and the rain began again to fall briskly. I was, moreover,
much fatigued, and wished for nothing better than to deposit myself
in some comfortable manger, where I might sink to sleep, lulled by the
pleasant sound of horses and mules despatching their provender.
I had, however, put myself under the direction of the Gypsy, and I was
too old a traveller to quarrel with my guide under the present circumstances.
I therefore followed close at his crupper; our only light being the
glow emitted from the Gypsy’s cigar; at last he flung it from
his mouth into a puddle, and we were then in darkness.
We proceeded in this manner for a long time; the Gypsy was silent; I
myself was equally so; the rain descended more and more. I sometimes
thought I heard doleful noises, something like the hooting of owls.
“This is a strange night to be wandering abroad in,” I at
length said to Antonio.
“It is, brother,” said he, “but I would sooner be
abroad in such a night, and in such places, than in the estaripel of
Trujillo.”
We wandered at least a league farther, and appeared now to be near a
wood, for I could occasionally distinguish the trunks of immense trees.
Suddenly Antonio stopped his mule; “Look, brother,” said
he, “to the left, and tell me if you do not see a light; your
eyes are sharper than mine.” I did as he commanded me.
At first I could see nothing, but moving a little farther on I plainly
saw a large light at some distance, seemingly amongst the trees.
“Yonder cannot be a lamp or candle,” said I; “it is
more like the blaze of a fire.” “Very likely,”
said Antonio. “There are no queres (houses) in this
place; it is doubtless a fire made by durotunes (shepherds);
let us go and join them, for, as you say, it is doleful work wandering
about at night amidst rain and mire.”
We dismounted and entered what I now saw was a forest, leading the animals
cautiously amongst the trees and brushwood. In about five minutes
we reached a small open space, at the farther side of which, at the
foot of a large cork tree, a fire was burning, and by it stood or sat
two or three figures; they had heard our approach, and one of them now
exclaimed Quien Vive? “I know that voice,” said Antonio,
and leaving the horse with me, rapidly advanced towards the fire: presently
I heard an Ola! and a laugh, and soon the voice of Antonio summoned
me to advance. On reaching the fire I found two dark lads, and
a still darker woman of about forty; the latter seated on what appeared
to be horse or mule furniture. I likewise saw a horse and two
donkeys tethered to the neighbouring trees. It was in fact a Gypsy
bivouac. . . . “Come forward, brother, and show yourself,”
said Antonio to me; “you are amongst friends; these are of the
Errate, the very people whom I expected to find at Trujillo, and in
whose house we should have slept.”
“And what,” said I, “could have induced them to leave
their house in Trujillo and come into this dark forest in the midst
of wind and rain, to pass the night?”
“They come on business of Egypt, brother, doubtless,” replied
Antonio; “and that business is none of ours, Calla boca!
It is lucky we have found them here, else we should have had no supper,
and our horses no corn.”
“My ro is prisoner at the village yonder,” said the woman,
pointing with her hand in a particular direction; “he is prisoner
yonder for choring a mailla (stealing a donkey); we are
come to see what we can do in his behalf; and where can we lodge better
than in this forest, where there is nothing to pay? It is not
the first time, I trow, that Caloré have slept at the root of
a tree.”
One of the striplings now gave us barley for our animals in a large
bag, into which we successively introduced their heads, allowing the
famished creatures to regale themselves till we conceived that they
had satisfied their hunger. There was a puchero simmering at the
fire, half full of bacon, garbanzos, and other provisions; this was
emptied into a large wooden platter, and out of this Antonio and myself
supped; the other Gypsies refused to join us, giving us to understand
that they had eaten before our arrival; they all, however, did justice
to the leathern bottle of Antonio, which, before his departure from
Merida, he had the precaution to fill.
I was by this time completely overcome with fatigue and sleep.
Antonio flung me an immense horse-cloth, of which he bore more than
one beneath the huge cushion on which he rode; in this I wrapped myself,
and placing my head upon a bundle, and my feet as near as possible to
the fire, I lay down.
Antonio and the other Gypsies remained seated by the fire conversing.
I listened for a moment to what they said, but I did not perfectly understand
it, and what I did understand by no means interested me: the rain still
drizzled, but I heeded it not, and was soon asleep.
The sun was just appearing as I awoke. I made several efforts
before I could rise from the ground; my limbs were quite stiff, and
my hair was covered with rime; for the rain had ceased and a rather
severe frost set in. I looked around me, but could see neither
Antonio nor the Gypsies; the animals of the latter had likewise disappeared,
so had the horse which I had hitherto rode; the mule, however, of Antonio
still remained fastened to the tree! this latter circumstance quieted
some apprehensions which were beginning to arise in my mind. “They
are gone on some business of Egypt,” I said to myself, “and
will return anon.” I gathered together the embers of the
fire, and heaping upon them sticks and branches, soon succeeded in calling
forth a blaze, beside which I placed the puchero, with what remained
of the provision of last night. I waited for a considerable time
in expectation of the return of my companions, but as they did not appear,
I sat down and breakfasted. Before I had well finished I heard
the noise of a horse approaching rapidly, and presently Antonio made
his appearance amongst the trees, with some agitation in his countenance.
He sprang from the horse, and instantly proceeded to untie the mule.
“Mount, brother, mount!” said he, pointing to the horse;
“I went with the Callee and her chabés to the village where
the ro is in trouble; the chinobaro, however, seized them at once with
their cattle, and would have laid hands also on me, but I set spurs
to the grasti, gave him the bridle, and was soon far away. Mount,
brother, mount, or we shall have the whole rustic canaille upon us in
a twinkling.”
I did as he commanded: we were presently in the road which we had left
the night before. Along this we hurried at a great rate, the horse
displaying his best speedy trot; whilst the mule, with its ears pricked
up, galloped gallantly at his side. “What place is that
on the hill yonder?” said I to Antonio, at the expiration of an
hour, as we prepared to descend a deep valley.
“That is Jaraicejo,” said Antonio; “a bad place it
is and a bad place it has ever been for the Calo people.”
“If it is such a bad place,” said I, “I hope we shall
not have to pass through it.”
“We must pass through it,” said Antonio, “for more
reasons than one: first, forasmuch is the road lies through Jaraicejo;
and second, forasmuch as it will be necessary to purchase provisions
there, both for ourselves and horses. On the other side of Jaraicejo
there is a wild desert, a despoblado, where we shall find nothing.”
We crossed the valley, and ascended the hill, and as we drew near to
the town the Gypsy said, “Brother, we had best pass through that
town singly. I will go in advance; follow slowly, and when there
purchase bread and barley; you have nothing to fear. I will await
you on the despoblado.”
Without waiting for my answer he hastened forward, and was speedily
out of sight.
I followed slowly behind, and entered the gate of the town; an old dilapidated
place, consisting of little more than one street. Along this street
I was advancing, when a man with a dirty foraging cap on his head, and
holding a gun in his hand, came running up to me: “Who are you?”
said he, in rather rough accents, “from whence do you come?”
“From Badajoz and Trujillo,” I replied; “why do you
ask?”
“I am one of the national guard,” said the man, “and
am placed here to inspect strangers; I am told that a Gypsy fellow just
now rode through the town; it is well for him that I had stepped into
my house. Do you come in his company?”
“Do I look a person,” said I, “likely to keep company
with Gypsies?”
The national measured me from top to toe, and then looked me full in
the face with an expression which seemed to say, “likely enough.”
In fact, my appearance was by no means calculated to prepossess people
in my favour. Upon my head I wore an old Andalusian hat, which,
from its condition, appeared to have been trodden under foot; a rusty
cloak, which had perhaps served half a dozen generations, enwrapped
my body. My nether garments were by no means of the finest description;
and as far as could be seen were covered with mud, with which my face
was likewise plentifully bespattered, and upon my chin was a beard of
a week’s growth.
“Have you a passport?” at length demanded the national.
I remembered having read that the best way to win a Spaniard’s
heart is to treat him with ceremonious civility. I therefore dismounted,
and taking off my hat, made a low bow to the constitutional soldier,
saying, “Señor nacional, you must know that I am an English
gentleman, travelling in this country for my pleasure; I bear a passport,
which, on inspecting, you will find to be perfectly regular; it was
given me by the great Lord Palmerston, minister of England, whom you
of course have heard of here; at the bottom you will see his own handwriting;
look at it and rejoice; perhaps you will never have another opportunity.
As I put unbounded confidence in the honour of every gentleman, I leave
the passport in your hands whilst I repair to the posada to refresh
myself. When you have inspected it, you will perhaps oblige me
so far as to bring it to me. Cavalier, I kiss your hands.”
I then made him another low bow, which he returned with one still lower,
and leaving him now staring at the passport and now looking at myself,
I went into a posada, to which I was directed by a beggar whom I met.
I fed the horse, and procured some bread and barley, as the Gypsy had
directed me; I likewise purchased three fine partridges of a fowler,
who was drinking wine in the posada. He was satisfied with the
price I gave him, and offered to treat me with a copita, to which I
made no objection. As we sat discoursing at the table, the national
entered with the passport in his hand, and sat down by us.
National. - Caballero! I return you your passport, it is
quite in form; I rejoice much to have made your acquaintance; I have
no doubt that you can give me some information respecting the present
war.
Myself. - I shall be very happy to afford so polite and honourable
a gentleman any information in my power.
National. - What is England doing, - is she about to afford any
assistance to this country? If she pleased she could put down
the war in three months.
Myself. - Be under no apprehension, Señor nacional; the
war will be put down, don’t doubt. You have heard of the
English legion, which my Lord Palmerston has sent over? Leave
the matter in their hands, and you will soon see the result.
National. - It appears to me that this Caballero Balmerson must
be a very honest man.
Myself. - There can be no doubt of it.
National. - I have heard that he is a great general.
Myself. - There can be no doubt of it. In some things neither
Napoleon nor the sawyer {5}
would stand a chance with him for a moment. Es mucho hombre.
National. - I am glad to hear it. Does he intend to head the
legion himself?
Myself. - I believe not; but he has sent over, to head the fighting
men, a friend of his, who is thought to be nearly as much versed in
military matters as himself.
National. - I am rejoiced to hear it. I see that the war
will soon be over. Caballero, I thank you for your politeness,
and for the information which you have afforded me. I hope you
will have a pleasant journey. I confess that I am surprised to
see a gentleman of your country travelling alone, and in this manner,
through such regions as these. The roads are at present very bad;
there have of late been many accidents, and more than two deaths in
this neighbourhood. The despoblado out yonder has a particularly
evil name; be on your guard, Caballero. I am sorry that Gypsy
was permitted to pass; should you meet him and not like his looks, shoot
him at once, stab him, or ride him down. He is a well known thief,
contrabandista, and murderer, and has committed more assassinations
than he has fingers on his hands. Caballero, if you please, we
will allow you a guard to the other side of the pass. You do not
wish it? Then, farewell. Stay, before I go I should wish
to see once more the signature of the Caballero Balmerson.
I showed him the signature, which he looked upon with profound reverence,
uncovering his head for a moment; we then embraced and parted.
I mounted the horse and rode from the town, at first proceeding very
slowly; I had no sooner, however, reached the moor, than I put the animal
to his speedy trot, and proceeded at a tremendous rate for some time,
expecting every moment to overtake the Gypsy. I, however, saw
nothing of him, nor did I meet with a single human being. The
road along which I sped was narrow and sandy, winding amidst thickets
of broom and brushwood, with which the despoblado was overgrown, and
which in some places were as high as a man’s head. Across
the moor, in the direction in which I was proceeding, rose a lofty eminence,
naked and bare. The moor extended for at least three leagues;
I had nearly crossed it, and reached the foot of the ascent. I
was becoming very uneasy, conceiving that I might have passed the Gypsy
amongst the thickets, when I suddenly heard his well known Ola! and
his black savage head and staring eyes suddenly appeared from amidst
a clump of broom.
“You have tarried long, brother,” said he; “I almost
thought you had played me false.”
He bade me dismount, and then proceeded to lead the horse behind the
thicket, where I found the route picqueted to the ground. I gave
him the barley and provisions, and then proceeded to relate to him my
adventure with the national.
“I would I had him here,” said the Gypsy, on hearing the
epithets which the former had lavished upon him. “I would
I had him here, then should my chulee and his carlo become better acquainted.”
“And what are you doing here yourself,” I demanded, “in
this wild place, amidst these thickets?”
“I am expecting a messenger down yon pass,” said the Gypsy;
“and till that messenger arrive I can neither go forward nor return.
It is on business of Egypt, brother, that I am here.”
As he invariably used this last expression when he wished to evade my
inquiries, I held my peace, and said no more; the animals were fed,
and we proceeded to make a frugal repast on bread and wine.
“Why do you not cook the game which I brought?” I demanded;
“in this place there is plenty of materials for a fire.”
“The smoke might discover us, brother,” said Antonio, “I
am desirous of lying escondido in this place until the arrival of the
messenger.”
It was now considerably past noon; the gypsy lay behind the thicket,
raising himself up occasionally and looking anxiously towards the hill
which lay over against us; at last, with an exclamation of disappointment
and impatience, he flung himself on the ground, where he lay a considerable
time, apparently ruminating; at last he lifted up his head and looked
me in the face.
Antonio. - Brother, I cannot imagine what business brought you
to this country.
Myself. - Perhaps the same which brings you to this moor - business
of Egypt.
Antonio. - Not so, brother; you speak the language of Egypt,
it is true, but your ways and words are neither those of the Cales nor
of the Busné.
Myself. - Did you not hear me speak in the foros about God and
Tebleque? It was to declare his glory to the Cales and Gentiles
that I came to the land of Spain.
Antonio. - And who sent you on this errand?
Myself. - You would scarcely understand me were I to inform you.
Know, however, that there are many in foreign lands who lament the darkness
which envelops Spain, and the scenes of cruelty, robbery, and murder
which deform it.
Antonio. - Are they Caloré or Busné?
Myself. - What matters it? Both Caloré and Busné
are sons of the same God.
Antonio. - You lie, brother, they are not of one father nor of
one Errate. You speak of robbery, cruelty, and murder. There
are too many Busné, brother; if there were no Busné there
would be neither robbery nor murder. The Caloré neither
rob nor murder each other, the Busno do; nor are they cruel to their
animals, their law forbids them. When I was a child I was beating
a burra, but my father stopped my hand, and chided me. “Hurt
not the animal,” said he; “for within it is the soul of
your own sister!”
Myself. - And do you believe in this wild doctrine, O Antonio?
Antonio. - Sometimes I do, sometimes I do not. There are
some who believe in nothing; not even that they live! Long since,
I knew an old Caloro, he was old, very old, upwards of a hundred years,
- and I once heard him say, that all we thought we saw was a lie; that
there was no world, no men nor women, no horses nor mules, no olive
trees. But whither are we straying? I asked what induced
you to come to this country - you tell me the glory of God and Tebleque.
Disparate! tell that to the Busné. You have good reasons
for coming, no doubt, else you would not be here. Some say you
are a spy of the Londoné, perhaps you are; I care not.
Rise, brother, and tell me whether any one is coming down the pass.”
“I see a distant object,” I replied; “like a speck
on the side of the hill.”
The Gypsy started up, and we both fixed our eyes on the object: the
distance was so great that it was at first with difficulty that we could
distinguish whether it moved or not. A quarter of an hour, however,
dispelled all doubts, for within this time it had nearly reached the
bottom of the hill, and we could descry a figure seated on an animal
of some kind.
“It is a woman,” said I, at length, “mounted on a
grey donkey.”
“Then it is my messenger,” said Antonio, “for it can
be no other.”
The woman and the donkey were now upon the plain, and for some time
were concealed from us by the copse and brushwood which intervened.
They were not long, however, in making their appearance at the distance
of about a hundred yards. The donkey was a beautiful creature
of a silver grey, and came frisking along, swinging her tail, and moving
her feet so quick that they scarcely seemed to touch the ground.
The animal no sooner perceived us than she stopped short, turned round,
and attempted to escape by the way she had come; her rider, however,
detained her, whereupon the donkey kicked violently, and would probably
have flung the former, had she not sprung nimbly to the ground.
The form of the woman was entirely concealed by the large wrapping man’s
cloak which she wore. I ran to assist her, when she turned her
face full upon me, and I instantly recognized the sharp clever features
of Antonia, whom I had seen at Badajoz, the daughter of my guide.
She said nothing to me, but advancing to her father, addressed something
to him in a low voice, which I did not hear. He started back,
and vociferated “All!” “Yes,” said she
in a louder tone, probably repeating the words which I had not caught
before, “All are captured.”
The Gypsy remained for some time like one astounded and, unwilling to
listen to their discourse, which I imagined might relate to business
of Egypt, I walked away amidst the thickets. I was absent for
some time, but could occasionally hear passionate expressions and oaths.
In about half an hour I returned; they had left the road, but I found
then behind the broom clump, where the animals stood. Both were
seated on the ground; the features of the Gypsy were peculiarly dark
and grim; he held his unsheathed knife in his hand, which he would occasionally
plunge into the earth, exclaiming, “All! All!”
“Brother,” said he at last, “I can go no farther with
you; the business which carried me to Castumba is settled; you must
now travel by yourself and trust to your baji (fortune).”
“I trust in Undevel,” I replied, “who wrote my fortune
long ago. But how am I to journey? I have no horse, for
you doubtless want your own.”
The Gypsy appeared to reflect: “I want the horse, it is true,
brother,” he said, “and likewise the macho; but you shall
not go en pindre (on foot); you shall purchase the burra of Antonia,
which I presented her when I sent her upon this expedition.”
“The burra,” I replied, “appears both savage and vicious.”
“She is both, brother, and on that account I bought her; a savage
and vicious beast has generally four excellent legs. You are a
Calo, brother, and can manage her; you shall therefore purchase the
savage burra, giving my daugher Antonia a baria of gold. If you
think fit, you can sell the beast at Talavera or Madrid, for Estremenian
bestis are highly considered in Castumba.”
In less than an hour I was on the other side of the pass, mounted on
the savage burra.
CHAPTER XI
The Pass of Mirabéte - Wolves and Shepherds - Female Subtlety
- Death by Wolves - The Mystery Solved - The Mountains - The Dark Hour
- The Traveller of the Night - Abarbenel - Hoarded Treasure - Force
of Gold - The Archbishop - Arrival at Madrid
I proceeded down the pass of Mirabéte, occasionally ruminating
on the matter which had brought me to Spain, and occasionally admiring
one of the finest prospects in the world; before me outstretched lay
immense plains, bounded in the distance by huge mountains, whilst at
the foot of the hill which I was now descending, rolled the Tagus, in
a deep narrow stream, between lofty banks; the whole was gilded by the
rays of the setting sun; for the day, though cold and wintry, was bright
and clear. In about an hour I reached the river at a place where
stood the remains of what had once been a magnificent bridge, which
had, however, been blown up in the Peninsular war and never since repaired.
I crossed the river in a ferry-boat; the passage was rather difficult,
the current very rapid and swollen, owing to the latter rains.
“Am I in New Castile?” I demanded of the ferryman, on reaching
the further bank. “The raya is many leagues from hence,”
replied the ferryman; “you seem a stranger. Whence do you
come?” “From England,” I replied, and without
waiting for an answer, I sprang on the burra, and proceeded on my way.
The burra plied her feet most nimbly, and, shortly after nightfall,
brought me to a village at about two leagues’ distance from the
river’s bank.
I sat down in the venta where I put up; there was a huge fire, consisting
of the greater part of the trunk of an olive tree; the company was rather
miscellaneous: a hunter with his escopeta; a brace of shepherds with
immense dogs, of that species for which Estremadura is celebrated; a
broken soldier, just returned from the wars; and a beggar, who, after
demanding charity for the seven wounds of Maria Santissima, took a seat
amidst us, and made himself quite comfortable. The hostess was
an active bustling woman, and busied herself in cooking my supper, which
consisted of the game which I had purchased at Jaraicejo, and which,
on my taking leave of the Gypsy, he had counselled me to take with me.
In the meantime, I sat by the fire listening to the conversation of
the company.
“I would I were a wolf,” said one of the shepherds; “or,
indeed, anything rather than what I am. A pretty life is this
of ours, out in the campo, among the carascales, suffering heat and
cold for a peseta a day. I would I were a wolf; he fares better
and is more respected than the wretch of a shepherd.”
“But he frequently fares scurvily,” said I; “the shepherd
and dogs fall upon him, and then he pays for his temerity with the loss
of his head.”
“That is not often the case, señor traveller,” said
the shepherd; “he watches his opportunity, and seldom runs into
harm’s way. And as to attacking him, it is no very pleasant
task; he has both teeth and claws, and dog or man, who has once felt
them, likes not to venture a second time within his reach. These
dogs of mine will seize a bear singly with considerable alacrity, though
he is a most powerful animal, but I have seen them run howling away
from a wolf, even though there were two or three of us at hand to encourage
them.”
“A dangerous person is the wolf,” said the other shepherd,
“and cunning as dangerous; who knows more than he? He knows
the vulnerable point of every animal; see, for example, how he flies
at the neck of a bullock, tearing open the veins with his grim teeth
and claws. But does he attack a horse in this manner? I
trow not.”
“Not he,” said the other shepherd, “he is too good
a judge; but he fastens on the haunches, and hamstrings him in a moment.
O the fear of the horse when he comes near the dwelling of the wolf.
My master was the other day riding in the despoblado, above the pass,
on his fine Andalusian steed, which had cost him five hundred dollars;
suddenly the horse stopped, and sweated and trembled like a woman in
the act of fainting; my master could not conceive the reason, but presently
he heard a squealing and growling in the bushes, whereupon he fired
off his gun and scared the wolves, who scampered away; but he tells
me, that the horse has not yet recovered from his fright.”
“Yet the mares know, occasionally, how to balk him,” replied
his companion; “there is great craft and malice in mares, as there
is in all females; see them feeding in the campo with their young cria
about them; presently the alarm is given that the wolf is drawing near;
they start wildly and run about for a moment, but it is only for a moment
- amain they gather together, forming themselves into a circle, in the
centre of which they place the foals. Onward comes the wolf, hoping
to make his dinner on horse-flesh; he is mistaken, however, the mares
have balked him, and are as cunning as himself: not a tail is to be
seen - not a hinder quarter - but there stands the whole troop, their
fronts towards him ready to receive him, and as he runs around them
barking and howling, they rise successively on their hind legs, ready
to stamp him to the earth, should he attempt to hurt their cria or themselves.”
“Worse than the he-wolf,” said the soldier, “is the
female, for as the señor pastor has well observed, there is more
malice in women than in males: to see one of these she-demons with a
troop of the males at her heels is truly surprising: where she turns,
they turn, and what she does that do they; for they appear bewitched,
and have no power but to imitate her actions. I was once travelling
with a comrade over the hills of Galicia, when we heard a howl.
‘Those are wolves,’ said my companion, ‘let us get
out of the way;’ so we stepped from the path and ascended the
side of the hill a little way, to a terrace, where grew vines, after
the manner of Galicia: presently appeared a large grey she-wolf, deshonesta,
snapping and growling at a troop of demons, who followed close behind,
their tails uplifted, and their eyes like fire-brands. What do
you think the perverse brute did? Instead of keeping to the path,
she turned in the very direction in which we were; there was now no
remedy, so we stood still. I was the first upon the terrace, and
by me she passed so close that I felt her hair brush against my legs;
she, however, took no notice of me, but pushed on, neither looking to
the right nor left, and all the other wolves trotted by me without offering
the slightest injury or even so much as looking at me. Would that
I could say as much for my poor companion, who stood farther on, and
was, I believe, less in the demon’s way than I was; she had nearly
passed him, when suddenly she turned half round and snapped at him.
I shall never forget what followed: in a moment a dozen wolves were
upon him, tearing him limb from limb, with howlings like nothing in
this world; in a few moments he was devoured; nothing remained but a
skull and a few bones; and then they passed on in the same manner as
they came. Good reason had I to be grateful that my lady wolf
took less notice of me than my poor comrade.”
Listening to this and similar conversation, I fell into a doze before
the fire, in which I continued for a considerable time, but was at length
aroused by a voice exclaiming in a loud tone, “All are captured!”
These were the exact words which, when spoken by his daughter, confounded
the Gypsy upon the moor. I looked around me, the company consisted
of the same individuals to whose conversation I had been listening before
I sank into slumber; but the beggar was now the spokesman, and he was
haranguing with considerable vehemence.
“I beg your pardon, Caballero,” said I, “but I did
not hear the commencement of your discourse. Who are those who
have been captured?”
“A band of accursed Gitanos, Caballero,” replied the beggar,
returning the title of courtesy, which I had bestowed upon him.
“During more than a fortnight they have infested the roads on
the frontier of Castile, and many have been the gentleman travellers
like yourself whom they have robbed and murdered. It would seem
that the Gypsy canaille must needs take advantage of these troublous
times, and form themselves into a faction. It is said that the
fellows of whom I am speaking expected many more of their brethren to
join them, which is likely enough, for all Gypsies are thieves: but
praised be God, they have been put down before they became too formidable.
I saw them myself conveyed to the prison at -. Thanks be to God.
Todos estan presos.”
“The mystery is now solved,” said I to myself, and proceeded
to despatch my supper, which was now ready.
The next day’s journey brought me to a considerable town, the
name of which I have forgotten. It is the first in New Castile,
in this direction. I passed the night as usual in the manger of
the stable, close beside the Caballeria; for, as I travelled upon a
donkey, I deemed it incumbent upon me to be satisfied with a couch in
keeping with my manner of journeying, being averse, by any squeamish
and over delicate airs, to generate a suspicion amongst the people with
whom I mingled that I was aught higher than what my equipage and outward
appearance might lead them to believe. Rising before daylight,
I again proceeded on my way, hoping ere night to be able to reach Talavera,
which I was informed was ten leagues distant. The way lay entirely
over an unbroken level, for the most part covered with olive trees.
On the left, however, at the distance of a few leagues, rose the mighty
mountains which I have already mentioned. They run eastward in
a seemingly interminable range, parallel with the route which I was
pursuing; their tops and sides were covered with dazzling snow, and
the blasts which came sweeping from them across the wide and melancholy
plains were of bitter keenness.
“What mountains are those?” I inquired of a barber-surgeon,
who, mounted like myself on a grey burra, joined me about noon, and
proceeded in my company for several leagues. “They have
many names, Caballero,” replied the barber; “according to
the names of the neighbouring places so they are called. Yon portion
of them is styled the Serrania of Plasencia; and opposite to Madrid
they are termed the Mountains of Guadarama, from a river of that name,
which descends from them; they run a vast way, Caballero, and separate
the two kingdoms, for on the other side is Old Castile. They are
mighty mountains, and though they generate much cold, I take pleasure
in looking at them, which is not to be wondered at, seeing that I was
born amongst them, though at present, for my sins, I live in a village
of the plain. Caballero, there is not another such range in Spain;
they have their secrets too - their mysteries - strange tales are told
of those hills, and of what they contain in their deep recesses, for
they are a broad chain, and you may wander days and days amongst them
without coming to any termino. Many have lost themselves on those
hills, and have never again been heard of. Strange things are
told of them: it is said that in certain places there are deep pools
and lakes, in which dwell monsters, huge serpents as long as a pine
tree, and horses of the flood, which sometimes come out and commit mighty
damage. One thing is certain, that yonder, far away to the west,
in the heart of those hills, there is a wonderful valley, so narrow
that only at midday is the face of the sun to be descried from it.
That valley lay undiscovered and unknown for thousands of years; no
person dreamed of its existence, but at last, a long time ago, certain
hunters entered it by chance, and then what do you think they found,
Caballero? They found a small nation or tribe of unknown people,
speaking an unknown language, who, perhaps, had lived there since the
creation of the world, without intercourse with the rest of their fellow
creatures, and without knowing that other beings besides themselves
existed! Caballero, did you never hear of the valley of the Batuecas?
