The Bible in Spain, Vol. 1 [of 2]
by George Borrow · English · Gutenberg #35642 · 756,104 chars · public domain (US)
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Title: The Bible in Spain, Vol. 1 [of 2]
Author: George Borrow
Editor: Ulick Ralph Burke
Herbert W. Greene
Release date: March 21, 2011 [eBook #35642]
Language: English
Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/35642
Credits: Transcribed from the 1896 John Murray edition by David Price
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE BIBLE IN SPAIN, VOL. 1 [OF 2] ***
Transcribed from the 1896 John Murray edition by David Price, email
ccx074@pglaf.org
[Picture: Seville]
THE BIBLE IN SPAIN;
OR, THE JOURNEYS, ADVENTURES, AND
IMPRISONMENTS OF AN ENGLISHMAN
IN AN ATTEMPT TO CIRCULATE
THE SCRIPTURES IN
THE PENINSULA.
BY
GEORGE BORROW.
* * * * *
_A NEW EDITION_, _WITH NOTES AND A GLOSSARY_,
BY ULICK RALPH BURKE, M.A.,
AUTHOR OF “A HISTORY OF SPAIN,” ETC.
* * * * *
_IN TWO VOLUMES_.
VOL. I.
* * * * *
WITH MAP AND ENGRAVINGS.
* * * * *
LONDON:
JOHN MURRAY, ALBEMARLE STREET.
1896.
* * * * *
LONDON:
PRINTED BY WILLIAM CLOWES AND SONS, LIMITED,
STAMFORD STREET AND CHARING CROSS.
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 in 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 day-dreams 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 day-dream 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
_bacallao_ 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.” {0a}
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 Asturia, 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. {0b} 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; {0c} 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 become 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. {0d} 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 cutthroats, 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 toil-worn 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 _Cristino_ 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 Santísima_. 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 Inglaterra.”
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, {0e} 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 {0f} and Lyon, {0g} 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, {0h}
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 civilization 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 find but little to admire, it will give me credit for good
spirit, and for setting down nought in malice.
_Nov._ 26, 1842.
CONTENTS OF VOL. I.
INTRODUCTION BY THE EDITORS [i]
PAGE
CHAPTER I.
Man overboard—The Tagus—Foreign 1
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
CHAPTER II.
Boatmen of the Tagus—Dangers of the Stream—Aldea 17
Gallega—The Hostelry—Robbers—Sabocha—Adventure of a
Muleteer—Estalagem de Ladrões—Don Geronimo—Vendas
Novas—Royal Residence—Swine of the Alemtejo—Monte
Moro—Swayne Vonved—Singular Goatherd—Children of the
Fields—Infidels and Sadducees
CHAPTER III.
Shopkeeper at Evora—Spanish Contrabandistas—Lion and 33
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
CHAPTER IV.
Vexatious Delays—Drunken Driver—The Murdered Mule—The 48
Lamentation—Adventure on the Heath—Fear of
Darkness—Portuguese Fidalgo—The Escort—Return to Lisbon
CHAPTER V.
The College—The Rector—Shibboleth—National 59
Prejudices—Youthful Sports—Jews of Lisbon—Bad Faith—Crime
and Superstition
CHAPTER VI.
Cold of Portugal—Extortion prevented—Sensation of 71
Loneliness—The Dog—The Convent—Enchanting
Landscape—Moorish Fortresses—Prayer for the Sick
CHAPTER VII.
The Druid’s Stone—The Young Spaniard—Ruffianly 82
Soldiers—Evils of War—Estremoz—The Brawl—Ruined
Watch-tower—Glimpse of Spain—Old Times and New
CHAPTER VIII.
Elvas—Extraordinary Longevity—The English 94
Nation—Portuguese
Ingratitude—Illiberality—Fortifications—Spanish
Beggar—Badajoz—The Custom-House
CHAPTER IX.
Badajoz—Antonio the Gypsy—Antonio’s Proposal—The Proposal 105
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
CHAPTER X.
The Gypsy’s Granddaughter—Proposed Marriage—The 122
Alguazil—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 Thickets—Serious Discourse—What is Truth?—Unexpected
Intelligence
CHAPTER XI.
The Pass of Mirabete—Wolves and Shepherds—Female 145
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
CHAPTER XII.
Lodging at Madrid—My Hostess—British 162
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
Gitano
CHAPTER XIII.
