The Bible in Spain, Vol. 2 [of 2]
by George Borrow · English · Gutenberg #35676 · 740,116 chars · public domain (US)
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Title: The Bible in Spain, Vol. 2 [of 2]
Author: George Borrow
Editor: Ulick Ralph Burke
Herbert W. Greene
Release date: March 25, 2011 [eBook #35676]
Language: English
Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/35676
Credits: Transcribed from the 1896 John Murray edition by David Price
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE BIBLE IN SPAIN, VOL. 2 [OF 2] ***
Transcribed from the 1896 John Murray edition by David Price, email
ccx074@pglaf.org
[Picture: Toledo]
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. II.
* * * * *
WITH MAP AND ENGRAVINGS.
* * * * *
LONDON:
JOHN MURRAY, ALBEMARLE STREET.
1896.
* * * * *
LONDON:
PRINTED BY WILLIAM CLOWES AND SONS, LIMITED,
STAMFORD STREET AND CHARING CROSS.
CONTENTS OF VOL. II.
PAGE
CHAPTER XXIX.
Arrival at Padron—Projected Enterprise—The Alquilador—Breach 1
of Promise—An Odd Companion—A Plain Story—Rugged Paths—The
Desertion—The Pony—A Dialogue—Unpleasant Situation—The
Estadea—Benighted—The Hut—The Traveller’s Pillow
CHAPTER XXX.
Autumnal Morning—The World’s End—Corcuvion—Duyo—The Cape—A 20
Whale—The Outer Bay—The Arrest—The Fisher-Magistrate—Calros
Rey—Hard of Belief—Where is your Passport?—The Beach—A Mighty
Liberal—The Handmaid—The Grand Baintham—Eccentric
Book—Hospitality
CHAPTER XXXI.
Corunna—Crossing the Bay—Ferrol—The Dock-yard—Where are we 41
now?—Greek Ambassador—Lantern-Light—The
Ravine—Viveiro—Evening—Marsh and Quagmire—Fair Words and Fair
Money—The Leathern Girth—Eyes of Lynx—The Knavish Guide
CHAPTER XXXII.
Martin of Rivadeo—The Factious Mare—Asturians—Luarca—The 57
Seven Bellotas—Hermits—The Asturian’s Tale—Strange Guests—The
Big Servant—Batuschca
CHAPTER XXXIII.
Oviedo—The Ten Gentlemen—The Swiss again—Modest Request—The 70
Robbers—Episcopal Benevolence—The Cathedral—Portrait of
Feijoo
CHAPTER XXXIV.
Departure from Oviedo—Villa Viciosa—The Young Man of the 82
Inn—Antonio’s Tale—The General and his Family—Woful
Tidings—To-morrow we die—San Vicente—Santander—An
Harangue—Flinter the Irishman
CHAPTER XXXV.
Departure from Santander—The Night Alarm—The Black Pass 95
CHAPTER XXXVI.
State of Affairs at Madrid—The New Ministry—Pope of Rome—The 99
Bookseller of Toledo—Sword-blades—Houses of Toledo—The
Forlorn Gypsy—Proceedings at Madrid—Another Servant
CHAPTER XXXVII.
Euscarra—Basque not Irish—Sanscrit and Tartar Dialects—A 111
Vowel Language—Popular Poetry—The Basques—Their
Persons—Basque Women
CHAPTER XXXVIII.
The Prohibition—Gospel Persecuted—Charge of Sorcery—Ofalia 121
CHAPTER XXXIX.
The Two Gospels—The Alguazil—The Warrant—The Good Maria—The 127
Arrest—Sent to Prison—Reflections—The Reception—The Prison
Room—Redress demanded
CHAPTER XL.
Ofalia—The Juez—Carcel de la Corte—Sunday in Prison—Robber 141
Dress—Father and Son—Characteristic Behaviour—The
Frenchman—Prison Allowance—Valley of the Shadow—Pure
Castilian—Balseiro—The Cave—Robber Glory
CHAPTER XLI.
Maria Diaz—Priestly Vituperation—Antonio’s Visit—Antonio at 159
Service—A Scene—Benedict Mol—Wandering in Spain—The Four
Evangelien
CHAPTER XLII.
Liberation from Prison—The Apology—Human Nature—The Greek’s 169
Return—Church of Rome—Light of Scripture—Archbishop of
Toledo—An Interview—Stones of Price—A Resolution—The Foreign
Language—Benedict’s Farewell—Treasure Hunt at
Compostella—Truth and Fiction
CHAPTER XLIII.
Villa Seca—Moorish House—The Puchera—The Rustic 185
Council—Polite Ceremonial—The Flower of Spain—The Bridge of
Azeca—The Ruined Castle—Taking the Field—Demand for the
Word—The Old Peasant—The Curate and Blacksmith—Cheapness of
the Scriptures
CHAPTER XLIV.
Aranjuez—A Warning—A Night Adventure—A Fresh 202
Expedition—Segovia—Abades—Factious Curas—Lopez in
Prison—Rescue of Lopez
CHAPTER XLV.
Return to Spain—Seville—A Hoary Persecutor—Manchegan 214
Prophetess—Antonio’s Dream
CHAPTER XLVI.
Work of Distribution resumed—Adventure at Cobeña—Power of the 220
Clergy—Rural Authorities—Fuente la Higuera—Victoriano’s
Mishap—Village Prison—The Rope—Antonio’s Errand—Antonio at
Mass
CHAPTER XLVII.
Termination of our Rural Labours—Alarm of the Clergy—A New 232
Experiment—Success at Madrid—Goblin-Alguazil—Staff of
Office—The Corregidor—An Explanation—The Pope in England—New
Testament expounded—Works of Luther
CHAPTER XLVIII.
Projected Journey—A Scene of Blood—The Friar—Seville—Beauties 245
of Seville—Orange Trees and Flowers—Murillo—The Guardian
Angel—Dionysius—My Coadjutors—Demand for the Bible
CHAPTER XLIX.
The Solitary House—The Dehesa—Johannes 258
Chrysostom—Manuel—Bookselling at Seville—Dionysius and the
Priests—Athens and Rome—Proselytism—Seizure of
Testaments—Departure from Seville
CHAPTER L.
Night on the Guadalquivir—Gospel Light—Bonanza—Strand of San 271
Lucar—Andalusian Scenery—History of a Chest—Cosas de los
Ingleses—The Two Gypsies—The Driver—The Red Nightcap—The
Steam-Boat—Christian Language
CHAPTER LI.
Cadiz—The Fortifications—The Consul-General—Characteristic 286
Anecdote—Catalan Steamer—Trafalgar—Alonzo Guzman—Gibil
Muza—Orestes Frigate—The Hostile Lion—Works of the
Creator—Lizard of the Rock—The Concourse—Queen of the
Waters—Broken Prayer
CHAPTER LII.
The Jolly Hosteler—Aspirants for Glory—A 305
Portrait—Hamáles—Solomons—An Expedition—The Yeoman
Soldier—The Excavations—The Pull by the Skirt—Judah and his
Father—Judah’s Pilgrimage—The Bushy Beard—The False
Moors—Judah and the King’s Son—Premature Old Age
CHAPTER LIII.
Genoese Mariners—Saint Michael’s Cave—Midnight Abysses—Young 326
American—A Slave Proprietor—The Fairy Man—Infidelity
CHAPTER LIV.
Again on Board—The Strange Visage—The Haji—Setting Sail—The 335
Two Jews—American Vessel—Tangier—Adun Oulem—The Struggle—The
Forbidden Thing
CHAPTER LV.
The Mole—The Two Moors—Djmah of Tangier—House of God—British 348
Consul—Curious Spectacle—The Moorish House—Joanna Correa—Ave
Maria
CHAPTER LVI.
The Mahasni—Sin Samani—The Bazaar—Moorish Saints—See the 359
Ayana!—The Prickly Fig—Jewish Graves—The Place of
Carcases—The Stable Boy—Horses of the Moslem—Dar-dwag
CHAPTER LVII.
Strange Trio—The Mulatto—The Peace-offering—Moors of 373
Granada—Vive la Guadeloupe—The Moors—Pascual Fava—Blind
Algerine—The Retreat
GLOSSARY 385
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.
VOL. II.
TOLEDO. _Etched by_ MANESSE _Frontispiece_
SEGOVIA. _From a Sketch by_ A. H. HALLAM MURRAY _To face_ 210
_Engraved by_ MANESSE
CHAPTER XXIX.
Arrival at Padron—Projected Enterprise—The Alquilador—Breach of
Promise—An Odd Companion—A Plain Story—Rugged Paths—The Desertion—The
Pony—A Dialogue—Unpleasant Situation—The Estadea—Benighted—The Hut—The
Traveller’s Pillow.
I arrived at Padron late in the evening, on my return from Pontevedra and
Vigo. It was my intention at this place to send my servant and horses
forward to Santiago, and to hire a guide to Cape Finisterre. It would be
difficult to assign any plausible reason for the ardent desire which I
entertained to visit this place; but I remembered that last year I had
escaped almost by a miracle from shipwreck and death on the rocky sides
of this extreme point of the Old World, and I thought that to convey the
Gospel to a place so wild and remote might perhaps be considered an
acceptable pilgrimage in the eyes of my Maker. True it is that but one
copy remained of those which I had brought with me on this last journey;
but this reflection, far from discouraging me in my projected enterprise,
produced the contrary effect, as I called to mind that, ever since the
Lord revealed Himself to man, it has seemed good to Him to accomplish the
greatest ends by apparently the most insufficient means; and I reflected
that this one copy might serve as an instrument for more good than the
four thousand nine hundred and ninety-nine copies of the edition of
Madrid.
I was aware that my own horses were quite incompetent to reach
Finisterre, as the roads or paths lie through stony ravines, and over
rough and shaggy hills, and therefore determined to leave them behind
with Antonio, whom I was unwilling to expose to the fatigues of such a
journey. I lost no time in sending for an _alquilador_, or person who
lets out horses, and informing him of my intention. He said he had an
excellent mountain pony at my disposal, and that he himself would
accompany me; but at the same time observed, that it was a terrible
journey for man and horse, and that he expected to be paid accordingly.
I consented to give him what he demanded, but on the express condition
that he would perform his promise of attending me himself, as I was
unwilling to trust myself four or five days amongst the hills with any
low fellow of the town whom he might select, and who it was very possible
might play me some evil turn. He replied by the term invariably used by
the Spaniards when they see doubt or distrust exhibited: “_No tenga usted
cuidado_, {2} I will go myself.” Having thus arranged the matter
perfectly satisfactorily, as I thought, I partook of a slight supper, and
shortly afterwards retired to repose.
I had requested the _alquilador_ to call me the next morning at three
o’clock; he, however, did not make his appearance till five, having, I
suppose, overslept himself, which was indeed my own case. I arose in a
hurry, dressed, put a few things in a bag, not forgetting the Testament,
which I had resolved to present to the inhabitants of Finisterre. I then
sallied forth and saw my friend the _alquilador_, who was holding by the
bridle the pony or _jaca_ which was destined to carry me in my
expedition. It was a beautiful little animal, apparently strong and full
of life, without one single white hair in its whole body, which was black
as the plumage of the crow.
Behind it stood a strange-looking figure of the biped species, to whom,
however, at the moment, I paid little attention, but of whom I shall have
plenty to say in the sequel.
Having asked the horse-lender whether he was ready to proceed, and being
answered in the affirmative, I bade adieu to Antonio, and putting the
pony in motion, we hastened out of the town, taking at first the road
which leads towards Santiago. Observing that the figure which I have
previously alluded to was following close at our heels, I asked the
_alquilador_ who it was, and the reason of its following us; to which he
replied that it was a servant of his, who would proceed a little way with
us and then return. So on we went at a rapid rate, till we were within a
quarter of a mile of the Convent of the Esclavitud, a little beyond which
he had informed me that we should have to turn off from the high-road;
but here he suddenly stopped short, and in a moment we were all at a
standstill. I questioned the guide as to the reason of this, but
received no answer. The fellow’s eyes were directed to the ground, and
he seemed to be counting with the most intense solicitude the prints of
the hoofs of the oxen, mules, and horses in the dust of the road. I
repeated my demand in a louder voice; when, after a considerable pause,
he somewhat elevated his eyes, without, however, looking me in the face,
and said that he believed that I entertained the idea that he himself was
to guide me to Finisterre, which if I did, he was very sorry for, the
thing being quite impossible, as he was perfectly ignorant of the way,
and, moreover, incapable of performing such a journey over rough and
difficult ground, as he was no longer the man he had been; and, over and
above all that, he was engaged that day to accompany a gentleman to
Pontevedra, who was at that moment expecting him. “But,” continued he,
“as I am always desirous of behaving like a _caballero_ to everybody, I
have taken measures to prevent your being disappointed. This person,”
pointing to the figure, “I have engaged to accompany you. He is a most
trustworthy person, and is well acquainted with the route to Finisterre,
having been thither several times with this very _jaca_ on which you are
mounted. He will, besides, be an agreeable companion to you on the way,
as he speaks French and English very well, and has been all over the
world.” The fellow ceased speaking at last; and I was so struck with his
craft, impudence, and villany, that some time elapsed before I could find
an answer. I then reproached him in the bitterest terms for his breach
of promise, and said that I was much tempted to return to the town
instantly, complain of him to the _alcalde_, and have him punished at any
expense. To which he replied, “Sir Cavalier, by so doing you will be
nothing nearer Finisterre, to which you seem so eager to get. Take my
advice, spur on the _jaca_, for you see it is getting late, and it is
twelve long leagues from hence to Corcuvion, where you must pass the
night; and from thence to Finisterre is no trifle. As for the man, _no
tenga usted cuidado_, he is the best guide in Galicia, speaks English and
French, and will bear you pleasant company.”
By this time I had reflected that by returning to Padron I should indeed
be only wasting time, and that by endeavouring to have the fellow
punished no benefit would accrue to me; moreover, as he seemed to be a
scoundrel in every sense of the word, I might as well proceed in the
company of any person as in his. I therefore signified my intention of
proceeding, and told him to go back, in the Lord’s name, and repent of
his sins. But having gained one point, he thought he had best attempt
another; so placing himself about a yard before the _jaca_, he said that
the price which I had agreed to pay him for the loan of his horse (which,
by-the-by, was the full sum he had demanded) was by no means sufficient,
and that before I proceeded I must promise him two dollars more, adding
that he was either drunk or mad when he had made such a bargain. I was
now thoroughly incensed, and without a moment’s reflection, spurred the
_jaca_, which flung him down in the dust, and passed over him. Looking
back at the distance of a hundred yards, I saw him standing in the same
place, his hat on the ground, gazing after us, and crossing himself most
devoutly. His servant, or whatever he was, far from offering any
assistance to his principal, no sooner saw the _jaca _in motion than he
ran on by its side, without word or comment, further than striking
himself lustily on the thigh with his right palm. We soon passed the
Esclavitud, and presently afterwards turned to the left into a stony
broken path leading to fields of maize. We passed by several
farm-houses, and at last arrived at a dingle, the sides of which were
plentifully overgrown with dwarf oaks, and which slanted down to a small
dark river shaded with trees, which we crossed by a rude bridge. By this
time I had had sufficient time to scan my odd companion from head to
foot. His utmost height, had he made the most of himself, might perhaps
have amounted to five feet one inch; but he seemed somewhat inclined to
stoop. Nature had gifted him with an immense head, and placed it clean
upon his shoulders, for amongst the items of his composition it did not
appear that a neck had been included. Arms long and brawny swung at his
sides, and the whole of his frame was as strong built and powerful as a
wrestler’s; his body was supported by a pair of short but very nimble
legs. His face was very long, and would have borne some slight
resemblance to a human countenance had the nose been more visible, for
its place seemed to have been entirely occupied by a wry mouth and large
staring eyes. His dress consisted of three articles: an old and tattered
hat of the Portuguese kind, broad at the crown and narrow at the eaves,
something which appeared to be a shirt, and dirty canvas trousers.
Willing to enter into conversation with him, and remembering that the
_alquilador_ had informed me that he spoke languages, I asked him, in
English, if he had always acted in the capacity of guide. Whereupon he
turned his eyes with a singular expression upon my face, gave a loud
laugh, a long leap, and clapped his hands thrice above his head.
Perceiving that he did not understand me, I repeated my demand in French,
and was again answered by the laugh, leap, and clapping. At last he
said, in broken Spanish, “Master mine, speak Spanish in God’s name, and I
can understand you, and still better if you speak Gallegan, but I can
promise no more. I heard what the _alquilador_ told you, but he is the
greatest _embustero_ in the whole land, and deceived you then as he did
when he promised to accompany you. I serve him for my sins; but it was
an evil hour when I left the deep sea and turned guide.” He then
informed me that he was a native of Padron, and a mariner by profession,
having spent the greater part of his life in the Spanish navy, in which
service he had visited Cuba and many parts of the Spanish Americas,
adding, “when my master told you that I should bear you pleasant company
by the way, it was the only word of truth that has come from his mouth
for a month; and long before you reach Finisterre you will have rejoiced
that the servant, and not the master, went with you: he is dull and
heavy, but I am what you see.” He then gave two or three first-rate
somersaults, again laughed loudly, and clapped his hands. “You would
scarcely think,” he continued, “that I drove that little pony yesterday,
heavily laden, all the way from Corunna. We arrived at Padron at two
o’clock this morning; but we are nevertheless both willing and able to
undertake a fresh journey. _No tenga usted cuidado_, as my master said,
no one ever complains of that pony or of me.” In this kind of discourse
we proceeded a considerable way through a very picturesque country, until
we reached a beautiful village at the skirt of a mountain. “This
village,” said my guide, “is called Los Angeles, because its church was
built long since by the angels; they placed a beam of gold beneath it,
which they brought down from heaven, and which was once a rafter of God’s
own house. It runs all the way under the ground from hence to the
cathedral of Compostella.”
Passing through the village, which he likewise informed me possessed
baths, and was much visited by the people of Santiago, we shaped our
course to the north-west, and by so doing doubled a mountain which rose
majestically over our heads, its top crowned with bare and broken rocks,
whilst on our right, on the other side of a spacious valley, was a high
range connected with the mountains to the northward of Saint James. On
the summit of this range rose high embattled towers, which my guide
informed me were those of Altamira, an ancient and ruined castle,
formerly the principal residence in this province of the counts of that
name. Turning now due west, we were soon at the bottom of a steep and
rugged pass, which led to more elevated regions. The ascent cost us
nearly half an hour, and the difficulties of the ground were such that I
more than once congratulated myself on having left my own horses behind,
and being mounted on the gallant little pony, which, accustomed to such
paths, scrambled bravely forward, and eventually brought us in safety to
the top of the ascent.
Here we entered a Gallegan cabin, or _choza_, for the purpose of
refreshing the animal and ourselves. The quadruped ate some maize,
whilst we two bipeds regaled ourselves on some _broa_ and _aguardiente_,
which a woman whom we found in the hut placed before us. I walked out
for a few minutes to observe the aspect of the country, and on my return
found my guide fast asleep on the bench where I had left him. He sat
bolt upright, his back supported against the wall, and his legs
pendulous, within three inches of the ground, being too short to reach
it. I remained gazing upon him for at least five minutes, whilst he
enjoyed slumbers seemingly as quiet and profound as those of death
itself. His face brought powerfully to my mind some of those uncouth
visages of saints and abbots which are occasionally seen in the niches of
the walls of ruined convents. There was not the slightest gleam of
vitality in his countenance, which for colour and rigidity might have
been of stone, and which was as rude and battered as one of the stone
heads at Icolmkill, which have braved the winds of twelve hundred years.
I continued gazing on his face till I became almost alarmed, concluding
that life might have departed from its harassed and fatigued tenement.