Many books have been written about that valley and those people.
Caballero, I am proud of yonder hills; and were I independent, and without
wife or children, I would purchase a burra like that of your own, which
I see is an excellent one, and far superior to mine, and travel amongst
them till I knew all their mysteries, and had seen all the wondrous
things which they contain.”
Throughout the day I pressed the burra forward, only stopping once in
order to feed the animal; but, notwithstanding that she played her part
very well, night came on, and I was still about two leagues from Talavera.
As the sun went down, the cold became intense; I drew the old Gypsy
cloak, which I still wore, closer around me, but I found it quite inadequate
to protect me from the inclemency of the atmosphere. The road,
which lay over a plain, was not very distinctly traced, and became in
the dusk rather difficult to find, more especially as cross roads leading
to different places were of frequent occurrence. I, however, proceeded
in the best manner I could, and when I became dubious as to the course
which I should take, I invariably allowed the animal on which I was
mounted to decide. At length the moon shone out faintly, when
suddenly by its beams I beheld a figure moving before me at a slight
distance. I quickened the pace of the burra, and was soon close
at its side. It went on, neither altering its pace nor looking
round for a moment. It was the figure of a man, the tallest and
bulkiest that I had hitherto seen in Spain, dressed in a manner strange
and singular for the country. On his head was a hat with a low
crown and broad brim, very much resembling that of an English waggoner;
about his body was a long loose tunic or slop, seemingly of coarse ticken,
open in front, so as to allow the interior garments to be occasionally
seen; these appeared to consist of a jerkin and short velveteen pantaloons.
I have said that the brim of the hat was broad, but broad as it was,
it was insufficient to cover an immense bush of coal-black hair, which,
thick and curly, projected on either side; over the left shoulder was
flung a kind of satchel, and in the right hand was held a long staff
or pole.
There was something peculiarly strange about the figure, but what struck
me the most was the tranquillity with which it moved along, taking no
heed of me, though of course aware of my proximity, but looking straight
forward along the road, save when it occasionally raised a huge face
and large eyes towards the moon, which was now shining forth in the
eastern quarter.
“A cold night,” said I at last. “Is this the
way to Talavera?”
“It is the way to Talavera, and the night is cold.”
“I am going to Talavera,” said I, “as I suppose you
are yourself.”
“I am going thither, so are you, Bueno.”
The tones of the voice which delivered these words were in their way
quite as strange and singular as the figure to which the voice belonged;
they were not exactly the tones of a Spanish voice, and yet there was
something in them that could hardly be foreign; the pronunciation also
was correct; and the language, though singular, faultless. But
I was most struck with the manner in which the last word, bueno,
was spoken. I had heard something like it before, but where
or when I could by no means remember. A pause now ensued; the
figure stalking on as before with the most perfect indifference, and
seemingly with no disposition either to seek or avoid conversation.
“Are you not afraid,” said I at last, “to travel these
roads in the dark? It is said that there are robbers abroad.”
“Are you not rather afraid,” replied the figure, “to
travel these roads in the dark? - you who are ignorant of the country,
who are a foreigner, an Englishman!”
“How is it that you know me to be an Englishman?” demanded
I, much surprised.
“That is no difficult matter,” replied the figure; “the
sound of your voice was enough to tell me that.”
“You speak of voices,” said I; “suppose the tone of
your own voice were to tell me who you are?”
“That it will not do,” replied my companion; “you
know nothing about me - you can know nothing about me.”
“Be not sure of that, my friend; I am acquainted with many things
of which you have little idea.”
“Por exemplo,” said the figure.
“For example,” said I; “you speak two languages.”
The figure moved on, seemed to consider a moment, and then said slowly
bueno.
“You have two names,” I continued; “one for the house
and the other for the street; both are good, but the one by which you
are called at home is the one which you like best.”
The man walked on about ten paces, in the same manner as he had previously
done; all of a sudden he turned, and taking the bridle of the burra
gently in his hand, stopped her. I had now a full view of his
face and figure, and those huge features and Herculean form still occasionally
revisit me in my dreams. I see him standing in the moonshine,
staring me in the face with his deep calm eyes. At last he said:
“Are you then one of us?”
* * * *
It was late at night when we arrived at Talavera. We went to a
large gloomy house, which my companion informed me was the principal
posada of the town. We entered the kitchen, at the extremity of
which a large fire was blazing. “Pepita,” said my
companion to a handsome girl, who advanced smiling towards us; “a
brasero and a private apartment; this cavalier is a friend of mine,
and we shall sup together.” We were shown to an apartment
in which were two alcoves containing beds. After supper, which
consisted of the very best, by the order of my companion, we sat over
the brasero and commenced talking.
Myself. - Of course you have conversed with Englishmen before,
else you could not have recognized me by the tone of my voice.
Abarbenel. - I was a young lad when the war of the Independence
broke out, and there came to the village in which our family lived an
English officer in order to teach discipline to the new levies.
He was quartered in my father’s house, where he conceived a great
affection for me. On his departure, with the consent of my father,
I attended him through the Castiles, partly as companion, partly as
domestic. I was with him nearly a year, when he was suddenly summoned
to return to his own country. He would fain have taken me with
him, but to that my father would by no means consent. It is now
five-and-twenty years since I last saw an Englishman; but you have seen
how I recognized you even in the dark night.
Myself. - And what kind of life do you pursue, and by what means
do you obtain support?
Abarbenel. - I experience no difficulty. I live much in
the same way as I believe my forefathers lived; certainly as my father
did, for his course has been mine. At his death I took possession
of the herencia, for I was his only child. It was not requisite
that I should follow any business, for my wealth was great; yet, to
avoid remark, I followed that of my father, who was a longanizero.
I have occasionally dealt in wool: but lazily, lazily - as I had no
stimulus for exertion. I was, however, successful in many instances,
strangely so; much more than many others who toiled day and night, and
whose whole soul was in the trade.
Myself. - Have you any children? Are you married?
Abarbenel. - I have no children though I am married. I
have a wife and an amiga, or I should rather say two wives, for I am
wedded to both. I however call one my amiga, for appearance sake,
for I wish to live in quiet, and am unwilling to offend the prejudices
of the surrounding people.
Myself. - You say you are wealthy. In what does your wealth
consist?
Abarbenel. - In gold and silver, and stones of price; for I have
inherited all the hoards of my forefathers. The greater part is
buried under ground; indeed, I have never examined the tenth part of
it. I have coins of silver and gold older than the times of Ferdinand
the Accursed and Jezebel; I have also large sums employed in usury.
We keep ourselves close, however, and pretend to be poor, miserably
so; but on certain occasions, at our festivals, when our gates are barred,
and our savage dogs are let loose in the court, we eat our food off
services such as the Queen of Spain cannot boast of, and wash our feet
in ewers of silver, fashioned and wrought before the Americas were discovered,
though our garments are at all times coarse, and our food for the most
part of the plainest description.
Myself. - Are there more of you than yourself and your two wives?
Abarbenel. - There are my two servants, who are likewise of us;
the one is a youth, and is about to leave, being betrothed to one at
some distance; the other is old; he is now upon the road, following
me with a mule and car.
Myself. - And whither are you bound at present?
Abarbenel. - To Toledo, where I ply my trade occasionally of
longanizero. I love to wander about, though I seldom stray far
from home. Since I left the Englishman my feet have never once
stepped beyond the bounds of New Castile. I love to visit Toledo,
and to think of the times which have long since departed; I should establish
myself there, were there not so many accursed ones, who look upon me
with an evil eye.
Myself. - Are you known for what you are? Do the authorities
molest you?
Abarbenel. - People of course suspect me to be what I am; but
as I conform outwardly in most respects to their ways, they do not interfere
with me. True it is that sometimes, when I enter the church to
hear the mass, they glare at me over the left shoulder, as much as to
say - “What do you here?” And sometimes they cross
themselves as I pass by; but as they go no further, I do not trouble
myself on that account. With respect to the authorities, they
are not bad friends of mine. Many of the higher class have borrowed
money from me on usury, so that I have them to a certain extent in my
power, and as for the low alguazils and corchetes, they would do any
thing to oblige me in consideration of a few dollars, which I occasionally
give them; so that matters upon the whole go on remarkably well.
Of old, indeed, it was far otherwise; yet, I know not how it was, though
other families suffered much, ours always enjoyed a tolerable share
of tranquillity. The truth is, that our family has always known
how to guide itself wonderfully. I may say there is much of the
wisdom of the snake amongst us. We have always possessed friends;
and with respect to enemies, it is by no means safe to meddle with us;
for it is a rule of our house never to forgive an injury, and to spare
neither trouble nor expense in bringing ruin and destruction upon the
heads of our evil doers.
Myself. - Do the priests interfere with you?
Abarbenel. - They let me alone, especially in our own neighbourhood.
Shortly after the death of my father, one hot-headed individual endeavoured
to do me an evil turn, but I soon requited him, causing him to be imprisoned
on a charge of blasphemy, and in prison he remained a long time, till
he went mad and died.
Myself. - Have you a head in Spain, in whom is rested the chief
authority?
Abarbenel. - Not exactly. There are, however, certain holy
families who enjoy much consideration; my own is one of these - the
chiefest, I may say. My grandsire was a particularly holy man;
and I have heard my father say, that one night an archbishop came to
his house secretly, merely to have the satisfaction of kissing his head.
Myself. - How can that be; what reverence could an archbishop
entertain for one like yourself or your grandsire?
Abarbenel. - More than you imagine. He was one of us, at
least his father was, and he could never forget what he had learned
with reverence in his infancy. He said he had tried to forget
it, but he could not; that the ruah was continually upon him,
and that even from his childhood he had borne its terrors with a troubled
mind, till at last he could bear himself no longer; so he went to my
grandsire, with whom he remained one whole night; he then returned to
his diocese, where he shortly afterwards died, in much renown for sanctity.
Myself. - What you say surprises me. Have you reason to
suppose that many of you are to be found amongst the priesthood?
Abarbenel. - Not to suppose, but to know it. There are
many such as I amongst the priesthood, and not amongst the inferior
priesthood either; some of the most learned and famed of them in Spain
have been of us, or of our blood at least, and many of them at this
day think as I do. There is one particular festival of the year
at which four dignified ecclesiastics are sure to visit me; and then,
when all is made close and secure, and the fitting ceremonies have been
gone through, they sit down upon the floor and curse.
Myself. - Are you numerous in the large towns?
Abarbenel. - By no means; our places of abode are seldom the
large towns; we prefer the villages, and rarely enter the large towns
but on business. Indeed we are not a numerous people, and there
are few provinces of Spain which contain more than twenty families.
None of us are poor, and those among us who serve, do so more from choice
than necessity, for by serving each other we acquire different trades.
Not unfrequently the time of service is that of courtship also, and
the servants eventually marry the daughters of the house.
We continued in discourse the greater part of the night; the next morning
I prepared to depart. My companion, however, advised me to remain
where I was for that day. “And if you respect my counsel,”
said he, “you will not proceed farther in this manner. To-night
the diligence will arrive from Estremadura, on its way to Madrid.
Deposit yourself therein; it is the safest and most speedy mode of travelling.
As for your animal, I will myself purchase her. My servant is
here, and has informed me that she will be of service to us. Let
us, therefore, pass the day together in communion, like brothers, and
then proceed on our separate journeys.” We did pass the
day together; and when the diligence arrived I deposited myself within,
and on the morning of the second day arrived at Madrid.
CHAPTER XII
Lodging at Madrid - My Hostess - British Ambassador - Mendizabal - Baltasar
- Duties of a National - Young Blood - The Execution - Population of
Madrid - The Higher Orders - The Lower Classes - The Bull-fighter -
The Crabbed Gitáno.
It was the commencement of February when I reached Madrid. After
staying a few days at a posada, I removed to a lodging which I engaged
at No. 3, in the Calle de la Zarza, a dark dirty street, which, however,
was close to the Puerta del Sol, the most central point of Madrid, into
which four or five of the principal streets debouche, and which is,
at all times of the year, the great place of assemblage for the idlers
of the capital, poor or rich.
It was rather a singular house in which I had taken up my abode.
I occupied the front part of the first floor; my apartments consisted
of an immense parlour, and a small chamber on one side in which I slept;
the parlour, notwithstanding its size, contained very little furniture:
a few chairs, a table, and a species of sofa, constituted the whole.
It was very cold and airy, owing to the draughts which poured in from
three large windows, and from sundry doors. The mistress of the
house, attended by her two daughters, ushered me in. “Did
you ever see a more magnificent apartment?” demanded the former;
“is it not fit for a king’s son? Last winter it was
occupied by the great General Espartero.”
The hostess was an exceedingly fat woman, a native of Valladolid, in
Old Castile. “Have you any other family,” I demanded,
“besides these daughters?” “Two sons,”
she replied; “one of them an officer in the army, father of this
urchin,” pointing to a wicked but clever looking boy of about
twelve, who at that moment bounded into the room; “the other is
the most celebrated national in Madrid: he is a tailor by trade, and
his name is Baltasar. He has much influence with the other nationals,
on account of the liberality of his opinions, and a word from him is
sufficient to bring them all out armed and furious to the Puerta del
Sol. He is, however, at present confined to his bed, for he is
very dissipated and fond of the company of bull-fighters and people
still worse.”
As my principal motive for visiting the Spanish capital was the hope
of obtaining permission from the government to print the New Testament
in the Castilian language, for circulation in Spain, I lost no time,
upon my arrival, in taking what I considered to be the necessary steps.
I was an entire stranger at Madrid, and bore no letters of introduction
to any persons of influence, who might have assisted me in this undertaking,
so that, notwithstanding I entertained a hope of success, relying on
the assistance of the Almighty, this hope was not at all times very
vivid, but was frequently overcast with the clouds of despondency.
Mendizabal was at this time prime minister of Spain, and was considered
as a man of almost unbounded power, in whose hands were placed the destinies
of the country. I therefore considered that if I could by any
means induce him to favour my views, I should have no reason to fear
interruption from other quarters, and I determined upon applying to
him.
Before talking this step, however, I deemed it advisable to wait upon
Mr. Villiers, the British ambassador at Madrid; and with the freedom
permitted to a British subject, to ask his advice in this affair.
I was received with great kindness, and enjoyed a conversation with
him on various subjects before I introduced the matter which I had most
at heart. He said that if I wished for an interview with Mendizabal,
he would endeavour to procure me one, but, at the same time, told me
frankly that he could not hope that any good would arise from it, as
he knew him to be violently prejudiced against the British and Foreign
Bible Society, and was far more likely to discountenance than encourage
any efforts which they might be disposed to make for introducing the
Gospel into Spain. I, however, remained resolute in my desire
to make the trial, and before I left him, obtained a letter of introduction
to Mendizabal.
Early one morning I repaired to the palace, in a wing of which was the
office of the Prime Minister; it was bitterly cold, and the Guadarama,
of which there is a noble view from the palace-plain, was covered with
snow. For at least three hours I remained shivering with cold
in an ante-room, with several other aspirants for an interview with
the man of power. At last his private secretary made his appearance,
and after putting various questions to the others, addressed himself
to me, asking who I was and what I wanted. I told him that I was
an Englishman, and the bearer of a letter from the British Minister.
“If you have no objection, I will myself deliver it to His Excellency,”
said he; whereupon I handed it to him and he withdrew. Several
individuals were admitted before me; at last, however, my own turn came,
and I was ushered into the presence of Mendizabal.
He stood behind a table covered with papers, on which his eyes were
intently fixed. He took not the slightest notice when I entered,
and I had leisure enough to survey him: he was a huge athletic man,
somewhat taller than myself, who measure six feet two without my shoes;
his complexion was florid, his features fine and regular, his nose quite
aquiline, and his teeth splendidly white: though scarcely fifty years
of age, his hair was remarkably grey; he was dressed in a rich morning
gown, with a gold chain round his neck, and morocco slippers on his
feet.
His secretary, a fine intellectual looking man, who, as I was subsequently
informed, had acquired a name both in English and Spanish literature,
stood at one end of the table with papers in his hands.
After I had been standing about a quarter of an hour, Mendizabal suddenly
lifted up a pair of sharp eyes, and fixed them upon me with a peculiarly
scrutinizing glance.
“I have seen a glance very similar to that amongst the Beni Israel,”
thought I to myself. . . .
My interview with him lasted nearly an hour. Some singular discourse
passed between us: I found him, as I had been informed, a bitter enemy
to the Bible Society, of which he spoke in terms of hatred and contempt,
and by no means a friend to the Christian religion, which I could easily
account for. I was not discouraged, however, and pressed upon
him the matter which brought me thither, and was eventually so far successful,
as to obtain a promise, that at the expiration of a few months, when
he hoped the country would be in a more tranquil state, I should be
allowed to print the Scriptures.
As I was going away he said, “Yours is not the first application
I have had; ever since I have held the reins of government I have been
pestered in this manner, by English calling themselves Evangelical Christians,
who have of late come flocking over into Spain. Only last week
a hunchbacked fellow found his way into my cabinet whilst I was engaged
in important business, and told me that Christ was coming. . . . And
now you have made your appearance, and almost persuaded me to embroil
myself yet more with the priesthood, as if they did not abhor me enough
already. What a strange infatuation is this which drives you over
lands and waters with Bibles in your hands. My good sir, it is
not Bibles we want, but rather guns and gunpowder, to put the rebels
down with, and above all, money, that we may pay the troops; whenever
you come with these three things you shall have a hearty welcome, if
not, we really can dispense with your visits, however great the honour.”
Myself. - There will be no end to the troubles of this afflicted
country until the gospel have free circulation.
Mendizabal. - I expected that answer, for I have not lived thirteen
years in England without forming some acquaintance with the phraseology
of you good folks. Now, now, pray go; you see how engaged I am.
Come again whenever you please, but let it not be within the next three
months.
“Don Jorge,” said my hostess, coming into my apartment one
morning, whilst I sat at breakfast with my feet upon the brasero, “here
is my son Baltasarito, the national; he has risen from his bed, and
hearing that there is an Englishman in the house, he has begged me to
introduce him, for he loves Englishmen on account of the liberality
of their opinions; there he is, what do you think of him?”
I did not state to his mother what I thought; it appeared to me, however,
that she was quite right calling him Baltasarito, which is the diminutive
of Baltasar, forasmuch as that ancient and sonorous name had certainly
never been bestowed on a more diminutive personage: he might measure
about five feet one inch, though he was rather corpulent for his height;
his face looked yellow and sickly, he had, however, a kind of fanfaronading
air, and his eyes, which were of dark brown, were both sharp and brilliant.
His dress, or rather his undress, was somewhat shabby: he had a foraging
cap on his head, and in lieu of a morning gown, he wore a sentinel’s
old great coat.
“I am glad to make your acquaintance, señor nacional,”
said I to him, after his mother had departed, and Baltasar had taken
his seat, and of course lighted a paper cigar at the brasero.
“I am glad to have made your acquaintance, more especially as
your lady mother has informed me that you have great influence with
the nationals. I am a stranger in Spain, and may want a friend;
fortune has been kind to me in procuring me one who is a member of so
powerful a body.”
Baltasar. - Yes, I have a great deal to say with the other nationals;
there is none in Madrid better known than Baltasar, or more dreaded
by the Carlists. You say you may stand in need of a friend; there
is no fear of my failing you in any emergency. Both myself and
any of the other nationals will be proud to go out with you as padrinos,
should you have any affair of honour on your hands. But why do
you not become one of us? We would gladly receive you into our
body.
Myself. - Is the duty of a national particularly hard?
Baltasar. - By no means; we have to do duty about once every
fifteen days, and then there is occasionally a review, which does not
last long. No! the duties of a national are by no means onerous,
and the privileges are great. I have seen three of my brother
nationals walk up and down the Prado of a Sunday, with sticks in their
hands, cudgelling all the suspicious characters, and it is our common
practice to scour the streets at night, and then if we meet any person
who is obnoxious to us, we fall upon him, and with a knife or a bayonet
generally leave him wallowing in his blood on the pavement: no one but
a national would be permitted to do that.
Myself. - Of course none but persons of liberal opinions are
to be found amongst the nationals?
Baltasar. - Would it were so! There are some amongst us,
Don Jorge, who are no better than they should be; they are few, however,
and for the most part well known. Theirs is no pleasant life,
for when they mount guard with the rest they are scouted, and not unfrequently
cudgelled. The law compels all of a certain age either to serve
in the army or to become national soldiers on which account some of
these Godos are to be found amongst us.
Myself. - Are there many in Madrid of the Carlist opinion?
Baltasar. - Not among the young people; the greater part of the
Madrilenian Carlists capable of bearing arms departed long ago to join
the ranks of the factious in the Basque provinces. Those who remain
are for the most part grey-beards and priests, good for nothing but
to assemble in private coffee-houses, and to prate treason together.
Let them prate, Don Jorge; let them prate; the destinies of Spain do
not depend on the wishes of ojalateros and pasteleros, but on the hands
of stout gallant nationals like myself and friends, Don Jorge.
Myself. - I am sorry to learn from your lady mother, that you
are strangely dissipated.
Baltasar. - Ho, ho, Don Jorge, she has told you that, has she;
what would you have, Don Jorge? I am young, and young blood will
have its course. I am called Baltasar the gay by all the other
nationals, and it is on account of my gaiety and the liberality of my
opinions that I am so popular among them. When I mount guard I
invariably carry my guitar with me, and then there is sure to be a function
at the guard-house. We send for wine, Don Jorge, and the nationals
become wild, Don Jorge, dancing and drinking through the night, whilst
Baltasarito strums the guitar and sings them songs of Germania:
“Una romi sin pachi
Le peno á su chindomar,” &c., &c.
That is Gitano, Don Jorge; I learnt it from the toreros of Andalusia,
who all speak Gitano, and are mostly of Gypsy blood. I learnt
it from them; they are all friends of mine, Montes Sevilla and Poquito
Pan. I never miss a function of bulls, Don Jorge. Baltasar
is sure to be there with his amiga. Don Jorge, there are no bull-functions
in the winter, or I would carry you to one, but happily to-morrow there
is an execution, a funcion de la horca; and there we will go, Don Jorge.
We did go to see this execution, which I shall long remember.
The criminals were two young men, brothers; they suffered for a most
atrocious murder, having in the dead of night broke open the house of
an aged man, whom they put to death, and whose property they stole.
Criminals in Spain are not hanged as they are in England, or guillotined
as in France, but strangled upon a wooden stage. They sit down
on a kind of chair with a post behind, to which is affixed an iron collar
with a screw; this iron collar is made to clasp the neck of the prisoner,
and on a certain signal it is drawn tighter and tighter by means of
the screw, until life becomes extinct. After we had waited amongst
the assembled multitude a considerable time, the first of the culprits
appeared; he was mounted on an ass, without saddle or stirrups, his
legs being allowed to dangle nearly to the ground. He was dressed
in yellow sulphur-coloured robes, with a high-peaked conical red hat
on his head, which was shaven. Between his hands he held a parchment,
on which was written something, I believe the confession of faith.
Two priests led the animal by the bridle; two others walked on either
side, chanting litanies, amongst which I distinguished the words of
heavenly peace and tranquillity, for the culprit had been reconciled
to the church, had confessed and received absolution, and had been promised
admission to heaven. He did not exhibit the least symptom of fear,
but dismounted from the animal and was led, not supported, up the scaffold,
where he was placed on the chair, and the fatal collar put round his
neck. One of the priests then in a loud voice commenced saying
the Belief, and the culprit repeated the words after him. On a
sudden, the executioner, who stood behind, commenced turning the screw,
which was of prodigious force, and the wretched man - was almost instantly
a corpse; but, as the screw went round, the priest began to shout, “pax
et misericordia et tranquillitas,” and still as he shouted,
his voice became louder and louder, till the lofty walls of Madrid rang
with it: then stooping down, he placed his mouth close to the culprit’s
ear, still shouting, just as if he would pursue the spirit through its
course to eternity, cheering it on its way. The effect was tremendous.
I myself was so excited that I involuntarily shouted “misericordia,”
and so did many others. God was not thought of; Christ was not
thought of; only the priest was thought of, for he seemed at that moment
to be the first being in existence, and to have the power of opening
and shutting the gates of heaven or of hell, just as he should think
proper. A striking instance of the successful working of the Popish
system, whose grand aim has ever been to keep people’s minds as
far as possible from God, and to centre their hopes and fears in the
priesthood. The execution of the second culprit was precisely
similar; he ascended the scaffold a few minutes after his brother had
breathed his last.
I have visited most of the principal capitals of the world, but upon
the whole none has ever so interested me as this city of Madrid, in
which I now found myself. I will not dwell upon its streets, its
edifices, its public squares, its fountains, though some of these are
remarkable enough: but Petersburg has finer streets, Paris and Edinburgh
more stately edifices, London far nobler squares, whilst Shiraz can
boast of more costly fountains, though not cooler waters. But
the population! Within a mud wall, scarcely one league and a half
in circuit, are contained two hundred thousand human beings, certainly
forming the most extraordinary vital mass to be found in the entire
world; and be it always remembered that this mass is strictly Spanish.
The population of Constantinople is extraordinary enough, but to form
it twenty nations have contributed; Greeks, Armenians, Persians, Poles,
Jews, the latter, by the by, of Spanish origin, and speaking amongst
themselves the old Spanish language; but the huge population of Madrid,
with the exception of a sprinkling of foreigners, chiefly French tailors,
glove-makers and peruquiers, is strictly Spanish, though a considerable
portion are not natives of the place. Here are no colonies of
Germans, as at Saint Petersburg; no English factories, as at Lisbon;
no multitudes of insolent Yankees lounging through the streets as at
the Havannah, with an air which seems to say, the land is our own whenever
we choose to take it; but a population which, however strange and wild,
and composed of various elements, is Spanish, and will remain so as
long as the city itself shall exist. Hail, ye aguadores of Asturia!
who, in your dress of coarse duffel and leathern skull-caps, are seen
seated in hundreds by the fountain sides, upon your empty water-casks,
or staggering with them filled to the topmost stories of lofty houses.
Hail, ye caleseros of Valencia! who, lolling lazily against your vehicles,
rasp tobacco for your paper cigars whilst waiting for a fare.
Hail to you, beggars of La Mancha! men and women, who, wrapped in coarse
blankets, demand charity indifferently at the gate of the palace or
the prison. Hail to you, valets from the mountains, mayordomos
and secretaries from Biscay and Guipuscoa, toreros from Andalusia, riposteros
from Galicia, shopkeepers from Catalonia! Hail to ye, Castilians,
Estremenians and Aragonese, of whatever calling! And lastly, genuine
sons of the capital, rabble of Madrid, ye twenty thousand manolos, whose
terrible knifes, on the second morning of May, worked such grim havoc
amongst the legions of Murat!
And the higher orders - the ladies and gentlemen, the cavaliers and
señoras; shall I pass them by in silence? The truth is
I have little to say about them; I mingled but little in their society,
and what I saw of them by no means tended to exalt them in my imagination.
I am not one of those who, wherever they go, make it a constant practice
to disparage the higher orders, and to exalt the populace at their expense.