Intrigues at Court—Quesada and Galiano—Dissolution of the 179
Cortes—The Secretary—Aragonese Pertinacity—The Council of
Trent—The Asturian—The Three Thieves—Benedict Mol—The Men
of Lucerne—The Treasure
CHAPTER XIV.
State of Spain—Isturitz—Revolution of the Granja—The 194
Disturbance—Signs of Mischief—Newspaper
Reporters—Quesada’s Onslaught—The Closing Scene—Flight of
the Moderados—The Coffee Bowl
CHAPTER XV.
The Steamer—Cape Finisterre—The Storm—Arrival at Cadiz—The 208
New Testament—Seville—Italica—The Amphitheatre—The
Prisoners—The Encounter—Baron Taylor—The Street and Desert
CHAPTER XVI.
Departure for Cordova—Carmona—German Colonies—Language—The 223
Sluggish Horse—Nocturnal Welcome—Carlist Landlord—Good
Advice—Gomez—The Old Genoese—The Two Opinions
CHAPTER XVII.
Cordova—Moors of Barbary—The English—An Old Priest—The 233
Roman Breviary—The Dovecote—The Holy
Office—Judaism—Desecration of Dovecotes—The Innkeeper’s
Proposal
CHAPTER XVIII.
Departure from Cordova—The Contrabandista—Jewish 252
Cunning—Arrival at Madrid
CHAPTER XIX.
Arrival at Madrid—Maria Diaz—Printing of the Testament—My 256
Project—Andalusian Steed—Servant Wanted—An
Application—Antonio Buchini—General Cordova—Principles of
Honour
CHAPTER XX.
Illness—Nocturnal Visit—A Master Mind—The 270
Whisper—Salamanca—Irish Hospitality—Spanish Soldiers—The
Scriptures advertised
CHAPTER XXI.
Departure from Salamanca—Reception at Pitiegua—The 280
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
CHAPTER XXII.
Dueñas—Children of Egypt—Jockeyism—The Baggage Pony—The 303
Fall—Palencia—Carlist Priests—The Look-out—Priestly
Sincerity—Leon—Antonio alarmed—Heat and Dust
CHAPTER XXIII.
Astorga—The Inn—The Maragatos—Habits of the Maragatos—The 319
Statue
CHAPTER XXIV.
Departure from Astorga—The Venta—The By-path—Narrow 326
Escape—The Cup of Water—Sun and Shade—Bembibre—Convent of
the Rocks—Sunset—Cacabelos—Midnight Adventure—Villafranca
CHAPTER XXV.
Villafranca—The Pass—Gallegan Simplicity—The Frontier 343
Guard—The Horse-shoe—Gallegan Peculiarities—A Word on
Language—The Courier—Wretched Cabins—Host and
Guests—Andalusians
CHAPTER XXVI.
Lugo—The Baths—A Family History—Miguelets—The Three 358
Heads—A Farrier—English Squadron—Sale of
Testaments—Corunna—The Recognition—Luigi Piozzi—The
Speculation—A Blank Prospect—John Moore
CHAPTER XXVII.
Compostella—Rey Romero—The Treasure-seeker—Hopeful 377
Project—The Church of Refuge—Hidden Riches—The
Canon—Spirit of Localism—The Leper—Bones of Saint James
CHAPTER XXVIII.
Skippers of Padron—Caldas de los Reyes—Pontevedra—The 392
Notary Public—Insane Barber—An Introduction—Gallegan
Language—Afternoon Ride—Vigo—The Stranger—Jews of the
Desert—Bay of Vigo—Sudden Interruption—The Governor
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.
VOL. I.
PAGE
SEVILLE _Frontispiece_
INTERIOR OF THE MOSQUE, CORDOVA _To face_ 238
INTRODUCTION.
PART I.
When George Borrow, in the month of November, 1835, steamed up the Tagus
on his adventurous journey to distribute the Bible in Spain, the
political situation throughout the Peninsula was so complicated and so
extraordinary, that a brief review of the events of the few years
immediately preceding his arrival will be necessary to enable any one but
a specially instructed reader to appreciate, or even to understand, his
position and his adventures.
When Ferdinand VII. was restored to his kingdom by the British arms in
1814, Spain was still governed by the Cortes elected under the Liberal
Constitution of 1812.
Ferdinand, having sworn many oaths to maintain this Constitution and
Parliamentary Institutions in the country, no sooner found himself firmly
seated on the throne, than, encouraged by the clergy within his
dominions, and by the Holy Alliance in Northern Europe, he issued an
edict dissolving the Cortes, and reviving the old absolutism with all the
old abuses in Spain.