On my shaking him rather roughly by the shoulder he slowly awoke, opening
his eyes with a stare, and then closing them again. For a few moments he
was evidently unconscious of where he was. On my shouting to him,
however, and inquiring whether he intended to sleep all day, instead of
conducting me to Finisterre, he dropped upon his legs, snatched up his
hat, which lay on the table, and instantly ran out of the door,
exclaiming, “Yes, yes, I remember; follow me, captain, and I will lead
you to Finisterre in no time.” I looked after him, and perceived that he
was hurrying at a considerable pace in the direction in which we had
hitherto been proceeding. “Stop,” said I, “stop! will you leave me here
with the pony? Stop; we have not paid the reckoning. Stop!” He,
however, never turned his head for a moment, and in less than a minute
was out of sight. The pony, which was tied to a crib at one end of the
cabin, began now to neigh terrifically, to plunge, and to erect its tail
and mane in a most singular manner. It tore and strained at the halter
till I was apprehensive that strangulation would ensue. “Woman,” I
exclaimed, “where are you, and what is the meaning of all this?” But the
hostess had likewise disappeared, and though I ran about the _choza_,
shouting myself hoarse, no answer was returned. The pony still continued
to scream and to strain at the halter more violently than ever. “Am I
beset with lunatics?” I cried, and flinging down a _peseta_ on the table,
unloosed the halter, and attempted to introduce the bit into the mouth of
the animal. This, however, I found impossible to effect. Released from
the halter, the pony made at once for the door, in spite of all the
efforts which I could make to detain it. “If you abandon me,” said I, “I
am in a pretty situation; but there is a remedy for everything!” with
which words I sprang into the saddle, and in a moment more the creature
was bearing me at a rapid gallop in the direction, as I supposed, of
Finisterre. My position, however diverting to the reader, was rather
critical to myself. I was on the back of a spirited animal, over which I
had no control, dashing along a dangerous and unknown path. I could not
discover the slightest vestige of my guide, nor did I pass any one from
whom I could derive any information. Indeed, the speed of the animal was
so great, that even in the event of my meeting or overtaking a passenger,
I could scarcely have hoped to exchange a word with him. “Is the pony
trained to this work?” said I, mentally. “Is he carrying me to some den
of banditti, where my throat will be cut, or does he follow his master by
instinct?” Both of these suspicions I, however, soon abandoned. The
pony’s speed relaxed; he appeared to have lost the road. He looked about
uneasily: at last, coming to a sandy spot, he put his nostrils to the
ground, and then suddenly flung himself down, and wallowed in true pony
fashion. I was not hurt, and instantly made use of this opportunity to
slip the bit into his mouth, which previously had been dangling beneath
his neck; I then remounted in quest of the road.
This I soon found, and continued my way for a considerable time. The
path lay over a moor, patched with heath and furze, and here and there
strewn with large stones, or rather rocks. The sun had risen high in the
firmament, and burned fiercely. I passed several people, men and women,
who gazed at me with surprise, wondering, probably, what a person of my
appearance could be about, without a guide, in so strange a place. I
inquired of two females whom I met whether they had seen my guide; but
they either did not or would not understand me, and, exchanging a few
words with each other in one of the hundred dialects of the Gallegan,
passed on. Having crossed the moor, I came rather abruptly upon a
convent, overhanging a deep ravine, at the bottom of which brawled a
rapid stream.
It was a beautiful and picturesque spot: the sides of the ravine were
thickly clothed with wood, and on the other side a tall black hill
uplifted itself. The edifice was large, and apparently deserted.
Passing by it, I presently reached a small village, as deserted, to all
appearance, as the convent, for I saw not a single individual, nor so
much as a dog to welcome me with his bark. I proceeded, however, until I
reached a fountain, the waters of which gushed from a stone pillar into a
trough. Seated upon this last, his arms folded, and his eyes fixed upon
the neighbouring mountain, I beheld a figure which still frequently
recurs to my thoughts, especially when asleep and oppressed by the
nightmare. This figure was my runaway guide.
_Myself_.—Good day to you, my gentleman. The weather is hot, and yonder
water appears delicious. I am almost tempted to dismount and regale
myself with a slight draught.
_Guide_.—Your worship can do no better. The day is, as you say, hot; you
can do no better than drink a little of this water. I have myself just
drunk. I would not, however, advise you to give that pony any; it
appears heated and blown.
_Myself_.—It may well be so. I have been galloping at least two leagues
in pursuit of a fellow who engaged to guide me to Finisterre, but who
deserted me in a most singular manner; so much so, that I almost believe
him to be a thief, and no true man. You do not happen to have seen him?
_Guide_.—What kind of a man might he be?
_Myself_.—A short, thick fellow, very much like yourself, with a hump
upon his back, and, excuse me, of a very ill-favoured countenance.
_Guide_.—Ha, ha! I know him. He ran with me to this fountain, where he
has just left me. That man, Sir Cavalier, is no thief. If he is
anything at all, he is a _Nuveiro_ {12}—a fellow who rides upon the
clouds, and is occasionally whisked away by a gust of wind. Should you
ever travel with that man again, never allow him more than one glass of
anise at a time, or he will infallibly mount into the clouds and leave
you, and then he will ride and run till he comes to a water-brook, or
knocks his head against a fountain—then one draught, and he is himself
again. So you are going to Finisterre, Sir Cavalier. Now it is singular
enough, that a cavalier much of your appearance engaged me to conduct him
there this morning; I, however, lost him on the way; so it appears to me
our best plan to travel together until you find your own guide and I find
my own master.
It might be about two o’clock in the afternoon that we reached a long and
ruinous bridge, seemingly of great antiquity, and which, as I was
informed by my guide, was called the bridge of Don Alonzo. It crossed a
species of creek, or rather frith, for the sea was at no considerable
distance, and the small town of Noyo lay at our right. “When we have
crossed that bridge, captain,” said my guide, “we shall be in an unknown
country, for I have never been farther than Noyo, and as for Finisterre,
so far from having been there, I never heard of such a place; and though
I have inquired of two or three people since we have been upon this
expedition, they know as little about it as I do. Taking all things,
however, into consideration, it appears to me that the best thing we can
do is to push forward to Corcuvion, which is five mad leagues from hence,
and which we may perhaps reach ere nightfall, if we can find the way or
get any one to direct us; for, as I told you before, I know nothing about
it.” “To fine hands have I confided myself,” said I: “however, we had
best, as you say, push forward to Corcuvion, where, peradventure, we may
hear something of Finisterre, and find a guide to conduct us.”
Whereupon, with a hop, skip, and a jump, he again set forward at a rapid
pace, stopping occasionally at a _choza_, for the purpose, I suppose, of
making inquiries, though I understood scarcely anything of the jargon in
which he addressed the people, and in which they answered him.
We were soon in an extremely wild and hilly country, scrambling up and
down ravines, wading brooks, and scratching our hands and faces with
brambles, on which grew a plentiful crop of wild mulberries, to gather
some of which we occasionally made a stop. Owing to the roughness of the
way, we made no great progress. The pony followed close at the back of
the guide, so near, indeed, that its nose almost touched his shoulder.
The country grew wilder and wilder, and, since we had passed a
water-mill, we had lost all trace of human habitation. The mill stood at
the bottom of a valley shaded by large trees, and its wheels were turning
with a dismal and monotonous noise. “Do you think we shall reach
Corcuvion tonight?” said I to the guide, as we emerged from this valley
to a savage moor, which appeared of almost boundless extent.
_Guide_.—I do not, I do not. We shall in no manner reach Corcuvion
to-night, and I by no means like the appearance of this moor. The sun is
rapidly sinking, and then, if there come on a haze, we shall meet the
_Estadéa_.
_Myself_.—What do you mean by the _Estadéa_?
_Guide_.—What do I mean by the _Estadéa_? My master asks me what I mean
by the _Estadinha_. {14} I have met the _Estadinha_ but once, and it was
upon a moor something like this. I was in company with several women,
and a thick haze came on, and suddenly a thousand lights shone above our
heads in the haze, and there was a wild cry, and the women fell to the
ground screaming, ‘_Estadéa_! _Estadéa_!’ and I myself fell to the
ground crying out, ‘_Estadinha_!’ The _Estadéa_ are the spirits of the
dead which ride upon the haze, bearing candles in their hands. I tell
you frankly, my master, that if we meet the assembly of the souls, I
shall leave you at once, and then I shall run and run till I drown myself
in the sea, somewhere about Muros. We shall not reach Corcuvion this
night; my only hope is that we may find some _choza_ upon these moors,
where we may hide our heads from the _Estadinha_.”
The night overtook us ere we had traversed the moor; there was, however,
no haze, to the great joy of my guide, and a corner of the moon partially
illumined our steps. Our situation, however, was dreary enough: we were
upon the wildest heath of the wildest province of Spain, ignorant of our
way, and directing our course we scarcely knew whither, for my guide
repeatedly declared to me that he did not believe that such a place as
Finisterre existed, or if it did exist, it was some bleak mountain
pointed out in a map. When I reflected on the character of this guide, I
derived but little comfort or encouragement: he was at best evidently
half-witted, and was by his own confession occasionally seized with
paroxysms which differed from madness in no essential respect; his wild
escapade in the morning of nearly three leagues, without any apparent
cause, and lastly his superstitious and frantic fears of meeting the
souls of the dead upon this heath, in which event he intended, as he
himself said, to desert me and make for the sea, operated rather
powerfully upon my nerves. I likewise considered that it was quite
possible that we might be in the route neither of Finisterre nor
Corcuvion, and I therefore determined to enter the first cabin at which
we should arrive, in preference to running the risk of breaking our necks
by tumbling down some pit or precipice. No cabin, however, appeared in
sight: the moor seemed interminable, and we wandered on until the moon
disappeared, and we were left in almost total darkness.
At length we arrived at the foot of a steep ascent, up which a rough and
broken pathway appeared to lead. “Can this be our way?” said I to the
guide.
“There appears to be no other for us, captain,” replied the man; “let us
ascend it by all means, and when we are at the top, if the sea be in the
neighbourhood we shall see it.”
I then dismounted, for to ride up such a pass in such darkness would have
been madness. We clambered up in a line, first the guide, next the pony,
with his nose as usual on his master’s shoulder, of whom he seemed
passionately fond, and I bringing up the rear, with my left hand grasping
the animal’s tail. We had many a stumble, and more than one fall: once,
indeed, we were all rolling down the side of the hill together. In about
twenty minutes we reached the summit, and looked around us, but no sea
was visible: a black moor, indistinctly seen, seemed to spread on every
side.
“We shall have to take up our quarters here till morning,” said I.
Suddenly my guide seized me by the hand. “There is _lúme_, _senhor_,”
said he; “there is _lúme_.” I looked in the direction in which he
pointed, and after straining my eyes for some time, imagined that I
perceived, far below and at some distance, a faint glow. “That is
_lúme_,” shouted the guide, “and it proceeds from the chimney of a
_choza_.”
On descending the eminence, we roamed about for a considerable time,
until we at last found ourselves in the midst of about six or eight black
huts. “Knock at the door of one of these,” said I to the guide, “and
inquire of the people whether they can shelter us for the night.” He did
so, and a man presently made his appearance, bearing in his hand a
lighted firebrand.
“Can you shelter a _Cavalheiro_ from the night and the _Estadéa_?” said
my guide.
“From both, I thank God,” said the man, who was an athletic figure,
without shoes and stockings, and who, upon the whole, put me much in mind
of a Munster peasant from the bogs. “Pray enter, gentlemen, we can
accommodate you both and your _cavalgadura_ besides.”
We entered the _choza_, which consisted of three compartments; in the
first we found straw, in the second cattle and ponies, and in the third
the family, consisting of the father and mother of the man who admitted
us, and his wife and children.
“You are a Catalan, sir Cavalier, and are going to your countrymen at
Corcuvion,” said the man in tolerable Spanish. “Ah, you are brave
people, you Catalans, and fine establishments you have on the Gallegan
shores; pity that you take all the money out of the country.”
Now, under all circumstances, I had not the slightest objection to pass
for a Catalan; and I rather rejoiced that these wild people should
suppose that I had powerful friends and countrymen in the neighbourhood
who were, perhaps, expecting me. I therefore favoured their mistake, and
began with a harsh Catalan accent to talk of the fish of Galicia, and the
high duties on salt. The eye of my guide was upon me for an instant,
with a singular expression, half serious, half droll; he, however, said
nothing, but slapped his thigh as usual, and with a spring nearly touched
the roof of the cabin with his grotesque head. Upon inquiry, I
discovered that we were still two long leagues distant from Corcuvion,
and that the road lay over moor and hill, and was hard to find. Our host
now demanded whether we were hungry, and, upon being answered in the
affirmative, produced about a dozen eggs and some bacon. Whilst our
supper was cooking, a long conversation ensued between my guide and the
family, but as it was carried on in Gallegan, I tried in vain to
understand it. I believe, however, that it principally related to
witches and witchcraft, as the _Estadéa_ was frequently mentioned. After
supper I demanded where I could rest: whereupon the host pointed to a
trapdoor in the roof, saying that above there was a loft where I could
sleep by myself, and have clean straw. For curiosity’s sake, I asked
whether there was such a thing as a bed in the cabin.
“No,” replied the man; “nor nearer than Corcuvion. I never entered one
in my life, nor any one of my family; we sleep around the hearth, or
among the straw with the cattle.”
I was too old a traveller to complain, but forthwith ascended by a ladder
into a species of loft, tolerably large and nearly empty, where I placed
my cloak beneath my head, and lay down on the boards, which I preferred
to the straw, for more reasons than one. I heard the people below
talking in Gallegan for a considerable time, and could see the gleams of
the fire through the interstices of the floor. The voices, however,
gradually died away, the fire sank low and could no longer be
distinguished. I dozed, started, dozed again, and dropped finally into a
profound sleep, from which I was only roused by the crowing of the second
cock.
CHAPTER XXX.
Autumnal Morning—The World’s End—Corcuvion—Duyo—The Cape—A Whale—The
Outer Bay—The Arrest—The Fisher-Magistrate—Calros Rey—Hard of
Belief—Where is your Passport?—The Beach—A mighty Liberal—The
Handmaid—The Grand Baintham—Eccentric Book—Hospitality.
It was a beautiful autumnal morning when we left the _choza_ and pursued
our way to Corcuvion. I satisfied our host by presenting him with a
couple of _pesetas_, and he requested as a favour, that if on our return
we passed that way, and were overtaken by the night, we would again take
up our abode beneath his roof. This I promised, at the same time
determining to do my best to guard against the contingency; as sleeping
in the loft of a Gallegan hut, though preferable to passing the night on
a moor or mountain, is anything but desirable.
So we again started at a rapid pace along rough bridle-ways and
footpaths, amidst furze and brushwood. In about an hour we obtained a
view of the sea, and, directed by a lad whom we found on the moor
employed in tending a few miserable sheep, we bent our course to the
north-west, and at length reached the brow of an eminence, where we
stopped for some time to survey the prospect before us.
It was not without reason that the Latins gave the name of _Finis terræ_
to this district. We had arrived exactly at such a place as in my
boyhood I had pictured to myself as the termination of the world, beyond
which there was a wild sea, or abyss, or chaos. I now saw far before me
an immense ocean, and below me a long and irregular line of lofty and
precipitous coast. Certainly in the whole world there is no bolder coast
than the Gallegan shore, from the debouchement of the Minho to Cape
Finisterre. It consists of a granite wall of savage mountains, for the
most part serrated at the top, and occasionally broken, where bays and
firths like those of Vigo and Pontevedra intervene, running deep into the
land. These bays and firths are invariably of an immense depth, and
sufficiently capacious to shelter the navies of the proudest maritime
nations.
There is an air of stern and savage grandeur in everything around, which
strongly captivates the imagination. This savage coast is the first
glimpse of Spain which the voyager from the north catches, or he who has
ploughed his way across the wide Atlantic: and well does it seem to
realize all his visions of this strange land. “Yes,” he exclaims, “this
is indeed Spain—stern, flinty Spain—land emblematic of those spirits to
which she has given birth. From what land but that before me could have
proceeded those portentous beings who astounded the Old World and filled
the New with horror and blood. Alva and Philip, Cortez and Pizarro—stern
colossal spectres looming through the gloom of bygone years, like yonder
granite mountains through the haze, upon the eye of the mariner. Yes,
yonder is indeed Spain; flinty, indomitable Spain; land emblematic of its
sons!”
As for myself, when I viewed that wide ocean and its savage shore, I
cried, “Such is the grave, and such are its terrific sides; those moors
and wilds, over which I have passed, are the rough and dreary journey of
life. Cheered with hope, we struggle along through all the difficulties
of moor, bog, and mountain, to arrive at—what? The grave and its dreary
sides. Oh, may hope not desert us in the last hour—hope in the Redeemer
and in God!”
We descended from the eminence, and again lost sight of the sea amidst
ravines and dingles, amongst which patches of pine were occasionally
seen. Continuing to descend, we at last came, not to the sea, but to the
extremity of a long narrow firth, where stood a village or hamlet; whilst
at a small distance, on the western side of the firth, appeared one
considerably larger, which was indeed almost entitled to the appellation
of town. This last was Corcuvion; the first, if I forget not, was called
Ria de Silla. We hastened on to Corcuvion, where I bade my guide make
inquiries respecting Finisterre. He entered the door of a wine-house,
from which proceeded much noise and vociferation, and presently returned,
informing me that the village of Finisterre was distant about a league
and a half. A man, evidently in a state of intoxication, followed him to
the door. “Are you bound for Finisterre, _Cavalheiros_?” he shouted.
“Yes, my friend,” I replied, “we are going thither.”
“Then you are going amongst a _fato de borrachos_,” {22} he answered.
“Take care that they do not play you a trick.”
We passed on, and, striking across a sandy peninsula at the back of the
town, soon reached the shore of an immense bay, the north-westernmost end
of which was formed by the far-famed cape of Finisterre, which we now saw
before us stretching far into the sea.
Along a beach of dazzling white sand we advanced towards the cape, the
bourne of our journey. The sun was shining brightly, and every object
was illumined by his beams. The sea lay before us like a vast mirror,
and the waves which broke upon the shore were so tiny as scarcely to
produce a murmur. On we sped along the deep winding bay, overhung by
gigantic hills and mountains. Strange recollections began to throng upon
my mind. It was upon this beach that, according to the tradition of all
ancient Christendom, Saint James, the patron saint of Spain, preached the
Gospel to the heathen Spaniards. Upon this beach had once stood an
immense commercial city, the proudest in all Spain. This now desolate
bay had once resounded with the voices of myriads, when the keels and
commerce of all the then known world were wafted to Duyo. {23}
“What is the name of this village?” said I to a woman, as we passed by
five or six ruinous houses at the bend of the bay, ere we entered upon
the peninsula of Finisterre.
“This is no village,” said the Gallegan, “this is no village, Sir
Cavalier; this is a city, this is Duyo.”
So much for the glory of the world! These huts were all that the roaring
sea and the tooth of time had left of Duyo, the great city! Onward now
to Finisterre.
It was mid-day when we reached the village of Finisterre, consisting of
about one hundred houses, and built on the southern side of the
peninsula, just before it rises into the huge bluff head which is called
the Cape. We sought in vain for an inn or _venta_, where we might stable
our beast; at one moment we thought that we had found one, and had even
tied the animal to the manger. Upon our going out, however, he was
instantly untied and driven forth into the street. The few people whom
we saw appeared to gaze upon us in a singular manner. We, however, took
little notice of these circumstances, and proceeded along the straggling
street until we found shelter in the house of a Castilian shopkeeper,
whom some chance had brought to this corner of Galicia—this end of the
world. Our first care was to feed the animal, who now began to exhibit
considerable symptoms of fatigue. We then requested some refreshment for
ourselves; and in about an hour, a tolerably savoury fish, weighing about
three pounds, and fresh from the bay, was prepared for us by an old woman
who appeared to officiate as housekeeper. Having finished our meal, I
and my uncouth companion went forth, and prepared to ascend the mountain.
We stopped to examine a small dismantled fort or battery facing the bay,
and, whilst engaged in this examination, it more than once occurred to me
that we were ourselves the objects of scrutiny and investigation; indeed,
I caught a glimpse of more than one countenance peering upon us through
the holes and chasms of the walls. We now commenced ascending
Finisterre; and, making numerous and long _détours_, we wound our way up
its flinty sides. The sun had reached the top of heaven, whence he
showered upon us perpendicularly his brightest and fiercest rays. My
boots were torn, my feet cut, and the perspiration streamed from my brow.
To my guide, however, the ascent appeared to be neither toilsome nor
difficult. The heat of the day for him had no terrors, no moisture was
wrung from his tanned countenance; he drew not one short breath; and
hopped upon the stones and rocks with all the provoking agility of a
mountain goat. Before we had accomplished one-half of the ascent, I felt
myself quite exhausted. I reeled and staggered. “Cheer up, master mine;
be of good cheer, and have no care,” said the guide. “Yonder I see a
wall of stones; lie down beneath it in the shade.” He put his long and
strong arm round my waist, and, though his stature compared with mine was
that of a dwarf, he supported me as if I had been a child to a rude wall
which seemed to traverse the greater part of the hill, and served
probably as a kind of boundary. It was difficult to find a shady spot:
at last he perceived a small chasm, perhaps scooped by some shepherd as a
couch in which to enjoy his _siesta_. In this he laid me gently down,
and, taking off his enormous hat, commenced fanning me with great
assiduity. By degrees I revived, and, after having rested for a
considerable time, I again attempted the ascent, which, with the
assistance of my guide, I at length accomplished.
We were now standing at a great altitude between two bays, the wilderness
of waters before us. Of all the ten thousand barks which annually plough
those seas in sight of that old cape, not one was to be descried. It was
a blue shiny waste, broken by no object save the black head of a
spermaceti whale, which would occasionally show itself at the top,
casting up thin jets of brine. The principal bay, that of Finisterre, as
far as the entrance, was beautifully variegated by an immense shoal of
_sardinhas_, on whose extreme skirts the monster was probably feasting.