There are many capitals in which the high aristocracy, the lords and
ladies, the sons and daughters of nobility, constitute the most remarkable
and the most interesting part of the population. This is the case
at Vienna, and more especially at London. Who can rival the English
aristocrat in lofty stature, in dignified bearing, in strength of hand,
and valour of heart? Who rides a nobler horse? Who has a
firmer seat? And who more lovely than his wife, or sister, or
daughter? But with respect to the Spanish aristocracy, the ladies
and gentlemen, the cavaliers and señoras, I believe the less
that is said of them on the points to which I have just alluded the
better. I confess, however, that I know little about them; they
have, perhaps, their admirers, and to the pens of such I leave their
panegyric. Le Sage has described them as they were nearly two
centuries ago. His description is anything but captivating, and
I do not think that they have improved since the period of the sketches
of the immortal Frenchman. I would sooner talk of the lower class,
not only of Madrid but of all Spain. The Spaniard of the lower
class has much more interest for me, whether manolo, labourer, or muleteer.
He is not a common being; he is an extraordinary man. He has not,
it is true, the amiability and generosity of the Russian mujik, who
will give his only rouble rather than the stranger shall want; nor his
placid courage, which renders him insensible to fear, and at the command
of his Tsar, sends him singing to certain death. {6}
There is more hardness and less self-devotion in the disposition of
the Spaniard; he possesses, however, a spirit of proud independence,
which it is impossible but to admire. He is ignorant, of course;
but it is singular that I have invariably found amongst the low and
slightly educated classes far more liberality of sentiment than amongst
the upper. It has long been the fashion to talk of the bigotry
of the Spaniards, and their mean jealousy of foreigners. This
is true to a certain extent: but it chiefly holds good with respect
to the upper classes. If foreign valour or talent has never received
its proper meed in Spain, the great body of the Spaniards are certainly
not in fault. I have heard Wellington calumniated in this proud
scene of his triumphs, but never by the old soldiers of Aragon and the
Asturias, who assisted to vanquish the French at Salamanca and the Pyrenees.
I have heard the manner of riding of an English jockey criticized, but
it was by the idiotic heir of Medina Celi, and not by a picador of the
Madrilenian bull ring.
Apropos of bull-fighters:- Shortly after my arrival, I one day entered
a low tavern in a neighbourhood notorious for robbery and murder, and
in which for the last two hours I had been wandering on a voyage of
discovery. I was fatigued, and required refreshment. I found
the place thronged with people, who had all the appearance of ruffians.
I saluted them, upon which they made way for me to the bar, taking off
their sombreros with great ceremony. I emptied a glass of val
de peñas, and was about to pay for it and depart, when a horrible
looking fellow, dressed in a buff jerkin, leather breeches, and jackboots,
which came half way up his thighs, and having on his head a white hat,
the rims of which were at least a yard and a half in circumference,
pushed through the crowd, and confronting me, roared:-
“Otra copita! vamos Inglesito: Otra copita!”
“Thank you, my good sir, you are very kind, you appear to know
me, but I have not the honour of knowing you.”
“Not know me!” replied the being. “I am Sevilla,
the torero. I know you well; you are the friend of Baltasarito,
the national, who is a friend of mine, and a very good subject.”
Then turning to the company, he said in a sonorous tone, laying a strong
emphasis on the last syllable of every word, according to the custom
of the gente rufianesca throughout Spain:
“Cavaliers, and strong men, this cavalier is the friend of a friend
of mine. Es mucho hombre. There is none like him
in Spain. He speaks the crabbed Gitano though he is an Inglesito.”
“We do not believe it,” replied several grave voices.
“It is not possible.”
“It is not possible, say you? I tell you it is. Come
forward, Balseiro, you who have been in prison all your life, and are
always boasting that you can speak the crabbed Gitano, though I say
you know nothing of it - come forward and speak to his worship in the
crabbed Gitano.”
A low, slight, but active figure stepped forward. He was in his
shirt sleeves, and wore a montero cap; his features were handsome, but
they were those of a demon.
He spoke a few words in the broken Gypsy slang of the prison, inquiring
of me whether I had ever been in the condemned cell, and whether I knew
what a Gitana {7} was?
“Vamos Inglesito,” shouted Sevilla in a voice of thunder;
“answer the monro in the crabbed Gitano.”
I answered the robber, for such he was, and one, too, whose name will
live for many a year in the ruffian histories of Madrid; I answered
him in a speech of some length, in the dialect of the Estremenian Gypsies.
“I believe it is the crabbed Gitano,” muttered Balseiro.
“It is either that or English, for I understand not a word of
it.”
“Did I not say to you,” cried the bull-fighter, “that
you knew nothing of the crabbed Gitano? But this Inglesito does.
I understood all he said. Vaya, there is none like him for the
crabbed Gitano. He is a good ginete, too; next to myself, there
is none like him, only he rides with stirrup leathers too short.
Inglesito, if you have need of money, I will lend you my purse.
All I have is at your service, and that is not a little; I have just
gained four thousand chulés by the lottery. Courage, Englishman!
Another cup. I will pay all. I, Sevilla!”
And he clapped his hand repeatedly on his breast, reiterating “I,
Sevilla! I - “
CHAPTER XIII
Intrigues at Court - Quesada and Galiano - Dissolution of the Cortes
- The Secretary - Aragonese Pertinacity - The Council of Trent - The
Asturian - The Three Thieves - Benedict Mol - The Men of Lucerne - The
Treasure
Mendizabal had told me to call upon him again at the end of three months,
giving me hopes that he would not then oppose himself to the publication
of the New Testament; before, however, the three months had elapsed,
he had fallen into disgrace, and had ceased to be prime minister.
An intrigue had been formed against him, at the head of which were two
quondam friends of his, and fellow-townsmen, Gaditanians, Isturitz and
Alcala Galiano; both of them had been egregious liberals in their day,
and indeed principal members of those cortes which, on the Angouleme
invasion, had hurried Ferdinand from Madrid to Cadiz, and kept him prisoner
there until that impregnable town thought proper to surrender, and both
of them had been subsequently refugees in England, where they had spent
a considerable number of years.
These gentlemen, however, finding themselves about this time exceedingly
poor, and not seeing any immediate prospect of advantage from supporting
Mendizabal; considering themselves, moreover, quite as good men as he,
and as capable of governing Spain in the present emergency; determined
to secede from the party of their friend, whom they had hitherto supported,
and to set up for themselves.
They therefore formed an opposition to Mendizabal in the cortes; the
members of this opposition assumed the name of moderados, in contradistinction
to Mendizabal and his followers, who were ultra liberals. The
moderados were encouraged by the Queen Regent Christina, who aimed at
a little more power than the liberals were disposed to allow her, and
who had a personal dislike to the minister. They were likewise
encouraged by Cordova, who at that time commanded the army, and was
displeased with Mendizabal, inasmuch as the latter did not supply the
pecuniary demands of the general with sufficient alacrity, though it
is said that the greater part of what was sent for the payment of the
troops was not devoted to that purpose, but, was invested in the French
funds in the name and for the use and behoof of the said Cordova.
It is, however, by no means my intention to write an account of the
political events which were passing around me at this period; suffice
it to say, that Mendizabal finding himself thwarted in all his projects
by the regent and the general, the former of whom would adopt no measure
which he recommended, whilst the latter remained inactive and refused
to engage the enemy, which by this time had recovered from the check
caused by the death of Zumalacarregui, and was making considerable progress,
resigned and left the field for the time open to his adversaries, though
he possessed an immense majority in the cortes, and had the voice of
the nation, at least the liberal part of it, in his favour.
Thereupon, Isturitz became head of the cabinet, Galiano minister of
marine, and a certain Duke of Rivas minister of the interior.
These were the heads of the moderado government, but as they were by
no means popular at Madrid, and feared the nationals, they associated
with themselves one who hated the latter body and feared nothing, a
man of the name of Quesada, a very stupid individual, but a great fighter,
who, at one period of his life, had commanded a legion or body of men
called the Army of the Faith, whose exploits both on the French and
Spanish side of the Pyrenees are too well known to require recapitulation.
This person was made captain general of Madrid.
By far the most clever member of this government was Galiano, whose
acquaintance I had formed shortly after my arrival. He was a man
of considerable literature, and particularly well versed in that of
his own country. He was, moreover, a fluent, elegant, and forcible
speaker, and was to the moderado party within the cortes what Quesada
was without, namely, their horses and chariots. Why he was made
minister of marine is difficult to say, as Spain did not possess any;
perhaps, however, from his knowledge of the English language, which
he spoke and wrote nearly as well as his own tongue, having indeed during
his sojourn in England chiefly supported himself by writing for reviews
and journals, an honourable occupation, but to which few foreign exiles
in England would be qualified to devote themselves.
He was a very small and irritable man, and a bitter enemy to every person
who stood in the way of his advancement. He hated Mendizabal with
undisguised rancour, and never spoke of him but in terms of unmeasured
contempt. “I am afraid that I shall have some difficulty
in inducing Mendizabal to give me permission to print the Testament,”
said I to him one day. “Mendizabal is a jackass,”
replied Galiano. “Caligula made his horse consul, which
I suppose induced Lord - to send over this huge burro of the Stock Exchange
to be our minister.”
It would be very ungrateful on my part were I not to confess my great
obligations to Galiano, who assisted me to the utmost of his power in
the business which had brought me to Spain. Shortly after the
ministry was formed, I went to him and said, “that now or never
was the time to mike an effort in my behalf.” “I will
do so,” said he, in a waspish tone; for he always spoke waspishly
whether to friend or foe; “but you must have patience for a few
days, we are very much occupied at present. We have been outvoted
in the cortes, and this afternoon we intend to dissolve them.
It is believed that the rascals will refuse to depart, but Quesada will
stand at the door ready to turn them out, should they prove refractory.
Come along, and you will perhaps see a funcion.”
After an hour’s debate, the cortes were dissolved without it being
necessary to call in the aid of the redoubtable Quesada, and Galiano
forthwith gave me a letter to his colleague the Duke of Rivas, in whose
department he told me was vested the power either of giving or refusing
the permission to print the book in question. The duke was a very
handsome young man, of about thirty, an Andalusian by birth, like his
two colleagues. He had published several works, tragedies, I believe,
and enjoyed a certain kind of literary reputation. He received
me with the greatest affability; and having heard what I had to say,
he replied with a most captivating bow, and a genuine Andalusian grimace:
“Go to my secretary; go to my secretary - el hara por
usted el gusio.” So I went to the secretary, whose name
was Oliban, an Aragonese, who was not handsome, and whose manners were
neither elegant nor affable. “You want permission to print
the Testament?” “I do,” said I. “And
you have come to His Excellency about it,” continued Oliban.
“Very true,” I replied. “I suppose you intend
to print it without notes.” “Yes.” “Then
His Excellency cannot give you permission,” said the Aragonese
secretary: “it was determined by the Council of Trent that no
part of the Scripture should be printed in any Christian country without
the notes of the church.” “How many years was that
ago?” I demanded. “I do not know how many years ago
it was,” said Oliban; “but such was the decree of the Council
of Trent.” “Is Spain at present governed according
to the decrees of the Council of Trent?” I inquired. “In
some points she is,” answered the Aragonese, “and this is
one. But tell me who are you? Are you known to the British
minister?” “O yes, and he takes a great interest in
the matter.” “Does he?” said Oliban; “that
indeed alters the case: if you can show me that His Excellency takes
in interest in this business, I certainly shall not oppose myself to
it.”
The British minister performed all I could wish, and much more than
I could expect; he had an interview with the Duke of Rivas, with whom
he had much discourse upon my affair: the duke was all smiles and courtesy.
He moreover wrote a private letter to the duke, which he advised me
to present when I next paid him a visit, and, to crown all, he wrote
a letter directed to myself, in which he did me the honour to say that
he had a regard for me, and that nothing would afford him greater pleasure
than to hear that I had obtained the permission which I was seeking.
So I went to the duke, and delivered the letter. He was ten times
more kind and affable than before: he read the letter, smiled most sweetly,
and then, as if seized with sudden enthusiasm, he extended his arms
in a manner almost theatrical, exclaiming, “Al secretario,
el hara por usted el gusto.” Away I hurried to the
secretary, who received me with all the coolness of an icicle: I related
to him the words of his principal, and then put into his hand the letter
of the British minister to myself. The secretary read it very
deliberately, and then said that it was evident His Excellency did take
an interest in the matter. He then asked me my name, and taking
a sheet of paper, sat down as if for the purpose of writing the permission.
I was in ecstasy - all of a sudden, however, he stopped, lifted up his
head, seemed to consider a moment, and then putting his pen behind his
ear, he said, “Amongst the decrees of the Council of Trent is
one to the effect” . . . .
“Oh dear!” said I.
“A singular person is this Oliban,” said I to Galiano; “you
cannot imagine what trouble he gives me: he is continually talking about
the Council of Trent.”
“I wish he was in the Trent up to the middle,” said Galiano,
who, as I have observed already, spoke excellent English; “I wish
he was there for talking such nonsense. However,” said he,
“we must not offend Oliban, he is one of us, and has done us much
service; he is, moreover, a very clever man, but he is an Aragonese,
and when one of that nation once gets an idea into his head, it is the
most difficult thing in the world to dislodge it; however, we will go
to him; he is an old friend of mine, and I have no doubt but that we
shall be able to make him listen to reason.” So the next
day I called upon Galiano, at his marine or admiralty office (what shall
I call it?), and from thence we proceeded to the bureau of the interior,
a magnificent edifice, which had formerly been the casa of the Inquisition,
where we had an interview with Oliban, whom Galiano took aside to the
window, and there held with him a long conversation, which, as they
spoke in whispers, and the room was immensely large, I did not hear.
At length Galiano came to me and said, “There is some difficulty
with respect to this business of yours, but I have told Oliban that
you are a friend of mine, and he says that that is sufficient; remain
with him now, and he will do anything to oblige you; your affair is
settled - farewell”; whereupon he departed and I remained with
Oliban, who proceeded forthwith to write something, which having concluded,
he took out a box of cigars, and having lighted one and offered me another,
which I declined as I do not smoke, he placed his feet against the table,
and thus proceeded to address me, speaking in the French language.
“It is with great pleasure that I see you in this capital, and,
I may say, upon this business. I consider it a disgrace to Spain
that there is no edition of the Gospel in circulation, at least such
a one as would be within the reach of all classes of society, the highest
or poorest; one unencumbered with notes and commentaries, human devices,
swelling it to an unwieldy bulk. I have no doubt that such an
edition as you propose to print, would have a most beneficial influence
on the minds of the people, who, between ourselves, know nothing of
pure religion; how should they? seeing that the Gospel has always been
sedulously kept from them, just as if civilization could exist where
the light of the Gospel beameth not. The moral regeneration of
Spain depends upon the free circulation of the Scriptures; to which
alone England, your own happy country, is indebted for its high state
of civilization, and the unmatched prosperity which it at present enjoys;
all this I admit, in fact, reason compels me to do so, but - “
“Now for it,” thought I.
“But” - and then he began to talk once more of the wearisome
Council of Trent, and I found that his writing in the paper, the offer
of the cigar, and the long and prosy harangue were - what shall I call
it? - mere φλυαρια.
By this time the spring was far advanced, the sides though not the tops
of the Guadarama hills had long since lost their snows; the trees of
the Prado had donned their full foliage, and all the Campina in the
neighbourhood of Madrid smiled and was happy: the summer heats had not
commenced, and the weather was truly delicious.
Towards the west, at the foot of the hill on which stands Madrid, is
a canal running parallel with the Manzanares for some leagues, from
which it is separated by pleasant and fertile meadows. The banks
of this canal, which was begun by Carlos Tercero, and has never been
completed, are planted with beautiful trees, and form the most delightful
walk in the neighbourhood of the capital. Here I would loiter
for hours looking at the shoals of gold and silver fish which basked
on the surface of the green sunny waters, or listening, not to the warbling
of birds - for Spain is not the land of feathered choristers - but to
the prattle of the narangero or man who sold oranges and water by a
little deserted watch tower just opposite the wooden bridge that crosses
the canal, which situation he had chosen as favourable for his trade,
and there had placed his stall. He was an Asturian by birth, about
fifty years of age, and about five feet high. As I purchased freely
of his fruit, he soon conceived a great friendship for me, and told
me his history; it contained, however, nothing very remarkable, the
leading incident being an adventure which had befallen him amidst the
mountains of Granada, where, falling into the hands of certain Gypsies,
they stripped him naked, and then dismissed him with a sound cudgelling.
“I have wandered throughout Spain,” said he, “and
I have come to the conclusion that there are but two places worth living
in, Malaga and Madrid. At Malaga everything is very cheap, and
there is such an abundance of fish, that I have frequently seen them
piled in heaps on the sea-shore: and as for Madrid, money is always
stirring at the Corte, and I never go supperless to bed; my only care
is to sell my oranges, and my only hope that when I die I shall be buried
yonder.”
And he pointed across the Manzanares, where, on the declivity of a gentle
hill, at about a league’s distance, shone brightly in the sunshine
the white walls of the Campo Santo, or common burying ground of Madrid.
He was a fellow of infinite drollery, and, though he could scarcely
read or write, by no means ignorant of the ways of the world; his knowledge
of individuals was curious and extensive, few people passing his stall
with whose names, character, and history he was not acquainted.
“Those two gentry,” said he, pointing to a magnificently
dressed cavalier and lady, who had dismounted from a carriage, and arm
in arm were coming across the wooden bridge, followed by two attendants;
“those gentry are the Infante Francisco Paulo, and his wife the
Neapolitana, sister of our Christina; he is a very good subject, but
as for his wife - vaya - the veriest scold in Madrid; she can say carrajo
with the most ill-conditioned carrier of La Mancha, giving the true
emphasis and genuine pronunciation. Don’t take off your
hat to her, amigo - she has neither formality nor politeness - I once
saluted her, and she took no more notice of me than if I had not been
what I am, an Asturian and a gentleman, of better blood than herself.
Good day, Señor Don Francisco. Que tal (how goes
it)? very fine weather this - vaya su merced con Dios.
Those three fellows who just stopped to drink water are great thieves,
true sons of the prison; I am always civil to them, for it would not
do to be on ill terms; they pay me or not, just as they think proper.
I have been in some trouble on their account: about a year ago they
robbed a man a little farther on beyond the second bridge. By
the way, I counsel you, brother, not to go there, as I believe you often
do - it is a dangerous place. They robbed a gentleman and ill-treated
him, but his brother, who was an escribano, was soon upon their trail,
and had them arrested; but he wanted someone to identify them, and it
chanced that they had stopped to drink water at my stall, just as they
did now. This the escribano heard of, and forthwith had me away
to the prison to confront me with them. I knew them well enough,
but I had learnt in my travels when to close my eyes and when to open
them; so I told the escribano that I could not say that I had ever seen
them before. He was in a great rage and threatened to imprison
me; I told him he might and that I cared not. Vaya, I was not
going to expose myself to the resentment of those three and to that
of their friends; I live too near the Hay Market for that. Good
day, my young masters. - Murcian oranges, as you see; the genuine dragon’s
blood. Water sweet and cold. Those two boys are the children
of Gabiria, comptroller of the queen’s household, and the richest
man in Madrid; they are nice boys, and buy much fruit. It is said
their father loves them more than all his possessions. The old
woman who is lying beneath yon tree is the Tia Lucilla; she has committed
murders, and as she owes me money, I hope one day to see her executed.
This man was of the Walloon guard; - Señor Don Benito Mol, how
do you do?”
This last named personage instantly engrossed my attention; he was a
bulky old man, somewhat above the middle height, with white hair and
ruddy features; his eyes were large and blue, and whenever he fixed
them on any one’s countenance, were full of an expression of great
eagerness, as if he were expecting the communication of some important
tidings. He was dressed commonly enough, in a jacket and trousers
of coarse cloth of a russet colour, on his head was an immense sombrero,
the brim of which had been much cut and mutilated, so as in some places
to resemble the jags or denticles of a saw. He returned the salutation
of the orange-man, and bowing to me, forthwith produced two scented
wash-balls which he offered for sale in a rough dissonant jargon, intended
for Spanish, but which seemed more like the Valencian or Catalan.
Upon my asking him who he was, the following conversation ensued between
us:
“I am a Swiss of Lucerne, Benedict Mol by name, once a soldier
in the Walloon guard, and now a soap-boiler, at your service.”
“You speak the language of Spain very imperfectly,” said
I; “how long have you been in the country?”
“Forty-five years,” replied Benedict; “but when the
guard was broken up, I went to Minorca, where I lost the Spanish language
without acquiring the Catalan.”
“You have been a soldier of the king of Spain,” said I;
“how did you like the service?”
“Not so well, but that I should have been glad to leave it forty
years ago; the pay was bad, and the treatment worse. I will now
speak Swiss to you, for, if I am not much mistaken, you are a German
man, and understand the speech of Lucerne; I should soon have deserted
from the service of Spain, as I did from that of the Pope, whose soldier
I was in my early youth before I came here; but I had married a woman
of Minorca, by whom I had two children; it was this that detained me
in those parts so long; before, however, I left Minorca, my wife died,
and as for my children, one went east, the other west, and I know not
what became of them; I intend shortly to return to Lucerne, and live
there like a duke.”
“Have you, then, realized a large capital in Spain?” said
I, glancing at his hat and the rest of his apparel.
“Not a cuart, not a cuart; these two wash-balls are all that I
possess.”
“Perhaps you are the son of good parents, and have lands and money
in your own country wherewith to support yourself.”
“Not a heller, not a heller; my father was hangman of Lucerne,
and when he died, his body was seized to pay his debts.”
“Then doubtless,” said I, “you intend to ply your
trade of soap-boiling at Lucerne; you are quite right, my friend, I
know of no occupation more honourable or useful.”
“I have no thoughts of plying my trade at Lucerne,” replied
Bennet; “and now, as I see you are a German man, Lieber Herr,
and as I like your countenance and your manner of speaking, I will tell
you in confidence that I know very little of my trade, and have already
been turned out of several fabriques as an evil workman; the two wash-balls
that I carry in my pocket are not of my own making. In kurtzen,
I know little more of soap-boiling than I do of tailoring, horse-farriery,
or shoe-making, all of which I have practised.”
“Then I know not how you can hope to live like a hertzog in your
native canton, unless you expect that the men of Lucerne, in consideration
of your services to the Pope and to the king of Spain, will maintain
you in splendour at the public expense.”
“Lieber Herr,” said Benedict, “the men of Lucerne
are by no means fond of maintaining the soldiers of the Pope and the
king of Spain at their own expense; many of the guard who have returned
thither beg their bread in the streets, but when I go, it shall be in
a coach drawn by six mules, with a treasure, a mighty schatz which lies
in the church of Saint James of Compostella, in Galicia.”
“I hope you do not intend to rob the church,” said I; “if
you do, however, I believe you will be disappointed. Mendizabal
and the liberals have been beforehand with you. I am informed
that at present no other treasure is to be found in the cathedrals of
Spain than a few paltry ornaments and plated utensils.”
“My good German Herr,” said Benedict, “it is no church
schatz, and no person living, save myself, knows of its existence: nearly
thirty years ago, amongst the sick soldiers who were brought to Madrid,
was one of my comrades of the Walloon Guard, who had accompanied the
French to Portugal; he was very sick and shortly died. Before,
however, he breathed his last, he sent for me, and upon his deathbed
told me that himself and two other soldiers, both of whom had since
been killed, had buried in a certain church at Compostella a great booty
which they had made in Portugal: it consisted of gold moidores and of
a packet of huge diamonds from the Brazils; the whole was contained
in a large copper kettle. I listened with greedy ears, and from
that moment, I may say, I have known no rest, neither by day nor night,
thinking of the schatz. It is very easy to find, for the dying
man was so exact in his description of the place where it lies, that
were I once at Compostella, I should have no difficulty in putting my
hand upon it; several times I have been on the point of setting out
on the journey, but something has always happened to stop me.
When my wife died, I left Minorca with a determination to go to Saint
James, but on reaching Madrid, I fell into the hands of a Basque woman,
who persuaded me to live with her, which I have done for several years;
she is a great hax, {8}
and says that if I desert her she will breathe a spell which shall cling
to me for ever. Dem Got sey dank, - she is now in the hospital,
and daily expected to die. This is my history, Lieber Herr.”
I have been the more careful in relating the above conversation, as
I shall have frequent occasion to mention the Swiss in the course of
these journals; his subsequent adventures were highly extraordinary,
and the closing one caused a great sensation in Spain.
CHAPTER XIV
State of Spain - Isturitz - Revolution of the Granja - The Disturbance
- Signs of Mischief - Newspaper Reporters - Quesada’s Onslaught
- The Closing Scene - Flight of the Moderados - The Coffee Bowl.
In the meantime the affairs of the moderados did not proceed in a very
satisfactory manner; they were unpopular at Madrid, and still more so
in the other large towns of Spain, in most of which juntas had been
formed, which, taking the local administration into their own hands,
declared themselves independent of the queen and her ministers, and
refused to pay taxes; so that the government was within a short time
reduced to great straits for money; the army was unpaid, and the war
languished; I mean on the part of the Christinos, for the Carlists were
pushing it on with considerable vigour; parties of their guerillas scouring
the country in all directions, whilst a large division, under the celebrated
Gomez, was making the entire circuit of Spain. To crown the whole,
an insurrection was daily expected at Madrid, to prevent which the nationals
were disarmed, which measure tended greatly to increase their hatred
against the moderado government, and especially against Quesada, with
whom it was supposed to have originated.
With respect to my own matters, I lost no opportunity of pushing forward
my application; the Aragonese secretary, however, still harped upon
the Council of Trent, and succeeded in baffling all my efforts.
He appeared to have inoculated his principal with his own ideas upon
the subject, for the duke, when he beheld me at his levees, took no
farther notice of me than by a contemptuous glance; and once, when I
stepped up for the purpose of addressing him, disappeared through a
side door, and I never saw him again, for I was disgusted with the treatment
which I had received, and forebore paying any more visits at the Casa
de la Inquisicion. Poor Galiano still proved himself my unshaken
friend, but candidly informed me that there was no hope of my succeeding
in the above quarter. “The duke,” said he, “says
that your request cannot be granted; and the other day, when I myself
mentioned it in the council, began to talk of the decision of Trent,
and spoke of yourself as a plaguy pestilent fellow; whereupon I answered
him with some acrimony, and there ensued a bit of a function between
us, at which Isturitz laughed heartily. By the by,” continued
he, “what need have you of a regular permission, which it does
not appear that any one has authority to grant. The best thing
that you can do under all circumstances is to commit the work to the
press, with an understanding that you shall not be interfered with when
you attempt to distribute it. I strongly advise you to see Isturitz
himself upon the matter. I will prepare him for the interview,
and will answer that he receives you civilly.”
In fact, a few days afterwards, I had an interview with Isturitz at
the palace, and for the sake of brevity I shall content myself with
saying that I found him perfectly well disposed to favour my views.
“I have lived long in England,” said he; “the Bible
is free there, and I see no reason why it should not be free in Spain
also. I am not prepared to say that England is indebted for her
prosperity to the knowledge which all her children, more or less, possess
of the sacred writings; but of one thing I am sure, namely, that the
Bible has done no harm in that country, nor do I believe that it will
effect any in Spain; print it, therefore, by all means, and circulate
it as extensively as possible.” I retired, highly satisfied
with my interview, having obtained, if not a written permission to print
the sacred volume, what, under all circumstances, I considered as almost
equivalent, an understanding that my biblical pursuits would be tolerated
in Spain; and I had fervent hope that whatever was the fate of the present
ministry, no future one, particularly a liberal one, would venture to
interfere with me, more especially as the English ambassador was my
friend, and was privy to all the steps I had taken throughout the whole
affair.
Two or three things connected with the above interview with Isturitz
struck me as being highly remarkable. First of all, the extreme
facility with which I obtained admission to the presence of the prime
minister of Spain. I had not to wait, or indeed to send in my
name, but was introduced at once by the door-keeper. Secondly,
the air of loneliness which pervaded the place, so unlike the bustle,
noise, and activity which I observed when I waited on Mendizabal.