The nobles were once again exempted from taxation; the monasteries were
restored; the Jesuits returned to Spain; the Inquisition was formally
re-established; all Liberal politicians were persecuted to the death.
For six years this royalist reign of terror—more dreadful by far than the
_Terreur blanche_ in contemporary France—was continued, until at length,
the great American colonies having asserted their independence, {2} the
standard of revolt was raised in Spain by Riego and Quiroga, two officers
in command of an expedition which was just about to sail from Cadiz to
renew the war against the colonists in South America in January, 1820.
The success of this political revolution was prompt and complete. In
March the king gave way, and once more accepted the Constitution of 1812;
and an administration of moderate reformers was formed under Martinez de
la Rosa, a well-known man of letters, and was generally acceptable to the
country.
After much intrigue and factious opposition, both on the part of the
extreme Royalists and the extreme Radicals, the election of Riego to the
Presidency of the Cortes in 1822 marked the extreme limit of the triumph
of the Liberal party in Spain.
The Congress of Verona in October, 1822; the growing pretensions of the
Holy Alliance; the mission of the Duke of Wellington, with George
Canning’s protest against the armed intervention of any of the Powers in
the domestic affairs of the Peninsula; and the ultimate invasion of Spain
by a French army of 100,000 men under the Duc d’Angoulême, eldest son of
the Comte d’Artois, afterwards Charles X., in April, 1823;—these things
belong as much to European as to Spanish history, and need only be
referred to in passing.
The French army, as may be supposed, met with no serious opposition.
Madrid was easily occupied before the end of May. Cadiz, maintaining a
brief but honourable resistance, yielded to a bombardment in September;
and Ferdinand VII., reinvested with absolute power over his subjects by
foreign artillery and foreign bayonets in October, 1823, immediately
unswore all his oaths, and restored all the old tyranny and abuses in
Spain. Riego was at once put to death. All Liberals and even
_moderados_ were exposed to a sanguinary and relentless persecution. The
leaders and their richer and more important partisans were as a rule able
to make good their flight, in many cases to England; but their humbler
followers paid the penalty of their liberalism with their lives. The
French army of occupation remained in Spain for four years—1823–1827—and
Cadiz was not evacuated until 1828.
In September, 1824, Charles X. succeeded the more liberal Louis XVIII. on
the throne of France, and George Canning, unable to compel or persuade
the French to leave the Spanish people to themselves in Spain, “called a
new world into existence to restore the balance in the old,” and
recognized the independence of the Spanish American colonies.
In 1829 Ferdinand VII. married, as his fourth wife, Maria Christina of
Naples, a sister of the Duchesse de Berri; {3} and on October 10, 1830,
the queen gave birth to a daughter, who was christened Isabella,
afterwards so well known as Isabel II. of Spain. {4a} The king, her
father, immediately issued a Pragmatic Sanction, declaring the Salic law
to be of no effect in Spain; and the young princess was accordingly
recognized as heir-apparent to the crown. A formal protest was made by
King Ferdinand’s younger brother, Don Carlos, who found himself thus
excluded from the succession, against this decree, and who soon
afterwards quitted Spain.
On Michaelmas Day, 1833, Ferdinand VII. died, and his daughter Isabella
was immediately proclaimed queen, as Isabel II., with her mother Doña
Cristina as regent, {4b} of Spain throughout Spain.
Don Carlos, who had taken refuge in Portugal, found himself unable to
cross the frontier, and was constrained to make his way from Lisbon by
sea to London, and thence by way of France into the Basque provinces,
where he arrived in September, 1834. Thus were founded the Carlist and
the _Cristino_ parties; and on the side of the former were at once ranged
all the Basques, and the representatives of the absolutist and
ultra-clerical party throughout Spain.
Don Carlos himself, unable to cross the frontier, {4c} made his way from
Portugal to England, and thence through France (May, 1834), where his
pretensions were not unfavourably regarded, into Northern Spain
(September, 1834). Mendizabal, a Cadiz Jew of much financial skill, who
had acquired great experience and some consideration in England during
his exile from 1823 to 1833, became Prime Minister of the Regency.
PART II.
On the outbreak of hostilities in the north-west, the most capable
commander on the side of the Carlists was the Basque, Tomás
Zumalacarregui. Born at Ormastegui, in Guipuzcoa, in 1788, he had served
in the Spanish army from 1808 to 1831 without finding any special favour
or advancement from king or Cortes. Dismissed the service in 1831, he
emerged from his retirement on the death of Ferdinand VII. in 1833, and,
openly attaching himself to the Carlist fortunes, he took the field
against the queen’s troops at the head of some eight hundred partisans.