From the other side of the cape we looked down upon a smaller bay, the
shore of which was overhung by rocks of various and grotesque shapes;
this is called the outer bay, or, in the language of the country, _Praia
do mar de fora_: {26} a fearful place in seasons of wind and tempest,
when the long swell of the Atlantic pouring in is broken into surf and
foam by the sunken rocks with which it abounds. Even on the calmest day
there is a rumbling and a hollow roar in that bay which fill the heart
with uneasy sensations.
On all sides there was grandeur and sublimity. After gazing from the
summit of the cape for nearly an hour, we descended.
On reaching the house where we had taken up our temporary habitation, we
perceived that the portal was occupied by several men, some of whom were
reclining on the floor drinking wine out of small earthen pans, which are
much used in this part of Galicia. With a civil salutation I passed on,
and ascended the staircase to the room in which we had taken our repast.
Here there was a rude and dirty bed, on which I flung myself, exhausted
with fatigue. I determined to take a little repose, and in the evening
to call the people of the place together, to read a few chapters of the
Scripture, and then to address them with a little Christian exhortation.
I was soon asleep, but my slumbers were by no means tranquil. I thought
I was surrounded with difficulties of various kinds, amongst rocks and
ravines, vainly endeavouring to extricate myself; uncouth visages showed
themselves amidst the trees and in the hollows, thrusting out cloven
tongues, and uttering angry cries. I looked around for my guide, but
could not find him; methought, however, that I heard his voice down a
deep dingle. He appeared to be talking of me. How long I might have
continued in these wild dreams I know not. I was suddenly, however,
seized roughly by the shoulder, and nearly dragged from the bed. I
looked up in amazement, and by the light of the descending sun I beheld
hanging over me a wild and uncouth figure; it was that of an elderly man,
built as strong as a giant, with much beard and whisker, and huge bushy
eyebrows, dressed in the habiliments of a fisherman; in his hand was a
rusty musket.
_Myself_.—Who are you, and what do you want?
_Figure_.—Who I am matters but little. Get up and follow me; it is you I
want.
_Myself_.—By what authority do you thus presume to interfere with me?
_Figure_.—By the authority of the _justicia_ of Finisterre. Follow me
peaceably, Calros, or it will be the worse for you.
“Calros,” said I, “what does the person mean?” I thought it, however,
most prudent to obey his command, and followed him down the staircase.
The shop and the portal were now thronged with the inhabitants of
Finisterre, men, women, and children; the latter for the most part in a
state of nudity, and with bodies wet and dripping, having been probably
summoned in haste from their gambols in the brine. Through this crowd
the figure whom I have attempted to describe pushed his way with an air
of authority.
On arriving in the street, he laid his heavy hand upon my arm, not
roughly, however. “It is Calros! it is Calros!” said a hundred voices;
“he has come to Finisterre at last, and the _justicia_ have now got hold
of him.” Wondering what all this could mean, I attended my strange
conductor down the street. As we proceeded, the crowd increased every
moment, following and vociferating. Even the sick were brought to the
doors to obtain a view of what was going forward, and a glance at the
redoubtable Calros. I was particularly struck by the eagerness displayed
by one man, a cripple, who, in spite of the entreaties of his wife, mixed
with the crowd, and having lost his crutch, hopped forward on one leg,
exclaiming, “_Carracho_! _tambien voy yo_!” {28}
We at last reached a house of rather larger size than the rest; my guide,
having led me into a long low room, placed me in the middle of the floor,
and then hurrying to the door, he endeavoured to repulse the crowd who
strove to enter with us. This he effected, though not without
considerable difficulty, being once or twice compelled to have recourse
to the butt of his musket to drive back unauthorized intruders. I now
looked round the room. It was rather scantily furnished: I could see
nothing but some tubs and barrels, the mast of a boat, and a sail or two.
Seated upon the tubs were three or four men coarsely dressed, like
fishermen or shipwrights. The principal personage was a surly
ill-tempered looking fellow of about thirty-five, whom eventually I
discovered to be the _alcalde_ of Finisterre, and lord of the house in
which we now were. In a corner I caught a glimpse of my guide, who was
evidently in durance, two stout fishermen standing before him, one with a
musket and the other with a boat-hook. After I had looked about me for a
minute, the _alcalde_, giving his whiskers a twist, thus addressed me:—
“Who are you, where is your passport, and what brings you to Finisterre?”
_Myself_.—I am an Englishman. Here is my passport, and I came to see
Finisterre.
This reply seemed to discomfit them for a moment. They looked at each
other, then at my passport. At length the _alcalde_, striking it with
his finger, bellowed forth:
“This is no Spanish passport; it appears to be written in French.”
_Myself_.—I have already told you that I am a foreigner. I of course
carry a foreign passport.
_Alcalde_.—Then you mean to assert that you are not _Calros Rey_.
_Myself_.—I never heard before of such a king, nor indeed of such a name.
_Alcalde_.—Hark to the fellow! he has the audacity to say that he has
never heard of Calros the pretender, who calls himself king.
_Myself_.—If you mean by Calros, the pretender Don Carlos, all I can
reply is, that you can scarcely be serious. You might as well assert
that yonder poor fellow, my guide, whom I see you have made prisoner, is
his nephew, the _Infante_ Don Sebastian. {29}
_Alcalde_.—See, you have betrayed yourself; that is the very person we
suppose him to be.
_Myself_.—It is true that they are both hunchbacks. But how can I be
like Don Carlos? I have nothing the appearance of a Spaniard, and am
nearly a foot taller than the pretender.
_Alcalde_.—That makes no difference; you of course carry many waistcoats
about you, by means of which you disguise yourself, and appear tall or
low according to your pleasure.
This last was so conclusive an argument that I had of course nothing to
reply to it. The _alcalde_ looked around him in triumph, as if he had
made some notable discovery. “Yes, it is Calros; it is Calros,” said the
crowd at the door. “It will be as well to have these men shot
instantly,” continued the _alcalde_; “if they are not the two pretenders,
they are at any rate two of the factious.”
“I am by no means certain that they are either one or the other,” said a
gruff voice.
The _justicia_ of Finisterre turned their eyes in the direction from
which these words proceeded, and so did I. Our glances rested upon the
figure who held watch at the door. He had planted the barrel of his
musket on the floor, and was now leaning his chin against the butt.
“I am by no means certain that they are either one or the other,”
repeated he, advancing forward. “I have been examining this man,”
pointing to myself, “and listening whilst he spoke, and it appears to me
that after all he may prove an Englishman; he has their very look and
voice. Who knows the English better than Antonio de la Trava, and who
has a better right? Has he not sailed in their ships; has he not eaten
their biscuit; and did he not stand by Nelson when he was shot dead?”
Here the _alcalde_ became violently incensed. “He is no more an
Englishman than yourself,” he exclaimed; “if he were an Englishman would
he have come in this manner, skulking across the land? Not so, I trow.
He would have come in a ship, recommended to some of us, or to the
Catalans. He would have come to trade—to buy; but nobody knows him in
Finisterre, nor does he know anybody, and the first thing, moreover, that
he does when he reaches this place is to inspect the fort, and to ascend
the mountain, where, no doubt, he has been marking out a camp. What
brings him to Finisterre, if he is neither Calros nor a _bribon_ of a
_faccioso_?”
I felt that there was a good deal of justice in some of these remarks,
and I was aware, for the first time, that I had indeed committed a great
imprudence in coming to this wild place, and among these barbarous
people, without being able to assign any motive which could appear at all
valid in their eyes. I endeavoured to convince the _alcalde_ that I had
come across the country for the purpose of making myself acquainted with
the many remarkable objects which it contained, and of obtaining
information respecting the character and condition of the inhabitants.
He could understand no such motives. “What did you ascend the mountain
for?” “To see prospects.” “_Disparate_! I have lived at Finisterre
forty years, and never ascended that mountain. I would not do it in a
day like this for two ounces of gold. You went to take altitudes, and to
mark out a camp.” I had, however, a staunch friend in old Antonio, who
insisted, from his knowledge of the English, that all I said might very
possibly be true. “The English,” said he, “have more money than they
know what to do with, and on that account they wander all over the world,
paying dearly for what no other people care a groat for.” He then
proceeded, notwithstanding the frowns of the _alcalde_, to examine me in
the English language. His own entire knowledge of this tongue was
confined to two words—_knife_ and _fork_, which words I rendered into
Spanish by their equivalents, and was forthwith pronounced an Englishman
by the old fellow, who, brandishing his musket, exclaimed:—
“This man is not Calros; he is what he declares himself to be, an
Englishman, and whosoever seeks to injure him shall have to do with
Antonio de la Trava, _el valiente de Finisterra_.” No person sought to
impugn this verdict, and it was at length determined that I should be
sent to Corcuvion, to be examined by the _alcalde mayor_ of the district.
“But,” said the _alcalde_ of Finisterre, “what is to be done with the
other fellow? He at least is no Englishman. Bring him forward, and let
us hear what he has to say for himself. Now, fellow, who are you, and
what is your master?”
_Guide_.—I am Sebastianillo, a poor broken mariner of Padron, and my
master for the present is the gentleman whom you see, the most valiant
and wealthy of all the English. He has two ships at Vigo laden with
riches. I told you so when you first seized me up there in our _posada_.
_Alcalde_.—Where is your passport?
_Guide_.—I have no passport. Who would think of bringing a passport to
such a place as this, where I don’t suppose there are two individuals who
can read? I have no passport; my master’s passport of course includes
me.
_Alcalde_.—It does not. And since you have no passport, and have
confessed that your name is Sebastian, you shall be shot. Antonio de la
Trava, do you and the musketeers lead this Sebastianillo forth, and shoot
him before the door.
_Antonio de la Trava_.—With much pleasure, _Señor Alcalde_, since you
order it. With respect to this fellow, I shall not trouble myself to
interfere. He at least is no Englishman. He has more the look of a
wizard or _nuveiro_; one of those devils who raise storms and sink
launches. Moreover, he says he is from Padron, and those of that place
are all thieves and drunkards. They once played me a trick, and I would
gladly be at the shooting of the whole _pueblo_.
I now interfered, and said that if they shot the guide they must shoot me
too; expatiating at the same time on the cruelty and barbarity of taking
away the life of a poor unfortunate fellow who, as might be seen at the
first glance, was only half-witted; adding, moreover, that if any person
was guilty in this case it was myself, as the other could only be
considered in the light of a servant acting under my orders.
“The safest plan, after all,” said the _alcalde_, “appears to be to send
you both prisoners to Corcuvion, where the head _alcalde_ can dispose of
you as he thinks proper. You must, however, pay for your escort; for it
is not to be supposed that the housekeepers of Finisterre have nothing
else to do than to ramble about the country with every chance fellow who
finds his way to this town.” “As for that matter,” said Antonio, “I will
take charge of them both. I am the _valiente_ of Finisterre, and fear no
two men living. Moreover, I am sure that the captain here will make it
worth my while, else he is no Englishman. Therefore let us be quick, and
set out for Corcuvion at once, as it is getting late. First of all,
however, captain, I must search you and your baggage. You have no arms,
of course? But it is best to make all sure.”
Long ere it was dark I found myself again on the pony, in company with my
guide, wending our way along the beach in the direction of Corcuvion.
Antonio de la Trava tramped heavily on before, his musket on his
shoulder.
_Myself_.—Are you not afraid, Antonio, to be thus alone with two
prisoners, one of whom is on horseback? If we were to try, I think we
could overpower you.
_Antonio de la Trava_.—I am the _valiente de Finisterra_, and I fear no
odds.
_Myself_.—Why do you call yourself the _valiente_ of Finisterre?
_Antonio de la Trava_.—The whole district call me so. When the French
came to Finisterre and demolished the fort, three perished by my hand. I
stood on the mountain, up where I saw you scrambling to-day. I continued
firing at the enemy, until three detached themselves in pursuit of me.
The fools! two perished amongst the rocks by the fire of this musket, and
as for the third, I beat his head to pieces with the stock. It is on
that account that they call me the _valiente_ of Finisterre.
_Myself_.—How came you to serve with the English fleet? I think I heard
you say that you were present when Nelson fell.
_Antonio de la Trava_.—I was captured by your countrymen, captain; and as
I had been a sailor from my childhood, they were glad of my services. I
was nine months with them, and assisted at Trafalgar. I saw the English
admiral die. You have something of his face, and your voice, when you
spoke, sounded in my ears like his own. I love the English, and on that
account I saved you. Think not that I would toil along these sands with
you if you were one of my own countrymen. Here we are at Duyo, captain.
Shall we refresh?
We did refresh, or rather Antonio de la Trava refreshed, swallowing pan
after pan of wine, with a thirst which seemed unquenchable. “That man
was a greater wizard than myself,” whispered Sebastian, my guide, “who
told us that the drunkards of Finisterre would play us a trick.” At
length the old hero of the Cape slowly rose, saying that we must hasten
on to Corcuvion, or the night would overtake us by the way.
“What kind of person is the _alcalde_ to whom you are conducting me?”
said I.
“Oh, very different from him of Finisterre,” replied Antonio. “This is a
young _Señorito_, lately arrived from Madrid. He is not even a Gallegan.
He is a mighty liberal, and it is owing chiefly to his orders that we
have lately been so much on the alert. It is said that the Carlists are
meditating a descent on these parts of Galicia. Let them only come to
Finisterre; we are liberals there to a man, and the old _valiente_ is
ready to play the same part as in the time of the French. But, as I was
telling you before, the _alcalde_ to whom I am conducting you is a young
man, and very learned, and, if he thinks proper, he can speak English to
you, even better than myself, notwithstanding I was a friend of Nelson,
and fought by his side at Trafalgar.”
It was dark night before we reached Corcuvion. Antonio again stopped to
refresh at a wine-shop, after which he conducted us to the house of the
_alcalde_. His steps were by this time not particularly steady, and on
arriving at the gate of the house, he stumbled over the threshold and
fell. He got up with an oath, and instantly commenced thundering at the
door with the stock of his musket. “Who is it?” at length demanded a
soft female voice in Gallegan. “The _valiente_ of Finisterre,” replied
Antonio; whereupon the gate was unlocked, and we beheld before us a very
pretty female with a candle in her hand. “What brings you here so late,
Antonio?” she inquired. “I bring two prisoners, _mi pulida_,” replied
Antonio. “_Ave Maria_!” she exclaimed. “I hope they will do no harm.”
“I will answer for one,” replied the old man; “but as for the other, he
is a _nuveiro_, and has sunk more ships than all his brethren in Galicia.
But be not afraid, my beauty,” he continued, as the female made the sign
of the cross: “first lock the gate, and then show me the way to the
_alcalde_. I have much to tell him.” The gate was locked, and bidding
us stay below in the court-yard, Antonio followed the young woman up a
stone stair, whilst we remained in darkness below.
After the lapse of about a quarter of an hour we again saw the candle
gleam upon the staircase, and the young female appeared. Coming up to
me, she advanced the candle to my features, on which she gazed very
intently. After a long scrutiny she went to my guide, and having
surveyed him still more fixedly, she turned to me, and said, in her best
Spanish, “_Señor_ Cavalier, I congratulate you on your servant. He is
the best-looking _mozo_ in all Galicia. _Vaya_! if he had but a coat to
his back, and did not go barefoot, I would accept him at once as a
_novio_; but I have unfortunately made a vow never to marry a poor man,
but only one who has got a heavy purse and can buy me fine clothes. So
you are a Carlist, I suppose? _Vaya_! I do not like you the worse for
that. But, being so, how went you to Finisterre, where they are all
_Cristinos_ and _negros_? Why did you not go to my village? None would
have meddled with you there. Those of my village are of a different
stamp to the drunkards of Finisterre. Those of my village never
interfere with honest people. _Vaya_! how I hate that drunkard of
Finisterre who brought you; he is so old and ugly; were it not for the
love which I bear to the _Señor Alcalde_, I would at once unlock the gate
and bid you go forth, you and your servant, _el buen mozo_”. {37}
Antonio now descended. “Follow me,” said he; “his worship the _alcalde_
will be ready to receive you in a moment.” Sebastian and myself followed
him upstairs to a room, where, seated behind a table, we beheld a young
man of low stature, but handsome features, and very fashionably dressed.
He appeared to be inditing a letter, which, when he had concluded, he
delivered to a secretary to be transcribed. He then looked at me for a
moment fixedly, and the following conversation ensued between us:—
_Alcalde_.—I see that you are an Englishman, and my friend Antonio here
informs me that you have been arrested at Finisterre.
_Myself_.—He tells you true; and but for him I believe that I should have
fallen by the hands of those savage fishermen.
_Alcalde_.—The inhabitants of Finisterre are brave, and are all liberals.
Allow me to look at your passport? Yes, all in form. Truly it was very
ridiculous that they should have arrested you as a Carlist.
_Myself_.—Not only as a Carlist, but as Don Carlos himself.
_Alcalde_.—Oh! most ridiculous; mistake a countryman of the grand
Baintham for such a Goth!
_Myself_.—Excuse me, sir, you speak of the grand somebody.
_Alcalde_.—The grand Baintham. He who has invented laws for all the
world. I hope shortly to see them adopted in this unhappy country of
ours.
_Myself_.—Oh! you mean Jeremy Bentham. Yes! a very remarkable man in his
way.
_Alcalde_.—In his way! in all ways. The most universal genius which the
world ever produced:—a Solon, a Plato, and a Lope de Vega.
_Myself_.—I have never read his writings. I have no doubt that he was a
Solon; and as you say, a Plato. I should scarcely have thought, however,
that he could be ranked as a poet with Lope de Vega.
_Alcalde_.—How surprising! I see, indeed, that you know nothing of his
writings, though an Englishman. Now, here am I, a simple _alcalde_ of
Galicia, yet I possess all the writings of Baintham on that shelf, and I
study them day and night.
_Myself_.—You doubtless, sir, possess the English language.
_Alcalde_.—I do. I mean that part of it which is contained in the
writings of Baintham. I am most truly glad to see a countryman of his in
these Gothic wildernesses. I understand and appreciate your motives for
visiting them: excuse the incivility and rudeness which you have
experienced. But we will endeavour to make you reparation. You are this
moment free: but it is late; I must find you a lodging for the night. I
know one close by which will just suit you. Let us repair thither this
moment. Stay, I think I see a book in your hand.
_Myself_.—The New Testament.
_Alcalde_.—What book is that?
_Myself_.—A portion of the sacred writings, the Bible.
_Alcalde_.—Why do you carry such a book with you?
_Myself_.—One of my principal motives in visiting Finisterre was to carry
this book to that wild place.
_Alcalde_.—Ha, ha! how very singular. Yes, I remember. I have heard
that the English highly prize this eccentric book. How very singular
that the countrymen of the grand Baintham should set any value upon that
old monkish book!
It was now late at night, and my new friend attended me to the lodging
which he had destined for me, and which was at the house of a respectable
old female, where I found a clean and comfortable room. On the way I
slipped a gratuity into the hand of Antonio, and on my arrival, formally,
and in the presence of the _alcalde_, presented him with the Testament,
which I requested he would carry back to Finisterre, and keep in
remembrance of the Englishman in whose behalf he had so effectually
interposed.
_Antonio_.—I will do so, your worship, and when the winds blow from the
north-west, preventing our launches from putting to sea, I will read your
present. Farewell, my captain, and when you next come to Finisterre, I
hope it will be in a valiant English bark, with plenty of contraband on
board, and not across the country on a pony, in company with _nuveiros_
and men of Padron.
Presently arrived the handmaid of the _alcalde_ with a basket, which she
took into the kitchen, where she prepared an excellent supper for her
master’s friend. On its being served up the _alcalde_ bade me farewell,
having first demanded whether he could in any way forward my plans.
“I return to Saint James to-morrow,” I replied, “and I sincerely hope
that some occasion will occur which will enable me to acquaint the world
with the hospitality which I have experienced from so accomplished a
scholar as the _Alcalde_ of Corcuvion.”
CHAPTER XXXI.
Corunna—Crossing the Bay—Ferrol—The Dock-yard—Where are we now?—Greek
Ambassador—Lantern-Light—The Ravine—Viveiro—Evening—Marsh and
Quagmire—Fair Words and Fair Money—The Leathern Girth—Eyes of Lynx—The
Knavish Guide.
From Corcuvion I returned to St. James and Corunna, and now began to make
preparation for directing my course to the Asturias. In the first place
I parted with my Andalusian horse, which I considered unfit for the long
and mountainous journey I was about to undertake, his constitution having
become much debilitated from his Gallegan travels. Owing to horses being
exceedingly scarce at Corunna, I had no difficulty in disposing of him at
a far higher price than he originally cost me. A young and wealthy
merchant of Corunna, who was a national guardsman, became enamoured of
his glossy skin and long mane and tail. For my own part, I was glad to
part with him for more reasons than one; he was both vicious and savage,
and was continually getting me into scrapes in the stables of the
_posadas_ where we slept or baited. An old Castilian peasant, whose pony
he had maltreated, once said to me, “Sir Cavalier, if you have any love
or respect for yourself, get rid, I beseech you, of that beast, who is
capable of proving the ruin of a kingdom.” So I left him behind at
Corunna, where I subsequently learned that he became glandered and died.