In this instance, there were no eager candidates for an interview with
the great man; indeed, I did not behold a single individual, with the
exception of Isturitz and the official. But that which made the
most profound impression upon me, was the manner of the minister himself,
who, when I entered, sat upon a sofa, with his arms folded, and his
eyes directed to the ground. When he spoke there was extreme depression
in the tones of his voice, his dark features wore an air of melancholy,
and he exhibited all the appearance of a person meditating to escape
from the miseries of this life by the most desperate of all acts - suicide.
And a few days showed that he had, indeed, cause for much melancholy
meditation: in less than a week occurred the revolution of the Granja,
as it is called. The Granja, or Grange, is a royal country seat,
situated amongst pine forests, on the other side of the Guadarama hills,
about twelve leagues distant from Madrid. To this place the queen
regent Christina had retired, in order to be aloof from the discontent
of the capital, and to enjoy rural air and amusements in this celebrated
retreat, a monument of the taste and magnificence of the first Bourbon
who ascended the throne of Spain. She was not, however, permitted
to remain long in tranquillity; her own guards were disaffected, and
more inclined to the principles of the constitution of 1823 than to
those of absolute monarchy, which the moderados were attempting to revive
again in the government of Spain. Early one morning, a party of
these soldiers, headed by a certain Sergeant Garcia, entered her apartment,
and proposed that she should subscribe her hand to this constitution,
and swear solemnly to abide by it. Christina, however, who was
a woman of considerable spirit, refused to comply with this proposal,
and ordered them to withdraw. A scene of violence and tumult ensued,
but the regent still continuing firm, the soldiers at length led her
down to one of the courts of the palace, where stood her well-known
paramour, Muños, bound and blindfolded. “Swear to
the constitution, you she-rogue,” vociferated the swarthy sergeant.
“Never!” said the spirited daughter of the Neapolitan Bourbons.
“Then your cortejo shall die!” replied the sergeant.
“Ho! ho! my lads; get ready your arms, and send four bullets through
the fellow’s brain.” Muños was forthwith led
to the wall, and compelled to kneel down, the soldiers levelled their
muskets and another moment would have consigned the unfortunate wight
to eternity, when Christina, forgetting everything but the feelings
of her woman’s heart, suddenly started forward with a shriek,
exclaiming: “Hold, hold! I sign, I sign!”
The day after this event I entered the Puerta del Sol at about noon.
There is always a crowd there about this hour, but it is generally a
very quiet motionless crowd, consisting of listless idlers calmly smoking
their cigars, or listening to or retailing the - in general - very dull
news of the capital; but on the day of which I am speaking the mass
was no longer inert. There was much gesticulation and vociferation,
and several people were running about shouting, “Viva la constitucion!”
- a cry which, a few days previously, would have been visited on the
utterer with death, the city having for some weeks past been subjected
to the rigour of martial law. I occasionally heard the words,
“La Granja! La Granja!” Which words were
sure to be succeeded by the shout of “Viva la constitucion!”
Opposite the Casa de Postas were drawn up in a line about a dozen mounted
dragoons, some of whom were continually waving their caps in the air
and joining the common cry, in which they were encouraged by their commander,
a handsome young officer, who flourished his sword, and more than once
cried out with great glee, “Long live the constitutional queen!
Long live the constitution!”
The crowd was rapidly increasing, and several nationals made their appearance
in their uniforms, but without their arms, of which they had been deprived,
as I have already stated. “What has become of the moderado
government?” said I to Baltasar, whom I suddenly observed amongst
the crowd, dressed as when I had first seen him, in his old regimental
great coat and foraging cap; “have the ministers been deposed
and others put in their place?”
“Not yet, Don Jorge,” said the little soldier-tailor; “not
yet; the scoundrels still hold out, relying on the brute bull Quesada
and a few infantry, who still continue true to them; but there is no
fear, Don Jorge; the queen is ours, thanks to the courage of my friend
Garcia, and if the brute bull should make his appearance - ho! ho! Don
Jorge, you shall see something - I am prepared for him, ho! ho!”
and thereupon he half opened his great coat, and showed me a small gun,
which he bore beneath it in a sling, and then moving away with a wink
and a nod, disappeared amongst the crowd.
Presently I perceived a small body of soldiers advancing up the Calle
Mayor, or principal street which runs from the Puerta del Sol in the
direction of the palace; they might be about twenty in number, and an
officer marched at their head with a drawn sword; the men appeared to
have been collected in a hurry, many of them being in fatigue dress,
with foraging caps on their heads. On they came, slowly marching;
neither their officer nor themselves paying the slightest attention
to the cries of the crowd which thronged about them, shouting “Long
live the constitution!” save and except by an occasional surly
side glance: on they marched with contracted brows and set teeth, till
they came in front of the cavalry, where they halted and drew up in
a rank.
“Those men mean mischief,” said I to my friend D-, of the
Morning Chronicle, who at this moment joined me; “and depend
upon it, that if they are ordered they will commence firing, caring
nothing whom they hit, - but what can those cavalry fellows behind them
mean, who are evidently of the other opinion by their shouting, why
don’t they charge at once this handful of foot people and overturn
them? Once down, the crowd would wrest from them their muskets
in a moment. You are a liberal, which I am not; why do you not
go to that silly young man who commands the horse and give him a word
of counsel in time?”
D - turned upon me his broad red good-humoured English countenance,
with a peculiarly arch look, as much as to say - (whatever you think
most applicable, gentle reader), then taking me by the arm, “Let
us get,” said he, “out of this crowd and mount to some window,
where I can write down what is about to take place, for I agree with
you that mischief is meant.” Just opposite the post office
was a large house, in the topmost story of which we beheld a paper displayed,
importing that apartments were to let; whereupon we instantly ascended
the common stair, and having agreed with the mistress of the étage
for the use of the front room for the day, we bolted the door, and the
reporter, producing his pocket-book and pencil, prepared to take notes
of the coming events, which were already casting their shadow before.
What most extraordinary men are these reporters of newspapers in general,
I mean English newspapers; surely if there be any class of individuals
who are entitled to the appellation of cosmopolites, it is these; who
pursue their avocation in all countries indifferently, and accommodate
themselves at will to the manners of all classes of society: their fluency
of style as writers is only surpassed by their facility of language
in conversation, and their attainments in classical and polite literature
only by their profound knowledge of the world, acquired by an early
introduction into its bustling scenes. The activity, energy, and
courage which they occasionally display in the pursuit of information
are truly remarkable. I saw them during the three days at Paris,
mingled with canaille and gamins behind the barriers, whilst the mitraille
was flying in all directions, and the desperate cuirassiers were dashing
their fierce horses against these seemingly feeble bulwarks. There
stood they, dotting down their observations in their pocket-books as
unconcernedly as if reporting the proceedings of a reform meeting in
Covent Garden or Finsbury Square; whilst in Spain, several of them accompanied
the Carlist and Christino guerillas in some of their most desperate
raids and expeditions, exposing themselves to the danger of hostile
bullets, the inclemency of winter, and the fierce heat of the summer
sun.
We had scarcely been five minutes at the window, when we suddenly heard
the clattering of horses’ feet hastening down the street called
the Calle de Carretas. The house in which we had stationed ourselves
was, as I have already observed, just opposite to the post office, at
the left of which this street debouches from the north into the Puerta
del Sol: as the sounds became louder and louder, the cries of the crowd
below diminished, and a species of panic seemed to have fallen upon
all: once or twice, however, I could distinguish the words Quesada!
Quesada! The foot soldiers stood calm and motionless, but I observed
that the cavalry, with the young officer who commanded them, displayed
both confusion and fear, exchanging with each other some hurried words;
all of a sudden that part of the crowd which stood near the mouth of
the Calle de Carretas fell back in great disorder, leaving a considerable
space unoccupied, and the next moment Quesada, in complete general’s
uniform, and mounted on a bright bay thorough bred English horse, with
a drawn sword in his hand, dashed at full gallop into the area, in much
the same manner as I have seen a Manchegan bull rush into the amphitheatre
when the gates of his pen are suddenly flung open.
He was closely followed by two mounted officers, and at a short distance
by as many dragoons. In almost less time than is sufficient to
relate it, several individuals in the crowd were knocked down and lay
sprawling upon the ground, beneath the horses of Quesada and his two
friends, for as to the dragoons, they halted as soon as they had entered
the Puerta del Sol. It was a fine sight to see three men, by dint
of valour and good horsemanship, strike terror into at least as many
thousands: I saw Quesada spur his horse repeatedly into the dense masses
of the crowd, and then extricate himself in the most masterly manner.
The rabble were completely awed and gave way, retiring by the Calle
del Comercio and the street of Alcala. All at once, Quesada singled
out two nationals, who were attempting to escape, and setting spurs
to his horse, turned them in a moment, and drove them in another direction,
striking them in a contemptuous manner with the flat of his sabre.
He was crying out, “Long live the absolute queen!” when,
just beneath me, amidst a portion of the crowd which had still maintained
its ground, perhaps from not having the means of escaping, I saw a small
gun glitter for a moment, then there was a sharp report, and a bullet
had nearly sent Quesada to his long account, passing so near to the
countenance of the general as to graze his hat. I had an indistinct
view for a moment of a well-known foraging cap just about the spot from
whence the gun had been discharged, then there was a rush of the crowd,
and the shooter, whoever he was, escaped discovery amidst the confusion
which arose.
As for Quesada, he seemed to treat the danger from which he had escaped
with the utmost contempt. He glared about him fiercely for a moment,
then leaving the two nationals, who sneaked away like whipped hounds,
he went up to the young officer who commanded the cavalry, and who had
been active in raising the cry of the constitution, and to him he addressed
a few words with an air of stern menace; the youth evidently quailed
before him, and probably in obedience to his orders, resigned the command
of the party, and rode slowly away with a discomfited air; whereupon
Quesada dismounted and walked slowly backwards and forwards before the
Casa de Postas with a mien which seemed to bid defiance to mankind.
This was the glorious day of Quesada’s existence, his glorious
and last day. I call it the day of his glory, for he certainly
never before appeared under such brilliant circumstances, and he never
lived to see another sun set. No action of any conqueror or hero
on record is to be compared with this closing scene of the life of Quesada,
for who, by his single desperate courage and impetuosity, ever before
stopped a revolution in full course? Quesada did: he stopped the
revolution at Madrid for one entire day, and brought back the uproarious
and hostile mob of a huge city to perfect order and quiet. His
burst into the Puerta del Sol was the most tremendous and successful
piece of daring ever witnessed. I admired so much the spirit of
the “brute bull” that I frequently, during his wild onset,
shouted “Viva Quesada!” for I wished him well. Not
that I am of any political party or system. No, no! I have
lived too long with Rommany Chals and Petulengres {9}
to be of any politics save Gypsy politics; and it is well known that,
during elections, the children of Roma side with both parties so long
as the event is doubtful, promising success to each; and then when the
fight is done, and the battle won, invariably range themselves in the
ranks of the victorious. But I repeat that I wished well to Quesada,
witnessing, as I did, his stout heart and good horsemanship. Tranquillity
was restored to Madrid throughout the remainder of the day; the handful
of infantry bivouacked in the Puerta del Sol. No more cries of
long live the constitution were heard; and the revolution in the capital
seemed to have been effectually put down. It is probable, indeed,
that had the chiefs of the moderado party but continued true to themselves
for forty-eight hours longer, their cause would have triumphed, and
the revolutionary soldiers at the Granja would have been glad to restore
the Queen Regent to liberty, and to have come to terms, as it was well
known that several regiments, who still continued loyal, were marching
upon Madrid. The moderados, however, were not true to themselves;
that very night their hearts failed them, and they fled in various directions.
Isturitz and Galiano to France; and the Duke of Rivas to Gibraltar:
the panic of his colleagues even infected Quesada, who, disguised as
a civilian, took to flight. He was not, however, so successful
as the rest, but was recognised at a village about three leagues from
Madrid, and cast into prison by some friends of the constitution.
Intelligence of his capture was instantly transmitted to the capital,
and a vast mob of the nationals, some on foot, some on horseback, and
others in cabriolets, instantly set out. “The nationals
are coming,” said a paisano to Quesada. “Then,”
said he, “I am lost,” and forthwith prepared himself for
death.
There is a celebrated coffee-house in the Calle d’Alcala at Madrid,
capable of holding several hundred individuals. On the evening
of the day in question, I was seated there, sipping a cup of the brown
beverage, when I heard a prodigious noise and clamour in the street;
it proceeded from the nationals, who were returning from their expedition.
In a few minutes I saw a body of them enter the coffee-house marching
arm in arm, two by two, stamping on the ground with their feet in a
kind of measure, and repeating in loud chorus as they walked round the
spacious apartment, the following grisly stanza:-
“Que es lo que abaja
Por aquel cerro?
Ta ra ra ra ra.
Son los huesos de Quesada,
Que los trae un perro -
Ta ra ra ra ra.” {10}
“What down the hill comes hurrying there? -
With a hey, with a ho, a sword, and a gun!
Quesada’s bones, which a hound doth bear. -
Hurrah, brave brothers! - the work is done.”
A huge bowl of coffee was then called for, which was placed upon a table,
around which gathered the national soldiers: there was silence for a
moment, which was interrupted by a voice roaring out, “el panuelo!”
A blue kerchief was forthwith produced, which appeared to contain a
substance of some kind; it was untied, and a gory hand and three or
four dissevered fingers made their appearance, and with these the contents
of the bowl were stirred up. “Cups! cups!” cried the
nationals.
“Ho, ho, Don Jorge,” cried Baltasarito, coming up to me
with a cup of coffee, “pray do me the favour to drink upon this
glorious occasion. This is a pleasant day for Spain, and for the
gallant nationals of Madrid. I have seen many a bull funcion,
but none which has given me so much pleasure as this. Yesterday
the brute had it all his own way, but to-day the toreros have prevailed,
as you see, Don Jorge. Pray drink; for I must now run home to
fetch my pajandi to play my brethren a tune, and sing a copla.
What shall it be? Something in Gitano?
“Una noche sinava en tucue.”
You shake your head, Don Jorge. Ha, ha; I am young, and youth
is the time for pleasure; well, well, out of compliment to you, who
are an Englishman and a monro, it shall not be that, but something liberal,
something patriotic, the Hymn of Riego - Hasta despues, Don Jorge!”
CHAPTER XV
The Steamer - Cape Finisterre - The Storm - Arrival at Cadiz - The New
Testament - Seville - Italica - The Amphitheatre - The Prisoners - The
Encounter - Baron Taylor - The Street and Desert.
At the commencement of November, I again found myself on the salt water,
on my way to Spain. I had returned to England shortly after the
events which have been narrated in the last chapter, for the purpose
of consulting with my friends, and for planning the opening of a biblical
campaign in Spain. It was now determined by us to print the New
Testament, with as little delay as possible, at Madrid; and I was to
be entrusted with the somewhat arduous task of its distribution.
My stay in England was very short, for time was precious, and I was
eager to return to the field of action.
I embarked in the Thames, on board the M- steamer. We had a most
unpleasant passage to Falmouth; the ship was crowded with passengers,
most of them poor consumptive individuals, and other invalids fleeing
from the cold blasts of England’s winter to the sunny shores of
Portugal and Madeira. In a more uncomfortable vessel, especially
steam ship, it has never been my fate to make a voyage. The berths
were small and insupportably close, and of these wretched holes mine
was amongst the worst, the rest having been bespoken before I arrived
on board; so that to avoid the suffocation which seemed to threaten
me should I enter it, I lay upon the floor of one of the cabins throughout
the voyage. We remained at Falmouth twenty-four hours, taking
in coal, and repairing the engine, which had sustained considerable
damage.
On Monday, the seventh, we again started, and made for the Bay of Biscay.
The sea was high and the wind strong and contrary; nevertheless, on
the morning of the fourth day, we were in sight of the rocky coast to
the north of Cape Finisterre. I must here observe, that this was
the first voyage that the captain who commanded the vessel had ever
made on board of her, and that he knew little or nothing of the coast
towards which we were bearing. He was a person picked up in a
hurry, the former captain having resigned his command on the ground
that the ship was not seaworthy, and that the engines were frequently
unserviceable. I was not acquainted with these circumstances at
the time, or perhaps I should have felt more alarmed than I did, when
I saw the vessel approaching nearer and nearer the shore, till at last
we were only a few hundred yards distant. As it was, however,
I felt very much surprised; for having passed it twice before, both
times in steam vessels, and having seen with what care the captains
endeavoured to maintain a wide offing, I could not conceive the reason
of our being now so near this dangerous region. The wind was blowing
hard towards the shore, if that can be called a shore which consists
of steep abrupt precipices, on which the surf was breaking with the
noise of thunder, tossing up clouds of spray and foam to the height
of a cathedral. We coasted slowly along, rounding several tall
forelands, some of them piled up by the hand of nature in the most fantastic
shapes. About nightfall Cape Finisterre was not far ahead, - a
bluff, brown, granite mountain, whose frowning head may be seen far
away by those who traverse the ocean. The stream which poured
round its breast was terrific, and though our engines plied with all
their force, we made little or no way.
By about eight o’clock at night the wind had increased to a hurricane,
the thunder rolled frightfully, and the only light which we had to guide
us on our way was the red forked lightning, which burst at times from
the bosom of the big black clouds which lowered over our heads.
We were exerting ourselves to the utmost to weather the cape, which
we could descry by the lightning on our lee, its brow being frequently
brilliantly lighted up by the flashes which quivered around it, when
suddenly, with a great crash, the engine broke, and the paddles, on
which depended our lives, ceased to play.
I will not attempt to depict the scene of horror and confusion which
ensued; it may be imagined, but never described. The captain,
to give him his due, displayed the utmost coolness and intrepidity;
he and the whole crew made the greatest exertions to repair the engine,
and when they found their labour in vain, endeavoured, by hoisting the
sails, and by practising all possible manoeuvres, to preserve the ship
from impending destruction; but all was of no avail, we were hard on
a lee shore, to which the howling tempest was impelling us. About
this time I was standing near the helm, and I asked the steersman if
there was any hope of saving the vessel, or our lives. He replied,
“Sir, it is a bad affair, no boat could live for a minute in this
sea, and in less than an hour the ship will have her broadside on Finisterre,
where the strongest man-of-war ever built must go to shivers instantly
- none of us will see the morning.” The captain, likewise,
informed the other passengers in the cabin to the same effect, telling
them to prepare themselves; and having done so, he ordered the door
to be fastened, and none to be permitted to come on deck. I, however,
kept my station, though almost drowned with water, immense waves continually
breaking over our windward side and flooding the ship. The water
casks broke from their lashings, and one of them struck me down, and
crushed the foot of the unfortunate man at the helm, whose place was
instantly taken by the captain. We were now close to the rocks,
when a horrid convulsion of the elements took place. The lightning
enveloped us as with a mantle, the thunders were louder than the roar
of a million cannon, the dregs of the ocean seemed to be cast up, and
in the midst of all this turmoil, the wind, without the slightest intimation,
veered right about, and pushed us from the horrible coast faster
than it had previously driven us towards it.
The oldest sailors on board acknowledged that they had never witnessed
so providential an escape. I said, from the bottom of my heart,
“Our Father - hallowed be thy name.”
The next day we were near foundering, for the sea was exceedingly high,
and our vessel, which was not intended for sailing, laboured terribly,
and leaked much. The pumps were continually working. She
likewise took fire, but the flames were extinguished. In the evening
the steam-engine was partially repaired, and we reached Lisbon on the
thirteenth, where in a few days we completed our repairs.
I found my excellent friend W- in good health. During my absence
he had been doing everything in his power to further the sale of the
sacred volume in Portuguese: his zeal and devotedness were quite admirable.
The distracted state of the country, however, during the last six months,
had sadly impeded his efforts. The minds of the people had been
so engrossed with politics, that they found scarcely any time to think
of the welfare of their souls. The political history of Portugal
had of late afforded a striking parallel to that of the neighbouring
country. In both a struggle for supremacy had arisen between the
court and the democratic party; in both the latter had triumphed, whilst
two distinguished individuals had fallen a sacrifice to the popular
fury - Freire in Portugal, and Quesada in Spain. The news which
reached me at Lisbon from the latter country was rather startling.
The hordes of Gomez were ravaging Andalusia, which I was about to visit
on my way to Madrid; Cordova had been sacked and abandoned after a three
days’ occupation by the Carlists. I was told that if I persisted
in my attempt to enter Spain in the direction which I proposed, I should
probably fall into their hands at Seville. I had, however, no
fears, and had full confidence that the Lord would open the path before
me to Madrid.
The vessel being repaired, we again embarked, and in two days arrived
in safety at Cadiz. I found great confusion reigning there; numerous
bands of the factious were reported to be hovering in the neighbourhood.
An attack was not deemed improbable, and the place had just been declared
in a state of siege. I took up my abode at the French hotel in
the Calle de la Niveria, and was allotted a species of cockloft, or
garret, to sleep in, for the house was filled with guests, being a place
of much resort, on account of the excellent table d’hote which
is kept there. I dressed myself and walked about the town.
I entered several coffee-houses: the din of tongues in all was deafening.
In one no less than six orators were haranguing at the same time on
the state of the country, and the probability of an intervention on
the part of England and France. As I was listening to one of them,
he suddenly called upon me for my opinion, as I was a foreigner, and
seemingly just arrived. I replied that I could not venture to
guess what steps the two governments would pursue under the present
circumstances, but thought that it would be as well if the Spaniards
would exert themselves more and call less on Jupiter. As I did
not wish to engage in any political conversation, I instantly quitted
the house, and sought those parts of the town where the lower classes
principally reside.
I entered into discourse with several individuals, but found them very
ignorant; none could read or write, and their ideas respecting religion
were anything but satisfactory, - most professing a perfect indifference.
I afterwards went into a bookseller’s shop and made inquiries
respecting the demand for literature, which, he informed me, was small.
I produced a London edition of the New Testament in Spanish, and asked
the bookseller whether he thought a book of that description would sell
in Cadiz. He said that both the type and paper were exceedingly
beautiful, but that it was a work not sought after, and very little
known. I did not pursue my inquiries in other shops, for I reflected
that I was not likely to receive a very favourable opinion from booksellers
respecting a publication in which they had no interest. I had,
moreover, but two or three copies of the New Testament with me, and
could not have supplied them had they even given me an order.
Early on the twenty-fourth, I embarked for Seville in the small Spanish
steamer the Betis: the morning was wet, and the aspect of nature
was enveloped in a dense mist, which prevented my observing surrounding
objects. After proceeding about six leagues, we reached the north-eastern
extremity of the Bay of Cadiz, and passed by Saint Lucar, an ancient
town near to the spot where the Guadalquivir disembogues itself.
The mist suddenly disappeared, and the sun of Spain burst forth in full
brilliancy, enlivening all around, and particularly myself, who had
till then been lying on the deck in a dull melancholy stupor.
We entered the mouth of “The Great River,” for that is the
English translation of Oued al Kiber, as the Moors designated the ancient
Betis. We came to anchor for a few minutes at a little village
called Bonança, at the extremity of the first reach of the river,
where we received several passengers, and again proceeded. There
is not much in the appearance of the Guadalquivir to interest the traveller:
the banks are low and destitute of trees, the adjacent country is flat,
and only in the distance is seen a range of tall blue sierras.
The water is turbid and muddy, and in colour closely resembling the
contents of a duck-pool; the average width of the stream is from a hundred
and fifty to two hundred yards, but it is impossible to move along this
river without remembering that it has borne the Roman, the Vandal, and
the Arab, and has been the witness of deeds which have resounded through
the world and been the themes of immortal songs. I repeated Latin
verses and fragments of old Spanish ballads till we reached Seville,
at about nine o’clock of a lovely moonlight night.
Seville contains ninety thousand inhabitants, and is situated on the
eastern bank of the Guadalquivir, about eighteen leagues from its mouth;
it is surrounded with high Moorish walls, in a good state of preservation,
and built of such durable materials that it is probable they will for
many centuries still bid defiance to the encroachments of time.
The most remarkable edifices are the cathedral and Alcazar, or palace
of the Moorish kings; the tower of the former, called La Giralda, belongs
to the period of the Moors, and formed part of the grand mosque of Seville:
it is computed to be one hundred ells in height, and is ascended not
by stairs or ladders but by a vaulted pathway, in the manner of an inclined
plane: this path is by no means steep, so that a cavalier might ride
up to the top, a feat which Ferdinand the Seventh is said to have accomplished.
The view from the summit is very extensive, and on a fine clear day
the mountain ridge, called the Sierra de Ronda, may be discovered, though
upwards of twenty leagues distant. The cathedral itself is a noble
Gothic structure, reputed the finest of the kind in Spain. In
the chapels allotted to the various saints are some of the most magnificent
paintings which Spanish art has produced; indeed the Cathedral of Seville
is at the present time far more rich in splendid paintings than at any
former period; possessing many very recently removed from some of the
suppressed convents, particularly from the Capuchin and San Francisco.
No one should visit Seville without paying particular attention to the
Alcazar, that splendid specimen of Moorish architecture. It contains
many magnificent halls, particularly that of the ambassadors, so called,
which is in every respect more magnificent than the one of the same
name within the Alhambra of Granada. This palace was a favourite
residence of Peter the Cruel, who carefully repaired it without altering
its Moorish character and appearance. It probably remains in much
the same state as at the time of his death.
On the right side of the river is a large suburb, called Triana, communicating
with Seville by means of a bridge of boats; for there is no permanent
bridge across the Guadalquivir, owing to the violent inundations to
which it is subject. This suburb is inhabited by the dregs of
the populace, and abounds with Gitanos or Gypsies. About a league
and a half to the north-west stands the village of Santo Ponce: at the
foot and on the side of some elevated ground higher up are to be seen
vestiges of ruined walls and edifices, which once formed part of Italica,
the birth-place of Silius Italicus and Trajan, from which latter personage
Triana derives its name.
One fine morning I walked thither, and having ascended the hill, I directed
my course northward. I soon reached what had once been bagnios,
and a little farther on, in a kind of valley between two gentle declivities,
the amphitheatre. This latter object is by far the most considerable
relic of ancient Italica; it is oval in its form, with two gateways
fronting the east and west.
On all sides are to be seen the time-worn broken granite benches, from
whence myriads of human beings once gazed down on the area below, where
the gladiator shouted, and the lion and the leopard yelled: all around,
beneath these flights of benches, are vaulted excavations from whence
the combatants, part human part bestial, darted forth by their several
doors. I spent many hours in this singular place, forcing my way through
the wild fennel and brushwood into the caverns, now the haunts of adders
and other reptiles, whose hissings I heard. Having sated my curiosity,
I left the ruins, and returning by another way, reached a place where
lay the carcass of a horse half devoured; upon it, with lustrous eyes,
stood an enormous vulture, who, as I approached, slowly soared aloft
till he alighted on the eastern gate of the amphitheatre, from whence
he uttered a hoarse cry, as if in anger that I had disturbed him from
his feast of carrion.
Gomez had not hitherto paid a visit to Seville: when I arrived he was
said to be in the neighbourhood of Ronda. The city was under watch
and ward: several gates had been blocked up with masonry, trenches dug,
and redoubts erected, but I am convinced that the place would not have
held out six hours against a resolute attack. Gomez had proved
himself to be a most extraordinary man, and with his small army of Aragonese
and Basques had, within the last four months, made the tour of Spain.
He had very frequently been hemmed in by forces three times the number
of his own, in places whence escape appeared impossible, but he had
always battled his enemies, whom he seemed to laugh at. The most
absurd accounts of victories gained over him were continually issuing
from the press at Seville; amongst others, it was stated that his army
had been utterly defeated, himself killed, and that twelve hundred prisoners
were on their way to Saville. I saw these prisoners: instead of
twelve hundred desperadoes, they consisted of about twenty poor lame
ragged wretches, many of them boys from fourteen to sixteen years of
age. They were evidently camp followers, who, unable to keep up
with the army, had been picked up straggling in the plains and amongst
the hills.