So great was his zeal and energy, and so popular was Zumalacarregui
himself in his native Guipuzcoa, that in less than a year this little
force had grown in his hands into an army of over thirty-five thousand
men, superior not only in fighting qualities, but even in discipline, to
any of the queen’s forces, fairly armed, and well supplied with food and
clothing.
But in spite of his commanding qualities, which made him indispensable to
the Carlist cause, the success of the blunt and robust soldier excited
the jealousy, not only of his subordinate commanders, and of the priests
and women who had so great an influence at the court of Don Carlos, but
even of the Pretender himself.
The only general who may be compared with Zumalacarregui on the Carlist
side was born at Tortosa, at the mouth of the Ebro, as late as December,
1806, and was thus nearly twenty years younger than the Basque commander.
Cabrera was destined for the priesthood, and actually received the
_tonsura_ in 1825, but in 1833 he quitted the convent of the
_Trinitarios_ at Tortosa and joined the Carlist army near the historic
mountain fortress of Morella in November, 1833; and in less than twelve
months he had been appointed a colonel in the Carlist army in Aragon.
On the side of the Constitutionalists there was no display of military
talent, or even of capacity. Rodil, Amildez, Mina, Valdez, followed each
other without advantage to the queen’s cause, and in spite of all the
advantages incident to a regular government, with command of the capital
and all the departments, little or no advantage was gained by the
Constitutional forces for long after the first outbreak of hostilities.
The war, however, was carried on by both _Cristinos_ and Carlists with
the utmost savagery.
The wholesale massacre of wounded and prisoners by both the _Cristino_
and Carlist generals aroused the indignation of every civilized
community, and especially in England, where an uneasy sense of
responsibility for the atrocities which were committed was natural in
view of the fact that the government had taken to some extent an official
part in the war, and that English regiments were soon to be exposed to
the cruelties against which the whole of Europe was protesting. The
pressure of public opinion in England, indeed, was so strong that at
length Lord Eliot was despatched to Spain to negotiate a convention
between the belligerents which would ensure the ordinary laws of
civilized warfare being obeyed. It was a difficult task. {7a}
But by the exertions of Lord Eliot and Colonel Wylde of the Royal
Artillery, who was serving as a kind of military _attaché_ at the
head-quarters of the queen’s forces, a convention, known as the “Eliot
Convention,” was at length signed by Zumalacarregui at or near Logroño,
on April 27 and 28, 1835.
The convention, as might have been supposed, was in practice regarded by
neither party, and was evaded when not actually set at nought. It was
said not to apply to any part of Spain but the Basque provinces, nor to
any troops enlisted after its signature in April; but the massacre of
prisoners was possibly not so systematically carried out after the
agreement as it had been before. But, strangest of all, as soon as the
news of the signature of this convention became known at Madrid, the
utmost indignation was expressed, not only by the populace of Madrid, but
in the Cortes. An attempt was made to kill Señor Martinez de la Rosa in
the streets by an armed mob, and the ministry was compelled to resign.
Count Toreno was then called to the supreme power on June 7, with
Mendizabal as finance minister.
Meanwhile the military skill of Zumalacarregui in the Basque provinces,
and of Cabrera in the east of Spain, had alone prolonged the struggle
during 1834 and 1835; but the death of Zumalacarregui from a wound
received in action near Bilbao in June, 1835, was a serious blow to the
hopes of the Pretender, although there are good grounds for supposing
that the bold general’s end was hastened by poison administered by his
own partisans. {8}
In the month of April of this same year, 1835, Lord Palmerston, who,
after a brief retirement from office in 1834, was once more Foreign
Secretary in London, had sanctioned the enlisting of an army of ten
thousand men in England, which, under the command of Colonel, afterwards
Sir de Lacy Evans, landed at San Sebastian in August to assist the
government of the regency to put down the Carlists in the northwest.
There was already a British Auxiliary Contingent attached to the Spanish
army, and the British Naval Squadron, under Lord John Hay, assisted the
_Cristinos_ on the coast between Bilbao and Santander.
But neither the native nor the British supporters of the regent were at
this time successful in the Basque provinces. Bilbao was for many months
besieged, and was at length relieved only in the month of December, 1836,
by the English forces co-operating with Espartero, who was created, for
his share in the victory, Count of Luchana.