Peace to his memory!
From Corunna I crossed the bay to Ferrol, whilst Antonio with our
remaining horse followed by land, a rather toilsome and circuitous
journey, although the distance by water is scarcely three leagues. I was
very sea-sick during the passage, and lay almost senseless at the bottom
of the small launch in which I had embarked, and which was crowded with
people. The wind was adverse, and the water rough. We could make no
sail, but were impelled along by the oars of five or six stout mariners,
who sang all the while Gallegan ditties. Suddenly the sea appeared to
have become quite smooth, and my sickness at once deserted me. I rose
upon my feet and looked around. We were in one of the strangest places
imaginable. A long and narrow passage overhung on either side by a
stupendous barrier of black and threatening rocks. The line of the coast
was here divided by a natural cleft, yet so straight and regular that it
seemed not the work of chance but design. The water was dark and sullen,
and of immense depth. This passage, which is about a mile in length, is
the entrance to a broad basin, at whose farther extremity stands the town
of Ferrol.
Sadness came upon me as soon as I entered this place. Grass was growing
in the streets, and misery and distress stared me in the face on every
side. Ferrol is the grand naval arsenal of Spain, and has shared in the
ruin of the once splendid Spanish navy: it is no longer thronged with
those thousand shipwrights who prepared for sea the tremendous
three-deckers and long frigates, the greater part of which were destroyed
at Trafalgar. Only a few ill-paid and half-starved workmen still linger
about, scarcely sufficient to repair any _guarda costa_ {43a} which may
put in dismantled by the fire of some English smuggling schooner from
Gibraltar. Half the inhabitants of Ferrol {43b} beg their bread; and
amongst these, as it is said, are not unfrequently found retired naval
officers, many of them maimed or otherwise wounded, who are left to pine
in indigence: their pensions or salaries having been allowed to run three
or four years in arrear, owing to the exigencies of the times. A crowd
of importunate beggars followed me to the _posada_, and even attempted to
penetrate to the apartment to which I was conducted. “Who are you?” said
I to a woman who flung herself at my feet, and who bore in her
countenance evident marks of former gentility. “A widow, sir,” she
replied, in very good French; “a widow of a brave officer, once admiral
of this port.” The misery and degradation of modern Spain are nowhere so
strikingly manifested as at Ferrol.
Yet even here there is still much to admire. Notwithstanding its present
state of desolation, it contains some good streets, and abounds with
handsome houses. The _alameda_ is planted with nearly a thousand elms,
of which almost all are magnificent trees, and the poor Ferrolese, with
the genuine spirit of localism so prevalent in Spain, boast that their
town contains a better public walk than Madrid, of whose _prado_, when
they compare the two, they speak in terms of unmitigated contempt. At
one end of this _alameda_ stands the church, the only one in Ferrol. To
this church I repaired the day after my arrival, which was Sunday. I
found it quite insufficient to contain the number of worshippers who,
chiefly from the country, not only crowded the interior, but, bareheaded,
were upon their knees before the door to a considerable distance down the
walk.
Parallel with the _alameda_ extends the wall of the naval arsenal and
dock. I spent several hours in walking about these places, to visit
which it is necessary to procure a written permission from the
captain-general of Ferrol. They filled me with astonishment. I have
seen the royal dock-yards of Russia and England, but, for grandeur of
design and costliness of execution, they cannot for a moment compare with
these wonderful monuments of the bygone naval pomp of Spain. I shall not
attempt to describe them, but content myself with observing that the
oblong basin, which is surrounded with a granite mole, is capacious
enough to permit a hundred first-rates to lie conveniently in ordinary:
but instead of such a force, I saw only a sixty-gun frigate and two brigs
lying in this basin; and to this inconsiderable number of vessels is the
present war marine of Spain reduced.
I waited for the arrival of Antonio two or three days at Ferrol, and
still he came not: late one evening, however, as I was looking down the
street, I perceived him advancing, leading our only horse by the bridle.
He informed me that, at about three leagues from Corunna, the heat of the
weather and the flies had so distressed the animal that it had fallen
down in a kind of fit, from which it had been only relieved by copious
bleeding, on which account he had been compelled to halt for a day upon
the road. The horse was evidently in a very feeble state; and had a
strange rattling in its throat, which alarmed me at first. I, however,
administered some remedies, and in a few days deemed him sufficiently
recovered to proceed.
We accordingly started from Ferrol, having first hired a pony for myself,
and a guide who was to attend us as far as Rivadeo, {45} twenty leagues
from Ferrol, and on the confines of the Asturias. The day at first was
fine, but ere we reached Novales, a distance of three leagues, the sky
became overcast, and a mist descended, accompanied by a drizzling rain.
The country through which we passed was very picturesque. At about two
in the afternoon we could descry through the mist the small fishing-town
of Santa Marta on our left, with its beautiful bay. Travelling along the
summit of a line of hills, we presently entered a chestnut forest, which
appeared to be without limit: the rain still descended, and kept up a
ceaseless pattering among the broad green leaves. “This is the
commencement of the autumnal rains,” said the guide. “Many is the
wetting that you will get, my masters, before you reach Oviedo.” “Have
you ever been as far as Oviedo?” I demanded. “No,” he replied, “and once
only to Rivadeo, the place to which I am now conducting you, and I tell
you frankly that we shall soon be in wildernesses where the way is hard
to find, especially at night, and amidst rain and waters. I wish I were
fairly back to Ferrol, for I like not this route, which is the worst in
Galicia, in more respects than one; but where my master’s pony goes,
there must I go too; such is the life of us guides.” I shrugged my
shoulders at this intelligence, which was by no means cheering, but made
no answer. At length, about nightfall, we emerged from the forest, and
presently descended into a deep valley at the foot of lofty hills.
“Where are we now?” I demanded of the guide, as we crossed a rude bridge
at the bottom of the valley, down which a rivulet swollen by the rain
foamed and roared. “In the valley of Coisa Doiro,” {46} he replied; “and
it is my advice that we stay here for the night and do not venture among
those hills, through which lies the path to Viveiro; for as soon as we
get there, _adios_! I shall be bewildered, which will prove the
destruction of us all.” “Is there a village nigh?” “Yes, the village is
right before us, and we shall be there in a moment.” We soon reached the
village, which stood amongst some tall trees at the entrance of a pass
which led up amongst the hills. Antonio dismounted, and entered two or
three of the cabins, but presently came to me, saying, “We cannot stay
here, _mon maître_, without being devoured by vermin; we had better be
amongst the hills than in this place. There is neither fire nor light in
these cabins, and the rain is streaming through the roofs.” The guide,
however, refused to proceed. “I could scarcely find my way amongst those
hills by daylight,” he cried surlily, “much less at night, ’midst storm
and _bretima_.” We procured some wine and maize bread from one of the
cottages. Whilst we were partaking of these, Antonio said, “_Mon
maître_, the best thing we can do in our present situation is to hire
some fellow of this village to conduct us through the hills to Viveiro.
There are no beds in this place, and if we lie down in the litter in our
damp clothes we shall catch a tertian of Galicia. {47} Our present guide
is of no service; we must therefore find another to do his duty.”
Without waiting for a reply, he flung down the crust of _broa_ which he
was munching and disappeared. I subsequently learned that he went to the
cottage of the _alcalde_, and demanded, in the queen’s name, a guide for
the Greek ambassador, who was benighted on his way to the Asturias. In
about ten minutes I again saw him, attended by the local functionary,
who, to my surprise, made me a profound bow, and stood bare-headed in the
rain. “His excellency,” shouted Antonio, “is in need of a guide to
Viveiro. People of our description are not compelled to pay for any
service which they may require; however, as his excellency has bowels of
compassion, he is willing to give three _pesetas_ to any competent person
who will accompany him to Viveiro, and as much bread and wine as he can
eat and drink on his arrival.” “His excellency shall be served,” said
the alcalde; “however, as the way is long and the path is bad, and there
is much _bretima_ amongst the hills, it appears to me that, besides the
bread and wine, his excellency can do no less than offer four pesetas to
the guide who may be willing to accompany him to Viveiro; and I know no
one better than my own son-in-law, Juanito.” “Content, _Señor Alcalde_,”
I replied; “produce the guide, and the extra _peseta_ shall be
forthcoming in due season.”
Soon appeared Juanito with a lantern in his hand. We instantly set
forward. The two guides began conversing in Gallegan. “_Mon maître_,”
said Antonio, “this new scoundrel is asking the old one what he thinks we
have got in our portmanteaus.” Then, without awaiting my answer, he
shouted, “Pistols, ye barbarians! Pistols, as you shall learn to your
cost, if you do not cease speaking in that gibberish and converse in
Castilian.” The Gallegans were silent, and presently the first guide
dropped behind, whilst the other with the lantern moved before. “Keep in
the rear,” said Antonio to the former, “and at a distance: know one
thing, moreover, that I can see behind as well as before. _Mon maître_,”
said he to me, “I don’t suppose these fellows will attempt to do us any
harm, more especially as they do not know each other; it is well,
however, to separate them, for this is a time and place which might tempt
any one to commit robbery and murder too.”
The rain still continued to fall uninterruptedly, the path was rugged and
precipitous, and the night was so dark that we could only see
indistinctly the hills which surrounded us. Once or twice our guide
seemed to have lost his way: he stopped, muttered to himself, raised his
lantern on high, and would then walk slowly and hesitatingly forward. In
this manner we proceeded for three or four hours, when I asked the guide
how far we were from Viveiro. “I do not know exactly where we are, your
worship,” he replied, “though I believe we are in the route. We can
scarcely, however, be less than two mad leagues from Viveiro.” “Then we
shall not arrive there before morning,” interrupted Antonio, “for a mad
league of Galicia means at least two of Castile; and perhaps we are
doomed never to arrive there, if the way thither leads down this
precipice.” As he spoke, the guide seemed to descend into the bowels of
the earth. “Stop,” said I; “where are you going?” “To Viveiro,
_Senhor_,” replied the fellow: “this is the way to Viveiro; there is no
other. I now know where we are.” The light of the lantern shone upon
the dark red features of the guide, who had turned round to reply, as he
stood some yards down the side of a dingle or ravine overgrown with thick
trees, beneath whose leafy branches a frightfully steep path descended.
I dismounted from the pony, and delivering the bridle to the other guide,
said, “Here is your master’s horse; if you please you may lead him down
that abyss, but as for myself I wash my hands of the matter.” The
fellow, without a word of reply, vaulted into the saddle, and with a
_vamos_, _Perico_! {49} to the pony, impelled the creature to the
descent. “Come, _Senhor_,” said he with the lantern, “there is no time
to be lost; my light will be presently extinguished, and this is the
worst bit in the whole road.” I thought it very probable that he was
about to lead us to some den of cut-throats, where we might be
sacrificed; but, taking courage, I seized our own horse by the bridle,
and followed the fellow down the ravine amidst rocks and brambles. The
descent lasted nearly ten minutes, and ere we had entirely accomplished
it, the light in the lantern went out, and we remained in nearly total
darkness.
Encouraged, however, by the guide, who assured us there was no danger, we
at length reached the bottom of the ravine; here we encountered a rill of
water, through which we were compelled to wade as high as the knee. In
the midst of the water I looked up and caught a glimpse of the heavens
through the branches of the trees, which all around clothed the shelving
sides of the ravine, and completely embowered the channel of the stream:
to a place more strange and replete with gloom and horror no benighted
traveller ever found his way. After a short pause we commenced scaling
the opposite bank, which we did not find so steep as the other, and a few
minutes’ exertion brought us to the top.
Shortly afterwards the rain abated, and the moon arising, cast a dim
light through the watery mists. The way had become less precipitous, and
in about two hours we descended to the shore of an extensive creek, along
which we proceeded till we reached a spot where many boats and barges lay
with their keels upward upon the sand. Presently we beheld before us the
walls of Viveiro, upon which the moon was shedding its sickly lustre. We
entered by a lofty and seemingly ruinous archway, and the guide conducted
us at once to the _posada_.
Every person in Viveiro appeared to be buried in profound slumber; not so
much as a dog saluted us with his bark. After much knocking we were
admitted into the _posada_, a large and dilapidated edifice. We had
scarcely housed ourselves and horses when the rain began to fall with yet
more violence than before, attended with much thunder and lightning.
Antonio and I, exhausted with fatigue, betook ourselves to flock beds in
a ruinous chamber, into which the rain penetrated through many a cranny,
whilst the guides ate bread and drank wine till the morning.
When I arose I was gladdened by the sight of a fine day. Antonio
forthwith prepared a savoury breakfast of stewed fowl, of which we stood
in much need after the ten-league journey of the preceding day over the
ways which I have attempted to describe. I then walked out to view the
town, which consists of little more than one long street, on the side of
a steep mountain thickly clad with forest and fruit-trees. At about ten
we continued our journey, accompanied by our first guide, the other
having returned to Coisa Doiro some hours previously.
Our route throughout this day was almost constantly within sight of the
shores of the Cantabrian sea, whose windings we followed. The country
was barren, and in many parts covered with huge stones: cultivated spots,
however, were to be seen, where vines were growing. We met with but few
human habitations. We, however, journeyed on cheerfully, for the sun was
once more shining in full brightness, gilding the wild moors, and shining
upon the waters of the distant sea, which lay in unruffled calmness.
At evening fall we were in the neighbourhood of the shore, with a range
of wood-covered hills on our right. Our guide led us towards a creek
bordered by a marsh, but he soon stopped, and declared that he did not
know whither he was conducting us.
“_Mon maître_,” said Antonio, “let us be our own guides; it is, as you
see, of no use to depend upon this fellow, whose whole science consists
in leading people into quagmires.”
We therefore turned aside, and proceeded along the marsh for a
considerable distance, till we reached a narrow path which led us into a
thick wood, where we soon became completely bewildered. On a sudden,
after wandering about a considerable time, we heard the noise of water,
and presently the clack of a wheel. Following the sound, we arrived at a
low stone mill, built over a brook; here we stopped and shouted, but no
answer was returned. “The place is deserted,” said Antonio; “here,
however, is a path, which, if we follow it, will doubtless lead us to
some human habitation. So we went along the path, which, in about ten
minutes, brought us to the door of a cabin, in which we saw lights.
Antonio dismounted and opened the door: “Is there any one here who can
conduct us to Rivadeo?” he demanded.
“_Senhor_,” answered a voice, “Rivadeo is more than five leagues from
here, and, moreover, there is a river to cross.”
“Then to the next village,” continued Antonio.
“I am a _vecino_ of the next village, which is on the way to Rivadeo,”
said another voice, “and I will lead you thither, if you will give me
fair words, and, what is better, fair money.”
A man now came forth, holding in his hand a large stick. He strode
sturdily before us, and in less than half an hour led us out of the wood.
In another half-hour he brought us to a group of cabins situated near the
sea; he pointed to one of these, and having received a _peseta_, bade us
farewell.
The people of the cottage willingly consented to receive us for the
night; it was much more cleanly and commodious than the wretched huts of
the Gallegan peasantry in general. The ground floor consisted of a
keeping room and stable, whilst above was a long loft, in which were some
neat and comfortable flock beds. I observed several masts and sails of
boats. The family consisted of two brothers, with their wives and
families. One was a fisherman; but the other, who appeared to be the
principal person, informed me that he had resided for many years in
service at Madrid, and, having amassed a small sum, he had at length
returned to his native village, where he had purchased some land, which
he farmed. All the family used the Castilian language in their common
discourse, and on inquiry I learned that the Gallegan was not much spoken
in that neighbourhood. I have forgotten the name of this village, which
is situated on the estuary of the Foz, which rolls down from Mondonedo.
In the morning we crossed this estuary in a large boat, with our horses,
and about noon arrived at Rivadeo.
“Now, your worship,” said the guide, who had accompanied us from Ferrol,
“I have brought you as far as I bargained, and a hard journey it has
been: I therefore hope you will suffer Perico and myself to remain here
to-night at your expense, and to-morrow we will go back; at present we
are both sorely tired.”
“I never mounted a better pony than Perico,” said I, “and never met with
a worse guide than yourself. You appear to be perfectly ignorant of the
country, and have done nothing but bring us into difficulties. You may,
however, stay here for the night, as you say you are tired, and to-morrow
you may return to Ferrol, where I counsel you to adopt some other trade.”
This was said at the door of the _posada_ of Rivadeo.
“Shall I lead the horses to a stable?” said the fellow.
“As you please,” said I.
Antonio looked after him for a moment, as he was leading the animals
away, and then, shaking his head, followed slowly after. In about a
quarter of an hour he returned, laden with the furniture of our own
horse, and with a smile upon his countenance. “_Mon maître_,” said he,
“I have throughout the journey had a bad opinion of this fellow, and now
I have detected him: his motive in requesting permission to stay was a
desire to purloin something from us. He was very officious in the stable
about our horse, and I now miss the new leathern girth which secured the
saddle, and which I observed him looking at frequently on the road. He
has by this time doubtless hid it somewhere; we are quite secure of him,
however, for he has not yet received the hire for the pony, nor the
gratuity for himself.”
The guide returned just as he had concluded speaking. Dishonesty is
always suspicious. The fellow cast a glance upon us, and probably
beholding in our countenances something which he did not like, he
suddenly said, “Give me the horse-hire and my own _propina_, for Perico
and I wish to be off instantly.”
“How is this?” said I; “I thought you and Perico were both fatigued, and
wished to rest here for the night: you have soon recovered from your
weariness.”
“I have thought over the matter,” said the fellow, “and my master will be
angry if I loiter here: pay up, therefore, and let us go.”
“Certainly,” said I, “if you wish it. Is the horse furniture all right?”
“Quite so,” said he; “I delivered it all to your servant.”
“It is all here,” said Antonio, “with the exception of the leathern
girth.”
“I have not got it,” said the guide.
“Of course not,” said I. “Let us proceed to the stable; we shall perhaps
find it there.”
To the stable we went, which we searched through: no girth, however, was
forthcoming. “He has got it buckled round his middle beneath his
pantaloons, _mon maître_,” said Antonio, whose eyes were moving about
like those of a lynx; “I saw the protuberance as he stooped down.
However, let us take no notice: he is here surrounded by his countrymen,
who, if we were to seize him, might perhaps take his part. As I said
before, he is in our power, as we have not paid him.”
The fellow now began to talk in Gallegan to the bystanders (several
persons having collected), wishing the _Denho_ to take him if he knew
anything of the missing property. Nobody, however, seemed inclined to
take his part; and those who listened only shrugged their shoulders. We
returned to the portal of the _posada_, the fellow following us,
clamouring for the horse-hire and _propina_. We made him no answer, and
at length he went away, threatening to apply to the _justicia_; in about
ten minutes, however, he came running back with the girth in his hand.
“I have just found it,” said he, “in the street: your servant dropped
it.”
I took the leather and proceeded very deliberately to count out the sum
to which the horse-hire amounted, and having delivered it to him in the
presence of witnesses, I said, “During the whole journey you have been of
no service to us whatever; nevertheless, you have fared like ourselves,
and have had all you could desire to eat and drink. I intended, on your
leaving us, to present you, moreover, with a _propina_ of two dollars;
but since, notwithstanding our kind treatment, you endeavoured to pillage
us, I will not give you a _cuarto_: go, therefore, about your business.”
All the audience expressed their satisfaction at this sentence, and told
him that he had been rightly-served, and that he was a disgrace to
Galicia. Two or three women crossed themselves, and asked him if he was
not afraid that the _Denho_, whom he had invoked, would take him away.
At last, a respectable-looking man said to him, “Are you not ashamed to
have attempted to rob two innocent strangers?”
“Strangers!” roared the fellow, who was by this time foaming with rage,
“innocent strangers, _carracho_! they know more of Spain and Galicia,
too, than the whole of us. Oh, _Denho_, that servant is no man, but a
wizard, a _nuveiro_.—Where is Perico?”
He mounted Perico, and proceeded forthwith to another _posada_. The
tale, however, of his dishonesty had gone before him, and no person would
house him; whereupon he returned on his steps, and seeing me looking out
of the window of the house, he gave a savage shout, and shaking his fist
at me, galloped out of the town, the people pursuing him with hootings
and revilings.
CHAPTER XXXII.
Martin of Rivadeo—The Factious Mare—Asturians—Luarca—The Seven
Bellotas—Hermits—The Asturian’s Tale—Strange Guests—The Big
Servant—Batuschca.
“What may your business be?” said I to a short, thick, merry-faced fellow
in a velveteen jerkin and canvas pantaloons, who made his way into my
apartment in the dusk of the evening.
“I am Martin of Rivadeo, your worship,” replied the man, “an _alquilador_
by profession. I am told that you want a horse for your journey into the
Asturias to-morrow, and of course a guide: now, if that be the case, I
counsel you to hire myself and mare.”
“I am become tired of guides,” I replied; “so much so that I was thinking
of purchasing a pony, and proceeding without any guide at all. The last
which we had was an infamous character.”