It subsequently appeared that no battle had occurred, and that the death
of Gomez was a fiction. The grand defect of Gomez consisted in
not knowing how to take advantage of circumstances: after defeating
Lopez, he might have marched to Madrid and proclaimed Don Carlos there,
and after sacking Cordova he might have captured Seville.
There were several booksellers’ shops at Seville, in two of which
I found copies of the New Testament in Spanish, which had been obtained
from Gibraltar about two years before, since which time six copies had
been sold in one shop and four in the other. The person who generally
accompanied me in my walks about the town and the neighbourhood, was
an elderly Genoese, who officiated as a kind of valet de place in the
Posada del Turco, where I had taken up my residence. On learning
from me that it was my intention to bring out an edition of the New
Testament at Madrid, he observed that copies of the work might be extensively
circulated in Andalusia. “I have been accustomed to bookselling,”
he continued, “and at one time possessed a small shop of my own
in this place. Once having occasion to go to Gibraltar, I procured
several copies of the Scriptures; some, it is true, were seized by the
officers of the customs, but the rest I sold at a high price, and with
considerable profit to myself.”
I had returned from a walk in the country, on a glorious sunshiny morning
of the Andalusian winter, and was directing my steps towards my lodging:
as I was passing by the portal of a large gloomy house near the gate
of Xeres, two individuals dressed in zamarras emerged from the archway,
and were about to cross my path, when one, looking in my face, suddenly
started back, exclaiming in the purest and most melodious French: “What
do I see? If my eyes do not deceive me - it is himself.
Yes, the very same as I saw him first at Bayonne; then long subsequently
beneath the brick wall at Novogorod; then beside the Bosphorus; and
last at - at - Oh, my respectable and cherished friend, where was it
that I had last the felicity of seeing your well-remembered and most
remarkable physiognomy?”
Myself. - It was in the south of Ireland, if I mistake not.
Was it not there that I introduced you to the sorcerer who tamed the
savage horses by a single whisper into their ear? But tell me
what brings you to Spain and Andalusia, the last place where I should
have expected to find you?
Baron Taylor. - And wherefore, my most respectable B-?
Is not Spain the land of the arts; and is not Andalusia of all Spain
that portion which has produced the noblest monuments of artistic excellence
and inspiration? Surely you know enough of me to be aware that
the arts are my passion; that I am incapable of imagining a more exalted
enjoyment than to gaze in adoration on a noble picture. O come
with me! for you too have a soul capable of appreciating what is lovely
and exalted; a soul delicate and sensitive. Come with me, and
I will show you a Murillo, such as -. But first allow me to introduce
you to your compatriot. My dear Monsieur W., turning to his companion
(an English gentleman from whom and from his family I subsequently experienced
unbounded kindness and hospitality on various occasions, and at different
periods at Seville), allow me to introduce to you my most cherished
and respectable friend, one who is better acquainted with Gypsy ways
than the Chef des Bohémiens à Triana, one who is an expert
whisperer and horse-sorcerer, and who, to his honour I say it, can wield
hammer and tongs, and handle a horse-shoe with the best of the smiths
amongst the Alpujarras of Granada.
In the course of my travels I have formed various friendships and acquaintances,
but no one has more interested me than Baron Taylor, and there is no
one for whom I entertain a greater esteem and regard. To personal
and mental accomplishments of the highest order he unites a kindness
of heart rarely to be met with, and which is continually inducing him
to seek for opportunities of doing good to his fellow creatures, and
of contributing to their happiness; perhaps no person in existence has
seen more of the world and life in its various phases than himself.
His manners are naturally to the highest degree courtly, yet he nevertheless
possesses a disposition so pliable that he finds no difficulty in accommodating
himself to all kinds of company, in consequence of which he is a universal
favourite. There is a mystery about him, which, wherever he goes,
serves not a little to increase the sensation naturally created by his
appearance and manner. Who he is, no one pretends to assert with
downright positiveness: it is whispered, however, that he is a scion
of royalty; and who can gaze for a moment upon that most graceful figure,
that most intelligent but singularly moulded countenance, and those
large and expressive eyes, without feeling as equally convinced that
he is of no common lineage, as that he is no common man. Though
possessed of talents and eloquence which would speedily have enabled
him to attain to an illustrious position in the state, he has hitherto,
and perhaps wisely, contented himself with comparative obscurity, chiefly
devoting himself to the study of the arts and of literature, of both
of which he is a most bounteous patron.
He has, notwithstanding, been employed by the illustrious house to which
he is said to be related in more than one delicate and important mission,
both in the East and the West, in which his efforts have uniformly been
crowned with complete success. He was now collecting masterpieces
of the Spanish school of painting, which were destined to adorn the
saloons of the Tuileries.
He has visited most portions of the earth, and it is remarkable enough
that we are continually encountering each other in strange places and
under singular circumstances. Whenever he descries me, whether
in the street or the desert, the brilliant hall or amongst Bedouin haimas,
at Novogorod or Stambul, he flings up his arms and exclaims, “O
ciel! I have again the felicity of seeing my cherished and most
respectable B-.”
CHAPTER XVI
Departure for Cordova - Carmona - German Colonies - Language - The Sluggish
Horse - Nocturnal Welcome - Carlist Landlord - Good Advice - Gomez -
The Old Genoese - The Two Opinions.
After a sojourn of about fourteen days at Seville, I departed for Cordova.
The diligence had for some time past ceased running, owing to the disturbed
state of the province. I had therefore no resource but to proceed
thither on horseback. I hired a couple of horses, and engaged
the old Genoese, of whom I have already had occasion to speak, to attend
me as far as Cordova, and to bring them back. Notwithstanding
we were now in the depths of winter, the weather was beautiful, the
days sunny and brilliant, though the nights were rather keen.
We passed by the little town of Alcala, celebrated for the ruins of
an immense Moorish castle, which stand on a rocky hill, overhanging
a picturesque river. The first night we slept at Carmona, another
Moorish town, distant about seven leagues from Seville. Early
in the morning we again mounted and departed. Perhaps in the whole
of Spain there is scarcely a finer Moorish monument of antiquity than
the eastern side of this town of Carmona, which occupies the brow of
a lofty hill, and frowns over an extensive vega or plain, which extends
for leagues unplanted and uncultivated, producing nothing but brushwood
and carasco. Here rise tall and dusky walls, with square towers
at short distances, of so massive a structure that they would seem to
bid defiance alike to the tooth of time and the hand of man. This
town, in the time of the Moors, was considered the key to Seville, and
did not submit to the Christian arms till after a long and desperate
siege: the capture of Seville followed speedily after. The vega
upon which we now entered forms a part of the grand despoblado or desert
of Andalusia, once a smiling garden, but which became what it now is
on the expulsion of the Moors from Spain, when it was drained almost
entirely of its population. The towns and villages from hence
to the Sierra Morena, which divides Andalusia from La Mancha, are few
and far between, and even of these several date from the middle of the
last century, when an attempt was made by a Spanish minister to people
this wilderness with the children of a foreign land.
At about midday we arrived at a place called Moncloa, which consisted
of a venta, and a desolate-looking edifice which had something of the
appearance of a chateau: a solitary palm tree raised its head over the
outer wall. We entered the venta, tied our horses to the manger,
and having ordered barley for them, we sat down before a large fire,
which burned in the middle of the venta. The host and hostess
also came and sat down beside us. “They are evil people,”
said the old Genoese to me in Italian, “and this is an evil house;
it is a harbouring place for thieves, and murders have been committed
here, if all tales be true.” I looked at these two people
attentively; they were both young, the man apparently about twenty-five
years of age. He was a short thick-made churl, evidently of prodigious
strength; his features were rather handsome, but with a gloomy expression,
and his eyes were full of sullen fire. His wife somewhat resembled
him, but had a countenance more open and better tempered; but what struck
me as most singular in connexion with these people, was the colour of
their hair and complexion; the latter was fair and ruddy, and the former
of a bright auburn, both in striking contrast to the black hair and
swarthy visages which in general distinguish the natives of this province.
“Are you an Andalusian?” said I to the hostess. “I
should almost conclude you to be a German.”
Hostess. - And your worship would not be very wrong. It
is true that I am a Spaniard, being born in Spain, but it is equally
true that I am of German blood, for my grandparents came from Germany,
even like those of this gentleman, my lord and husband.
Myself. - And what chance brought your grandparents into this
country?
Hostess. - Did your worship never hear of the German colonies?
There are many of them in these parts. In old times the land was
nearly deserted, and it was very dangerous for travellers to journey
along the waste, owing to the robbers. So along time ago, nearly
a hundred years, as I am told, some potent lord sent messengers to Germany,
to tell the people there what a goodly land there was in these parts
uncultivated for want of hands, and to promise every labourer who would
consent to come and till it, a house and a yoke of oxen, with food and
provision for one year. And in consequence of this invitation
a great many poor families left the German land and came hither, and
settled down in certain towns and villages which had been prepared for
them, which places were called German colonies, and this name they still
retain.
Myself. - And how many of these colonies may there be?
Hostess. - There are several, both on this side of Cordova and
the other. The nearest is Luisiana, about two leagues from hence,
from which place both my husband and myself come; the next is Carlota,
which is some ten leagues distant, and these are the only colonies of
our people which I have seen; but there are others farther on, and some,
as I have heard say, in the very heart of the Sierra Morena.
Myself. - And do the colonists still retain the language of their
forefathers?
Hostess. - We speak Spanish, or rather Andalusian, and no other
language. A few, indeed, amongst the very old people, retain a
few words of German, which they acquired from their fathers, who were
born in the other country: but the last person amongst the colonists
who could understand a conversation in German, was the aunt of my mother,
who came over when a girl. When I was a child I remember her conversing
with a foreign traveller, a countryman of hers, in a language which
I was told was German, and they understood each other, though the old
woman confessed that she had lost many words: she has now been dead
several years.
Myself. - Of what religion are the colonists?
Hostess. - They are Christians, like the Spaniards, and so were
their fathers before them. Indeed, I have heard that they came
from a part of Germany where the Christian religion is as much practised
as in Spain itself.
Myself. - The Germans are the most honest people in the world:
being their legitimate descendants you have of course no thieves amongst
you.
The hostess glanced at me for a moment, then looked at her husband and
smiled: the latter, who had hitherto been smoking without uttering a
word, though with a peculiarly surly and dissatisfied countenance, now
flung the remainder of his cigar amongst the embers, then springing
up he muttered “Disparate!” and “Conversacion!”
and went abroad.
“You touched them in the sore place, Signor,” said the Genoese,
after we had left Moncloa some way behind us. “Were they
honest people they would not keep that venta; and as for the colonists,
I know not what kind of people they might be when they first came over,
but at present their ways are not a bit better than those of the Andalusians,
but rather worse, if there is any difference at all.”
A short time before sunset of the third day after our departure from
Seville, we found ourselves at the Cuesta del Espinal, or hill of the
thorn tree, at about two leagues from Cordova; - we could just descry
the walls of the city, upon which the last beams of the descending luminary
were resting. As the neighbourhood in which we were was, according
to the account of my guide, generally infested with robbers, we used
our best endeavours to reach the town before the night should have entirely
closed in. We did not succeed, however, and before we had proceeded
half the distance, pitchy darkness overtook us. Throughout the
journey we had been considerably delayed by the badness of our horses,
especially that of my attendant, which appeared to pay no regard to
whip or spur; his rider also was no horseman, it being thirty years,
as he at length confessed to me, since he last mounted in a saddle.
Horses soon become aware of the powers of their riders, and the brute
in question was disposed to take great advantage of the fears and weakness
of the old man. There is a remedy, however, for most things in
this world. I became so wearied at last at the snail’s pace
at which we were proceeding, that I fastened the bridle of the sluggish
horse to the crupper of mine, then sparing neither spur nor cudgel,
I soon forced my own horse into a kind of trot, which compelled the
other to make some use of his legs. He twice attempted to fling
himself down, to the great terror of his aged rider, who frequently
entreated me to stop and permit him to dismount. I, however, took
no notice of what he said, but continued spurring and cudgelling with
unabated activity, and with such success, that in less than half an
hour we saw lights close before us, and presently came to a river and
a bridge, which crossing, we found ourselves at the gate of Cordova,
without having broken either our horses’ knees or our own necks.
We passed through the entire length of the town ere we reached the posada;
the streets were dark and almost entirely deserted. The posada
was a large building, the windows of which were well fenced with rejas,
or iron grating: no light gleamed from them, and the silence of death
not only seemed to pervade the house, but the street in which it was
situated. We knocked for a long time at the gate without receiving
any answer; we then raised our voices and shouted. At last some
one from within inquired what we wanted. “Open the door
and you will see,” we replied. “I shall do no such
thing,” answered the individual from within, “until I know
who you are.” “We are travellers,” said I, “from
Seville.” “Travellers, are you,” said the voice;
“why did you not tell me so before? I am not porter at this
house to keep out travellers. Jesus Maria knows we have not so
many of them that we need repulse any. Enter, cavalier, and welcome,
you and your company.”
He opened the gate and admitted us into a spacious courtyard, and then
forthwith again secured the gate with various bolts and bars.
“Are you afraid that the Carlists should pay you a visit,”
I demanded, “that you take so much precaution?” “It
is not the Carlists we are afraid of,” replied the porter; “they
have been here already, and did us no damage whatever. It is certain
scoundrels of this town that we are afraid of, who have a spite against
the master of the house, and would murder both him and his family, could
they but find an opportunity.”
I was about to inquire the cause of this enmity, when a thick bulky
man, bearing a light in his hand, came running down a stone staircase,
which led into the interior of the building. Two or three females,
also bearing lights, followed him. He stopped on the lowest stair.
“Whom have we here?” he exclaimed; then advancing the lamp
which he bore, the light fell full upon my face. “Ola!”
he exclaimed; “Is it you? Only think,” said he, turning
to the female who stood next him, a dark-featured person, stout as himself,
and about his own age, which might border upon fifty; “Only think,
my dear, that at the very moment we were wishing for a guest an Englishman
should be standing before our doors; for I should know an Englishman
at a mile’s distance, even in the dark. Juanito,”
cried he to the porter, “open not the gate any more to-night,
whoever may ask for admission. Should the nationals come to make
any disturbance, tell them that the son of Belington (Wellington)
is in the house ready to attack them sword in hand unless they retire;
and should other travellers arrive, which is not likely, inasmuch as
we have seen none for a month past, say that we have no room, all our
apartments being occupied by an English gentleman and his company.”
I soon found that my friend the posadero was a most egregious Carlist.
Before I had finished supper - during which both himself and all his
family were present, surrounding the little table at which I sat, and
observing my every motion, particularly the manner in which I handled
my knife and fork and conveyed the food to my mouth - he commenced talking
politics: “I am of no particular opinion, Don Jorge,” said
he, for he had inquired my name in order that he might address me in
a suitable manner; “I am of no particular opinion, and I hold
neither for King Carlos nor for the Chica Isabel: nevertheless, I lead
the life of a dog in this accursed Christino town, which I would have
left long ago, had it not been the place of my birth, and did I but
know whither to betake myself. Ever since the troubles have commenced,
I have been afraid to stir into the street, for no sooner do the canaille
of the town see me turning round a corner, than they forthwith exclaim,
‘Halloo, the Carlist!’ and then there is a run and a rush,
and stones and cudgels are in great requisition: so that unless I can
escape home, which is no easy matter, seeing that I weigh eighteen stone,
my life is poured out in the street, which is neither decent nor convenient,
as I think you will acknowledge, Don Jorge! You see that young
man,” he continued, pointing to a tall swarthy youth who stood
behind my chair, officiating as waiter; “he is my fourth son,
is married, and does not live in the house, but about a hundred yards
down the street. He was summoned in a hurry to wait upon your
worship, as is his duty: know, however, that he has come at the peril
of his life: before he leaves this house he must peep into the street
to see if the coast is clear, and then he must run like a partridge
to his own door. Carlists! why should they call my family and
myself Carlists? It is true that my eldest son was a friar, and
when the convents were suppressed betook himself to the royal ranks,
in which he has been fighting upwards of three years; could I help that?
Nor was it my fault, I trow, that my second son enlisted the other day
with Gomez and the royalists when they entered Cordova. God prosper
him, I say; but I did not bid him go! So far from being a Carlist,
it was I who persuaded this very lad who is present to remain here,
though he would fain have gone with his brother, for he is a brave lad
and a true Christian. Stay at home, said I, for what can I do
without you? Who is to wait upon the guests when it pleases God
to send them. Stay at home, at least till your brother, my third
son, comes back, for, to my shame be it spoken, Don Jorge, I have a
son a soldier and a sergeant in the Christino armies, sorely against
his own inclination, poor fellow, for he likes not the military life,
and I have been soliciting his discharge for years; indeed, I have counselled
him to maim himself, in order that he might procure his liberty forthwith;
so I said to this lad, Stay at home, my child, till your brother comes
to take your place and prevent our bread being eaten by strangers, who
would perhaps sell me and betray me; so my son staid at home as you
see, Don Jorge, at my request, and yet they call me a Carlist?”
“Gomez and his bands have lately been in Cordova,” said
I; “of course you were present at all that occurred: how did they
comport themselves?”
“Bravely well,” replied the innkeeper, “bravely well,
and I wish they were here still. I hold with neither side, as
I told you before, Don Jorge, but I confess I never felt greater pleasure
in my life than when they entered the gate; and then to see the dogs
of nationals flying through the streets to save their lives - that was
a sight, Don Jorge - those who met me then at the corner forgot to shout
‘Halloo, Carlista!’ and I heard not a word about cudgelling;
some jumped from the wall and ran no one knows where, whilst the rest
retired to the house of the Inquisition, which they had fortified, and
there they shut themselves up. Now you must know, Don Jorge, that
all the Carlist chiefs lodged at my house, Gomez, Cabrera, and the Sawyer;
and it chanced that I was talking to my Lord Gomez in this very room
in which we are now, when in came Cabrera in a mighty fury - he is a
small man, Don Jorge, but he is as active as a wild cat and as fierce.
‘The canaille,’ said he, ‘in the Casa of the Inquisition
refuse to surrender; give but the order, General, and I will scale the
walls with my men and put them all to the sword’; but Gomez said,
‘No, we must not spill blood if we can avoid it; order a few muskets
to be fired at them, that will be sufficient!’ And so it
proved, Don Jorge, for after a few discharges their hearts failed them,
and they surrendered at discretion: whereupon their arms were taken
from them and they were permitted to return to their own houses; but
as soon as ever the Carlists departed, these fellows became as bold
as ever, and it is now once more, ‘Halloo, Carlista!’ when
they see me turning the corner, and it is for fear of them that my son
must run like a partridge to his own home, now that he has done waiting
on your worship, lest they meet him in the street and kill him with
their knives!”
“You tell me that you were acquainted with Gomez: what kind of
man might he be?”
“A middle-sized man,” replied the innkeeper; “grave
and dark. But the most remarkable personage in appearance of them
all was the Sawyer: he is a kind of giant, so tall, that when he entered
the doorway he invariably struck his head against the lintel.
The one I liked least of all was one Palillos, who is a gloomy savage
ruffian whom I knew when he was a postillion. Many is the time
that he has been at my house of old; he is now captain of the Manchegan
thieves, for though he calls himself a royalist, he is neither more
nor less than a thief: it is a disgrace to the cause that such as he
should be permitted to mix with honourable and brave men; I hate that
fellow, Don Jorge: it is owing to him that I have so few customers.
Travellers are, at present, afraid to pass through La Mancha, lest they
fall into his hands. I wish he were hanged, Don Jorge, and whether
by Christinos or Royalists, I care not.”
“You recognized me at once for an Englishman,” said I, “do
many of my countrymen visit Cordova?”
“Toma!” said the landlord, “they are my best
customers; I have had Englishmen in this house of all grades, from the
son of Belington to a young medico, who cured my daughter, the chica
here, of the ear-ache. How should I not know an Englishman?
There were two with Gomez, serving as volunteers. Vaya que
gente; what noble horses they rode, and how they scattered their
gold about; they brought with them a Portuguese, who was much of a gentleman
but very poor; it was said that he was one of Don Miguel’s people,
and that these Englishmen supported him for the love they bore to royalty;
he was continually singing
‘El Rey chegou - El Rey chegou,
E en Belem desembarcou!’ {11}
Those were merry days, Don Jorge. By the by, I forgot to ask your
worship of what opinion you are?”
The next morning, whilst I was dressing, the old Genoese entered my
room: “Signore,” said he, “I am come to bid you farewell.
I am about to return to Seville forthwith with the horses.”
“Wherefore in such a hurry,” I replied; “assuredly
you had better tarry till to-morrow; both the animals and yourself require
rest; repose yourselves to-day and I will defray the expense.”
“Thank you, Signore, but we will depart forthwith, for there is
no tarrying in this house.”
“What is the matter with the house?” I inquired.
“I find no fault with the house,” replied the Genoese, “it
is the people who keep it of whom I complain. About an hour since,
I went down to get my breakfast, and there, in the kitchen, I found
the master and all his family: well, I sat down and called for chocolate,
which they brought me, but ere I could dispatch it, the master fell
to talking politics. He commenced by telling me that he held with
neither side, but he is as rank a Carlist as Carlos Quinto: for no sooner
did he find that I was of the other opinion, than he glared at me like
a wild beast. You must know, Signore, that in the time of the
old constitution I kept a coffee-house at Seville, which was frequented
by all the principal liberals, and was, indeed, the cause of my ruin:
for as I admired their opinions, I gave my customers whatever credit
they required, both with regard to coffee and liqueurs, so that by the
time the constitution was put down and despotism re-established, I had
trusted them with all I had. It is possible that many of them
would have paid me, for I believe they harboured no evil intention;
but the persecution came, the liberals took to flight, and, as was natural
enough, thought more of providing for their own safety than of paying
me for my coffee and liqueurs; nevertheless, I am a friend to their
system, and never hesitate to say so. So the landlord, as I told
your worship before, when he found that I was of this opinion, glared
at me like a wild beast: ‘Get out of my house,’ said he,
‘for I will have no spies here,’ and thereupon he spoke
disrespectfully of the young Queen Isabel and of Christina, who, notwithstanding
she is a Neapolitan, I consider as my countrywoman. Hearing this,
your worship, I confess that I lost my temper and returned the compliment,
by saying that Carlos was a knave and the Princess of Beira no better
than she should be. I then prepared to swallow the chocolate,
but ere I could bring it to my lips, the woman of the house, who is
a still ranker Carlist than her husband, if that be possible, coming
up to me struck the cup into the air as high as the ceiling, exclaiming,
‘Begone, dog of a negro, you shall taste nothing more in my house;
may you be hanged even as a swine is hanged.’ So your worship
sees that it is impossible for me to remain here any longer. I
forgot to say that the knave of a landlord told me that you had confessed
yourself to be of the same politics as himself, or he would not have
harboured you.”
“My good man,” said I, “I am invariably of the politics
of the people at whose table I sit, or beneath whose roof I sleep, at
least I never say anything which can lead them to suspect the contrary;
by pursuing which system I have more than once escaped a bloody pillow,
and having the wine I drank spiced with sublimate.”
CHAPTER XVII
Cordova - Moors of Barbary - The English - An Old Priest - The Roman
Breviary - The Dovecote - The Holy Office - Judaism - Desecration of
Dovecotes - The Innkeeper’s Proposal.
Little can be said with respect to the town of Cordova, which is a mean
dark gloomy place, full of narrow streets and alleys, without squares
or public buildings worthy of attention, save and except its far-famed
cathedral; its situation, however, is beautiful and picturesque.
Before it runs the Guadalquivir, which, though in this part shallow
and full of sandbanks, is still a delightful stream; whilst behind it
rise the steep sides of the Sierra Morena, planted up to the top with
olive groves. The town or city is surrounded on all sides by lofty
Moorish walls, which may measure about three quarters of a league in
circumference; unlike Seville, and most other towns in Spain, it has
no suburbs.
I have said that Cordova has no remarkable edifices, save its cathedral;
yet this is perhaps the most extraordinary place of worship in the world.
It was originally, as is well known, a mosque, built in the brightest
days of Arabian dominion in Spain; in shape it was quadrangular, with
a low roof, supported by an infinity of small and delicately rounded
marble pillars, many of which still remain, and present at first sight
the appearance of a marble grove; the greater part, however, were removed
when the Christians, after the expulsion of the Moslems, essayed to
convert the mosque into a cathedral, which they effected in part by
the erection of a dome, and by clearing an open space for a choir.
As it at present exists, the temple appears to belong partly to Mahomet,
and partly to the Nazarene; and though this jumbling together of massive
Gothic architecture with the light and delicate style of the Arabians
produces an effect somewhat bizarre, it still remains a magnificent
and glorious edifice, and well calculated to excite feelings of awe
and veneration within the bosoms of those who enter it.
The Moors of Barbary seem to care but little for the exploits of their
ancestors: their minds are centred in the things of the present day,
and only so far as those things regard themselves individually.
Disinterested enthusiasm, that truly distinguishing mark of a noble
mind, and admiration for what is great, good, and grand, they appear
to be totally incapable of feeling. It is astonishing with what
indifference they stray amongst the relics of ancient Moorish grandeur
in Spain. No feelings of exultation seem to be excited by the
proof of what the Moor once was, nor of regret at the consciousness
of what he now is. More interesting to them are their perfumes,
their papouches, their dates, and their silks of Fez and Maraks, to
dispose of which they visit Andalusia; and yet the generality of these
men are far from being ignorant, and have both heard and read of what
was passing in Spain in the old time. I was once conversing with
a Moor at Madrid, with whom I was very intimate, about the Alhambra
of Granada, which he had visited. “Did you not weep,”
said I, “when you passed through the courts, and thought of the,
Abencerrages?” “No,” said he, “I did not
weep; wherefore should I weep?” “And why did you visit
the Alhambra?” I demanded. “I visited it,” he
replied, “because being at Granada on my own affairs, one of your
countrymen requested me to accompany him thither, that I might explain
some of the inscriptions. I should certainly not have gone of
my own accord, for the hill on which it stands is steep.”
And yet this man could compose verses, and was by no means a contemptible
poet. Once at Cordova, whilst I was in the cathedral, three Moors
entered it, and proceeded slowly across its floor in the direction of
a gate, which stood at the opposite side; they took no farther notice
of what was around them than by slightly glancing once or twice at the
pillars, one of them exclaiming, “Huaije del Mselmeen, huaije
del Mselmeen” (things of the Moors, things of the Moors);
and showed no other respect for the place where Abderrahman the Magnificent
prostrated himself of old, than facing about on arriving at the farther
door and making their egress backwards; yet these men were hajis and
talebs, men likewise of much gold and silver, men who had read, who
had travelled, who had seen Mecca, and the great city of Negroland.
I remained in Cordova much longer than I had originally intended, owing
to the accounts which I was continually hearing of the unsafe state
of the roads to Madrid. I soon ransacked every nook and cranny
of this ancient town, formed various acquaintances amongst the populace,
which is my general practice on arriving at a strange place. I
more than once ascended the side of the Sierra Morena, in which excursions
I was accompanied by the son of my host, - the tall lad of whom I have
already spoken. The people of the house, who had imbibed the idea
that I was of the same way of thinking as themselves, were exceedingly
courteous; it is true, that in return I was compelled to listen to a
vast deal of Carlism, in other words, high treason against the ruling
powers in Spain, to which, however, I submitted with patience.