The ministry of Count Toreno had lasted only from June to September
(1835), when Mendizabal assumed the chief direction of affairs; and it
was just two months later (November, 1835) that George Borrow first set
foot on the soil of the Peninsula.
Mendizabal continued to be Prime Minister until May, 1836, when he was
succeeded by a coalition ministry of Isturitz, Galiano and the Duke of
Rivas (see text, p. 181), under whose administration took place the
military riots at Madrid (August 11, 12), which were most bravely
repressed by General Quesada, the commandant of the city, as so
graphically recorded by Borrow (pp. 202–205). Yet Quesada’s valour was
of no avail. The decree of La Granja, of August 13 and 14, extorted from
the fears of the queen regent by actual threats of military violence, was
followed by the precipitate flight of Isturitz and Galiano to France, and
of the Duke of Rivas to Gibraltar, and the assumption of power by Señor
Calatrava, with Mendizabal as Minister of Finance. Quesada was murdered,
as is said and sung on p. 206 of the text.
If the _Cristino_ cause had made but little progress in 1836, there was
even less encouragement to be found in the result of the military
operations in the earlier part of 1837. General Evans was defeated at
Hernani, near San Sebastian, in March, and although Lord John Hay with
his English mariners took Irun, Don Carlos was allowed to march almost
unopposed upon the capital. On September 12, he found himself within
four leagues of Madrid, and had it not been for his own poltroonery and
the jealousy and incompetence of those by whom he was surrounded, he
might have ridden into the Puerta del Sol on the next day as King of
Spain. But, _dis aliter visum_ and all undefeated, he turned his back
upon La Corte, and marched northwards with no apparent reason or policy,
closely pressed by the new commander-in-chief of the _Cristino_ forces, a
man whose name is distinguished above that of any of his fellows in the
contemporary history of his country.
Baldomero Espartero, the son of a village wheelwright in La Mancha, was
born in 1792. Destined, like Cabrera, for the priesthood, he took up
arms on the French invasion in 1808, and at the conclusion of the War of
Independence in 1814 obtained a military position in Peru, in which he
had an opportunity of distinguishing himself. After the capitulation of
Ayacucho, when the independence of Peru was finally recognized, Espartero
returned to Spain, and after some ten years of uneventful but honoured
service in the home army he found himself, in 1833, entrusted with an
important command in the queen’s army. Indolent and yet ambitious,
dilatory and yet vigorous when opportunity offered, loyal and yet
politically untrustworthy, Espartero flourished in the troublous times in
which he found himself, and made a name for himself both in camp and
court; and having, as we have seen, been created Count of Luchana on the
relief of Bilbao, he had taken the place of Señor Calatrava as Prime
Minister in August, 1837, and was succeeded in the following October by
Don José Maria Perez, who in turn gave place to Ofalia on November 30
(see text, vol. ii. pp. 100, 121), when Espartero returned to Madrid as
Minister of War.
Cabrera meanwhile was ravaging Aragon and Valencia, and continued not
only absolutely to disregard the Eliot Convention, and to massacre all
the military prisoners that surrendered to him, but to put to death the
women and even the children that fell into his hands.
But with the war in Aragon and Catalonia, the readers of Borrow’s _Bible
in Spain_ have happily no need further to concern themselves.
The British legion, which, after two years’ evil fortune was at length
becoming a force of some military value, was broken up and sent back to
London at the expense of the British treasury, though a remnant elected
to remain in the Peninsula, which did good service until the close of the
year as the “British Auxiliary Brigade.”
In the spring of 1838 Espartero once more assumed the command of the
queen’s army with the title of captain-general, and gained an indecisive
victory over the Carlists at Peñacerrada, between Logroño and Vitoria, in
June, 1838; while Cabrera was able to repulse the queen’s forces who
sought to drive him from the strong position he had taken up at Aragon.
The ministry resigned in August, and the Duke of Frias presided over a
short-lived cabinet, for in December, 1838, a new ministry was formed
under Señor Perez de Castro; and Espartero, at length assuming the
offensive with some vigour, was enabled, by the treachery of the Carlist
general Maroto, to march unopposed into Orduña, the ancient capital of
Biscay, in May, 1839.
After this practical victory Espartero was hailed as the saviour of his
country, and received the title of Duque de la Victoria. Dissension soon
completed what treachery had so well begun.