“So I have been told, your worship, and it was well for the _bribon_ that
I was not in Rivadeo when the affair to which you allude occurred. But
he was gone with the pony Perico before I came back, or I would have bled
the fellow to a certainty with my knife. He is a disgrace to the
profession, which is one of the most honourable and ancient in the world.
Perico himself must have been ashamed of him, for Perico, though a pony,
is a gentleman, one of many capacities, and well known upon the roads.
He is only inferior to my mare.”
“Are you well acquainted with the road to Oviedo?” I demanded.
“I am not, your worship; that is, no farther than Luarca, {58a} which is
the first day’s journey. I do not wish to deceive you, therefore let me
go with you no farther than that place; though perhaps I might serve for
the whole journey, for though I am unacquainted with the country, I have
a tongue in my head, and nimble feet to run and ask questions. I will,
however, answer for myself no farther than Luarca, where you can please
yourselves. Your being strangers is what makes me wish to accompany you,
for I like the conversation of strangers, from whom I am sure to gain
information both entertaining and profitable. I wish, moreover, to
convince you that we guides of Galicia are not all thieves, which I am
sure you will not suppose if you only permit me to accompany you as far
as Luarca.”
I was so much struck with the fellow’s good humour and frankness, and
more especially by the originality of character displayed in almost every
sentence which he uttered, that I readily engaged him to guide us to
Luarca; whereupon he left me, promising to be ready with his mare at
eight next morning.
Rivadeo is one of the principal seaports of Galicia, and is admirably
situated for commerce, on a deep firth, into which the river Mirando
{58b} debouches. It contains many magnificent buildings, and an
extensive square or _plaza_, which is planted with trees. I observed
several vessels in the harbour; and the population, which is rather
numerous, exhibited none of those marks of misery and dejection which I
had lately observed among the Ferrolese.
On the morrow Martin of Rivadeo made his appearance at the appointed hour
with his mare. It was a lean haggard animal, not much larger than a
pony; it had good points, however, and was very clean in its hinder legs,
and Martin insisted that it was the best animal of its kind in all Spain.
“It is a factious mare,” said he, “and I believe an Alavese. When the
Carlists came here it fell lame, and they left it behind, and I purchased
it for a dollar. It is not lame now, however, as you shall soon see.”
We had now reached the firth which divides Galicia from the Asturias. A
kind of barge was lying about two yards from the side of the quay,
waiting to take us over. Towards this Martin led his mare, and giving an
encouraging shout, the creature without any hesitation sprang over the
intervening space into the barge. “I told you she was a _facciosa_,”
said Martin; “none but a factious animal would have taken such a leap.”
We all embarked in the barge and crossed over the firth, which is in this
place nearly a mile broad, to Castro Pol, {59} the first town in the
Asturias. I now mounted the factious mare, whilst Antonio followed on my
own horse. Martin led the way, exchanging jests with every person whom
he met on the road, and occasionally enlivening the way with an
extemporaneous song.
We were now in the Asturias, and about noon we reached Navias, a small
fishing-town, situate on a _ria_ or firth: in the neighbourhood are
ragged mountains called the Sierra de Buron, which stand in the shape of
a semicircle. We saw a small vessel in the harbour, which we
subsequently learned was from the Basque provinces, come for a cargo of
cider or _sagadua_, the beverage so dearly loved by the Basques. As we
passed along the narrow street, Antonio was hailed with an “_Ola_!” from
a species of shop in which three men, apparently shoemakers, were seated.
He stopped for some time to converse with them, and when he joined us at
the _posada_ where we halted, I asked him who they were: “_Mon maître_,”
said he, “_ce sont des messieurs de ma connoissance_. I have been
fellow-servant at different times with all three; and I tell you
beforehand, that we shall scarcely pass through a village in this country
where I shall not find an acquaintance. All the Asturians, at some
period of their lives, make a journey to Madrid, where, if they can
obtain a situation, they remain until they have scraped up sufficient to
turn to advantage in their own country; and as I have served in all the
great houses in Madrid, I am acquainted with the greatest part of them.
I have nothing to say against the Asturians, save that they are close and
penurious whilst at service; but they are not thieves, neither at home
nor abroad, and though we must have our wits about us in their country, I
have heard we may travel from one end of it to the other without the
slightest fear of being either robbed or ill-treated, which is not the
case in Galicia, where we were always in danger of having our throats
cut.”
Leaving Navias, we proceeded through a wild desolate country, till we
reached the pass of Baralla, which lies up the side of a huge wall of
rocks, which at a distance appear of a light green colour, though
perfectly bare of herbage or plants of any description.
“This pass,” said Martin of Rivadeo, “bears a very evil reputation, and I
should not like to travel it after sunset. It is not infested by
robbers, but by things much worse, the _duendes_ of two friars of Saint
Francis. It is said that in the old time, long before the convents were
suppressed, two friars of the order of Saint Francis left their convent
to beg. It chanced that they were very successful, but as they were
returning at nightfall by this pass, they had a quarrel about what they
had collected, each insisting that he had done his duty better than the
other; at last, from high words they fell to abuse, and from abuse to
blows. What do you think these demons of friars did? They took off
their cloaks, and at the end of each they made a knot, in which they
placed a large stone, and with these they thrashed and belaboured each
other till both fell dead. Master, I know not which are the worst
plagues, friars, curates, or sparrows:
‘May the Lord God preserve us from evil birds three:
From all friars and curates and sparrows that be;
For the sparrows eat up all the corn that we sow,
The friars drink down all the wine that we grow,
Whilst the curates have all the fair dames at their nod:
From these three evil curses preserve us, Lord God.’”
In about two hours from this time we reached Luarca, the situation of
which is most singular. It stands in a deep hollow, whose sides are so
precipitous that it is impossible to descry the town until you stand just
above it. At the northern extremity of this hollow is a small harbour,
the sea entering by a narrow cleft. We found a large and comfortable
_posada_, and by the advice of Martin, made inquiry for a fresh guide and
horse; we were informed, however, that all the horses of the place were
absent, and that if we waited for their return, we must tarry for two
days. “I had a presentiment,” said Martin, “when we entered Luarca, that
we were not doomed to part at present. You must now hire my mare and me
as far as Gijon, {62a} from whence there is a conveyance to Oviedo. To
tell you the truth, I am by no means sorry that the guides are absent,
for I am pleased with your company, as I make no doubt you are with mine.
I will now go and write a letter to my wife at Rivadeo, informing her
that she must not expect to see me back for several days.” He then went
out of the room, singing the following stanza:—
“A handless man a letter did write,
A dumb dictated it word for word:
The person who read it had lost his sight,
And deaf was he who listened and heard.” {62b}
Early the next morning we emerged from the hollow of Luarca; about an
hour’s riding brought us to Caneiro, a deep and romantic valley of rocks,
shaded by tall chestnut trees. Through the midst of this valley rushes a
rapid stream, which we crossed in a boat. “There is not such a stream
for trout in all the Asturias,” said the ferryman. “Look down into the
waters and observe the large stones over which it flows; now in the
proper season, and in fine weather, you cannot see those stones for the
multitudes of fish which cover them.”
Leaving the valley behind us, we entered into a wild and dreary country,
stony and mountainous. The day was dull and gloomy, and all around
looked sad and melancholy. “Are we in the way for Gijon and Oviedo?”
demanded Martin of an ancient female, who stood at the door of a cottage.
“For Gijon and Oviedo!” replied the crone; “many is the weary step you
will have to make before you reach Gijon and Oviedo. You must first of
all crack the _bellotas_: you are just below them.”
“What does she mean by cracking the _bellotas_?” demanded I of Martin of
Rivadeo.
“Did your worship never hear of the seven _bellotas_?” replied our guide.
“I can scarcely tell you what they are, as I have never seen them; I
believe they are seven hills which we have to cross, and are called
_bellotas_ from some resemblance to acorns which it is fancied they bear.
I have often heard of these acorns, and am not sorry that I have now an
opportunity of seeing them, though it is said that they are rather hard
things for horses to digest.”
The Asturian mountains in this part rise to a considerable altitude.
They consist for the most part of dark granite, covered here and there
with a thin layer of earth. They approach very near to the sea, to which
they slope down in broken ridges, between which are deep and precipitous
defiles, each with its rivulet, the tribute of the hills to the salt
flood. The road traverses these defiles. There are seven of them, which
are called, in the language of the country, _Las siete bellotas_. Of all
these the most terrible is the midmost, down which rolls an impetuous
torrent. At the upper end of it rises a precipitous wall of rock, black
as soot, to the height of several hundred yards; its top, as we passed,
was enveloped with a veil of _bretima_. From this gorge branch off, on
either side, small dingles or glens, some of them so overgrown with trees
and copsewood, that the eye is unable to penetrate the obscurity beyond a
few yards.
“Fine places would some of these dingles prove for hermitages,” said I to
Martin of Rivadeo. “Holy men might lead a happy life there on roots and
water, and pass many years absorbed in heavenly contemplation without
ever being disturbed by the noise and turmoil of the world.”
“True, your worship,” replied Martin; “and perhaps on that very account
there are no hermitages in the _barrancos_ of the seven _bellotas_. Our
hermits had little inclination for roots and water, and had no kind of
objection to be occasionally disturbed in their meditations. _Vaya_! I
never yet saw a hermitage that was not hard by some rich town or village,
or was not a regular resort for all the idle people in the neighbourhood.
Hermits are not fond of living in dingles, amongst wolves and foxes; for
how in that case could they dispose of their poultry? A hermit of my
acquaintance left, when he died, a fortune of seven hundred dollars to
his niece, the greatest part of which he scraped up by fattening
turkeys.”
At the top of this _bellota_ we found a wretched _venta_, where we
refreshed ourselves, and then continued our journey. Late in the
afternoon we cleared the last of these difficult passes. The wind began
now to rise, bearing on its wings a drizzling rain. We passed by Soto
Luino, and shaping our course through a wild but picturesque country, we
found ourselves about nightfall at the foot of a steep hill, up which led
a narrow bridle-way, amidst a grove of lofty trees. Long before we had
reached the top it had become quite dark, and the rain had increased
considerably. We stumbled along in the obscurity, leading our horses,
which were occasionally down on their knees, owing to the slipperiness of
the path. At last we accomplished the ascent in safety, and pushing
briskly forward, we found ourselves in about half an hour at the entrance
of Muros, a large village situated just on the declivity of the farther
side of the hill.
A blazing fire in the _posada_ soon dried our wet garments, and in some
degree recompensed us for the fatigues which we had undergone in
scrambling up the _bellotas_. A rather singular place was this same
_posada_ of Muros. It was a large rambling house, with a spacious
kitchen, or common room, on the ground floor. Above stairs was a large
dining apartment, with an immense oak table, and furnished with cumbrous
leathern chairs with high backs, apparently three centuries old at least.
Communicating with this apartment was a wooden gallery, open to the air,
which led to a small chamber, in which I was destined to sleep, and which
contained an old-fashioned tester-bed with curtains. It was just one of
those inns which romance writers are so fond of introducing in their
descriptions, especially when the scene of adventure lies in Spain. The
host was a talkative Asturian.
The wind still howled, and the rain descended in torrents. I sat before
the fire in a very drowsy state, from which I was presently aroused by
the conversation of the host. “_Señor_,” said he, “it is now three years
since I beheld foreigners in my house. I remember it was about this time
of the year, and just such a night as this, that two men on horseback
arrived here. What was singular, they came without any guide. Two more
strange-looking individuals I never yet beheld with eye-sight. I shall
never forget them. The one was as tall as a giant, with much tawny
moustache, like the coat of a badger, growing about his mouth. He had a
huge ruddy face, and looked dull and stupid, as he no doubt was, for when
I spoke to him he did not seem to understand, and answered in a jabber,
_valgame Dios_! {66} so wild and strange, that I remained staring at him
with mouth and eyes open. The other was neither tall nor red-faced, nor
had he hair about his mouth, and indeed he had very little upon his head.
He was very diminutive, and looked like a _jorobado_; but, _valgame
Dios_! such eyes, like wild cats’, so sharp and full of malice. He spoke
as good Spanish as I myself do, and yet he was no Spaniard. Spaniard
never looked like that man. He was dressed in a _zamarra_, with much
silver and embroidery, and wore an Andalusian hat, and I soon found that
he was master, and that the other was servant.
“_Valgame Dios_! what an evil disposition had that same foreign
_jorobado_! and yet he had much grace, much humour, and said occasionally
to me such comical things, that I was fit to die of laughter. So he sat
down to supper in the room above, and I may as well tell you here, that
he slept in the same chamber where your worship will sleep to-night, and
his servant waited behind his chair. Well, I had curiosity, so I sat
myself down at the table too, without asking leave. Why should I? I was
in my own house, and an Asturian is fit company for a king, and is often
of better blood. Oh, what a strange supper was that. If the servant
made the slightest mistake in helping him, up would start the _jorobado_,
jump upon his chair, and seizing the big giant by the hair, would cuff
him on both sides of his face till I was afraid his teeth would have
fallen out. The giant, however, did not seem to care about it much. He
was used to it, I suppose. _Valgame Dios_! if he had been a Spaniard he
would not have submitted to it so patiently. But what surprised me most
was, that after beating his servant the master would sit down, and the
next moment would begin conversing and laughing with him as if nothing
had happened, and the giant also would laugh and converse with his
master, for all the world as if he had not been beaten.
“You may well suppose, _Señor_, that I understood nothing of their
discourse, for it was all in that strange unchristian tongue in which the
giant answered me when I spoke to him; the sound of it is still ringing
in my ears. It was nothing like other languages. Not like Bascuen, {67}
not like the language in which your worship speaks to my namesake
_Signor_ Antonio here. _Valgame Dios_! I can compare it to nothing but
the sound a person makes when he rinses his mouth with water. There is
one word which I think I still remember, for it was continually
proceeding from the giant’s lips, but his master never used it.
“But the strangest part of the story is yet to be told. The supper was
ended, and the night was rather advanced; the rain still beat against the
windows, even as it does at this moment. Suddenly the _jorobado_ pulled
out his watch. _Valgame Dios_! such a watch! I will tell you one thing,
_Señor_, that I could purchase all the Asturias, and Muros besides, with
the brilliants which shone about the sides of that same watch; the room
wanted no lamp, I trow, so great was the splendour which they cast. So
the _jorobado_ looked at his watch, and then said to me, ‘I shall go to
rest.’ He then took the lamp, and went through the gallery to his room,
followed by his big servant. Well, _Señor_, I cleared away the things,
and then waited below for the servant, for whom I had prepared a
comfortable bed, close by my own. _Señor_, I waited patiently for an
hour, till at last my patience was exhausted, and I ascended to the
supper apartment, and passed through the gallery till I came to the door
of the strange guest. _Señor_, what do you think I saw at the door?”
“How should I know?” I replied. “His riding-boots, perhaps.”
“No, _Señor_, I did not see his riding-boots; but, stretched on the floor
with his head against the door, so that it was impossible to open it
without disturbing him, lay the big servant fast asleep, his immense legs
reaching nearly the whole length of the gallery. I crossed myself, as
well I might, for the wind was howling even as it is now, and the rain
was rushing down into the gallery in torrents; yet there lay the big
servant fast asleep, without any covering, without any pillow, not even a
log, stretched out before his master’s door.
“_Señor_, I got little rest that night, for I said to myself, I have evil
wizards in my house, folks who are not human. Once or twice I went up
and peeped into the gallery, but there still lay the big servant fast
asleep; so I crossed myself, and returned to my bed again.”
“Well,” said I, “and what occurred next day?”
“Nothing particular occurred next day: the _jorobado_ came down and said
comical things to me in good Spanish; and the big servant came down, but
whatever he said, and he did not say much, I understood not, for it was
in that disastrous jabber. They stayed with me throughout the day till
after supper-time, and then the _jorobado_ gave me a gold ounce, and
mounting their horses, they both departed as strangely as they had come,
in the dark night, I know not whither.”
“Is that all?” I demanded.
“No, _Señor_, it is not all; for I was right in supposing them evil
_brujos_: the very next day an express arrived, and a great search was
made after them, and I was arrested for having harboured them. This
occurred just after the present wars had commenced. It was said they
were spies and emissaries of I don’t know what nation, and that they had
been in all parts of the Asturias, holding conferences with some of the
disaffected. They escaped, however, and were never heard of more, though
the animals which they rode were found without their riders, wandering
amongst the hills; they were common ponies, and were of no value. As for
the _brujos_, it is believed that they embarked in some small vessel
which was lying concealed in one of the _rias_ of the coast.”
_Myself_.—What was the word which you continually heard proceeding from
the lips of the big servant, and which you think you can remember?
_Host_.—_Señor_, it is now three years since I heard it, and at times I
can remember it, and at others not; sometimes I have started up in my
sleep repeating it. Stay, _Señor_, I have it now at the point of my
tongue: it was _Patusca_.
_Myself_.—_Batuschca_, you mean; the men were Russians.
CHAPTER XXXIII.
Oviedo—The Ten Gentlemen—The Swiss again—Modest Request—The
Robbers—Episcopal Benevolence—The Cathedral—Portrait of Feijoo.
I must now take a considerable stride in my journey, no less than from
Muros to Oviedo, contenting myself with observing, that we proceeded from
Muros to Velez, {70} and from thence to Gijon, where our guide Martin
bade us farewell, and returned with his mare to Rivadeo. The honest
fellow did not part without many expressions of regret; indeed he even
expressed a desire that I should take him and his mare into my service.
“For,” said he, “I have a great desire to run through all Spain, and even
the world: and I am sure I shall never have a better opportunity than by
attaching myself to your worship’s skirts.” On my reminding him,
however, of his wife and family, for he had both, he said, “True, true, I
had forgotten them: happy the guide whose only wife and family are a mare
and foal.”
Oviedo is about three leagues from Gijon. Antonio rode the horse, whilst
I proceeded thither in a kind of diligence which runs daily between the
two towns. The road is good, but mountainous. I arrived safely at the
capital of the Asturias, although at a rather unpropitious season, for
the din of war was at the gate, and there was the cry of the captains and
the shouting. {71} Castile, at the time of which I am writing, was in
the hands of the Carlists, who had captured and plundered Valladolid in
much the same manner as they had Segovia some time before. They were
every day expected to march on Oviedo, in which case they might perhaps
have experienced some resistance, a considerable body of troops being
stationed there, who had erected some redoubts, and strongly fortified
several of the convents, especially that of Santa Clara de la Vega. All
minds were in a state of feverish anxiety and suspense, more especially
as no intelligence arrived from Madrid, which by the last accounts was
said to be occupied by the bands of Cabrera and Palillos.
So it came to pass that one night I found myself in the ancient town of
Oviedo, in a very large, scantily furnished, and remote room in an
ancient _posada_, formerly a palace of the counts of Santa Cruz. It was
past ten, and the rain was descending in torrents. I was writing, but
suddenly ceased on hearing numerous footsteps ascending the creaking
stairs which led to my apartment. The door was flung open, and in walked
nine men of tall stature, marshalled by a little hunchbacked personage.
They were all muffled in the long cloaks of Spain, but I instantly knew
by their demeanour that they were _caballeros_, or gentlemen. They
placed themselves in a rank before the table where I was sitting.
Suddenly and simultaneously they all flung back their cloaks, and I
perceived that every one bore a book in his hand; a book which I knew
full well. After a pause, which I was unable to break, for I sat lost in
astonishment, and almost conceived myself to be visited by apparitions,
the hunchback, advancing somewhat before the rest, said in soft silvery
tones, “_Señor_ Cavalier, was it you who brought this book to the
Asturias?” I now supposed that they were the civil authorities of the
place come to take me into custody, and, rising from my seat, I
exclaimed, “It certainly was I, and it is my glory to have done so. The
book is the New Testament of God: I wish it was in my power to bring a
million.” “I heartily wish so too,” said the little personage with a
sigh. “Be under no apprehension, Sir Cavalier; these gentlemen are my
friends. We have just purchased these books in the shop where you placed
them for sale, and have taken the liberty of calling upon you, in order
to return you our thanks for the treasure you have brought us. I hope
you can furnish us with the Old Testament also.” I replied, that I was
sorry to inform him that at present it was entirely out of my power to
comply with his wish, as I had no Old Testaments in my possession, but
did not despair of procuring some speedily from England. He then asked
me a great many questions concerning my biblical travels in Spain, and my
success, and the views entertained by the Society with respect to Spain,
adding, that he hoped we should pay particular attention to the Asturias,
which he assured me was the best ground in the Peninsula for our labour.
After about half an hour’s conversation, he suddenly said, in the English
language, “Good night, sir,” wrapped his cloak around him, and walked out
as he had come. His companions, who had hitherto not uttered a word, all
repeated, “Good night, sir,” and, adjusting their cloaks, followed him.