“Don Jorgito,” said the landlord to me one day, “I
love the English; they are my best customers. It is a pity that
there is not greater union between Spain and England, and that more
English do not visit us. Why should there not be a marriage?
The king will speedily be at Madrid. Why should there not be bodas
between the son of Don Carlos and the heiress of England?”
“It would certainly tend to bring a considerable number of English
to Spain,” said I, “and it would not be the first time that
the son of a Carlos has married a Princess of England.”
The host mused for a moment, and then exclaimed, “Carracho, Don
Jorgito, if this marriage could be brought about, both the king and
myself should have cause to fling our caps in the air.”
The house or posada in which I had taken up my abode was exceedingly
spacious, containing an infinity of apartments, both large and small,
the greater part of which were, however, unfurnished. The chamber
in which I was lodged stood at the end of an immensely long corridor,
of the kind so admirably described in the wondrous tale of Udolfo.
For a day or two after my arrival I believed myself to be the only lodger
in the house. One morning, however, I beheld a strange-looking
old man seated in the corridor, by one of the windows, reading intently
in a small thick volume. He was clad in garments of coarse blue
cloth, and wore a loose spencer over a waistcoat adorned with various
rows of small buttons of mother of pearl; he had spectacles upon his
nose. I could perceive, notwithstanding he was seated, that his
stature bordered upon the gigantic. “Who is that person?”
said I to the landlord, whom I presently met; “is he also a guest
of yours?” “Not exactly, Don Jorge de mi alma,”
replied he, “I can scarcely call him a guest, inasmuch as I gain
nothing by him, though he is staying at my house. You must know,
Don Jorge, that he is one of two priests who officiate at a large village
at some slight distance from this place. So it came to pass, that
when the soldiers of Gomez entered the village, his reverence went to
meet them, dressed in full canonicals, with a book in his hand, and
he, at their bidding, proclaimed Carlos Quinto in the market-place.
The other priest, however, was a desperate liberal, a downright negro,
and upon him the royalists laid their hands, and were proceeding to
hang him. His reverence, however, interfered, and obtained mercy
for his colleague, on condition that he should cry Viva Carlos
Quinto! which the latter did in order to save his life.
Well; no sooner had the royalists departed from these parts than the
black priest mounts his mule, comes to Cordova, and informs against
his reverence, notwithstanding that he had saved his life. So
his reverence was seized and brought hither to Cordova, and would assuredly
have been thrown into the common prison as a Carlist, had I not stepped
forward and offered to be surety that he should not quit the place,
but should come forward at any time to answer whatever charge might
be brought against him; and he is now in my house, though guest I cannot
call him, for he is not of the slightest advantage to me, as his very
food is daily brought from the country, and that consists only of a
few eggs and a little milk and bread. As for his money, I have
never seen the colour of it, notwithstanding they tell me that he has
buenas pesetas. However, he is a holy man, is continually reading
and praying and is, moreover, of the right opinion. I therefore
keep him in my house, and would be bail for him were he twenty times
more of a skinflint than he seems to be.”
The next day, as I was again passing through the corridor, I observed
the old man in the same place, and saluted him. He returned my
salutation with much courtesy, and closing the book, placed it upon
his knee as if willing to enter into conversation. After exchanging
a word or two, I took up the book for the purpose of inspecting it.
“You will hardly derive much instruction from that book, Don Jorge,”
said the old man; “you cannot understand it, for it is not written
in English.”
“Nor in Spanish,” I replied. “But with respect
to understanding the book, I cannot see what difficulty there can be
in a thing so simple; it is only the Roman breviary written in the Latin
tongue.”
“Do the English understand Latin?” exclaimed he. “Vaya!
Who would have thought that it was possible for Lutherans to understand
the language of the church? Vaya! the longer one lives the more
one learns.”
“How old may your reverence be?” I inquired.
“I am eighty years, Don Jorge; eighty years, and somewhat more.”
Such was the first conversation which passed between his reverence and
myself. He soon conceived no inconsiderable liking for me, and
favoured me with no little of his company. Unlike our friend the
landlord, I found him by no means inclined to talk politics, which the
more surprised me, knowing, as I did, the decided and hazardous part
which he had taken on the late Carlist irruption into the neighbourhood.
He took, however, great delight in discoursing on ecclesiastical subjects
and the writings of the fathers.
“I have got a small library at home, Don Jorge, which consists
of all the volumes of the fathers which I have been able to pick up,
and I find the perusal of them a source of great amusement and comfort.
Should these dark days pass by, Don Jorge, and you should be in these
parts, I hope you will look in upon me, and I will show you my little
library of the fathers, and likewise my dovecote, where I rear numerous
broods of pigeons, which are also a source of much solace and at the
same time of profit.”
“I suppose by your dovecote,” said I, “you mean your
parish, and by rearing broods of pigeons, you allude to the care you
take of the souls of your people, instilling therein the fear of God,
and obedience to his revealed law, which occupation must of course afford
you much solace and spiritual profit.”
“I was not speaking metaphorically, Don Jorge,” replied
my companion; “and by rearing doves, I mean neither more nor less
than that I supply the market of Cordova with pigeons, and occasionally
that of Seville; for my birds are very celebrated, and plumper or fatter
flesh than theirs I believe cannot be found in the whole kingdom.
Should you come into my village, you will doubtless taste them, Don
Jorge, at the venta where you will put up, for I suffer no dovecotes
but my own within my district. With respect to the souls of my
parishioners, I trust I do my duty - I trust I do, as far as in my power
lies. I always took great pleasure in these spiritual matters,
and it was on that account that I attached myself to the Santa Casa
of Cordova, the duties of which I assisted to perform for a long period.”
“Your reverence has been an inquisitor?” I exclaimed, somewhat
startled.
“From my thirtieth year until the time of the suppression of the
holy office in these afflicted kingdoms.”
“You both surprise and delight me,” I exclaimed. “Nothing
could have afforded me greater pleasure than to find myself conversing
with a father formerly attached to the holy house of Cordova.”
The old man looked at me steadfastly; “I understand you, Don Jorge.
I have long seen that you are one of us. You are a learned and
holy man; and though you think fit to call yourself a Lutheran and an
Englishman, I have dived into your real condition. No Lutheran
would take the interest in church matters which you do, and with respect
to your being an Englishman, none of that nation can speak Castilian,
much less Latin. I believe you to be one of us - a missionary
priest, and I am especially confirmed in that idea by your frequent
conversations and interviews with the Gitanos; you appear to be labouring
among them. Be, however, on your guard, Don Jorge, trust not to
Egyptian faith; they are evil penitents, whom I like not. I would
not advise you to trust them.”
“I do not intend,” I replied; “especially with money.
But to return to more important matters: - of what crimes did this holy
house of Cordova take cognizance?”
“You are of course aware of the matters on which the holy office
exercises its functions. I need scarcely mention sorcery, Judaism,
and certain carnal misdemeanours.”
“With respect to sorcery,” said I, “what is your opinion
of it? Is there in reality such a crime?”
“Que se io {12}?”
said the old man, shrugging up his shoulders. “How should
I know? The church has power, Don Jorge, or at least it had power,
to punish for anything, real or unreal; and as it was necessary to punish
in order to prove that it had the power of punishing, of what consequence
whether it punished for sorcery or any other crime.”
“Did many cases of sorcery occur within your own sphere of knowledge?”
“One or two, Don Jorge; they were by no means frequent.
The last that I remember was a case which occurred in a convent at Seville:
a certain nun was in the habit of flying through the windows and about
the garden over the tops of the orange trees; declarations of various
witnesses were taken, and the process was arranged with much formality;
the fact, I believe, was satisfactorily proved: of one thing I am certain,
that the nun was punished.”
“Were you troubled with much Judaism in these parts?”
“Wooh! Nothing gave so much trouble to the Santa Casa as
this same Judaism. Its shoots and ramifications are numerous,
not only in these parts, but in all Spain; and it is singular enough,
that even among the priesthood, instances of Judaism of both kinds were
continually coming to our knowledge, which it was of course our duty
to punish.”
“Is there more than one species of Judaism?” I demanded.
“I have always arranged Judaism under two heads,” said the
old man, “the black and the white: by the black, I mean the observance
of the law of Moses in preference to the precepts of the church; then
there is the white Judaism, which includes all kinds of heresy, such
as Lutheranism, freemasonry, and the like.”
“I can easily conceive,” said I, “that many of the
priesthood favoured the principles of the reformation, and that the
minds of not a few had been led astray by the deceitful lights of modern
philosophy, but it is almost inconceivable to me that there should be
Jews amongst the priesthood who follow in secret the rites and observances
of the old law, though I confess that I have been assured of the fact
ere now.”
“Plenty of Judaism amongst the priesthood, whether of the black
or white species; no lack of it, I assure you, Don Jorge; I remember
once searching the house of an ecclesiastic who was accused of the black
Judaism, and after much investigation, we discovered beneath the floor
a wooden chest, in which was a small shrine of silver, inclosing three
books in black hogskin, which, on being opened, were found to be books
of Jewish devotion, written in Hebrew characters, and of great antiquity;
and on being questioned, the culprit made no secret of his guilt, but
rather gloried in it, saying that there was no God but one, and denouncing
the adoration of Maria Santissima as rank idolatry.”
“And between ourselves, what is your own opinion of the adoration
of this same Maria Santissima?”
“What is my opinion! Que se io?” said the old
man, shrugging up his shoulders still higher than on the former occasion;
“but I will tell you; I think, on consideration, that it is quite
right and proper; why not? Let any one pay a visit to my church,
and look at her as she stands there, tan bonita, tan guapita
- so well dressed and so genteel - with such pretty colours, such red
and white, and he would scarcely ask me why Maria Santissima should
not be adored. Moreover, Don Jorgito mio, this is a church matter
and forms an important part of the church system.”
“And now, with respect to carnal misdemeanours. Did you
take much cognizance of them?”
“Amongst the laity, not much; we, however, kept a vigilant eye
upon our own body, but, upon the whole, were rather tolerant in these
matters, knowing that the infirmities of human nature are very great
indeed: we rarely punished, save in cases where the glory of the church
and loyalty to Maria Santissima made punishment absolutely imperative.”
“And what cases might those be?” I demanded.
“I allude to the desecration of dovecotes, Don Jorge, and the
introduction therein of strange flesh, for purposes neither seemly nor
convenient.”
“Your reverence will excuse me for not yet perfectly understanding.”
“I mean, Don Jorge, certain acts of flagitiousness practised by
the clergy in lone and remote palomares (dovecotes) in olive
grounds and gardens; actions denounced, I believe, by the holy Pablo
in his first letter to Pope Sixtus. {13}
You understand me now, Don Jorge, for you are learned in church matters.”
“I think I understand you,” I replied.
After remaining several days more at Cordova, I determined to proceed
on my journey to Madrid, though the roads were still said to be highly
insecure. I, however, saw but little utility in tarrying and awaiting
a more tranquil state of affairs, which might never arrive. I
therefore consulted with the landlord respecting the best means of making
the journey. “Don Jorgito,” he replied, “I think
I can tell you. You say you are anxious to depart, and I never
wish to keep guests in my house longer than is agreeable to them; to
do so, would not become a Christian innkeeper: I leave such conduct
to Moors, Christinos, and Negroes. I will further you on your
journey, Don Jorge: I have a plan in my head, which I had resolved to
propose to you before you questioned me. There is my wife’s
brother, who has two horses which he occasionally lets out for hire;
you shall hire them, Don Jorge, and he himself shall attend you to take
care of you, and to comfort you, and to talk to you, and you shall pay
him forty dollars for the journey. Moreover, as there are thieves
upon the route, and malos sujetos, such as Palillos and his family,
you shall make an engagement and a covenant, Don Jorge, that provided
you are robbed and stripped on the route, and the horses of my wife’s
brother are taken from him by the thieves, you shall, on arriving at
Madrid, make good any losses to which my wife’s brother may be
subject in following you. This is my plan, Don Jorge, which no
doubt will meet with your worship’s approbation, as it is devised
solely for your benefit, and not with any view of lucre or interest
either to me or mine. You will find my wife’s brother pleasant
company on the route: he is a very respectable man, and one of the right
opinion, and has likewise travelled much; for between ourselves, Don
Jorge, he is something of a Contrabandista and frequently smuggles diamonds
and precious stones from Portugal, which he disposes of sometimes in
Cordova and sometimes at Madrid. He is acquainted with all the
short cuts, all the atajos, Don Jorge, and is much respected in all
the ventas and posadas on the way; so now give me your hand upon the
bargain, and I will forthwith repair to my wife’s brother to tell
him to get ready to set out with your worship the day after to-morrow.”
CHAPTER XVIII
Departure from Cordova - The Contrabandista - Jewish Cunning - Arrival
at Madrid.
One fine morning, I departed from Cordova, in company with the Contrabandista;
the latter was mounted on a handsome animal, something between a horse
and a pony, which he called a jaca, of that breed for which Cordova
is celebrated. It was of a bright bay colour, with a star in its
forehead, with strong but elegant limbs, and a long black tail, which
swept the ground. The other animal, which was destined to carry
me to Madrid, was not quite so prepossessing in its appearance: in more
than one respect it closely resembled a hog, particularly in the curving
of its back, the shortness of its neck, and the manner in which it kept
its head nearly in contact with the ground: it had also the tail of
a hog, and meandered over the ground much like one. Its coat more
resembled coarse bristles than hair, and with respect to size, I have
seen many a Westphalian hog quite as tall. I was not altogether
satisfied with the idea of exhibiting myself on the back of this most
extraordinary quadruped, and looked wistfully on the respectable animal
on which my guide had thought proper to place himself; he interpreted
my glances, and gave me to understand that as he was destined to carry
the baggage, he was entitled to the best horse; a plea too well grounded
on reason for me to make any objection to it.
I found the Contrabandista by no means such pleasant company on the
road as I had been led to suppose he would prove from the representation
of my host of Cordova. Throughout the day he sat sullen and silent,
and rarely replied to my questions, save by a monosyllable; at night,
however, after having eaten well and drank proportionably at my expense,
he would occasionally become more sociable and communicative.
“I have given up smuggling,” said he, on one of these occasions,
“owing to a trick which was played upon me the last time that
I was at Lisbon: a Jew whom I had been long acquainted with palmed upon
me a false brilliant for a real stone. He effected it in the most
extraordinary manner, for I am not such a novice as not to know a true
diamond when I see one; but the Jew appears to have had two, with which
he played most adroitly, keeping the valuable one for which I bargained,
and substituting therefor another which, though an excellent imitation,
was not worth four dollars. I did not discover the trick until
I was across the border, and upon my hurrying back, the culprit was
not to be found; his priest, however, told me that he was just dead
and buried, which was of course false, as I saw him laughing in the
corners of his eyes. I renounced the contraband trade from that
moment.”
It is not my intention to describe minutely the various incidents of
this journey. Leaving at our right the mountains of Jaen, we passed
through Andujar and Bailen, and on the third day reached Carolina, a
small but beautiful town on the skirts of the Sierra Morena, inhabited
by the descendants of German colonists. Two leagues from this
place, we entered the defile of Despeña Perros, which, even in
quiet times, has an evil name, on account of the robberies which are
continually being perpetrated within its recesses, but at the period
of which I am speaking, it was said to be swarming with banditti.
We of course expected to be robbed, perhaps stripped and otherwise ill-treated;
but Providence here manifested itself. It appeared that, the day
before our arrival, the banditti of the pass had committed a dreadful
robbery and murder, by which they gained forty thousand rials.
This booty probably contented them for a time; certain it is that we
were not interrupted: we did not even see a single individual in the
pass, though we occasionally heard whistles and loud cries. We
entered La Mancha, where I expected to fall into the hands of Palillos
and Orejita. Providence again showed itself. It had been
delicious weather, suddenly the Lord breathed forth a frozen blast,
the severity of which was almost intolerable; no human beings but ourselves
ventured forth. We traversed snow-covered plains, and passed through
villages and towns to all appearance deserted. The robbers kept
close in their caves and hovels, but the cold nearly killed us.
We reached Aranjuez late on Christmas Day, and I got into the house
of an Englishman, where I swallowed nearly a pint of brandy; it affected
me no more than warm water.
On the following day we arrived at Madrid, where we had the good fortune
to find everything tranquil and quiet. The Contrabandista continued
with me for two days, at the end of which time he returned to Cordova
upon the uncouth animal on which I had ridden throughout the journey.
I had myself purchased the jaca, whose capabilities I had seen on the
route, and which I imagined might prove useful in future journeys.
The Contrabandista was so satisfied with the price which I gave him
for his beast, and the general treatment which he had experienced at
my hands during the time of his attendance upon me, that he would fain
have persuaded me to retain him as a servant, assuring me that, in the
event of my compliance, he would forget his wife and children and follow
me through the world. I declined, however, to accede to his request,
though I was in need of a domestic; I therefore sent him back to Cordova,
where, as I subsequently learned, he died suddenly, about a week after
his return.
The manner of his death was singular: one day he took out his purse,
and, after counting his money, said to his wife, “I have made
ninety-five dollars by this journey with the Englishman and by the sale
of the jaca; this I could easily double by one successful venture in
the smuggling lay. To-morrow I will depart for Lisbon to buy diamonds.
I wonder if the beast requires to be shod?” He then started
up and made for the door, with the intention of going to the stable;
ere, however, his foot had crossed the threshold, he fell dead on the
floor. Such is the course of the world. Well said the wise
king: Let no one boast of the morrow.
CHAPTER XIX
Arrival at Madrid - Maria Diaz - Printing of the Testament - My Project
- Andalusian Steed - Servant Wanted - An Application - Antonio Buchini
- General Cordova - Principles of Honour.
On my arrival at Madrid I did not repair to my former lodgings in the
Calle de la Zarza, but took others in the Calle de Santiago, in the
vicinity of the palace. The name of the hostess (for there was,
properly speaking, no host) was Maria Diaz, of whom I shall take the
present opportunity of saying something in particular.
She was a woman of about thirty-five years of age, rather good-looking,
and with a physiognomy every lineament of which bespoke intelligence
of no common order. Her eyes were keen and penetrating, though
occasionally clouded with a somewhat melancholy expression. There
was a particular calmness and quiet in her general demeanour, beneath
which, however, slumbered a firmness of spirit and an energy of action
which were instantly displayed whenever necessary. A Spaniard
and, of course, a Catholic, she was possessed of a spirit of toleration
and liberality which would have done honour to individuals much her
superior in station. In this woman, during the remainder of my
sojourn in Spain, I found a firm and constant friend, and occasionally
a most discreet adviser: she entered into all my plans, I will not say
with enthusiasm, which, indeed, formed no part of her character, but
with cordiality and sincerity, forwarding them to the utmost of her
ability. She never shrank from me in the hour of danger and persecution,
but stood my friend, notwithstanding the many inducements which were
held out to her by my enemies to desert or betray me. Her motives
were of the noblest kind, friendship and a proper feeling of the duties
of hospitality; no prospect, no hope of self-interest, however remote,
influenced this admirable woman in her conduct towards me. Honour
to Maria Diaz, the quiet, dauntless, clever Castilian female.
I were an ingrate not to speak well of her, for richly has she deserved
an eulogy in the humble pages of The Bible in Spain.
She was a native of Villa Seca, a hamlet of New Castile, situated
in what is called the Sagra, at about three leagues’ distance
from Toledo: her father was an architect of some celebrity, particularly
skilled in erecting bridges. At a very early age she married a
respectable yeoman of Villa Seca, Lopez by name, by whom she had three
sons. On the death of her father, which occurred about five years
previous to the time of which I am speaking, she removed to Madrid,
partly for the purpose of educating her children, and partly in the
hope of obtaining from the government a considerable sum of money for
which it stood indebted to her father, at the time of his decease, for
various useful and ornamental works, principally in the neighbourhood
of Aranjuez. The justness of her claim was at once acknowledged;
but, alas! no money was forthcoming, the royal treasury being empty.
Her hopes of earthly happiness were now concentrated in her children.
The two youngest were still of a very tender age; but the eldest, Juan
José Lopez, a lad of about sixteen, was bidding fair to realize
the warmest hopes of his affectionate mother; he had devoted himself
to the arts, in which he made such progress that he had already become
the favourite pupil of his celebrated namesake Lopez, the best painter
of modern Spain. Such was Maria Diaz, who, according to a custom
formerly universal in Spain, and still very prevalent, retained the
name of her maidenhood though married. Such was Maria Diaz and
her family.
One of my first cares was to wait on Mr. Villiers, who received me with
his usual kindness. I asked him whether he considered that I might
venture to commence printing the Scriptures without any more applications
to government. His reply was satisfactory: “You obtained
the permission of the government of Isturitz,” said he, “which
was a much less liberal one than the present. I am a witness to
the promise made to you by the former ministers, which I consider sufficient.
You had best commence and complete the work as soon as possible, without
any fresh application; and should any one attempt to interrupt you,
you have only to come to me, whom you may command at any time.”
So I went away with a light heart, and forthwith made preparation for
the execution of the object which had brought me to Spain.
I shall not enter here into unnecessary details, which could possess
but little interest for the reader; suffice it to say that, within three
months from this time, an edition of the New Testament, consisting of
five thousand copies, was published at Madrid. The work was printed
at the establishment of Mr. Borrego, a well-known writer on political
economy, and proprietor and editor of an influential newspaper called
El Español. To this gentleman I had been recommended by
Isturitz himself, on the day of my interview with him. That unfortunate
minister had, indeed, the highest esteem for Borrego, and had intended
raising him to the station of minister of finance, when the revolution
of the Granja occurring, of course rendered abortive this project, with
perhaps many others of a similar kind which he might have formed.
The Spanish version of the New Testament which was thus published, had
been made many years before by a certain Padre Filipe Scio, confessor
of Ferdinand the Seventh, and had even been printed, but so encumbered
by notes and commentaries as to be unfitted for general circulation,
for which, indeed, it was never intended. In the present edition,
the notes were of course omitted, and the inspired word, and that alone,
offered to the public. It was brought out in a handsome octavo
volume, and presented, upon the whole, a rather favourable specimen
of Spanish typography.
The mere printing, however, of the New Testament at Madrid could be
attended with no utility whatever, unless measures, and energetic ones,
were taken for the circulation of the sacred volume.
In the case of the New Testament, it would not do to follow the usual
plan of publication in Spain, namely, to entrust the work to the booksellers
of the capital, and rest content with the sale which they and their
agents in the provincial towns might be able to obtain for it, in the
common routine of business; the result generally being, the circulation
of a few dozen copies in the course of the year; as the demand for literature
of every kind in Spain was miserably small.
The Christians of England had already made considerable sacrifices in
the hope of disseminating the word of God largely amongst the Spaniards,
and it was now necessary to spare no exertion to prevent that hope becoming
abortive. Before the book was ready, I had begun to make preparations
for putting a plan into execution, which had occupied my thoughts occasionally
during my former visit to Spain, and which I had never subsequently
abandoned. I had mused on it when off Cape Finisterre in the tempest;
in the cut-throat passes of the Morena; and on the plains of La Mancha,
as I jogged along a little way ahead of the Contrabandista.
I had determined, after depositing a certain number of copies in the
shops of the booksellers of Madrid, to ride forth, Testament in hand,
and endeavour to circulate the word of God amongst the Spaniards, not
only of the towns but of the villages; amongst the children not only
of the plains but of the hills and mountains. I intended to visit
Old Castile, and to traverse the whole of Galicia and the Asturias,
- to establish Scripture dépots in the principal towns, and to
visit the people in secret and secluded spots, - to talk to them of
Christ, to explain to them the nature of his book, and to place that
book in the hands of those whom I should deem capable of deriving benefit
from it. I was aware that such a journey would be attended with
considerable danger, and very possibly the fate of St. Stephen might
overtake me; but does the man deserve the name of a follower of Christ
who would shrink from danger of any kind in the cause of Him whom he
calls his Master? “He who loses his life for my sake, shall
find it,” are words which the Lord himself uttered. These
words were fraught with consolation to me, as they doubtless are to
every one engaged in propagating the gospel in sincerity of heart, in
savage and barbarian lands.
I now purchased another horse; for these animals, at the time of which
I am speaking, were exceedingly cheap. A royal requisition was
about to be issued for five thousand, the consequence being, that an
immense number were for sale, for, by virtue of this requisition, the
horses of any person not a foreigner could be seized for the benefit
of the service. It was probable that, when the number was made
up, the price of horses would be treble what it then was, which consideration
induced me to purchase this animal before I exactly wanted him.
He was a black Andalusian stallion of great power and strength, and
capable of performing a journey of a hundred leagues in a week’s
time, but he was unbroke, savage, and furious. A cargo of Bibles,
however, which I hoped occasionally to put on his back, would, I had
no doubt, thoroughly tame him, especially when labouring up the flinty
hills of the north of Spain. I wished to have purchased a mule,
but, though I offered thirty pounds for a sorry one, I could not obtain
her; whereas the cost of both the horses, tall powerful stately animals,
scarcely amounted to that sum.
The state of the surrounding country at this time was not very favourable
for venturing forth: Cabrera was within nine leagues of Madrid, with
an army nearly ten thousand strong; he had beaten several small detachments
of the queen’s troops, and had ravaged La Mancha with fire and
sword, burning several towns; bands of affrighted fugitives were arriving
every hour, bringing tidings of woe and disaster, and I was only surprised
that the enemy did not appear, and by taking Madrid, which was almost
at his mercy, put an end to the war at once. But the truth is,
that the Carlist generals did not wish the war to cease, for as long
as the country was involved in bloodshed and anarchy, they could plunder
and exercise that lawless authority so dear to men of fierce and brutal
passions. Cabrera, moreover, was a dastardly wretch, whose limited
mind was incapable of harbouring a single conception approaching to
grandeur; whose heroic deeds were confined to cutting down defenceless
men, and to forcing and disembowelling unhappy women; and yet I have
seen this wretched fellow termed by French journals (Carlist of course)
the young, the heroic general. Infamy on the cowardly assassin!
The shabbiest corporal of Napoleon would have laughed at his generalship,
and half a battalion of Austrian grenadiers would have driven him and
his rabble army headlong into the Ebro.
I now made preparations for my journey into the north. I was already
provided with horses well calculated to support the fatigues of the
road and the burdens which I might deem necessary to impose upon them.
One thing, however, was still lacking, indispensable to a person about
to engage on an expedition of this description; I mean a servant to
attend me. Perhaps there is no place in the world where servants
more abound than at Madrid, or at least fellows eager to proffer their
services in the expectation of receiving food and wages, though, with
respect to the actual service which they are capable of performing,
not much can be said; but I was in want of a servant of no common description,
a shrewd active fellow, of whose advice, in cases of emergency, I could
occasionally avail myself; courageous withal, for it certainly required
some degree of courage to follow a master bent on exploring the greater
part of Spain, and who intended to travel, not under the protection
of muleteers and carmen, but on his own cabalgaduras. Such a servant,
perhaps, I might have sought for years without finding; chance, however,
brought one to my hand at the very time I wanted him, without it being
necessary for me to make any laborious perquisitions. I was one
day mentioning the subject to Mr. Borrego, at whose establishment I
had printed the New Testament, and inquiring whether he thought that
such an individual was to be found in Madrid, adding that I was particularly
anxious to obtain a servant who, besides Spanish, could speak some other
language, that occasionally we might discourse without being understood
by those who might overhear us. “The very description of
person,” he replied, “that you appear to be in need of,
quitted me about half an hour ago, and, it is singular enough, came
to me in the hope that I might be able to recommend him to a master.
He has been twice in my service: for his talent and courage I will answer;
and I believe him to be trustworthy, at least to masters who may chime
in with his humour, for I must inform you that he is a most extraordinary
fellow, full of strange likes and antipathies, which he will gratify
at any expense, either to himself or others. Perhaps he will attach
himself to you, in which case you will find him highly valuable; for
if he please he can turn his hand to any thing, and is not only acquainted
with two but half a dozen languages.”