Even among the strong partisan officials of Don Carlos there were three
parties, viz. _Marotistas_, men whose professed object was to force Don
Carlos to leave Spain, and to bring about a marriage between his son and
the young queen, which, combined with a modified constitution, might
pacify Spain; secondly, a party headed by Villa Real and Marco del Pont,
having for its object the establishment of Don Carlos on the throne, with
powers limited by a permanent Cortes; and thirdly, the bigoted Absolutist
party, headed by Cabrera and Teijeiro.
In all these circumstances it was not surprising that the abandonment of
Orduña in May should have been followed, after a good deal of intrigue
and very little fighting, by the Convention of Vergara on the last day of
August.
Don Carlos immediately fled to France, and was housed by the French
government at Bourges, where he continued to hold his court, and the war
in North-Western Spain was at an end.
Cabrera, however, would have nothing to say to the Convention of Vergara,
and the spring of 1840 saw Espartero at the head of a powerful force
before the celebrated fortress of Morella, which surrendered in May.
Cabrera was finally defeated by Espartero at Lerida in the following
July, and Spain at length enjoyed a desolate peace.
NOTE.
Before Mr. Burke had seen any part of this edition in print, he was
suddenly summoned to South America, as mentioned in his note (i. 190),
and accepted my suggestion that I should revise and correct the proofs.
His death shortly after leaving England has deprived me of a valued
friend, and the book of the advantage of his final revision. While fully
sensible of the disadvantages which this must involve, I hope that the
errors thus caused will not prove so grave or so numerous as seriously to
detract from the value of the edition. My best thanks are due to the
many friends who have helped me, especially in the preparation of the
Glossary, which has considerably outgrown the original draft.
HERBERT W. GREENE.
MAGDALEN COLLEGE, OXFORD,
_November_, 1895.
BORROW’S JOURNEYS IN THE PENINSULA.
1.—Nov. 1835. [Belem] (11th Nov.), Lisbon (12th), Cintra, [Colhares,
Mafra], Aldea Gallega (6th Dec.), [Pegões], Vendas Novas, Monte Moro,
Evora (9th–17th); returns to Lisbon (19th), where he remains about a
fortnight.
Aldea Gallega, [Pegões], Vendas Novas, Monte Moro, Arroyolos, Estremoz,
Elvas, Badajoz (5th Jan. 1836), where he remains three weeks. Merida,
where he remains three days. Trujillo, Jaraicejo, [Mirabete],
Oropesa(?), Talavera, Madrid (about 5th Feb.).
2.—Nov. 1836. Falmouth (7th Nov.), Finisterre (11th), Lisbon (13th),
Cadiz (starts on 24th), San Lucar, [Bonanza], Seville, where he remains
about a fortnight. Alcalá de Guadaira, Carmona, [Moncloa, Cuesta del
Espinal], Cordova (on third day from Seville), where he remains some
time. Andujar, Bailen, Carolina (on third day from Cordova), [Despeña
Perros], Aranjuez (25th Dec.), Madrid (26th).
3.—May, 1837. Madrid (about 15th), Guadarrama, Peñaranda, Salamanca (on
third day from Madrid), where he remains till 10th June. [Pitiegua,
Pedroso], Medina del Campo, Valladolid, where he remains about ten days.
Dueñas, Palencia, [Cisneros], Sahagun or [Calzada], Leon (21st), where he
remains about ten days. Astorga, where he remains three days. Manzanal,
Bembibre, [Cacabelos], Villafranca, [Fuencebadon], Nogales, Lugo, where
he remains a week. [Castellanos], Betanzos, Corunna, where he remains
about a fortnight. Santiago (early in Aug.), where he remains about a
fortnight. Padron, Caldas de Reyes, Pontevedra, Vigo, where he remains a
few days. Padron, [Los Angeles], Noyo, Corcuvion, [Duyo], Finisterre,
Corcuvion, whence he returns to Santiago and Corunna. Ferrol, where he
remains about a week. [Novales], Santa Marta, [Coisa Doiro], Viveiro,
Foz, Rivadeo, Castro Pol, Navias, [Baralla], Luarca, Caneiro, [Soto
Luino, Muros], Veles (? Aviles), Gijon, Oviedo, where he remains about a
week. Villa Viciosa, Colunga, Ribida de Sella (= Riba de Sella), Llanes,
[Santo Colombo], San Vicente, Santillana, Santander, where he remains
some days. [Montaneda], Oñas, Burgos, Valladolid, Guadarrama, Madrid
(some time after 12th Sept.). Hence visits Toledo, and, in 1838,
[Leganez, Villa Seca, Vargas, Cobeja, Mocejon, Villaluenga, Yuncler],
{14a} Aranjuez, Ocaña, returning to Madrid. Hence visits La Granja (=
San Ildefonso). Segovia, [Abades], Labajos, Arevalo, Martin Muñoz,
[Villallos], returning to Madrid.