In order to explain this strange scene, I must state, that in the morning
I had visited the petty bookseller of the place, Longoria, and having
arranged preliminaries with him, I sent him in the evening a package of
forty Testaments, all I possessed, with some advertisements. At the time
he assured me that, though he was willing to undertake the sale, there
was, nevertheless, not a prospect of success, as a whole month had
elapsed since he had sold a book of any description, on account of the
uncertainty of the times, and the poverty which pervaded the land; I
therefore felt much dispirited. This incident, however, admonished me
not to be cast down when things look gloomiest, as the hand of the Lord
is generally then most busy: that men may learn to perceive, that
whatever good is accomplished is not their work, but His.
Two or three days after this adventure, I was once more seated in my
large scantily-furnished room; it was about ten, of a dark melancholy
morning, and the autumnal rain was again falling. I had just
breakfasted, and was about to sit down to my journal, when the door was
flung open and in bounded Antonio.
“_Mon maître_,” said he, quite breathless, “who do you think has
arrived?”
“The Pretender, I suppose,” said I, in some trepidation; “if so, we are
prisoners.”
“Bah, bah!” said Antonio, “it is not the Pretender, but one worth twenty
of him; it is the Swiss of Saint James.”
“Benedict Mol, the Swiss!” said I. “What! has he found the treasure?
But how did he come? How is he dressed?”
“_Mon maître_,” said Antonio, “he came on foot, if we may judge by his
shoes, through which his toes are sticking; and as for his dress, he is
in most villanous apparel.”
“There must be some mystery in this,” said I. “Where is he at present?”
“Below, _mon maître_,” replied Antonio; “he came in quest of us. But I
no sooner saw him, than I hurried away to let you know.”
In a few minutes Benedict Mol found his way upstairs. He was, as Antonio
had remarked, in most villanous apparel, and nearly barefooted; his old
Andalusian hat was dripping with rain.
“_Och_, _lieber Herr_,” said Benedict, “how rejoiced I am to see you
again! Oh, the sight of your countenance almost repays me for all the
miseries I have undergone since I parted with you at Saint James.”
_Myself_.—I can scarcely believe that I really see you here at Oviedo.
What motive can have induced you to come to such an out-of-the-way place
from such an immense distance?
_Benedict_.—_Lieber Herr_, I will sit down and tell you all that has
befallen me. Some few days after I saw you last, the _canonigo_
persuaded me to go to the captain-general to apply for permission to
disinter the _Schatz_, and also to crave assistance. So I saw the
captain-general, who at first received me very kindly, asked me several
questions, and told me to come again. So I continued visiting him till
he would see me no longer, and, do what I might, I could not obtain a
glance of him. The canon now became impatient, more especially as he had
given me a few _pesetas_ out of the charities of the church. He
frequently called me a _bribon_ and impostor. At last, one morning I
went to him, and said that I proposed to return to Madrid, in order to
lay the matter before the government, and requested that he would give me
a certificate to the effect that I had performed a pilgrimage to Saint
James, which I imagined would be of assistance to me upon the way, as it
would enable me to beg with some colour of authority. He no sooner heard
this request, than, without saying a word or allowing me a moment to put
myself on my defence, he sprang upon me like a tiger, clasping my throat
so hard that I thought he would have strangled me. I am a Swiss,
however, and a man of Lucerne, and when I had recovered myself a little,
I had no difficulty in flinging him off; I then threatened him with my
staff and went away. He followed me to the gate with the most horrid
curses, saying, that if I presumed to return again, he would have me
thrown at once into prison as a thief and a heretic. So I went in quest
of yourself, _lieber Herr_, but they told me that you were departed for
Corunna; I then set out for Corunna after you.
_Myself_.—And what befell you on the road?
_Benedict_.—I will tell you: about half-way between Saint James and
Corunna, as I was walking along, thinking of the _Schatz_, I heard a loud
galloping, and looking around me I saw two men on horseback coming across
the field with the swiftness of the wind, and making directly for me.
“_Lieber Gott_,” said I, “these are thieves, these are factious;” and so
they were. They came up to me in a moment and bade me stand; so I flung
down my staff, took off my hat, and saluted them. “Good day,
_caballeros_,” said I to them. “Good day, countryman,” said they to me,
and then we stood staring at each other for more than a minute. _Lieber
Himmel_, {75} I never saw such robbers; so finely dressed, so well armed,
and mounted so bravely on two fiery little _hakkas_, {76} that looked as
if they could have taken wing and flown up into the clouds! So we
continued staring at each other, till at last one asked me who I was,
whence I came, and where I was going. “Gentlemen,” said I, “I am a
Swiss; I have been to Saint James to perform a religious vow, and am now
returning to my own country.” I said not a word about the treasure, for
I was afraid that they would have shot me at once, conceiving that I
carried part of it about me. “Have you any money?” they demanded.
“Gentlemen,” I replied, “you see how I travel on foot, with my shoes torn
to pieces; I should not do so if I had money. I will not deceive you,
however; I have a _peseta_ and a few _cuartos_;” and thereupon I took out
what I had and offered it to them. “Fellow,” said they, “we are
_caballeros_ of Galicia, and do not take _pesetas_, much less _cuartos_.
Of what opinion are you? Are you for the queen?” “No, gentlemen,” said
I, “I am not for the queen; but, at the same time, allow me to tell you
that I am not for the king either. I know nothing about the matter; I am
a Swiss, and fight neither for nor against anybody unless I am paid.”
This made them laugh, and then they questioned me about Saint James, and
the troops there, and the captain-general; and not to disoblige them, I
told them all I knew, and much more. Then one of them, who looked the
fiercest and most determined, took his trombone in his hand, and pointing
it at me, said, “Had you been a Spaniard, we should have blown your head
to shivers, for we should have thought you a spy; but we see you are a
foreigner, and believe what you have said. Take, therefore, this
_peseta_ and go your way; but beware that you tell nobody anything about
us, for if you do, _carracho_!” He then discharged his trombone just
over my head, so that for a moment I thought myself shot; and then with
an awful shout, they both galloped away, their horses leaping over the
_barrancos_, as if possessed with many devils.
_Myself_.—And what happened to you on your arrival at Corunna?
_Benedict_.—When I arrived at Corunna, I inquired after yourself, _lieber
Herr_, and they informed me that, only the day before my arrival, you had
departed for Oviedo: and when I heard that, my heart died within me, for
I was now at the far end of Galicia, without a friend to help me. For a
day or two I knew not what to do; at last I determined to make for the
frontier of France, passing through Oviedo in the way, where I hoped to
see you, and ask counsel of you. So I begged and bettled among the
Germans of Corunna. I, however, got very little from them, only a few
_cuarts_, less than the thieves had given me on the road from Saint
James, and with these I departed for the Asturias by the way of
Mondonedo. _Och_, what a town is that, full of canons, priests, and
_pfaffen_, all of them more Carlist than Carlos himself.
One day I went to the bishop’s palace and spoke to him, telling him I was
a pilgrim from Saint James, and requesting assistance. He told me,
however, that he could not relieve me, and as for my being a pilgrim from
Saint James, he was glad of it, and hoped that it would be of service to
my soul. So I left Mondonedo, and got amongst the wild mountains,
begging and bettling at the door of every _choza_ that I passed; telling
all I saw that I was a pilgrim from Saint James, and showing my passport
in proof that I had been there. _Lieber Herr_, no person gave me a
_cuart_, nor even a piece of _broa_, and both Gallegans and Asturians
laughed at Saint James, and told me that his name was no longer a
passport in Spain. I should have starved if I had not sometimes plucked
an ear or two out of the maize fields; I likewise gathered grapes from
the _parras_ and berries from the brambles, and in this manner I
subsisted till I arrived at the _bellotas_, where I slaughtered a stray
kid which I met, and devoured part of the flesh raw, so great was my
hunger. It made me, however, very ill; and for two days I lay in a
_barranco_ half dead and unable to help myself; it was a mercy that I was
not devoured by the wolves. I then struck across the country for Oviedo:
how I reached it I do not know; I was like one walking in a dream. Last
night I slept in an empty hog-sty about two leagues from here, and ere I
left it, I fell down on my knees and prayed to God that I might find you,
_lieber Herr_, for you were my last hope.
_Myself_.—And what do you propose to do at present?
_Benedict_.—What can I say, _lieber Herr_? I know not what to do. I
will be guided in everything by your counsel.
_Myself_.—I shall remain at Oviedo a few days longer, during which time
you can lodge at this _posada_, and endeavour to recover from the fatigue
of your disastrous journeys; perhaps before I depart, we may hit on some
plan to extricate you from your present difficulties.
Oviedo contains about fifteen thousand inhabitants. It is picturesquely
situated between two mountains, Morcin and Naranco; the former is very
high and rugged, and during the greater part of the year is covered with
snow; the sides of the latter are cultivated and planted with vines. The
principal ornament of the town is the cathedral, {79a} the tower of which
is exceedingly lofty, and is perhaps one of the purest specimens of
Gothic architecture at present in existence. The interior of the
cathedral is neat and appropriate, but simple and unadorned. I observed
but one picture, the Conversion of Saint Paul. One of the chapels is a
cemetery, in which rest the bones of eleven Gothic kings; to whose souls
be peace.
I bore a letter of recommendation from Corunna to a merchant of Oviedo.
This person received me very courteously, and generally devoted some
portion of every day to showing me the remarkable things of Oviedo.
One morning he thus addressed me: “You have doubtless heard of Feijoo,
{79b} the celebrated philosophic monk of the order of Saint Benedict,
whose writings have so much tended to remove the popular fallacies and
superstitions so long cherished in Spain; he is buried in one of our
convents, where he passed a considerable portion of his life. Come with
me and I will show you his portrait. Carlos Tercero, {80} our great
king, sent his own painter from Madrid to execute it. It is now in the
possession of a friend of mine, Don Ramon Valdez, an advocate.”
Thereupon he led me to the house of Don Ramon Valdez, who very politely
exhibited the portrait of Feijoo. It was circular in shape, about a foot
in diameter, and was surrounded by a little brass frame, something like
the rim of a barber’s basin. The countenance was large and massive, but
fine, the eyebrows knit, the eyes sharp and penetrating, nose aquiline.
On the head was a silken skull-cap; the collar of the coat or vest was
just perceptible. The painting was decidedly good, and struck me as
being one of the very best specimens of modern Spanish art which I had
hitherto seen.
A day or two after this I said to Benedict Mol, “To-morrow I start from
hence for Santander. It is therefore high time that you decide upon some
course, whether to return to Madrid or to make the best of your way to
France, and from thence proceed to your own country.”
“_Lieber Herr_,” said Benedict, “I will follow you to Santander by short
journeys, for I am unable to make long ones amongst these hills; and when
I am there, peradventure I may find some means of passing into France.
It is a great comfort, in my horrible journeys, to think that I am
travelling over the ground which yourself have trodden, and to hope that
I am proceeding to rejoin you once more. This hope kept me alive in the
_bellotas_, and without it I should never have reached Oviedo. I will
quit Spain as soon as possible, and betake me to Lucerne, though it is a
hard thing to leave the _Schatz_ behind me in the land of the Gallegans.”
Thereupon I presented him with a few dollars.
“A strange man is this Benedict,” said Antonio to me next morning, as,
accompanied by a guide, we sallied forth from Oviedo; “a strange man,
_mon maître_, is this same Benedict. A strange life has he led, and a
strange death he will die,—it is written on his countenance. That he
will leave Spain I do not believe, or if he leave it, it will be only to
return, for he is bewitched about this treasure. Last night he sent for
a _sorcière_ whom he consulted in my presence: and she told him that he
was doomed to possess it, but that first of all he must cross water. She
cautioned him likewise against an enemy, which he supposes must be the
canon of Saint James. I have often heard people speak of the avidity of
the Swiss for money, and here is a proof of it. I would not undergo what
Benedict has suffered in these last journeys of his to possess all the
treasures in Spain.”
CHAPTER XXXIV.
Departure from Oviedo—Villa Viciosa—The Young Man of the Inn—Antonio’s
Tale—The General and his Family—Woful Tidings—To-morrow we die—San
Vicente—Santander—An Harangue—Flinter the Irishman.
So we left Oviedo and directed our course towards Santander. The man who
accompanied us as guide, and from whom I hired the pony on which I rode,
had been recommended to me by my friend the merchant of Oviedo. He
proved, however, a lazy, indolent fellow; he was generally loitering two
or three hundred yards in our rear, and instead of enlivening the way
with song and tale, like our late guide, Martin of Rivadeo, he scarcely
ever opened his lips, save to tell us not to go so fast, or that I should
burst his pony if I spurred him so. He was thievish withal, and though
he had engaged to make the journey _seco_, {82} that is, to defray the
charges of himself and beast, he contrived throughout to keep both at our
expense. When journeying in Spain, it is invariably the cheapest plan to
agree to maintain the guide and his horse or mule, for by so doing the
hire is diminished at least one-third, and the bills upon the road are
seldom increased; whereas, in the other case, he pockets the difference,
and yet goes shot free, and at the expense of the traveller, through the
connivance of the innkeepers, who have a kind of fellow-feeling with the
guides.
Late in the afternoon we reached Villa Viciosa, a small dirty town, at
the distance of eight leagues from Oviedo: it stands beside a creek which
communicates with the Bay of Biscay. It is sometimes called La Capital
de las Avellanas, or the Capital of the Filberts, from the immense
quantity of this fruit which is grown in the neighbourhood; and the
greatest part of which is exported to England. As we drew nigh we
overtook numerous carts laden with _avellanas_ proceeding in the
direction of the town. I was informed that several small English vessels
were lying in the harbour. Singular as it may seem, however,
notwithstanding we were in the Capital of the Avellanas, it was with the
utmost difficulty that I procured a scanty handful for my dessert, and of
these more than one-half were decayed. The people of the house informed
me that the nuts were intended for exportation, and that they never
dreamt either of partaking of them themselves or of offering them to
their guests.
At an early hour on the following day we reached Colunga, a beautiful
village on a rising ground, thickly planted with chestnut trees. It is
celebrated, at least in the Asturias, as being the birthplace of
Arguëlles, the father of the Spanish constitution.
As we dismounted at the door of the _posada_, where we intended to
refresh ourselves, a person who was leaning out of an upper window
uttered an exclamation and disappeared. We were yet at the door, when
the same individual came running forth and cast himself on the neck of
Antonio. He was a good-looking young man, apparently about
five-and-twenty, genteelly dressed, with a _montero_ cap on his head.
Antonio looked at him for a moment, and then with an “_Ah_, _Monsieur_,
_est ce bien vous_?” shook him affectionately by the hand. The stranger
then motioned him to follow him, and they forthwith proceeded to the room
above.
Wondering what this could mean, I sat down to my morning repast. Nearly
an hour elapsed, and still Antonio did not make his appearance. Through
the boards, however, which composed the ceiling of the kitchen where I
sat, I could hear the voices of himself and his acquaintance, and thought
that I could occasionally distinguish the sound of broken sobs and
groans. At last there was a long pause. I became impatient, and was
about to summon Antonio, when he made his appearance, but unaccompanied
by the stranger. “What, in the name of all that is singular,” I
demanded, “have you been about? Who is that man?” “_Mon maître_,” said
Antonio, “_c’est un monsieur de ma connaissance_. With your permission I
will now take a mouthful, and as we journey along I will tell you all
that I know of him.”
“_Monsieur_,” said Antonio, as we rode out of Colunga, “you are anxious
to know the history of the gentleman whom you saw embrace me at the inn.
Know, _mon maître_, that these Carlist and _Cristino_ wars have been the
cause of much misery and misfortune in this country; but a being so
thoroughly unfortunate as that poor young gentleman of the inn, I do not
believe is to be found in Spain, and his misfortunes proceed entirely
from the spirit of party and faction which for some time past has been so
prevalent.
“_Mon maître_, as I have often told you, I have lived in many houses and
served many masters, and it chanced that about ten years ago I served the
father of this gentleman, who was then a mere boy. It was a very high
family, for _monsieur_ the father was a general in the army, and a man of
large possessions. The family consisted of the general, his lady, and
two sons; the youngest of whom is the person you have just seen, the
other was several years older. _Pardieu_! I felt myself very
comfortable in that house, and every individual of the family had all
kind of complaisance for me. It is singular enough, that though I have
been turned out of so many families, I was never turned out of that; and
though I left it thrice, it was of my own free will. I became
dissatisfied with the other servants, or with the dog or the cat. The
last time I left was on account of the quail which was hung out of the
window of _madame_, and which waked me in the morning with its call. _Eh
bien_, _mon maître_, things went on in this way during the three years
that I continued in the family, out and in; at the end of which time it
was determined that the young gentleman should travel, and it was
proposed that I should attend him as valet. This I wished very much to
do. However, _par malheur_, I was at this time very much dissatisfied
with _madame_ his mother about the quail, and insisted that before I
accompanied him the bird should be slaughtered for the kitchen. To this
_madame_ would by no means consent; and even the young gentleman, who had
always taken my part on other occasions, said that I was unreasonable: so
I left the house in a huff, and never entered it again.
“_Eh bien_, _mon maître_, the young gentleman went upon his travels, and
continued abroad several years; and from the time of his departure until
we met him at Colunga, I have not set eyes upon, nor indeed heard of him.
I have heard enough, however, of his family; of _monsieur_ the father, of
_madame_, and of the brother, who was an officer of cavalry. A short
time before the troubles, I mean before the death of Ferdinand,
_monsieur_ the father was appointed captain-general of Corunna. Now
_monsieur_, though a good master, was rather a proud man, and fond of
discipline, and all that kind of thing, and of obedience. He was,
moreover, no friend to the populace, to the _canaille_, and he had a
particular aversion to the nationals. So, when Ferdinand died, it was
whispered about at Corunna that the general was no liberal, and that he
was a better friend to Carlos than Christina. _Eh bien_, it chanced that
there was a grand _fête_, or festival, at Corunna, on the water, and the
nationals were there, and the soldiers. And I know not how it befell,
but there was an _émeute_, and the nationals laid hands on _monsieur_ the
general, and tying a rope round his neck, flung him overboard from the
barge in which he was, and then dragged him astern about the harbour
until he was drowned. They then went to his house, and pillaged it, and
so ill-treated _madame_, who at that time happened to be _enceinte_, that
in a few hours she expired.
“I tell you what, _mon maître_, when I heard of the misfortune of
_madame_ and the general, you would scarcely believe it, but I actually
shed tears, and was sorry that I had parted with them in unkindness on
account of that pernicious quail.
“_Eh bien_, _mon maître_, _nous poursuivrons notre histoire_. The eldest
son, as I told you before, was a cavalry officer, and a man of
resolution, and when he heard of the death of his father and mother, he
vowed revenge. Poor fellow! So what does he do but desert, with two or
three discontented spirits of his troop, and going to the frontier of
Galicia, he raised a small faction, and proclaimed Don Carlos. For some
little time he did considerable damage to the liberals, burning and
destroying their possessions, and putting to death several nationals that
fell into his hands. However, this did not last long; his faction was
soon dispersed, and he himself taken and hanged, and his head stuck on a
pole.
“_Nous sommes déjà presque au bout_. When we arrived at the inn, the
young man took me above, as you saw, and there for some time he could do
nothing but weep and sob. His story is soon told:—he returned from his
travels, and the first intelligence which awaited him on his arrival in
Spain was, that his father was drowned, his mother dead, and his brother
hanged, and, moreover, all the possessions of his family confiscated.
This was not all: wherever he went, he found himself considered in the
light of a factious and discontented person, and was frequently assailed
by the nationals with blows of sabres and cudgels. He applied to his
relations, and some of these, who were of the Carlist persuasion, advised
him to betake himself to the army of Don Carlos, and the Pretender
himself, who was a friend of his father, and remembered the services of
his brother, offered to give him a command in his army. But, _mon
maître_, as I told you before, he was a pacific young gentleman, and as
mild as a lamb, and hated the idea of shedding blood. He was, moreover,
not of the Carlist opinion, for during his studies he had read books
written a long time ago by countrymen of mine, all about republics and
liberties, and the rights of man, so that he was much more inclined to
the liberal than the Carlist system; he therefore declined the offer of
Don Carlos, whereupon all his relations deserted him, whilst the liberals
hunted him from one place to another like a wild beast. At last, he sold
some little property which still remained to him, and with the proceeds
he came to this remote place of Colunga, where no one knew him, and where
he has been residing for several months, in a most melancholy manner,
with no other amusement than that which he derives from a book or two, or
occasionally hunting a leveret with his spaniel.
“He asked me for counsel, but I had none to give him, and could only weep
with him. At last he said, ‘Dear Antonio, I see there is no remedy. You
say your master is below; beg him, I pray, to stay till tomorrow, and we
will send for the maidens of the neighbourhood, and for a violin and
bagpipe, and we will dance and cast away care for a moment.’ And then he
said something in old Greek, which I scarcely understood, but which I
think was equivalent to, ‘Let us eat, drink, and be merry, for to-morrow
we die!’