“Is he a Spaniard?” I inquired.
“I will send him to you to-morrow,” said Borrego, “you
will best learn from his own mouth who and what he is.”
The next day, as I had just sat down to my “sopa,” my hostess
informed me that a man wished to speak to me. “Admit him,”
said I, and he almost instantly made his appearance. He was dressed
respectably in the French fashion, and had rather a juvenile look, though
I subsequently learned that he was considerably above forty. He
was somewhat above the middle stature, and might have been called well
made, had it not been for his meagreness, which was rather remarkable.
His arms were long and bony, and his whole form conveyed an idea of
great activity united with no slight degree of strength: his hair was
wiry, but of jetty blackness; his forehead low; his eyes small and grey,
expressive of much subtlety and no less malice, strangely relieved by
a strong dash of humour; the nose was handsome, but the mouth was immensely
wide, and his under jaw projected considerably. A more singular
physiognomy I had never seen, and I continued staring at him for some
time in silence. “Who are you?” I at last demanded.
“Domestic in search of a master,” answered the man in good
French, but in a strange accent. “I come recommended to
you, my Lor, by Monsieur B.”
Myself. - Of what nation may you be? Are you French or
Spanish?
Man. - God forbid that I should be either, mi Lor, j’ai
l’honneur d’etre de la nation Grecque, my name is Antonio
Buchini, native of Pera the Belle near to Constantinople.
Myself. - And what brought you to Spain?
Buchini. - Mi Lor, je vais vous raconter mon histoire du
commencement jusqu’ici: - my father was a native of Sceira
in Greece, from whence at an early age he repaired to Pera, where he
served as janitor in the hotels of various ambassadors, by whom he was
much respected for his fidelity. Amongst others of these gentlemen,
he served him of your own nation: this occurred at the time that there
was war between England and the Porte. {14}
Monsieur the Ambassador had to escape for his life, leaving the greater
part of his valuables to the care of my father, who concealed them at
his own great risk, and when the dispute was settled, restored them
to Monsieur, even to the most inconsiderable trinket. I mention
this circumstance to show you that I am of a family which cherishes
principles of honour, and in which confidence may be placed. My
father married a daughter of Pera, et moi je suis l’unique
fruit de ce mariage. Of my mother I know nothing, as she died
shortly after my birth. A family of wealthy Jews took pity on
my forlorn condition and offered to bring me up, to which my father
gladly consented; and with them I continued several years, until I was
a beau garcon; they were very fond of me, and at last offered
to adopt me, and at their death to bequeath me all they had, on condition
of my becoming a Jew. Mais la circoncision n’etoit
guere a mon gout; especially that of the Jews, for I am a Greek,
am proud, and have principles of honour. I quitted them, therefore,
saying that if ever I allowed myself to be converted, it should be to
the faith of the Turks, for they are men, are proud, and have principles
of honour like myself. I then returned to my father, who procured
me various situations, none of which were to my liking, until I was
placed in the house of Monsieur Zea.
Myself. - You mean, I suppose, Zea Bermudez, who chanced to be
at Constantinople.
Buchini. - Just so, mi Lor, and with him I continued during
his stay. He put great confidence in me, more especially as I
spoke the pure Spanish language, which I acquired amongst the Jews,
who, as I have heard Monsieur Zea say, speak it better than the present
natives of Spain.
I shall not follow the Greek step by step throughout his history, which
was rather lengthy: suffice it to say, that he was brought by Zea Bermudez
from Constantinople to Spain, where he continued in his service for
many years, and from whose house he was expelled for marrying a Guipuscoan
damsel, who was fille de chambre to Madame Zea; since which time it
appeared that he had served an infinity of masters; sometimes as valet,
sometimes as cook, but generally in the last capacity. He confessed,
however, that he had seldom continued more than three days in the same
service, on account of the disputes which were sure to arise in the
house almost immediately after his admission, and for which he could
assign no other reason than his being a Greek, and having principles
of honour. Amongst other persons whom he had served was General
Cordova, who he said was a bad paymaster, and was in the habit of maltreating
his domestics. “But he found his match in me,” said
Antonio, “for I was prepared for him; and once, when he drew his
sword against me, I pulled out a pistol and pointed it in his face.
He grew pale as death, and from that hour treated me with all kinds
of condescension. It was only pretence, however, for the affair
rankled in his mind; he had determined upon revenge, and on being appointed
to the command of the army, he was particularly anxious that I should
attend him to the camp. Mais je lui ris au nez,
made the sign of the cortamanga - asked for my wages, and left him;
and well it was that I did so, for the very domestic whom he took with
him he caused to be shot upon a charge of mutiny.”
“I am afraid,” said I, “that you are of a turbulent
disposition, and that the disputes to which you have alluded are solely
to be attributed to the badness of your temper.”
“What would you have, Monsieur? Moi je suis Grec,
je suis fier et j’ai des principes d’honneur. I
expect to be treated with a certain consideration, though I confess
that my temper is none of the best, and that at times I am tempted to
quarrel with the pots and pans in the kitchen. I think, upon the
whole, that it will be for your advantage to engage me, and I promise
you to be on my guard. There is one thing that pleases me relating
to you, you are unmarried. Now, I would rather serve a young unmarried
man for love and friendship, than a Benedict for fifty dollars per month.
Madame is sure to hate me, and so is her waiting woman; and more particularly
the latter, because I am a married man. I see that mi Lor is willing
to engage me.”
“But you say you are a married man,” I replied; “how
can you desert your wife, for I am about to leave Madrid, and to travel
into the remote and mountainous parts of Spain.”
“My wife will receive the moiety of my wages, while I am absent,
mi Lor, and therefore will have no reason to complain of being deserted.
Complain! did I say; my wife is at present too well instructed to complain.
She never speaks nor sits in my presence unless I give her permission.
Am I not a Greek, and do I not know how to govern my own house?
Engage me, mi Lor, I am a man of many capacities: a discreet valet,
an excellent cook, a good groom and light rider; in a word, I am Ρωμαικος.
What would you more?”
I asked him his terms, which were extravagant, notwithstanding his principes
d’honneur. I found, however, that he was willing to
take one half.
I had no sooner engaged him, than seizing the tureen of soup, which
had by this time become quite cold, he placed it on the top of his forefinger,
or rather on the nail thereof, causing it to make various circumvolutions
over his head, to my great astonishment, without spilling a drop, then
springing with it to the door, he vanished, and in another moment made
his appearance with the puchera, which, after a similar bound and flourish,
he deposited on the table; then suffering his hands to sink before him,
he put one over the other and stood at his ease with half-shut eyes,
for all the world as if he had been in my service twenty years.
And in this manner Antonio Buchini entered upon his duties. Many
was the wild spot to which he subsequently accompanied me; many the
wild adventure of which he was the sharer. His behaviour was frequently
in the highest degree extraordinary, but he served me courageously and
faithfully: such a valet, take him for all in all,
“His like I ne’er expect to see again.”
Kosko bakh Anton.
CHAPTER XX
Illness - Nocturnal Visit - A Master Mind - The Whisper - Salamanca
- Irish Hospitality - Spanish Soldiers - The Scriptures advertised.
But I am anxious to enter upon the narrative of my journey, and shall
therefore abstain from relating to my readers a great many circumstances
which occurred previously to my leaving Madrid on this expedition.
About the middle of May I had got everything in readiness, and I bade
farewell to my friends. Salamanca was the first place which I
intended to visit.
Some days previous to my departure I was very much indisposed, owing
to the state of the weather, for violent and biting winds had long prevailed.
I had been attacked with a severe cold, which terminated in a disagreeable
cough, which the many remedies I successively tried seemed unable to
subdue. I had made preparations for departing on a particular
day, but, owing to the state of my health, I was apprehensive that I
should be compelled to defer my journey for a time. The last day
of my stay in Madrid, finding myself scarcely able to stand, I was fain
to submit to a somewhat desperate experiment, and by the advice of the
barber-surgeon who visited me, I determined to be bled. Late on
the night of that same day he took from me sixteen ounces of blood,
and having received his fee left me, wishing me a pleasant journey,
and assuring me, upon his reputation, that by noon the next day I should
be perfectly recovered.
A few minutes after his departure, whilst I was sitting alone, meditating
on the journey which I was about to undertake, and on the ricketty state
of my health, I heard a loud knock at the street door of the house,
on the third floor of which I was lodged. In another minute Mr.
S- of the British Embassy entered my apartment. After a little
conversation, he informed me that Mr. Villiers had desired him to wait
upon me to communicate a resolution which he had come to. Being
apprehensive that, alone and unassisted, I should experience great difficulty
in propagating the gospel of God to any considerable extent in Spain,
he was bent upon exerting to the utmost his own credit and influence
to further my views, which he himself considered, if carried into proper
effect, extremely well calculated to operate beneficially on the political
and moral state of the country. To this end it was his intention
to purchase a very considerable number of copies of the New Testament,
and to dispatch them forthwith to the various British consuls established
in different parts of Spain, with strict and positive orders to employ
all the means which their official situation should afford them to circulate
the books in question and to assure their being noticed. They
were, moreover, to be charged to afford me, whenever I should appear
in their respective districts, all the protection, encouragement, and
assistance which I should stand in need of.
I was of course much rejoiced on receiving this information, for though
I had long been aware that Mr. Villiers was at all times willing to
assist me, he having frequently given me sufficient proof, I could never
expect that he would come forward in so noble, and, to say the least
of it, considering his high diplomatic situation, so bold and decided
a manner. I believe that this was the first instance of a British
ambassador having made the cause of the Bible Society a national one,
or indeed of having favoured it directly or indirectly. What renders
the case of Mr. Villiers more remarkable is, that on my first arrival
at Madrid I found him by no means well disposed towards the Society.
The Holy Spirit had probably illumined his mind on this point.
I hoped that by his means our institution would shortly possess many
agents in Spain, who, with far more power and better opportunities than
I myself could ever expect to possess, would scatter abroad the seed
of the gospel, and make of a barren and thirsty wilderness a green and
smiling corn-field.
A word or two about the gentleman who paid me this nocturnal visit.
Though he has probably long since forgotten the humble circulator of
the Bible in Spain, I still bear in mind numerous acts of kindness which
I experienced at his hands. Endowed with an intellect of the highest
order, master of the lore of all Europe, profoundly versed in the ancient
tongues, and speaking most of the modern dialects with remarkable facility,
- possessed, moreover, of a thorough knowledge of mankind, - he brought
with him into the diplomatic career advantages such as few, even the
most highly gifted, can boast of. During his sojourn in Spain
he performed many eminent services for the government which employed
him; services which, I believe, it had sufficient discernment to see,
and gratitude to reward. He had to encounter, however, the full
brunt of the low and stupid malignity of the party who, shortly after
the time of which I am speaking, usurped the management of the affairs
of Spain. This party, whose foolish manoeuvres he was continually
discomfiting, feared and hated him as its evil genius, taking every
opportunity of showering on his head calumnies the most improbable and
absurd. Amongst other things, he was accused of having acted as
an agent to the English government in the affair of the Granja, bringing
about that revolution by bribing the mutinous soldiers, and more particularly
the notorious Sergeant Garcia. Such an accusation will of course
merely extract a smile from those who are at all acquainted with the
English character, and the general line of conduct pursued by the English
government. It was a charge, however, universally believed in
Spain, and was even preferred in print by a certain journal, the official
organ of the silly Duke of Frias, one of the many prime ministers of
the moderado party who followed each other in rapid succession towards
the latter period of the Carlist and Christino struggle. But when
did a calumnious report ever fall to the ground in Spain by the weight
of its own absurdity? Unhappy land, not until the pure light of
the Gospel has illumined thee wilt thou learn that the greatest of all
gifts is charity.
The next day verified the prediction of the Spanish surgeon; I had to
a considerable degree lost my cough and fever, though, owing to the
loss of blood, I was somewhat feeble. Precisely at twelve o’clock
the horses were led forth before the door of my lodging in the Calle
de Santiago, and I prepared to mount: but my black entero of Andalusia
would not permit me to approach his side, and whenever I made the attempt,
commenced wheeling round with great rapidity.
“C’est un mauvais signe, mon maitre,” said
Antonio, who, dressed in a green jerkin, a Montero cap, booted and spurred,
stood ready to attend me, holding by the bridle the horse which I had
purchased from the contrabandista. “It is a bad sign, and
in my country they would defer the journey till to-morrow.”
“Are there whisperers in your country?” I demanded; and
taking the horse by the mane, I performed the ceremony after the most
approved fashion: the animal stood still, and I mounted the saddle,
exclaiming -
“The Rommany Chal to his horse did cry,
As he placed the bit in his horse’s jaw;
Kosko gry! Rommany gry!
Muk man kistur tute knaw.”
We then rode forth from Madrid by the gate of San Vincente, directing
our course to the lofty mountains which separate Old from New Castile.
That night we rested at Guadarama, a large village at their foot, distant
from Madrid about seven leagues. Rising early on the following
morning, we ascended the pass and entered into Old Castile.
After crossing the mountains, the route to Salamanca lies almost entirely
over sandy and arid plains, interspersed here and there with thin and
scanty groves of pine. No adventure worth relating occurred during
this journey. We sold a few Testaments in the villages through
which we passed, more especially at Peñaranda. About noon
of the third day, on reaching the brow of a hillock, we saw a huge dome
before us, upon which the fierce rays of the sun striking, produced
the appearance of burnished gold. It belonged to the cathedral
of Salamanca, and we flattered ourselves that we were already at our
journey’s end; we were deceived, however, being still four leagues
distant from the town, whose churches and convents, towering up in gigantic
masses, can be distinguished at an immense distance, flattering the
traveller with an idea of propinquity which does not in reality exist.
It was not till long after nightfall that we arrived at the city gate,
which we found closed and guarded, in apprehension of a Carlist attack;
and having obtained admission with some difficulty, we led our horses
along dark, silent, and deserted streets, till we found an individual
who directed us to a large, gloomy, and comfortless posada, that of
the Bull, which we, however, subsequently found was the best which the
town afforded.
A melancholy town is Salamanca; the days of its collegiate glory are
long since past by, never more to return: a circumstance, however, which
is little to be regretted; for what benefit did the world ever derive
from scholastic philosophy? And for that alone was Salamanca ever
famous. Its halls are now almost silent, and grass is growing
in its courts, which were once daily thronged by at least eight thousand
students; a number to which, at the present day, the entire population
of the city does not amount. Yet, with all its melancholy, what
an interesting, nay, what a magnificent place is Salamanca! How
glorious are its churches, how stupendous are its deserted convents,
and with what sublime but sullen grandeur do its huge and crumbling
walls, which crown the precipitous bank of the Tormes, look down upon
the lovely river and its venerable bridge.
What a pity that, of the many rivers in Spain, scarcely one is navigable.
The beautiful but shallow Tormes, instead of proving a source of blessing
and wealth to this part of Castile, is of no further utility than to
turn the wheels of various small water mills, standing upon weirs of
stone, which at certain distances traverse the river.
My sojourn at Salamanca was rendered particularly pleasant by the kind
attentions and continual acts of hospitality which I experienced from
the inmates of the Irish College, to the rector of which I bore a letter
of recommendation from my kind and excellent friend Mr. O’Shea,
the celebrated banker of Madrid. It will be long before I forget
these Irish, more especially their head, Dr. Gartland, a genuine scion
of the good Hibernian tree, an accomplished scholar, and a courteous
and high-minded gentleman. Though fully aware who I was, he held
out the hand of friendship to the wandering heretic missionary, although
by so doing he exposed himself to the rancorous remarks of the narrow-minded
native clergy, who, in their ugly shovel hats and long cloaks, glared
at me askance as I passed by their whispering groups beneath the piazzas
of the Plaza. But when did the fear of consequences cause an Irishman
to shrink from the exercise of the duties of hospitality? However
attached to his religion - and who is so attached to the Romish creed
as the Irishman? - I am convinced that not all the authority of the
Pope or the Cardinals would induce him to close his doors on Luther
himself, were that respectable personage at present alive and in need
of food and refuge.
Honour to Ireland and her “hundred thousand welcomes!”
Her fields have long been the greenest in the world; her daughters the
fairest; her sons the bravest and most eloquent. May they never
cease to be so.
The posada where I had put up was a good specimen of the old Spanish
inn, being much the same as those described in the time of Philip the
Third or Fourth. The rooms were many and large, floored with either
brick or stone, generally with an alcove at the end, in which stood
a wretched flock bed. Behind the house was a court, and in the
rear of this a stable, full of horses, ponies, mules, machos, and donkeys,
for there was no lack of guests, who, however, for the most part slept
in the stable with their caballerias, being either arrieros or small
peddling merchants who travelled the country with coarse cloth or linen.
Opposite to my room in the corridor lodged a wounded officer, who had
just arrived from San Sebastian on a galled broken-kneed pony; he was
an Estrimenian, and was returning to his own village to be cured.
He was attended by three broken soldiers, lame or maimed, and unfit
for service: they told me that they were of the same village as his
worship, and on that account he permitted them to travel with him.
They slept amongst the litter, and throughout the day lounged about
the house smoking paper cigars. I never saw them eating, though
they frequently went to a dark cool corner, where stood a bota or kind
of water pitcher, which they held about six inches from their black
filmy lips, permitting the liquid to trickle down their throats.
They said they had no pay, and were quite destitute of money, that su
merced the officer occasionally gave them a piece of bread, but
that he himself was poor and had only a few dollars. Brave guests
for an inn, thought I; yet, to the honour of Spain be it spoken, it
is one of the few countries in Europe where poverty is never insulted
nor looked upon with contempt. Even at an inn, the poor man is
never spurned from the door, and if not harboured, is at least dismissed
with fair words, and consigned to the mercies of God and his mother.
This is as it should be. I laugh at the bigotry and prejudices
of Spain; I abhor the cruelty and ferocity which have cast a stain of
eternal infamy on her history; but I will say for the Spaniards, that
in their social intercourse no people in the world exhibit a juster
feeling of what is due to the dignity of human nature, or better understand
the behaviour which it behoves a man to adopt towards his fellow beings.
I have said that it is one of the few countries in Europe where poverty
is not treated with contempt, and I may add, where the wealthy are not
blindly idolized. In Spain the very beggar does not feel himself
a degraded being, for he kisses no one’s feet, and knows not what
it is to be cuffed or spitten upon; and in Spain the duke or the marquis
can scarcely entertain a very overweening opinion of his own consequence,
as he finds no one, with perhaps the exception of his French valet,
to fawn upon or flatter him.
During my stay at Salamanca, I took measures that the word of God might
become generally known in this celebrated city. The principal
bookseller of the town, Blanco, a man of great wealth and respectability,
consented to become my agent here, and I in consequence deposited in
his shop a certain number of New Testaments. He was the proprietor
of a small printing press, where the official bulletin of the place
was published. For this bulletin I prepared an advertisement of
the work, in which, amongst other things, I said that the New Testament
was the only guide to salvation; I also spoke of the Bible Society,
and the great pecuniary sacrifices which it was making with the view
of proclaiming Christ crucified, and of making his doctrine known.
This step will perhaps be considered by some as too bold, but I was
not aware that I could take any more calculated to arouse the attention
of the people - a considerable point. I also ordered numbers of
the same advertisement to be struck off in the shape of bills, which
I caused to be stuck up in various parts of the town. I had great
hope that by means of these a considerable number of New Testaments
would be sold. I intended to repeat this experiment in Valladolid,
Leon, St. Jago, and all the principal towns which I visited, and to
distribute them likewise as I rode along: the children of Spain would
thus be brought to know that such a work as the New Testament is in
existence, a fact of which not five in one hundred were then aware,
notwithstanding their so frequently-repeated boasts of their Catholicity
and Christianity.
CHAPTER XXI
Departure from Salamanca - Reception at Pitiegua - The Dilemma - Sudden
Inspiration - The Good Presbyter - Combat of Quadrupeds - Irish Christians
- Plains of Spain - The Catalans - The Fatal Pool - Valladolid - Circulation
of the Scriptures - Philippine Missions - English College - A Conversation
- The Gaoleress.
On Saturday, the tenth of June, I left Salamanca for Valladolid.
As the village where we intended to rest was only five leagues distant,
we did not sally forth till midday was past. There was a haze
in the heavens which overcast the sun, nearly hiding his countenance
from our view. My friend, Mr. Patrick Cantwell, of the Irish College,
was kind enough to ride with me part of the way. He was mounted
on a most sorry-looking hired mule, which, I expected would be unable
to keep pace with the spirited horses of myself and man, for he seemed
to be twin brother of the mule of Gil Perez, on which his nephew made
his celebrated journey from Oviedo to Peñaflor. I was,
however, very much mistaken. The creature on being mounted instantly
set off at that rapid walk which I have so often admired in Spanish
mules, and which no horse can emulate. Our more stately animals
were speedily left in the rear, and we were continually obliged to break
into a trot to follow the singular quadruped, who, ever and anon, would
lift his head high in the air, curl up his lip, and show his yellow
teeth, as if he were laughing at us, as perhaps he was. It chanced
that none of us was well acquainted with the road; indeed, I could see
nothing which was fairly entitled to that appellation. The way
from Salamanca to Valladolid is amongst a medley of bridle-paths and
drift-ways, where discrimination is very difficult. It was not
long before we were bewildered, and travelled over more ground than
was strictly necessary. However, as men and women frequently passed
on donkeys and little ponies, we were not too proud to be set right
by them, and by dint of diligent inquiry we at length arrived at Pitiegua,
four leagues from Salamanca, a small village, containing about fifty
families, consisting of mud huts, and situated in the midst of dusty
plains, where corn was growing in abundance. We asked for the
house of the cura, an old man whom I had seen the day before at the
Irish College, and who, on being informed that I was about to depart
for Valladolid, had exacted from me a promise that I would not pass
through his village without paying him a visit and partaking of his
hospitality.
A woman directed us to a cottage somewhat superior in appearance to
those contiguous. It had a small portico, which, if I remember
well, was overgrown with a vine. We knocked loud and long at the
door, but received no answer; the voice of man was silent, and not even
a dog barked. The truth was, that the old curate was taking his
siesta, and so were his whole family, which consisted of one ancient
female and a cat. The good man was at last disturbed by our noise
and vociferation, for we were hungry, and consequently impatient.
Leaping from his couch, he came running to the door in great hurry and
confusion, and perceiving us, he made many apologies for being asleep
at a period when, he said, he ought to have been on the lookout for
his invited guest. He embraced me very affectionately and conducted
me into his parlour, an apartment of tolerable size, hung round with
shelves, which were crowded with books. At one end there was a
kind of table or desk covered with black leather, with a large easy
chair, into which he pushed me, as I, with the true eagerness of a bibliomaniac,
was about to inspect his shelves; saying, with considerable vehemence,
that there was nothing there worthy of the attention of an Englishman,
for that his whole stock consisted of breviaries and dry Catholic treatises
on divinity.
His care now was to furnish us with refreshments. In a twinkling,
with the assistance of his old attendant, he placed on the table several
plates of cakes and confectionery, and a number of large uncouth glass
bottles, which I thought bore a strong resemblance to those of Schiedam,
and indeed they were the very same. “There,” said
he, rubbing his hands; “I thank God that it is in my power to
treat you in a way which will be agreeable to you. In those bottles
there is Hollands thirty years old”; and producing two large tumblers,
he continued, “fill, my friends, and drink, drink it every drop
if you please, for it is of little use to myself, who seldom drink aught
but water. I know that you islanders love it, and cannot live
without it; therefore, since it does you good, I am only sorry that
there is no more.”
Observing that we contented ourselves with merely tasting it, he looked
at us with astonishment, and inquired the reason of our not drinking.
We told him that we seldom drank ardent spirits; and I added, that as
for myself, I seldom tasted even wine, but like himself, was content
with the use of water. He appeared somewhat incredulous, but told
us to do exactly what we pleased, and to ask for what was agreeable
to us. We told him that we had not dined, and should be glad of
some substantial refreshment. “I am afraid,” said
he, “that I have nothing in the house which will suit you; however,
we will go and see.”
Thereupon he led us through a small yard at the back part of his house,
which might have been called a garden, or orchard, if it had displayed
either trees or flowers; but it produced nothing but grass, which was
growing in luxuriance. At one end was a large pigeon-house, which
we all entered: “for,” said the curate, “if we could
find some nice delicate pigeons they would afford you an excellent dinner.”
We were, however, disappointed; for after rummaging the nests, we only
found very young ones, unfitted for our purpose. The good man
became very melancholy, and said he had some misgivings that we should
have to depart dinnerless. Leaving the pigeon-house, he conducted
us to a place where there were several skeps of bees, round which multitudes
of the busy insects were hovering, filling the air with their music.
“Next to my fellow creatures,” said he, “there is
nothing which I love so dearly as these bees; it is one of my delights
to sit watching them, and listening to their murmur.” We
next went to several unfurnished rooms, fronting the yard, in one of
which were hanging several flitches of bacon, beneath which he stopped,
and looking up, gazed intently upon them. We told him that if
he had nothing better to offer, we should be very glad to eat some slices
of this bacon, especially if some eggs were added. “To tell
the truth,” said he, “I have nothing better, and if you
can content yourselves with such fare I shall be very happy; as for
eggs you can have as many as you wish, and perfectly fresh, for my hens
lay every day.”
So, after every thing was prepared and arranged to our satisfaction,
we sat down to dine on the bacon and eggs, in a small room, not the
one to which he had ushered us at first, but on the other side of the
doorway. The good curate, though he ate nothing, having taken
his meal long before, sat at the head of the table, and the repast was
enlivened by his chat. “There, my friends,” said he,
“where you are now seated, once sat Wellington and Crawford, after
they had beat the French at Arapiles, and rescued us from the thraldom
of those wicked people. I never respected my house so much as
I have done since they honoured it with their presence. They were
heroes, and one was a demigod.” He then burst into a most
eloquent panegyric of El Gran Lord, as he termed him, which I should
be very happy to translate, were my pen capable of rendering into English
the robust thundering sentences of his powerful Castilian. I had
till then considered him a plain uninformed old man, almost simple,
and as incapable of much emotion as a tortoise within its shell; but
he had become at once inspired: his eyes were replete with a bright
fire, and every muscle of his face was quivering. The little silk
skull-cap which he wore, according to the custom of the Catholic clergy,
moved up and down with his agitation, and I soon saw that I was in the
presence of one of those remarkable men who so frequently spring up
in the bosom of the Romish church, and who to a child-like simplicity
unite immense energy and power of mind, - equally adapted to guide a
scanty flock of ignorant rustics in some obscure village in Italy or
Spain, as to convert millions of heathens on the shores of Japan, China,
and Paraguay.
He was a thin spare man, of about sixty-five, and was dressed in a black
cloak of very coarse materials, nor were his other garments of superior
quality. This plainness, however, in the appearance of his outward
man was by no means the result of poverty; quite the contrary.
The benefice was a very plentiful one, and placed at his disposal annually
a sum of at least eight hundred dollars, of which the eighth part was
more than sufficient to defray the expenses of his house and himself;
the rest was devoted entirely to the purest acts of charity. He
fed the hungry wanderer, and dispatched him singing on his way, with
meat in his wallet and a peseta in his purse, and his parishioners,
when in need of money, had only to repair to his study and were sure
of an immediate supply. He was, indeed, the banker of the village,
and what he lent he neither expected nor wished to be returned.