4.—Dec. 1838. Cadiz (31st), Seville, where he remains about a fortnight.
Manzanares, Madrid. Hence visits [Cobeña] and other villages to the east
of Madrid. Victoriano (see ch. xlvi.) visits [Caramanchel], Alcalá de
Henares, [Fuente la Higuera], Guadalajara. Borrow visits Naval Carnero
(about the middle of March, 1830). Leaves Madrid for Seville (about the
middle of April). Leaves Seville (31st July) for Cadiz, thence by sea to
Gibraltar, whence, on 8th Aug., he sets sail for Tangier, landing next
day.
NOTE.—Places enclosed in square brackets are not marked on the map.
[Picture: Map of Spain with Borrow’s journeys marked]
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 November 10, 1835, {1} 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 11th 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
recognized 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 11th 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; {3a} early the next morning we weighed, and, proceeding
onward about a league, we again anchored at a short distance from the
_Caesodré_, {3b} 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 {3c} 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 provoking 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, {5} 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 _Alecrim_, 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 street 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, Père-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,” {6a} 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. {6b} 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. {7b} If there be any place in the
world entitled to the appellation of an enchanted region, it is surely
Cintra; Tivoli {8a} 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, {8b} ere he departed on his romantic
expedition against the Moors, who so well avenged their insulted faith
and country at Alcazar-quibir; {9a} and in that low shady _quinta_,
embowered amongst those tall _alcornoques_, once dwelt John de Castro,
{9b} 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, {9c} 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 northwest. 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, {11} 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 {12} 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 if 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
inquired in the French language what was my pleasure. I apologized 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),
{14b} 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 on every copy
they sold. This plan was agreed upon, and forthwith put in practice, and
with some success. I had thoughts 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 depôts 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
{16} 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 Ladrões—Don
Geronimo—Vendas Novas—Royal Residence—Swine of the Alemtejo—Monte
Moro—Swayne Vonved—Singular Goatherd—Children of the Fields—Infidels and
Sadducees.
On the afternoon of the 6th 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_,” {18} 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_,” {19} 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), is 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 bare-footed 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 sandhill 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
woodside 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 connexion 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 who 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 recognizing 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
Pegões.
Pegões 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 nicknamed _Estalagem de Ladrões_, 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 {25a} Geronimo Jozé d’Azveto, secretary
to the government at Evora; his brother belonged to a regiment of
hussars, whose head-quarters were at Evora, but which had outlying
parties along the road,—for example, the place where we were stopping.
[Picture: Roman military monument showing the rabbit as a Spanish device]
Rabbits at Pegões {25b} 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, {28} and it was there
agreed that the latter should resign the crown in favour of Dona 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, Badajoz, 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:—{29}
“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 self-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 over-wrought refinement; and though
their baneful influence has indeed penetrated to the country and
corrupted man there, the source and fountain-head 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 story 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, {33a} 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 southeast, at the distance of six
leagues, is to be seen a blue chain of hills, the highest of which is
called Serra Dorso; {33b} 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 Estremoz.
I passed the day succeeding my arrival principally in examining the town
and its environs, and, as I strolled about, entered 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 if 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 contrabandists 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?” {35} 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. {38} 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 Capelle illustrissimi et xianissimi principis
Henrici Sexti Regis Anglie et Francie am dm̃ Hibernie descripta
serenissiō principi Alfonso Regi Portugalie illustri per humilem
servitorem sm̃ Willm. Sav. Decanū capelle supradicte_.” {39}
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 _oraçam_, {41} 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 relics of the monkish system, the aim of
which, in all countries where it has existed, seems to have been to besot
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 came 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_
{44} 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_, {47}
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 mean time 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 Bethlehem’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. {50} 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 ensure 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 road-side 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
villany, 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 jack-boots: 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_ {55} 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 shepherds,
swineherds, 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 Pegões, 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 Pegões 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
sprung upon their horses, and putting them to full gallop, made at their
prey, shouting, “_Rendete_, _Picaro_! _Rendete_, _Picaro_!” {57} We,
however, passed unmolested, and, about a quarter of a mile before we
reached Pegões, 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 in 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
saddle-bags.