“_Eh bien_, _mon maître_, I told him that you were a serious gentleman,
who never took any amusement, and that you were in a hurry. Whereupon he
wept again, and embraced me, and bade me farewell. And now, _mon
maître_, I have told you the history of the young man of the inn.”
We slept at Ribida de Sella, and the next day at noon arrived at Llanes.
Our route lay between the coast and an immense range of mountains, which
rose up like huge ramparts at about a league’s distance from the sea.
The ground over which we passed was tolerably level, and seemingly well
cultivated. There was no lack of vines and trees, whilst at short
intervals rose the _cortijos_ of the proprietors—square stone buildings
surrounded with an outer wall. Llanes is an old town, formerly of
considerable strength. In its neighbourhood is the convent of San
Cilorio, one of the largest monastic edifices in all Spain. It is now
deserted, and stands alone and desolate upon one of the peninsulas of the
Cantabrian shore. Leaving Llanes, we soon entered one of the most dreary
and barren regions imaginable, a region of rock and stone, where neither
grass nor trees were to be seen. Night overtook us in these places. We
wandered on, however, until we reached a small village, termed Santo
Colombo. Here we passed the night, in the house of a carabineer of the
revenue, a tall athletic figure, who met us at the gate, armed with a
gun. He was a Castilian, and with all that ceremonious formality and
grave politeness for which his countrymen were at one time so celebrated.
He chid his wife for conversing with her handmaid about the concerns of
the house before us. “Barbara,” said he, “this is not conversation
calculated to interest the strange cavaliers; hold your peace, or go
aside with the _muchacha_.” In the morning he refused any remuneration
for his hospitality, “I am a _caballero_,” said he, “even as yourselves.
It is not my custom to admit people into my house for the sake of lucre.
I received you because you were benighted and the _posada_ distant.”
Rising early in the morning, we pursued our way through a country equally
stony and dreary as that which we had entered upon the preceding day. In
about four hours we reached San Vicente, a large and dilapidated town,
chiefly inhabited by miserable fishermen. It retains, however, many
remarkable relics of former magnificence: the bridge, which bestrides the
broad and deep firth on which stands the town, has no less than
thirty-two arches, and is built of grey granite. It is very ancient, and
in some parts in so ruinous a condition as to be dangerous.
Leaving San Vicente behind us, we travelled for some leagues on the
seashore, crossing occasionally a narrow inlet or firth. The country at
last began to improve, and in the neighbourhood of Santillana was both
beautiful and fertile. About a league before we reached the country of
Gil Blas we passed through an extensive wood, in which were rocks and
precipices; it was exactly such a place as that in which the cave of
Rolando was situated, as described in the novel. The wood has an evil
name, and our guide informed us that robberies were occasionally
committed in it. No adventure, however, befell us, and we reached
Santillana at about six in the evening.
We did not enter the town, but halted at a large _venta_, or _posada_, at
the entrance, before which stood an immense ash tree. We had scarcely
housed ourselves when a tremendous storm of rain and wind commenced,
accompanied with thunder and lightning, which continued without much
interruption for several hours, and the effects of which were visible in
our journey of the following day, the streams over which we passed being
much swollen, and several trees lying uptorn by the wayside. Santillana
contains four thousand inhabitants, and is six short leagues’ distance
from Santander, where we arrived early the next day.
Nothing could exhibit a stronger contrast to the desolate tracts and the
half-ruined towns through which we had lately passed, than the bustle and
activity of Santander, which, though it stands on the confines of the
Basque provinces, the stronghold of the Pretender, is almost the only
city in Spain which has not suffered by the Carlist wars. Till the close
of the last century it was little better than an obscure fishing town,
but it has of late years almost entirely engrossed the commerce of the
Spanish transatlantic possessions, especially of the Havannah. The
consequence of which has been, that whilst Santander has rapidly
increased in wealth and magnificence, both Corunna and Cadiz have been as
rapidly hastening to decay. At present it possesses a noble quay, on
which stands a line of stately edifices, far exceeding in splendour the
palaces of the aristocracy of Madrid. These are built in the French
style, and are chiefly occupied by the merchants. The population of
Santander is estimated at sixty thousand souls.
On the day of my arrival I dined at the _table-d’hôte_ of the principal
inn, kept by a Genoese. The company was very miscellaneous—French,
Germans, and Spaniards, all speaking in their respective languages,
whilst at the ends of the table, confronting each other, sat two Catalan
merchants, one of whom weighed nearly twenty stone, grunting across the
board in their harsh dialect. Long, however, before dinner was concluded
the conversation was entirely engrossed and the attention of all present
directed to an individual who sat on one side of the bulky Catalan. He
was a thin man of about the middle height, with a remarkably red face,
and something in his eyes which, if not a squint, bore a striking
resemblance to it. He was dressed in a blue military frock, and seemed
to take much more pleasure in haranguing than in the fare which was set
before him. He spoke perfectly good Spanish, yet his voice betrayed
something of a foreign accent. For a long time he descanted with immense
volubility on war and all its circumstances, freely criticizing the
conduct of the generals, both Carlist and _Cristinos_, in the present
struggle, till at last he exclaimed, “Had I but twenty thousand men
allowed me by the government, I would bring the war to a conclusion in
six months.”
“Pardon me, sir,” said a Spaniard who sat at the table, “the curiosity
which induces me to request the favour of your distinguished name.”
“I am Flinter,” replied the individual in the military frock, “a name
which is in the mouth of every man, woman, and child in Spain. I am
Flinter {92} the Irishman, just escaped from the Basque provinces and the
claws of Don Carlos. On the decease of Ferdinand, I declared for
Isabella, esteeming it the duty of every good cavalier and Irishman in
the Spanish service to do so. You have all heard of my exploits, and
permit me to tell you they would have been yet more glorious had not
jealousy been at work and cramped my means. Two years ago I was
despatched to Estremadura, to organize the militias. The bands of Gomez
and Cabrera entered the province, and spread devastation around. They
found me, however, at my post; and had I been properly seconded by those
under my command, the two rebels would never have returned to their
master to boast of their success. I stood behind my intrenchments. A
man advanced and summoned us to surrender. ‘Who are you?’ I demanded.
‘I am Cabrera,’ he replied; ‘and I am Flinter,’ I retorted flourishing my
sabre; ‘retire to your battalions, or you will forthwith die the death.’
He was awed, and did as I commanded. In an hour we surrendered. I was
led a prisoner to the Basque provinces; and the Carlists rejoiced in the
capture they had made, for the name of Flinter had long sounded amongst
the Carlist ranks. I was flung into a loathsome dungeon, where I
remained twenty months. I was cold; I was naked; but I did not on that
account despond—my spirit was too indomitable for such weakness. My
keeper at last pitied my misfortunes. He said that ‘it grieved him to
see so valiant a man perish in inglorious confinement.’ We laid a plan
to escape together; disguises were provided, and we made the attempt. We
passed unobserved till we arrived at the Carlist lines above Bilbao:
there we were stopped. My presence of mind, however, did not desert me.
I was disguised as a carman, as a Catalan, and the coolness of my answers
deceived my interrogators. We were permitted to pass, and soon were safe
within the walls of Bilbao. There was an illumination that night in the
town, for the lion had burst his toils, Flinter had escaped, and was once
more returned to reanimate a drooping cause. I have just arrived at
Santander, on my way to Madrid, where I intend to ask of the government a
command, with twenty thousand men.”
Poor Flinter! a braver heart and a more gasconading mouth were surely
never united in the same body. He proceeded to Madrid, and through the
influence of the British ambassador, who was his friend, he obtained the
command of a small division, with which he contrived to surprise and
defeat, in the neighbourhood of Toledo, a body of the Carlists, commanded
by Orejita, whose numbers more than trebled his own. In reward for this
exploit he was persecuted by the government, which, at that time, was the
_moderado_ or _juste milieu_, with the most relentless animosity; the
prime minister, Ofalia, supporting with all his influence numerous and
ridiculous accusations of plunder and robbery brought against the too
successful general by the Carlist canons of Toledo. He was likewise
charged with a dereliction of duty, in having permitted, after the battle
of Valdepeñas, which he likewise won in the most gallant manner, the
Carlist force to take possession of the mines of Almaden, although the
government, who were bent on his ruin, had done all in their power to
prevent him from following up his successes, by denying him the slightest
supplies and reinforcements. The fruits of victory thus wrested from
him, his hopes blighted, a morbid melancholy seized upon the Irishman; he
resigned his command, and, in less than ten months from the period when I
saw him at Santander, afforded his dastardly and malignant enemies a
triumph which satisfied even them, by cutting his own throat with a
razor.
Ardent spirits of foreign climes, who hope to distinguish yourselves in
the service of Spain, and to earn honours and rewards, remember the fate
of Columbus, and of another as brave and as ardent—Flinter!
CHAPTER XXXV.
Departure from Santander—The Night Alarm—The Black Pass.
I had ordered two hundred Testaments to be sent to Santander from Madrid:
I found, however, to my great sorrow, that they had not arrived, and I
supposed that they had either been seized on the way by the Carlists, or
that my letter had miscarried. I then thought of applying to England for
a supply, but I abandoned the idea for two reasons. In the first place,
I should have to remain idly loitering, at least a month, before I could
receive them, at a place where every article was excessively dear; and,
secondly, I was very unwell, and unable to procure medical advice at
Santander. Ever since I left Corunna, I had been afflicted with a
terrible dysentery, and latterly with an ophthalmia, the result of the
other malady. I therefore determined on returning to Madrid. To effect
this, however, seemed no very easy task. Parties of the army of Don
Carlos, which, in a partial degree, had been routed in Castile, were
hovering about the country through which I should have to pass, more
especially in that part called “The Mountains,” so that all communication
had ceased between Santander and the southern districts. Nevertheless, I
determined to trust as usual in the Almighty, and to risk the danger. I
purchased, therefore, a small horse, and sallied forth with Antonio.
Before departing, however, I entered into conference with the booksellers
as to what they should do in the event of my finding an opportunity of
sending them a stock of Testaments from Madrid; and, having arranged
matters to my satisfaction, I committed myself to Providence. I will not
dwell long on this journey of three hundred miles. We were in the midst
of the fire, yet, strange to say, escaped without a hair of our heads
being singed. Robberies, murders, and all kinds of atrocities were
perpetrated before, behind, and on both sides of us; but not so much as a
dog barked at us, though in one instance a plan had been laid to
intercept us. About four leagues from Santander, whilst we were baiting
our horses at a village hostelry, I saw a fellow run off after having
held a whispering conversation with a boy who was dealing out barley to
us. I instantly inquired of the latter what the man had said to him, but
only obtained an evasive answer. It appeared afterwards that the
conversation was about ourselves. Two or three leagues farther there was
an inn and village where we had proposed staying, and indeed had
expressed our intention of doing so; but on arriving there, finding that
the sun was still far from its bourne, I determined to proceed farther,
expecting to meet with a resting-place at the distance of a league;
though I was mistaken, as we found none until we reached Montaneda, nine
leagues and a half from Santander, where was stationed a small detachment
of soldiers. At the dead of night, we were aroused from our sleep by a
cry that the “factious” were not far off. A messenger had arrived from
the _alcalde_ of the village where we had previously intended staying,
who stated that a party of Carlists had just surprised that place, and
were searching for an English spy, whom they supposed to be at the inn.
The officer commanding the soldiers, upon hearing this, not deeming his
own situation a safe one, instantly drew off his men, falling back on a
stronger party stationed in a fortified village near at hand. As for
ourselves, we saddled our horses and continued our way in the dark. Had
the Carlists succeeded in apprehending me, I should instantly have been
shot, and my body cast on the rocks to feed the vultures and wolves. But
“it was not so written,” said Antonio, who, like many of his countrymen,
was a fatalist. The next night we had another singular escape: we had
arrived near the entrance of a horrible pass called “_El puerto de la
puente de las tablas_,” or the pass of the bridge of planks, which wound
through a black and frightful mountain, on the farther side of which was
the town of Oñas, where we meant to tarry for the night. The sun had set
about a quarter of an hour. Suddenly a man, with his face covered with
blood, rushed out of the pass. “Turn back, sir,” he said, “in the name
of God; there are murderers in that pass; they have just robbed me of my
mule, and all I possess, and I have hardly escaped with life from their
hands!” I scarcely know why, but I made him no answer, and proceeded;
indeed I was so weary and unwell that I cared not what became of me. We
entered; the rocks rose perpendicularly, right and left, entirely
intercepting the scanty twilight, so that the darkness of the grave, or
rather the blackness of the valley of the shadow of death, reigned around
us, and we knew not where we went, but trusted to the instinct of the
horses, who moved on with their heads close to the ground. The only
sound which we heard was the plash of a stream, which tumbled down the
pass. I expected every moment to feel a knife at my throat, but “_it was
not so written_.” We threaded the pass without meeting a human being,
and within three-quarters of an hour after the time we entered it, we
found ourselves within the _posada_ of the town of Oñas, which was filled
with troops and armed peasants expecting an attack from the grand Carlist
army, which was near at hand.
Well, we reached Burgos in safety; {98} we reached Valladolid in safety;
we passed the Guadarrama in safety; and were at length safely housed in
Madrid. People said we had been very lucky; Antonio said, “It was so
written;” but I say, Glory be to the Lord for His mercies vouchsafed to
us.
CHAPTER XXXVI.
State of Affairs at Madrid—The New Ministry—Pope of Rome—The Bookseller
of Toledo—Sword-blades—Houses of Toledo—The Forlorn Gypsy—Proceedings at
Madrid—Another Servant.
During my journey in the northern provinces of Spain, which occupied a
considerable portion of the year 1837, I had accomplished but a slight
portion of what I proposed to myself to effect in the outset.
Insignificant are the results of man’s labours compared with the swelling
ideas of his presumption; something, however, had been effected by the
journey which I had just concluded. The New Testament of Christ was now
enjoying a quiet sale in the principal towns of the north, and I had
secured the friendly interest and co-operation of the booksellers of
those parts, particularly of him the most considerable of them all, old
Rey of Compostella. I had, moreover, disposed of a considerable number
of Testaments with my own hands, to private individuals, entirely of the
lower classes, namely, muleteers, carmen, _contrabandistas_, etc., so
that upon the whole I had abundant cause for gratitude and thanksgiving.
I did not find our affairs in a very prosperous state at Madrid, few
copies having been sold in the booksellers’ shops; yet what could be
rationally expected during these latter times? Don Carlos, with a large
army, had been at the gates; plunder and massacre had been expected; so
that people were too much occupied in forming plans to secure their lives
and property to give much attention to reading of any description.
The enemy, however, had now retired to his strongholds in Alava and
Guipuzcoa. I hoped that brighter days were dawning, and that the work,
under my own superintendence, would, with God’s blessing, prosper in the
capital of Spain. How far the result corresponded with my expectations
will be seen in the sequel.
During my absence in the north, a total change of ministers had occurred.
The liberal party had been ousted from the cabinet, and in their place
had entered individuals attached to the _moderado_ or court party:
unfortunately, however, for my prospects, they consisted of persons with
whom I had no acquaintance whatever, and with whom my former friends,
Galiano and Isturitz, had little or no influence. These gentlemen were
now regularly laid on the shelf, and their political career appeared to
be terminated for ever. {100}
From the present ministry I could expect but little; they consisted of
men the greater part of whom had been either courtiers or employés of the
deceased King Ferdinand, who were friends to absolutism, and by no means
inclined to do or to favour anything calculated to give offence to the
court of Rome, which they were anxious to conciliate, hoping that
eventually it might be induced to recognize the young queen, not as the
constitutional but as the absolute Queen Isabella the Second.
Such was the party which continued in power throughout the remainder of
my sojourn in Spain, and which persecuted me less from rancour and malice
than from policy. It was not until the conclusion of the war of the
succession that it lost the ascendency, when it sank to the ground with
its patroness the queen-mother, before the dictatorship of Espartero.
The first step which I took after my return to Madrid, towards
circulating the Scriptures, was a very bold one. It was neither more nor
less than the establishment of a shop for the sale of Testaments. This
shop was situated in the Calle del Principe, a respectable and
well-frequented street in the neighbourhood of the Square of Cervantes.
I furnished it handsomely with glass cases and chandeliers, and procured
an acute Gallegan of the name of Pepe Calzado, to superintend the
business, who gave me weekly a faithful account of the copies sold.
“How strangely times alter,” said I, the second day subsequent to the
opening of my establishment, as I stood on the opposite side of the
street, leaning against the wall with folded arms, surveying my shop, on
the windows of which were painted in large yellow characters, _Despacho
de la Sociedad Bíblica y Estrangera_; {101} “how strangely times alter!
Here have I been during the last eight months running about old Popish
Spain, distributing Testaments, as agent of what the Papists call an
heretical society, and have neither been stoned nor burnt; and here am I
now in the capital, doing that which one would think were enough to cause
all the dead inquisitors and officials buried within the circuit of the
walls to rise from their graves and cry abomination; and yet no one
interferes with me. Pope of Rome! Pope of Rome! look to thyself. That
shop may be closed; but oh! what a sign of the times, that it has been
permitted to exist for one day. It appears to me, my Father, that the
days of your sway are numbered in Spain; that you will not be permitted
much longer to plunder her, to scoff at her, and to scourge her with
scorpions, as in bygone periods. See I not the hand on the wall? See I
not in yonder letters a ‘_Mene_, _Mene_, _Tekel_, _Upharsin_’? Look to
thyself, _Batuschca_.”
And I remained for two hours, leaning against the wall, staring at the
shop.
A short time after the establishment of the _despacho_ at Madrid, I once
more mounted the saddle, and, attended by Antonio, rode over to Toledo,
for the purpose of circulating the Scriptures, sending beforehand by a
muleteer a cargo of one hundred Testaments. I instantly addressed myself
to the principal bookseller of the place, whom, from the circumstance of
his living in a town so abounding with canons, priests, and ex-friars as
Toledo, I expected to find a Carlist, or a _servil_ at least. I was
never more mistaken in my life: on entering the shop, which was very
large and commodious, I beheld a stout athletic man, dressed in a kind of
cavalry uniform, with a helmet on his head, and an immense sabre in his
hand. This was the bookseller himself, who, I soon found, was an officer
in the national cavalry. Upon learning who I was, he shook me heartily
by the hand, and said that nothing would give him greater pleasure than
taking charge of the books, which he would endeavour to circulate to the
utmost of his ability.
“Will not your doing so bring you into odium with the clergy?”
“_Ca_!” {103a} said he; “who cares? I am rich, and so was my father
before me. I do not depend on them; they cannot hate me more than they
do already, for I make no secret of my opinions. I have just returned
from an expedition,” said he; “my brother nationals and myself have, for
the last three days, been occupied in hunting down the factious and
thieves of the neighbourhood; we have killed three and brought in several
prisoners. Who cares for the cowardly priests? I am a liberal, _Don
Jorge_, and a friend of your countryman, Flinter. Many is the Carlist
guerilla-curate and robber-friar whom I have assisted him to catch. I am
rejoiced to hear that he has just been appointed captain-general of
Toledo; there will be fine doings here when he arrives, _Don Jorge_. We
will make the clergy shake between us, I assure you.”
Toledo was formerly the capital of Spain. Its population at present is
barely fifteen thousand souls, though, in the time of the Romans, and
also during the Middle Ages, it is said to have amounted to between two
and three hundred thousand. It is situated about twelve leagues, or
forty miles, westward {103b} of Madrid, and is built upon a steep rocky
hill, round which flows the Tagus, on all sides but the north. It still
possesses a great many remarkable edifices, notwithstanding that it has
long since fallen into decay. Its cathedral is the most magnificent of
Spain, and is the see of the primate. In the tower of this cathedral is
the famous bell of Toledo, the largest in the world with the exception of
the monster bell of Moscow, which I have also seen. It weighs 1543
_arrobas_, or 37,032 pounds. It has, however, a disagreeable sound,
owing to a cleft in its side. Toledo could once boast the finest
pictures in Spain, but many were stolen or destroyed by the French during
the Peninsular war, and still more have lately been removed by order of
the government. Perhaps the most remarkable one still remains; I allude
to that which represents the burial of the Count of Orgas, the
masterpiece of Domenico, {104} the Greek, a most extraordinary genius,
some of whose productions possess merit of a very high order. The
picture in question is in the little parish church of San Tomé, at the
bottom of the aisle, on the left side of the altar. Could it be
purchased, I should say it would be cheap at five thousand pounds.
Amongst the many remarkable things which meet the eye of the curious
observer at Toledo, is the manufactory of arms, where are wrought the
swords, spears, and other weapons intended for the army, with the
exception of firearms, which mostly come from abroad.
In old times, as is well known, the sword-blades of Toledo were held in
great estimation, and were transmitted as merchandise throughout
Christendom. The present manufactory, or _fabrica_, as it is called, is
a handsome modern edifice, situated without the wall of the city, on a
plain contiguous to the river, with which it communicates by a small
canal. It is said that the water and the sand of the Tagus are essential
for the proper tempering of the swords. I asked some of the principal
workmen whether, at the present day, they could manufacture weapons of
equal value to those of former days, and whether the secret had been
lost.