Though under the necessity of making frequent journeys to Salamanca,
he kept no mule, but contented himself with an ass, borrowed from the
neighbouring miller. “I once kept a mule,” said he,
“but some years since it was removed without my permission by
a traveller whom I had housed for the night: for in that alcove I keep
two clean beds for the use of the wayfaring, and I shall be very much
pleased if yourself and friend will occupy them, and tarry with me till
the morning.”
But I was eager to continue my journey, and my friend was no less anxious
to return to Salamanca. Upon taking leave of the hospitable curate,
I presented him with a copy of the New Testament. He received
it without uttering a single word, and placed it on one of the shelves
of his study; but I observed him nodding significantly to the Irish
student, perhaps as much as to say, “Your friend loses no opportunity
of propagating his book”; for he was well aware who I was.
I shall not speedily forget the truly good presbyter, Anthonio Garcia
de Aguilar, Cura of Pitiegua.
We reached Pedroso shortly before nightfall. It was a small village
containing about thirty houses, and intersected by a rivulet, or as
it is called a regata. On its banks women and maidens were washing
their linen and singing couplets; the church stood lone and solitary
on the farther side. We inquired for the posada, and were shown
a cottage differing nothing from the rest in general appearance.
We called at the door in vain, as it is not the custom of Castile for
the people of these halting places to go out to welcome their visitors:
at last we dismounted and entered the house, demanding of a sullen-looking
woman where we were to place the horses. She said there was a
stable within the house, but we could not put the animals there as it
contained malos machos (savage mules) belonging to two travellers
who would certainly fight with our horses, and then there would be a
funcion, which would tear the house down. She then pointed to
an outhouse across the way, saying that we could stable them there.
We entered this place, which we found full of filth and swine, with
a door without a lock. I thought of the fate of the cura’s
mule, and was unwilling to trust the horses in such a place, abandoning
them to the mercy of any robber in the neighbourhood. I therefore
entered the house, and said resolutely, that I was determined to place
them in the stable. Two men were squatted on the ground, with
an immense bowl of stewed hare before them, on which they were supping;
these were the travelling merchants, the masters of the mutes.
I passed on to the stable, one of the men saying softly, “Yes,
yes, go in and see what will befall.” I had no sooner entered
the stable than I heard a horrid discordant cry, something between a
bray and a yell, and the largest of the machos, tearing his head from
the manger to which he was fastened, his eyes shooting flames, and breathing
a whirlwind from his nostrils, flung himself on my stallion. The
horse, as savage as himself, reared on his hind legs, and after the
fashion of an English pugilist, repaid the other with a pat on the forehead,
which nearly felled him. A combat instantly ensued, and I thought
that the words of the sullen woman would be verified by the house being
torn to pieces. It ended by my seizing the mute by the halter,
at the risk of my limbs, and hanging upon him with all my weight, whilst
Antonio, with much difficulty, removed the horse. The man who
had been standing at the entrance now came forward, saying, “This
would not have happened if you had taken good advice.” Upon
my stating to him the unreasonableness of expecting that I would risk
horses in a place where they would probably be stolen before the morning,
he replied, “True, true, you have perhaps done right.”
He then refastened his macho, adding for additional security a piece
of whipcord, which he said rendered escape impossible.
After supper I roamed about the village. I addressed two or three
labourers whom I found standing at their doors; they appeared, however,
exceedingly reserved, and with a gruff “buenas noches”
turned into their houses without inviting me to enter. I at last
found my way to the church porch, where I continued some time in meditation.
At last I bethought myself of retiring to rest; before departing, however,
I took out and affixed to the porch of the church an advertisement to
the effect that the New Testament was to be purchased at Salamanca.
On returning to the house, I found the two travelling merchants enjoying
profound slumber on various mantas or mule-cloths stretched on the floor.
“You are a French merchant, I suppose, Caballero,” said
a man, who it seemed was the master of the house, and whom I had not
before seen. “You are a French merchant, I suppose, and
are on the way to the fair of Medina.” “I am neither
Frenchman nor merchant,” I replied, “and though I purpose
passing through Medina, it is not with the view of attending the fair.”
“Then you are one of the Irish Christians from Salamanca, Caballero,”
said the man; “I hear you come from that town.” “Why
do you call them Irish Christians?” I replied. “Are
there pagans in their country?” “We call them Christians,”
said the man, “to distinguish them from the Irish English, who
are worse than pagans, who are Jews and heretics.” I made
no answer, but passed on to the room which had been prepared for me,
and from which, the door being ajar, I heard the following conversation
passing between the innkeeper and his wife:-
Innkeeper. - Muger, it appears to me that we have evil guests
in the house.
Wife. - You mean the last comers, the Caballero and his servant.
Yes, I never saw worse countenances in my life.
Innkeeper. - I do not like the servant, and still less the master.
He has neither formality nor politeness: he tells me that he is not
French, and when I spoke to him of the Irish Christians, he did not
seem to belong to them. I more than suspect that he is a heretic
or a Jew at least.
Wife. - Perhaps they are both. Maria Santissima! what shall
we do to purify the house when they are gone?
Innkeeper. - O, as for that matter, we must of course charge
it in the cuenta.
I slept soundly, and rather late in the morning arose and breakfasted,
and paid the bill, in which, by its extravagance, I found the purification
had not been forgotten. The travelling merchants had departed
at daybreak. We now led forth the horses, and mounted; there were
several people at the door staring at us. “What is the meaning
of this?” said I to Antonio.
“It is whispered that we are no Christians,” said Antonio;
“they have come to cross themselves at our departure.”
In effect, the moment that we rode forward a dozen hands at least were
busied in this evil-averting ceremony. Antonio instantly turned
and crossed himself in the Greek fashion, - much more complex and difficult
than the Catholic.
“Mirad que Santiguo! que Santiguo de los demonios!”
{15} exclaimed many
voices, whilst for fear of consequences we hastened away.
The day was exceedingly hot, and we wended our way slowly along the
plains of Old Castile. With all that pertains to Spain, vastness
and sublimity are associated: grand are its mountains, and no less grand
are its plains, which seem of boundless extent, but which are not tame
unbroken flats, like the steppes of Russia. Rough and uneven ground
is continually occurring: here a deep ravine and gully worn by the wintry
torrent; yonder an eminence not unfrequently craggy and savage, at whose
top appears the lone solitary village. There is little that is
blithesome and cheerful, but much that is melancholy. A few solitary
rustics are occasionally seen toiling in the fields - fields without
limit or boundary, where the green oak, the elm or the ash are unknown;
where only the sad and desolate pine displays its pyramid-like form,
and where no grass is to be found. And who are the travellers
of these districts? For the most part arrieros, with their long
trains of mules hung with monotonous tinkling bells. Behold them
with their brown faces, brown dresses, and broad slouched hats; - the
arrieros, the true lords of the roads of Spain, and to whom more respect
is paid in these dusty ways than to dukes and condes; - the arrieros,
sullen, proud, and rarely courteous, whose deep voices may be sometimes
heard at the distance of a mile, either cheering the sluggish animals,
or shortening the dreary way with savage and dissonant songs.
Late in the afternoon, we reached Medina del Campo, formerly one of
the principal cities of Spain, though at present an inconsiderable place.
Immense ruins surround it in every direction, attesting the former grandeur
of this “city of the plain.” The great square or market-place
is a remarkable spot, surrounded by a heavy massive piazza, over which
rise black buildings of great antiquity. We found the town crowded
with people awaiting the fair, which was to be held in a day or two.
We experienced some difficulty in obtaining admission into the posada,
which was chiefly occupied by Catalans from Valladolid. These
people not only brought with them their merchandise but their wives
and children. Some of them appeared to be people of the worst
description: there was one in particular, a burly savage-looking fellow,
of about forty, whose conduct was atrocious; he sat with his wife, or
perhaps concubine, at the door of a room which opened upon the court:
he was continually venting horrible and obscene oaths, both in Spanish
and Catalan. The woman was remarkably handsome, but robust and
seemingly as savage as himself; her conversation likewise was as frightful
as his own. Both seemed to be under the influence of an incomprehensible
fury. At last, upon some observation from the woman, he started
up, and drawing a long knife from his girdle, stabbed at her naked bosom;
she, however, interposed the palm of her hand, which was much cut.
He stood for a moment viewing the blood trickling upon the ground, whilst
she held up her wounded hand, then with an astounding oath he hurried
up the court to the Plaza. I went up to the woman and said, “What
is the cause of this? I hope the ruffian has not seriously injured
you.” She turned her countenance upon me with the glance
of a demon, and at last with a sneer of contempt exclaimed, “Carals,
que es eso? Cannot a Catalan gentleman be conversing with
his lady upon their own private affairs without being interrupted by
you?” She then bound up her hand with a handkerchief, and
going into the room brought a small table to the door, on which she
placed several things as if for the evening’s repast, and then
sat down on a stool: presently returned the Catalan, and without a word
took his seat on the threshold; then, as if nothing had occurred, the
extraordinary couple commenced eating and drinking, interlarding their
meal with oaths and jests.
We spent the night at Medina, and departing early next morning, passed
through much the same country as the day before, until about noon we
reached a small venta, distant half a league from the Duero; here we
reposed ourselves during the heat of the day, and then remounting, crossed
the river by a handsome stone bridge, and directed our course to Valladolid.
The banks of the Duero in this place have much beauty: they abound with
trees and brushwood, amongst which, as we passed along, various birds
were singing melodiously. A delicious coolness proceeded from
the water, which in some parts brawled over stones or rippled fleetly
over white sand, and in others glided softly over blue pools of considerable
depth. By the side of one of these last, sat a woman of about
thirty, neatly dressed as a peasant; she was gazing upon the water into
which she occasionally flung flowers and twigs of trees. I stopped
for a moment to ask a question; she, however, neither looked up nor
answered, but continued gazing at the water as if lost to consciousness
of all beside. “Who is that woman?” said I to a shepherd,
whom I met the moment after. “She is mad, la pobrecita,”
said he; “she lost her child about a month ago in that pool, and
she has been mad ever since; they are going to send her to Valladolid,
to the Casa de los Locos. There are many who perish every year
in the eddies of the Duero; it is a bad river; vaya usted con la
Virgen, Caballero.” So I rode on through the pinares,
or thin scanty pine forests, which skirt the way to Valladolid in this
direction.
Valladolid is seated in the midst of an immense valley, or rather hollow
which seems to have been scooped by some mighty convulsion out of the
plain ground of Castile. The eminences which appear in the neighbourhood
are not properly high grounds, but are rather the sides of this hollow.
They are jagged and precipitous, and exhibit a strange and uncouth appearance.
Volcanic force seems at some distant period to have been busy in these
districts. Valladolid abounds with convents, at present deserted,
which afford some of the finest specimens of architecture in Spain.
The principal church, though rather ancient, is unfinished: it was intended
to be a building of vast size, but the means of the founders were insufficient
to carry out their plan: it is built of rough granite. Valladolid
is a manufacturing town, but the commerce is chiefly in the hands of
the Catalans, of whom there is a colony of nearly three hundred established
here. It possesses a beautiful alameda, or public walk, through
which flows the river Escurva. The population is said to amount
to sixty thousand souls.
We put up at the Posada de las Diligencias, a very magnificent edifice:
this posada, however, we were glad to quit on the second day after our
arrival, the accommodation being of the most wretched description, and
the incivility of the people great; the master of the house, an immense
tall fellow, with huge moustaches and an assumed military air, being
far too high a cavalier to attend to the wants of his guests, with whom,
it is true, he did not appear to be overburdened, as I saw no one but
Antonio and myself. He was a leading man amongst the national
guards of Valladolid, and delighted in parading about the city on a
clumsy steed, which he kept in a subterranean stable.
Our next quarters were at the Trojan Horse, an ancient posada, kept
by a native of the Basque provinces, who at least was not above his
business. We found everything in confusion at Valladolid, a visit
from the factious being speedily expected. All the gates were
blockaded, and various forts had been built to cover the approaches
to the city. Shortly after our departure the Carlists actually
did arrive, under the command of the Biscayan chief, Zariategui.
They experienced no opposition; the staunchest nationals retiring to
the principal fort, which they, however, speedily surrendered, not a
gun being fired throughout the affair. As for my friend the hero
of the inn, on the first rumour of the approach of the enemy, he mounted
his horse and rode off, and was never subsequently heard of. On
our return to Valladolid, we found the inn in other and better hands,
those of a Frenchman from Bayonne, from whom we received as much civility
as we had experienced rudeness from his predecessor.
In a few days I formed the acquaintance of the bookseller of the place,
a kind-hearted simple man, who willingly undertook the charge of vending
the Testaments which I brought.
I found literature of every description at the lowest ebb at Valladolid.
My newly-acquired friend merely carried on bookselling in connexion
with other business; it being, as he assured me, in itself quite insufficient
to afford him a livelihood. During the week, however, that I continued
in this city, a considerable number of copies were disposed of, and
a fair prospect opened that many more would be demanded. To call
attention to my books, I had recourse to the same plan which I had adopted
at Salamanca, the affixing of advertisements to the walls. Before
leaving the city, I gave orders that these should be renewed every week;
from pursuing which course I expected that much manifold good would
accrue, as the people would have continual opportunities of learning
that a book which contains the living word was in existence, and within
their reach, which might induce them to secure it and consult it even
unto salvation.
In Valladolid I found both an English and Scotch College. From
my obliging friends, the Irish at Salamanca, I bore a letter of introduction
to the rector of the latter. I found this college an old gloomy
edifice, situated in a retired street. The rector was dressed
in the habiliments of a Spanish ecclesiastic, a character which he was
evidently ambitious of assuming. There was something dry and cold
in his manner, and nothing of that generous warmth and eager hospitality
which had so captivated me in the fine Irish rector of Salamanca; he
was, however, civil and polite, and offered to show me the curiosities
of the place. He evidently knew who I was, and on that account
was, perhaps, more reserved than he otherwise would have been: not a
word passed between us on religious matters, which we seemed to avoid
by common consent. Under the auspices of this gentleman, I visited
the college of the Philippine Missions, which stands beyond the gate
of the city, where I was introduced to the superior, a fine old man
of seventy, very stout, in the habiliments of a friar. There was
an air of placid benignity on his countenance which highly interested
me: his words were few and simple, and he seemed to have bid adieu to
all worldly passions. One little weakness was, however, still
clinging to him.
Myself. - This is a noble edifice in which you dwell, Father;
I should think it would contain at least two hundred students.
Rector. - More, my son; it is intended for more hundreds than
it now contains single individuals.
Myself. - I observe that some rude attempts have been made to
fortify it; the walls are pierced with loopholes in every direction.
Rector. - The nationals of Valladolid visited us a few days ago,
and committed much useless damage; they were rather rude, and threatened
me with their clubs: poor men, poor men.
Myself. - I suppose that even these missions, which are certainly
intended for a noble end, experience the sad effects of the present
convulsed state of Spain?
Rector. - But too true: we at present receive no assistance from
the government, and are left to the Lord and ourselves.
Myself. - How many aspirants for the mission are you at present
instructing?
Rector. - Not one, my son; not one. They are all fled.
The flock is scattered and the shepherd left alone.
Myself. - Your reverence has doubtless taken an active part in
the mission abroad?
Rector. - I was forty years in the Philippines, my son, forty
years amongst the Indians. Ah me! how I love those Indians of
the Philippines.
Myself. - Can your reverence discourse in the language of the
Indians?
Rector. - No, my son. We teach the Indians Castilian.
There is no better language, I believe. We teach them Castilian,
and the adoration of the Virgin. What more need they know?
Myself. - And what did your reverence think of the Philippines
as a country?
Rector. - I was forty years in the Philippines, but I know little
of the country. I do not like the country. I love the Indians.
The country is not very bad; it is, however, not worth Castile.
Myself. - Is your reverence a Castilian?
Rector. - I am an Old Castilian, my son.
From the house of the Philippine Missions my friend conducted me to
the English college; this establishment seemed in every respect to be
on a more magnificent scale than its Scottish sister. In the latter
there were few pupils, scarcely six or seven, I believe, whilst in the
English seminary I was informed that between thirty and forty were receiving
their education. It is a beautiful building, with a small but
splendid church, and a handsome library. The situation is light
and airy: it stands by itself in an unfrequented part of the city, and,
with genuine English exclusiveness, is surrounded by a high wall, which
encloses a delicious garden. This is by far the most remarkable
establishment of the kind in the Peninsula, and I believe the most prosperous.
From the cursory view which I enjoyed of its interior, I of course cannot
be expected to know much of its economy. I could not, however,
fall to be struck with the order, neatness, and system which pervaded
it. There was, however, an air of severe monastic discipline,
though I am far from asserting that such actually existed. We
were attended throughout by the sub-rector, the principal being absent.
Of all the curiosities of this college, the most remarkable is the picture
gallery, which contains neither more nor less than the portraits of
a variety of scholars of this house who eventually suffered martyrdom
in England, in the exercise of their vocation in the angry times of
the Sixth Edward and fierce Elizabeth. Yes, in this very house
were many of those pale smiling half-foreign priests educated, who,
like stealthy grimalkins, traversed green England in all directions;
crept into old halls beneath umbrageous rookeries, fanning the dying
embers of Popery, with no other hope nor perhaps wish than to perish
disembowelled by the bloody hands of the executioner, amongst the yells
of a rabble as bigoted as themselves: priests like Bedingfield and Garnet,
and many others who have left a name in English story. Doubtless
many a history, only the more wonderful for being true, could be wrought
out of the archives of the English Popish seminary at Valladolid.
There was no lack of guests at the Trojan Horse, where we had taken
up our abode at Valladolid. Amongst others who arrived during
my sojourn was a robust buxom dame, exceedingly well dressed in black
silk, with a costly mantilla. She was accompanied by a very handsome,
but sullen and malicious-looking urchin of about fifteen, who appeared
to be her son. She came from Toro, a place about a day’s
journey from Valladolid, and celebrated for its wine. One night,
as we were seated in the court of the inn enjoying the fresco, the following
conversation ensued between us.
Lady. - Vaya, vaya, what a tiresome place is Valladolid!
How different from Toro.
Myself. - I should have thought that it is at least as agreeable
as Toro, which is not a third part so large.
Lady. - As agreeable as Toro! Vaya, vaya! Were you
ever in the prison of Toro, Sir Cavalier?
Myself. - I have never had that honour; the prison is generally
the last place which I think of visiting.
Lady. - See the difference of tastes: I have been to see the
prison of Valladolid, and it seems as tiresome as the town.
Myself. - Of course, if grief and tediousness exist anywhere,
you will find them in the prison.
Lady. - Not in that of Toro.
Myself. - What does that of Toro possess to distinguish it from
all others?
Lady. - What does it possess? Vaya! Am I not the
carcelera? Is not my husband the alcayde? Is not that son
of mine a child of the prison?
Myself. - I beg your pardon, I was not aware of that circumstance;
it of course makes much difference.
Lady. - I believe you. I am a daughter of that prison,
my father was alcayde, and my son might hope to be so, were he not a
fool.
Myself. - His countenance then belies him strangely: I should
be loth to purchase that youngster for a fool.
Gaoleress. - You would have a fine bargain if you did; he has
more picardias than any Calabozero in Toro. What I mean is, that
he does not take to the prison as he ought to do, considering what his
fathers were before him. He has too much pride - too many fancies;
and he has at length persuaded me to bring him to Valladolid, where
I have arranged with a merchant who lives in the Plaza to take him on
trial. I wish he may not find his way to the prison: if he do,
he will find that being a prisoner is a very different thing from being
a son of the prison.
Myself. - As there is so much merriment at Toro, you of course
attend to the comfort of your prisoners.
Gaoleress. - Yes, we are very kind to them; I mean to those who
are caballeros; but as for those with vermin and miseria, what can we
do? It is a merry prison that of Toro; we allow as much wine to
enter as the prisoners can purchase and pay duty for. This of
Valladolid is not half so gay: there is no prison like Toro. I
learned there to play on the guitar. An Andalusian cavalier taught
me to touch the guitar and to sing à la Gitana. Poor fellow,
he was my first novio. Juanito, bring me the guitar, that I may
play this gentleman a tune of Andalusia.
The carcelera had a fine voice, and touched the favourite instrument
of the Spaniards in a truly masterly manner. I remained listening
to her performance for nearly an hour, when I retired to my apartment
and my repose. I believe that she continued playing and singing
during the greater part of the night, for as I occasionally awoke I
could still hear her; and, even in my slumbers, the strings were ringing
in my ears.
CHAPTER XXII
Dueñas - Children of Egypt - Jockeyism - The Baggage Pony - The
Fall - Palencia - Carlist Priests - The Lookout - Priestly Sincerity
- Leon - Antonio alarmed - Heat and Dust.
After a sojourn of about ten days at Valladolid, we directed our course
towards Leon. We arrived about noon at Dueñas, a town at
the distance of six short leagues from Valladolid. It is in every
respect a singular place: it stands on a rising ground, and directly
above it towers a steep conical mountain of calcareous earth, crowned
by a ruined castle. Around Dueñas are seen a multitude
of caves scooped in the high banks and secured with strong doors.
These are cellars, in which is deposited the wine, of which abundance
is grown in the neighbourhood, and which is chiefly sold to the Navarrese
and the mountaineers of Santander, who arrive in cars drawn by oxen,
and convey it away in large quantities. We put up at a mean posada
in the suburb for the purpose of refreshing our horses. Several
cavalry soldiers were quartered there, who instantly came forth, and
began, with the eyes of connoisseurs, to inspect my Andalusian entero.
“A capital horse that would be for our troop,” said the
corporal; “what a chest he has. By what right do you travel
with that horse, Señor, when so many are wanted for the Queen’s
service? He belongs to the requiso.” “I travel
with him by right of purchase, and being an Englishman,” I replied.
“Oh, your worship is an Englishman,” answered the corporal;
“that, indeed, alters the matter; the English in Spain are allowed
to do what they please with their own, which is more than the Spaniards
are. Cavalier, I have seen your countrymen in the Basque provinces;
Vaya, what riders! what horses! They do not fight badly either.
But their chief skill is in riding: I have seen them dash over barrancos
to get at the factious, who thought themselves quite secure, and then
they would fall upon them on a sudden and kill them to a man.
In truth, your worship, this is a fine horse, I must look at his teeth.”
I looked at the corporal - his nose and eyes were in the horse’s
mouth: the rest of the party, who might amount to six or seven, were
not less busily engaged. One was examining his forefeet, another
his hind; one fellow was pulling at his tail with all his might, while
another pinched the windpipe, for the purpose of discovering whether
the animal was at all touched there. At last perceiving that the
corporal was about to remove the saddle that he might examine the back
of the animal, I exclaimed:-
“Stay, ye chabés of Egypt, ye forget that ye are hundunares,
and are no longer paruguing grastes in the chardy.”
The corporal at these words turned his face full upon me, and so did
all the rest. Yes, sure enough, there were the countenances of
Egypt, and the fixed filmy stare of eye. We continued looking
at each other for a minute at least, when the corporal, a villainous-looking
fellow, at last said, in the richest gypsy whine imaginable, “the
erray know us, the poor Caloré! And he an Englishman!
Bullati! I should not have thought that there was e’er a
Busno would know us in these parts, where Gitanos are never seen.
Yes, your worship is right; we are all here of the blood of the Caloré;
we are from Melegrana (Granada), your worship; they took us from thence
and sent us to the wars. Your worship is right, the sight of that
horse made us believe we were at home again in the mercado of Granada;
he is a countryman of ours, a real Andalou. Por dios, your worship,
sell us that horse; we are poor Caloré, but we can buy him.”
“You forget that you are soldiers,” said I. “How
should you buy my horse?”
“We are soldiers, your worship,” said the corporal, “but
we are still Caloré; we buy and sell bestis; the captain of our
troop is in league with us. We have been to the wars, but not
to fight; we left that to the Busné. We have kept together,
and like true Caloré, have stood back to back. We have
made money in the wars, your worship. No tenga usted cuidao
(be under no apprehension). We can buy your horse.”
Here he pulled out a purse, which contained at least ten ounces of gold.
“If I were willing to sell,” I replied, “what would
you give me for that horse?”
“Then your worship wishes to sell your horse - that alters the
matter. We will give ten dollars for your worship’s horse.
He is good for nothing.”
“How is this?” said I. “You this moment told
me he was a fine horse - an Andalusian, and a countryman of yours.”
“No, Señor! we did not say that he was an Andalou.
We said he was an Estremou, and the worst of his kind. He is eighteen
years old, your worship, short-winded and galled.”
“I do not wish to sell my horse,” said I; “quite the
contrary; I had rather buy than sell.”
“Your worship does not wish to sell your horse,” said the
Gypsy. “Stay, your worship, we will give sixty dollars for
your worship’s horse.”
“I would not sell him for two hundred and sixty. Meclis!
Meclis! say no more. I know your Gypsy tricks. I will have
no dealings with you.”
“Did I not hear your worship say that you wished to buy a horse?”
said the Gypsy.
“I do not want to buy a horse,” said I; “if I need
any thing, it is a pony to carry our baggage; but it is getting late.
Antonio, pay the reckoning.”
“Stay, your worship, do not be in a hurry,” said the Gypsy:
“I have got the very pony which will suit you.”
Without waiting for my answer, he hurried into the stable, from whence
he presently returned, leading an animal by a halter. It was a
pony of about thirteen hands high, of a dark red colour; it was very
much galled all over, the marks of ropes and thongs being visible on
its hide. The figure, however, was good, and there was an extraordinary
brightness in its eye.
“There, your worship,” said the Gypsy; “there is the
best pony in all Spain.”
“What do you mean by showing me this wretched creature?”
said I.
“This wretched creature,” said the Gypsy, “is a better
horse than your Andalou!”
“Perhaps you would not exchange,” said I, smiling.
“Señor, what I say is, that he shall run with your Andalou,
and beat him!”
“He looks feeble,” said I; “his work is well nigh
done.”
“Feeble as he is, Señor, you could not manage him; no,
nor any Englishman in Spain.”
I looked at the creature again, and was still more struck with its figure.
I was in need of a pony to relieve occasionally the horse of Antonio
in carrying the baggage which we had brought from Madrid, and though
the condition of this was wretched, I thought that by kind treatment
I might possibly soon bring him round.
“May I mount this animal?” I demanded.
“He is a baggage pony, Señor, and is ill to mount.
He will suffer none but myself to mount him, who am his master.
When he once commences running, nothing will stop him but the sea.
He springs over hills and mountains, and leaves them behind in a moment.
If you will mount him, Señor, suffer me to fetch a bridle, for
you can never hold him in with the halter.”
“This is nonsense,” said I. “You pretend that
he is spirited in order to enhance the price. I tell you his work
is done.”
I took the halter in my hand and mounted. I was no sooner on his
back than the creature, who had before stood stone still, without displaying
the slightest inclination to move, and who in fact gave no farther indication
of existence than occasionally rolling his eyes and pricking up an ear,
sprang forward like a racehorse, at a most desperate gallop. I
had expected that he might kick or fling himself down on the ground,
in order to get rid of his burden, but for this escapade I was quite
unprepared. I had no difficulty, however, in keeping on his back,
having been accustomed from my childhood to ride without a saddle.
To stop him, however, baffled all my endeavours, and I almost began
to pay credit to the words of the Gypsy, who had said that he would
run on until he reached the sea. I had, however, a strong arm,
and I tugged at the halter until I compelled him to turn slightly his
neck, which from its stiffness might almost have been of wood; he, however,
did not abate his speed for a moment. On the left side of the
road down which he was dashing was a deep trench, just where the road
took a turn towards the right, and over this he sprang in a sideward
direction; the halter broke with the effort, the pony shot forward like
an arrow, whilst I fell back into the dust.
“Señor!” said the Gypsy, coming up with the most
serious countenance in the world, “I told you not to mount that
animal unless well bridled and bitted. H