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.
One afternoon Antonio said to me, “It has struck me, _Senhor_, {59a} that
your worship would like to see the college of the English . . .” {59b}
“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
apologized, 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 blood-shedding 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_.—Oh, 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, but 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 of 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 the
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 entrusted 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. {66} .
. .
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. {67a} 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. {67b}
The Jews of Europe at the present time are divided into two
classes—synagogues, as some call them—the Portuguese and German. Of
these the most celebrated is the Portuguese. Jews of this class are
generally considered as more polished than the others, better educated,
and more deeply versed both in the language of Scripture and the
traditions of their forefathers. In London there is a stately edifice
which is termed the synagogue of the Portuguese Jews, where the rites of
the Hebrew religion are performed with all possible splendour and
magnificence. Knowing all this, one would naturally expect, on arriving
in Portugal, to find one’s self in the head-quarters of that Judaism with
which the mind has been accustomed to associate so much that is
respectable and imposing. It was, therefore, with feelings of
considerable surprise that I heard from the beings, whom I have attempted
to describe above, the following account of themselves:—“We are not of
Portugal,” said they; “we come from Barbary, some from Algier, some from
the Levant, but mostly from Barbary, yonder-away!” And they pointed to
the south-west.
“And where are the Jews of Portugal,” I demanded: “the proper children of
the country?”
“We know of none but ourselves,” replied the Barbaresques, “though we
have heard say that there are others: if so, they do not come near us,
and they do right, for we are an evil people, O thou _Tsadik_, and
thieves to a man. A ship comes every year from Swirah; {68} it brings a
cargo of thieves, for it brings Jews.”
“And your wives and families,” said I, “where are they?”
“In Swirah, or Salee, or other places from whence we come. We bring not
our wives with us, nor our families: many of us have escaped hither
barely with life, flying from the punishment due to our crimes. Some
live in sin with the daughters of the Nazarene: for we are an evil race,
O _Tsadik_, and do not observe the precepts of the law.”
“And have you synagogues and teachers?”
“Both, O thou righteous one, yet little can be said of either: our
_chenourain_ are vile places, and our teachers are like ourselves, bound
in the _galoot_ of sin. One of them keeps in his house a daughter of the
Nazarene; he is from Swirah, and what good ever came from that shore?”
“You say your teachers are evil: do ye hearken unto their words?”
“Of course we hearken unto them: how could we do else and live? Our
teachers are evil men, and live by fraud, like ourselves; yet still are
they masters, men to be dreaded and obeyed. Have they not witchcraft at
their command, and angels? Have they not words of power, and the _Shem
Hamphorash_? {69} Were we not to hearken to them, could they not consign
our souls to horror, to mist and vapour, to mire and clay? Even as thou
couldst, O righteous one!”
Such was the extraordinary language in connexion with themselves which
they held to me, and which I have no reason to doubt, as it was
subsequently corroborated in more ways than one. 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 slight 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
villany; as if, as has been well observed, God would delegate the
exercise of his power to the workers of iniquity.
It is quite certain that at one period the Jews of Portugal were
deservedly celebrated for wealth, learning, and polished manners; the
Inquisition, however, played sad havoc with them. Those who escaped the
_auto da fé_, without becoming converts to Popish idolatry, took refuge
in foreign lands, particularly in England, where they still retain their
original designation. At present, notwithstanding all religions are
tolerated in Portugal, the genuine Jews of the country do not show
themselves; {70} in their stead are seen the rabble of Barbary, and these
only in the streets of Lisbon—outcasts who make no secret of their own
degradation.
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
re-travel the road as far as Monte Moro, 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 merchandize. 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. We 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 Pegões, 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 inn 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_ {75} 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 Moro, 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.” {76}
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 dung-hill 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
Peninsula 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
serve to enervate the mind and steal many a minute which might be more
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 wandering 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. {81}
CHAPTER VII.
The Druid’s 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 passable 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
beds 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. {83} 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 Druid’s
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
cope-stone 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_,
{85} 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 villanous-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 the 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 one’s self 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 sheep-fold. Oh, 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. Not 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 ease.
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_, {89} 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 mill-stone,
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 jaw-bone, 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. {90}
From Estremoz to Elvas the distance is six leagues. I started at nine
next morning; the first part of the way lay through an inclosed 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
stonework; 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 _visé_, 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 Jozé 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 {96} 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 homebred
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 marines, 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, {98}
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
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