“_Ca_!” said they, “the swords of Toledo were never so good as those
which we are daily making. It is ridiculous enough to see strangers
coming here to purchase old swords, the greater part of which are mere
rubbish, and never made at Toledo, yet for such they will give a large
price, whilst they would grudge two dollars for this jewel, which was
made but yesterday;” thereupon putting into my hand a middle-sized
rapier. “Your worship,” said they, “seems to have a strong arm; prove
its temper against the stone wall—thrust boldly and fear not.”
I _have_ a strong arm, and dashed the point with my utmost force against
the solid granite: my arm was numbed to the shoulder from the violence of
the concussion, and continued so for nearly a week, but the sword
appeared not to be at all blunted, or to have suffered in any respect.
“A better sword than that,” said an ancient workman, a native of Old
Castile, “never transfixed Moor out yonder on the _sagra_.”
During my stay at Toledo, I lodged at the Posada de los Caballeros, which
signifies the inn of the gentlemen, which name, in some respects, it
certainly well deserved, for there are many palaces far less magnificent
than this inn of Toledo. By magnificence it must not be supposed,
however, that I allude to costliness of furniture or any kind of luxury
which pervaded the culinary department. The rooms were as empty as those
of Spanish inns generally are, and the fare, though good in its kind, was
plain and homely; but I have seldom seen a more imposing edifice. It was
of immense size, consisting of several stories, and was built something
in the Moorish taste, with a quadrangular court in the centre, beneath
which was an immense _algibe_ or tank, serving as a reservoir for
rain-water. All the houses in Toledo are supplied with tanks of this
description, into which the waters in the rainy season flow from the
roofs through pipes. No other water is used for drinking; that of the
Tagus, not being considered salubrious, is only used for purposes of
cleanliness, being conveyed up the steep narrow streets on donkeys, in
large stone jars. The city, standing on a rocky mountain, has no wells.
As for the rain-water, it deposits a sediment in the tank, and becomes
very sweet and potable: these tanks are cleaned out twice every year.
During the summer, at which time the heat in this part of Spain is
intense, the families spend the greater part of the day in the courts,
which are overhung with a linen awning, the heat of the atmosphere being
tempered by the coolness arising from the tank below, which answers the
same purpose as the fountain in the southern provinces of Spain.
I spent about a week at Toledo, during which time several copies of the
Testament were disposed of in the shop of my friend the bookseller.
Several priests took it up from the _mostrador_ on which it lay, examined
it, but made no remarks; none of them purchased it. My friend showed me
through his house, almost every apartment of which was lined from roof to
floor with books, many of which were highly valuable. He told me that he
possessed the best collection in Spain of the ancient literature of the
country. He was, however, less proud of his library than his stud;
finding that I had some acquaintance with horses, his liking for me and
also his respect considerably increased. “All I have,” said he, “is at
your service; I see you are a man after my own heart. When you are
disposed to ride out upon the _sagra_, you have only to apply to my
groom, who will forthwith saddle you my famed Cordovese _entero_; I
purchased him from the stables at Aranjuez, when the royal stud was
broken up. There is but one other man to whom I would lend him, and that
man is Flinter.”
At Toledo I met with a forlorn gypsy woman and her son, a lad of about
fourteen years of age; she was not a native of the place, but had come
from La Mancha, her husband having been cast into the prison of Toledo on
a charge of mule-stealing: the crime had been proved against him, and in
a few days he was to depart for Malaga, with the chain of galley-slaves.
He was quite destitute of money, and his wife was now in Toledo, earning
a few _cuartos_ by telling fortunes about the streets, to support him in
prison. She told me that it was her intention to follow him to Malaga,
where she hoped to be able to effect his escape. What an instance of
conjugal affection! and yet the affection here was all on one side, as is
too frequently the case. Her husband was a worthless scoundrel, who had
previously abandoned her and betaken himself to Madrid, where he had long
lived in concubinage with the notorious she-thug Aurora, {107} at whose
instigation he had committed the robbery for which he was now held in
durance. “Should your husband escape from Malaga, in what direction will
he fly?” I demanded.
“To the _chim_ of the _Corahai_, my son; to the land of the Moors, to be
a soldier of the Moorish king.”
“And what will become of yourself?” I inquired; “think you that he will
take you with him?”
“He will leave me on the shore, my son; and as soon as he has crossed the
black _pawnee_, he will forget me and never think of me more.”
“And knowing his ingratitude, why should you give yourself so much
trouble about him?”
“Am I not his _romí_, my son; and am I not bound by the law of the
_Calés_ to assist him to the last? Should he return from the land of the
_Corahai_ at the end of a hundred years, and should find me alive, and
should say, ‘I am hungry, little wife; go forth and steal or tell
_baji_,’ I must do it, for he is the _rom_ and I the _romí_.”
On my return to Madrid, I found the _despacho_ still open. Various
Testaments had been sold, though the number was by no means considerable:
the work had to labour under great disadvantage, from the ignorance of
the people at large with respect to its tenor and contents. It was no
wonder, then, that little interest was felt respecting it. To call,
however, public attention to the _despacho_, I printed three thousand
advertisements on paper, yellow, blue, and crimson, with which I almost
covered the sides of the streets, and, besides this, inserted an account
of it in all the journals and periodicals: the consequence was, that in a
short time almost every person in Madrid was aware of its existence.
Such exertions in London or Paris would probably have ensured the sale of
the entire edition of the New Testament within a few days. In Madrid,
however, the result was not quite so flattering; for after the
establishment had been open an entire month, the copies disposed of
barely amounted to one hundred.
These proceedings of mine did not fail to cause a great sensation: the
priests and their partisans were teeming with malice and fury, which, for
some time, however, they thought proper to exhibit only in words; it
being their opinion that I was favoured by the ambassador and by the
British government; but there was no attempt, however atrocious, that
might not be expected from their malignity; and were it right and seemly
for me, the most insignificant of worms, to make such a comparison, I
might say, like Paul at Ephesus, I was fighting with wild beasts.
On the last day of the year 1837, my servant Antonio thus addressed me:
“_Mon maître_, it is necessary that I leave you for a time. Ever since
we have returned from our journeys, I have become unsettled and
dissatisfied with the house, the furniture, and with Doña Marequita. I
have therefore engaged myself as cook in the house of the Count of ---,
where I am to receive four dollars per month less than what your worship
gives me. I am fond of change, though it be for the worse. _Adieu_,
_mon maître_; may you be as well served as you deserve. Should you
chance, however, to have any pressing need _de mes soins_, send for me
without hesitation, and I will at once give my new master warning, if I
am still with him, and come to you.”
Thus I was deprived for a time of the services of Antonio. I continued
for a few days without a domestic, at the end of which time I hired a
certain Cantabrian or Basque, a native of the village of Hernani, in
Guipuzcoa, who was strongly recommended to me.
CHAPTER XXXVII.
Euscarra—Basque not Irish—Sanscrit and Tartar Dialects—A Vowel
Language—Popular Poetry—The Basques—Their Persons—Basque Women.
I now entered upon the year 1838, perhaps the most eventful of all those
which I passed in Spain. The _despacho_ still continued open, with a
somewhat increasing sale. Having at this time little of particular
moment with which to occupy myself, I committed to the press two works,
which for some time past had been in the course of preparation. These
were the Gospel of St. Luke in the Spanish gypsy and the Euscarra
languages. {111a}
With respect to the gypsy Gospel, I have little to say, having already
spoken of it in a former work; {111b} it was translated by myself,
together with the greater part of the New Testament, during my long
intercourse with the Spanish gypsies. Concerning the Luke in Euscarra,
however, it will be as well to be more particular, and to avail myself of
the present opportunity to say a few words concerning the language in
which it was written, and the people for whom it was intended.
The Euscarra, then, is the proper term for a certain speech or language,
supposed to have been at one time prevalent throughout Spain, but which
is at present confined to certain districts, both on the French and
Spanish side of the Pyrenees, which are laved by the waters of the
Cantabrian Gulf, or Bay of Biscay. This language is commonly known as
the Basque, or Biscayan, which words are mere modifications of the word
Euscarra, the consonant B having been prefixed for the sake of euphony.
Much that is vague, erroneous, and hypothetical has been said and written
concerning this tongue. The Basques assert that it was not only the
original language of Spain, but also of the world, and that from it all
other languages are derived; but the Basques are a very ignorant people,
and know nothing of the philosophy of language. Very little importance,
therefore, need be attached to any opinion of theirs on such a subject.
A few amongst them, however, who affect some degree of learning, contend
that it is neither more nor less than a dialect of the Phœnician, and
that the Basques are the descendants of a Phœnician colony, established
at the foot of the Pyrenees at a very remote period. Of this theory, or
rather conjecture, as it is unsubstantiated by the slightest proof, it is
needless to take further notice than to observe that, provided the
Phœnician language, as many of the _truly learned_ have supposed, and
almost proved, was a dialect of the Hebrew, or closely allied to it, it
were as unreasonable to suppose that the Basque is derived from it as
that the Kamschatkan and Cherokee are dialects of the Greek and Latin.
There is, however, another opinion with respect to the Basque which
deserves more especial notice, from the circumstance of its being
extensively entertained amongst the _literati_ of various countries of
Europe, more especially England. I allude to the Celtic origin of this
tongue, and its close connexion with the most cultivated of all the
Celtic dialects—the Irish. People who pretend to be well conversant with
the subject, have even gone so far as to assert, that so little
difference exists between the Basque and Irish tongues, that individuals
of the two nations, when they meet together, find no difficulty in
understanding each other, with no other means of communication than their
respective languages; in a word, that there is scarcely a greater
difference between the two than between the French and the Spanish
Basque. Such similarity, however, though so strongly insisted upon, by
no means exists in fact; and perhaps in the whole of Europe it would be
difficult to discover two languages which exhibit fewer points of mutual
resemblance than the Basque and Irish.
The Irish, like most other European languages, is a dialect of the
Sanscrit, a _remote_ one, as may well be supposed; the corner of the
western world in which it is still preserved being, of all countries in
Europe, the most distant from the proper home of the parent tongue. It
is still, however, a dialect of that venerable and most original speech,
not so closely resembling it, it is true, as the English, Danish, and
those which belong to what is called the Gothic family, and far less than
those of the Sclavonian; for the nearer we approach to the East, in equal
degree the assimilation of languages to this parent stock becomes more
clear and distinct; but still a dialect, agreeing with the Sanscrit in
structure, in the arrangement of words, and in many instances in the
words themselves, which, however modified, may still be recognized as
Sanscrit. But what is the Basque, and to what family does it properly
pertain?
To two great Asiatic languages all the dialects spoken at present in
Europe may be traced. These two, if not now spoken, still exist in
books, and are, moreover, the languages of two of the principal religions
of the East. I allude to the Tibetian and Sanscrit—the sacred languages
of the followers of Buddh and Bramah. These tongues, though they possess
many words in common, which is easily to be accounted for by their close
proximity, are properly distinct, being widely different in structure.
In what this difference consists, I have neither time nor inclination to
state; suffice it to say, that the Celtic, Gothic, and Sclavonian
dialects in Europe belong to the Sanscrit family, even as in the East the
Persian, and to a less degree the Arabic, Hebrew, etc.; {114} whilst to
the Tibetian or Tartar family in Asia pertain the Mandchou and Mongolian,
the Calmuc and the Turkish of the Caspian sea; and in Europe, the
Hungarian and the Basque _partially_.
Indeed, this latter language is a strange anomaly, so that upon the whole
it is less difficult to say what it is not, than what it is. It abounds
with Sanscrit words to such a degree that its surface seems strewn with
them. Yet would it be wrong to term it a Sanscrit dialect, for in the
collocation of these words the Tartar form is most decidedly observable.
A considerable proportion of Tartar words is likewise to be found in this
language, though perhaps not in equal numbers to the terms derived from
the Sanscrit. Of these Tartar etymons I shall at present content myself
with citing one, though, if necessary, it were easy to adduce hundreds.
This word is _Jauna_, or, as it is pronounced, _Khauna_—a word in
constant use amongst the Basques, and which is the _Khan_ of the Mongols
and Mandchous, and of the same signification—_Lord_.
Having closely examined the subject in all its various bearings, and
having weighed what is to be said on one side against what is to be
advanced on the other, I am inclined to rank the Basque rather amongst
the Tartar than the Sanscrit dialects. Whoever should have an
opportunity of comparing the enunciation of the Basques and Tartars
would, from that alone, even if he understood them not, come to the
conclusion that their respective languages were formed on the same
principles. In both occur periods seemingly interminable, during which
the voice gradually ascends to a climax, and then gradually sinks down.
I have spoken of the surprising number of Sanscrit words contained in the
Basque language, specimens of some of which will be found below. It is
remarkable enough, that in the greater part of the derivatives from the
Sanscrit, the Basque has dropped the initial consonant, so that the word
commences with a vowel. The Basque, indeed, may be said to be almost a
vowel language, the number of consonants employed being comparatively
few; perhaps eight words out of ten commence and terminate with a vowel,
owing to which it is a language to the highest degree soft and melodious,
far excelling in this respect any other language in Europe, not even
excepting the Italian. Here follow a few specimens of Basque words with
the Sanscrit roots in juxtaposition:—
BASQUE. SANSCRIT.
Ardoa {116a} Sandhána _Wine_.
Arratsa Ratri _Night_.
Beguia Akshi _Eye_.
Choria Chiria {116a} _Bird_.
Chacurra Cucura _Dog_.
Erreguiña Rani _Queen_.
{116a}
Icusi Iksha _To see_.
Iru Treya _Three_.
Jan (Khan) Khana _To eat_.
Uria {116a} Puri _City_.
Urruti Dura _Far_.
Such is the tongue in which I brought out Saint Luke’s Gospel at Madrid.
The translation I procured originally from a Basque physician of the name
of Oteiza. {116b} Previous to being sent to the press, the version had
lain nearly two years in my possession, during which time, and
particularly during my travels, I lost no opportunity of submitting it to
the inspection of those who were considered competent scholars in the
Euscarra. It did not entirely please me; but it was in vain to seek for
a better translation.
In my early youth I had obtained a slight acquaintance with the Euscarra,
as it exists in books. This acquaintance I considerably increased during
my stay in Spain, and, by occasionally mingling with Basques, was enabled
to understand the spoken language to a certain extent, and even to speak
it, but always with considerable hesitation; for to speak Basque, even
tolerably, it is necessary to have lived in the country from a very early
period. So great are the difficulties attending it, and so strange are
its peculiarities, that it is very rare to find a foreigner possessed of
any considerable skill in the oral language, and the Spaniards consider
the obstacles so formidable that they have a proverb to the effect that
Satan once lived seven years in Biscay, and then departed, finding
himself unable either to understand or to make himself understood.
There are few inducements to the study of this language. In the first
place, the acquisition of it is by no means necessary even to those who
reside in the countries where it is spoken, the Spanish being generally
understood throughout the Basque provinces pertaining to Spain, and the
French in those pertaining to France.
In the second place, neither dialect is in possession of any peculiar
literature capable of repaying the toil of the student. There are
various books extant both in French and Spanish Basque, {117} but these
consist entirely of Popish devotion, and are for the most part
translations.
It will, perhaps, here be asked whether the Basques do not possess
popular poetry, like most other nations, however small and
inconsiderable. They have certainly no lack of songs, ballads, and
stanzas, but of a character by no means entitled to the appellation of
poetry. I have noted down from recitation, a considerable portion of
what they call their poetry, but the only tolerable specimen of verse
which I ever discovered amongst them was the following stanza, which,
after all, is not entitled to very high praise:—
“Ichasoa urac aundi,
Estu ondoric agueri—
Pasaco ninsaqueni andic
Maitea icustea gatic.” {118a}
_i.e._ “The waters of the sea are vast, and their bottom cannot be seen;
but over them I will pass, that I may behold my love.”
The Basques are a singing rather than a poetical people. Notwithstanding
the facility with which their tongue lends itself to the composition of
verse, they have never produced among them a poet with the slightest
pretensions to reputation; but their voices are singularly sweet, and
they are known to excel in musical composition. It is the opinion of a
certain author, the Abbé D’Iharce, {118b} who has written about them,
that they derived the name _Cantabri_, by which they are known to the
Romans, from _Khantor-ber_, signifying sweet singers. They possess much
music of their own, some of which is said to be exceedingly ancient. Of
this music specimens were published at Donostian (San Sebastian) in the
year 1826, edited by a certain Juan Ignacio Iztueta. {118c} These
consist of wild and thrilling marches, to the sound of which it is
believed that the ancient Basques were in the habit of descending from
their mountains to combat with the Romans, and subsequently with the
Moors. Whilst listening to them it is easy to suppose one’s self in the
close vicinity of some desperate encounter. We seem to hear the charge
of cavalry on the sounding plain, the clash of swords, and the rushing of
men down the gorges of hills. This music is accompanied with words, but
such words! Nothing can be imagined more stupid, commonplace, and
uninteresting. So far from being martial, they relate to everyday
incidents, and appear to have no connexion whatever with the music. They
are evidently of modern date.
In person the Basques are of the middle size, and are active and
athletic. They are in general of fair complexions and handsome features,
and in appearance bear no slight resemblance to certain Tartar tribes of
the Caucasus. Their bravery is unquestionable, and they are considered
as the best soldiery belonging to the Spanish crown: a fact highly
corroborative of the supposition that they are of Tartar origin, the
Tartars being of all races the most warlike, and amongst whom the most
remarkable conquerors have been produced. They are faithful and honest,
and capable of much disinterested attachment; kind and hospitable to
strangers; all of which points are far from being at variance with the
Tartar character. But they are somewhat dull, and their capacities are
by no means of a high order, and in these respects they again resemble
the Tartars.
No people on earth are prouder than the Basques, but theirs is a kind of
republican pride. They have no nobility amongst them, and no one will
acknowledge a superior. The poorest carman is as proud as the governor
of Tolosa. “He is more powerful than I,” he will say, “but I am of as
good blood; perhaps hereafter I may become a governor myself.” They
abhor servitude, at least out of their own country; and though
circumstances frequently oblige them to seek masters, it is very rare to
find them filling the places of common domestics; they are stewards,
secretaries, accountants, etc. True it is, that it was my own fortune to
obtain a Basque domestic; but then he always treated me more as an equal
than a master, would sit down in my presence, give me his advice unasked,
and enter into conversation with me at all times and occasions. Did I
check him? Certainly not! For in that case he would have left me, and a
more faithful creature I never knew. His fate was a mournful one, as
will appear in the sequel.
I have said that the Basques abhor servitude, and are rarely to be found
serving as domestics amongst the Spaniards. I allude, however, merely to
the males. The females, on the contrary, have no objection whatever to
enter houses as servants. Women, indeed, amongst the Basques are not
looked upon with all the esteem which they deserve, and are considered as
fitted for little else than to perform menial offices, even as in the
East, where they are viewed in the light of servants and slaves. The
Basque females differ widely in character from the men; they are quick
and vivacious, and have in general much more talent. They are famous for
their skill as cooks, and in most respectable houses of Madrid a Biscayan
female may be found in the kitchen, queen supreme of the culinary
department. {120}
CHAPTER XXXVIII.
The Prohibition—Gospel Persecuted—Charge of Sorcery—Ofalia.
About the middle of January {121a} a swoop was made upon me by my
enemies, in the shape of a peremptory prohibition from the political
governor of Madrid to sell any more New Testaments. This measure by no
means took me by surprise, as I had for some time previously been
expecting something of the kind, on account of the political sentiments
of the ministers then in power. I forthwith paid a visit to Sir George
Villiers, informing him of what had occurred. He promised to do all he
could to cause the prohibition to be withdrawn. Unfortunately, at this
time he had not much influence, having opposed with all his might the
entrance of the _moderado_ {121b} ministry to power, and the nomination
of Ofalia {121c} to the presidency of the cabinet. I however, never lost
confidence in the Almighty, in whose cause I was engaged.
Matters were going on very well before this check. The demand for
Testaments was becoming considerable, so much so that the clergy were
alarmed, and this step was the consequence. But they had previously
recourse to another, well worthy of them; they attempted to act upon my
fears. One of the ruffians of Madrid, called _Manolos_, came up to me
one night, in a dark street, and told me that unless I discontinued
selling my “Jewish books,” I should have a knife “_nailed in my heart_;”
but I told him to go home, say his prayers, and tell his employers that I
pitied them; whereupon he turned away with an oath. A few days after, I
received an order to send two copies of the Testament to the office of
the political governor, with which I complied, and in less than
twenty-four hours an _alguazil_ arrived at the shop with a notice
prohibiting the further sale of the work.
One circumstance rejoiced me. Singular as it may appear, the authorities
took no measures to cause my little _despacho_ to be closed, and I
received no prohibition respecting the sale of any work but the New
Testament, and as the Gospel of Saint Luke, in Romany and Basque, would
within a short time be ready for delivery, I hoped to carry on matters in
a small way til
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