I.
With many a bitter thought and heavy sigh,
The grave Salustian his discourse resumed:--
“Iberia fell, my children--but her eye
No pomp of battle, no big war illumed.
’Twas fraud and treason her destruction doomed!
France came as an ally--her Lares seized--
The joy-pealed cannon soon in hatred boomed.
And reckless Murat well his master pleased,
His foul behests fulfilled, his rapine-thirst appeased.
II.
“But vengeance ’gainst Godoy the people swore,
Who counselled Carlos from his realm to fly,
And sought in luxury on a foreign shore
The fruits of his portentous sway to enjoy.
Aranjuez saw them burning to destroy!
Shivering in hideous fright, like beast of prey,
Two days, two nights, nor food nor drink Godoy
Partook, till in his den its wolfish bay
The thronging city howled--they stoned him where he lay!
III.
“And mangled, bruised, and torn, from imminent verge
Of death the Guard released him;--Carlos weak
The crown resigned--grey hairs the victim urge,
And, feebler still, Fernando strove to wreak
His feuds upon a throne, where basely meek
Full soon as fawning spaniel he doth woo
The Gaulish tiger--all that France could seek
Too little for his willing hand to do--
All contumelies for him, the Seventh Fernán, too few!
IV.
“Oh galling, dismal servitude! The sword
Which mighty Carlos at Pavía won
The puny Ferdinand to France restored,
While all through Spain the withering tidings run;
And few believe what patriot ears doth stun.
Wrenched from our armouries the trophy proud,
Which proved how Franks of old must Spaniards shun;
And Altemira voiced our shame aloud:
“The sword of Francis given to noblest hands” he vowed!
V.
“But vain each sacrifice--each base compliance
Still prompted France to urge ignobler claims,
For Spain not yet had raised her proud defiance,
And in Fernando’s youth reposed her aims.
Fernando--he but gorged affronts and shames!
The worshipped Heir of all her line of Kings
His bannered Lion to a genet tames,
Follows his aged sire to France, and flings
Iberia’s crown to earth beneath the Usurper’s wings!
VI.
“Oh, wretched mockery of the forms of State,
Oh, farce of Royalty to choke the town!
The sire to-day submits his brow to Fate,
The son to-morrow yieldeth too his crown;
The sire resumes it ’neath Napoléon’s frown,
Again to-morrow to resign its cares--
Is’t not, then just--how just! that, thus laid down,
The Tyrant’s creature now the bauble wears?
The Father lauds the choice--the Son his ardour shares.
VII.
“And both implored of Spaniards to obey
With cordial loyalty the Kingling given,
And both with impious tongue blaspheming say
The usurping dynasty is blest of Heaven!
But Spaniards may not thus be bargain-driven.
Sudden arose the land in all its might;
Sudden its chains like spider-threads were riven.
Too long its slumber--too profound the night;
And when the Nation woke, ’twas in a glare of light!
VIII.
“Oh, Madrileños, generous, dauntless hearts,
Who fell upon that glorious May-lit morn,
Vain is the tear that from the eye-lid starts
At thought of death-wounds all heroic borne,
For Freedom’s blazon doth your biers adorn!
Your blood more potent than Hyantian seed
Sprung arméd men still fiercer death to scorn
Than Thebæ saw. Incomparable deed!
Ye braved the Lion’s roar--your wounds Iberia freed.
IX.
“For though the sabre clove, the charger trod,
The scattering grape-shot mowed your dense array,
Daïz, Velarde gave their souls to God
In no unprospering cause that gallant day!
If hundred martyrs perished in the fray,
’Twas myriad men to rouse through prostrate Spain.
Not Murat’s arm could bend her to obey.
Judicial murder bared the knife in vain--
The priestly rite denied--the unoffending slain!
X.
“Asturia first and noblest raised the cry--
Cantabria still untamed the yoke to bear
Our own Biscaya sees with Baston vie--
Oviédo’s lightning flies to Santandér.
It wakes Galicia, kindling Leon’s air.
Castile, unconquered Aragon, Navarre,
The standard of revolt successive bear.
Valencian, Catalan, and And’luz far
The cry devoted raise: ‘Against the Invader War!’
XI.
“And lightning fell, ’twas said, upon the shrine
Of Guadalupe within the fatal hour
That saw the last of Leon’s Royal line
Retire to France, and own the Usurper’s power.
In Covadonga, where Mafoma’s flower
Pelayo slaughtered, drops of sweat were seen
Upon the face of Her who stood our tower
In battle; Compostella’s tomb a din
Of arms gave forth, Saint James proclaiming we should win!
XII.
“Thus spoke the general voice--thus Spain believed,
And, Heaven and Earth approving, rushed to arms.
The web of Tyranny was swift unweaved,
The land was soon o’erspread by War’s alarms;
For Freedom’s fire once lit intensely charms!
But terrible at first in dire excess
Rude license many a timid patriot harms.
If perished tyrant-tools yet, ah, not less
Good men, too, slaughtered fell in butchery’s helplessness.
XIII.
“’Twas then the Asturian seniors crost the sea,
And I amongst the number, as ye know,
To Albion’s glorious Island of the free,
Her aid demanding ’gainst the general foe.
And grand and mighty was the enthusiast flow
From brave and generous hearts we witnessed there.
Our strife forgot, our feuds aside we throw,
Like ancient warriors after battle share
The social rite, and war combined ’gainst France declare.
XIV.
“But Spain would first her might unaided try,
And arms and subsidy alone we sought;
With pain Britannia curbed her spirit high,
But doughtiest weapons to the strife we brought.
Our earlier efforts in the conflict nought
Availed us--France her legions marshalled well.
Undisciplined our valour marvels wrought;
But ’gainst Gaul’s serried phalanx to rebel
Was no light peasant’s task, and hundreds fighting fell.
XV.
“Oh, wondrous power of Discipline in war!
Spain’s men despised the conscript boys of France;
Iberia’s sons were stronger, statelier far,
More powerful arm to arm to wield the lance.
But when untrained, disordered they advance,
The unbroken, slender column mows them down.
’Tis thus wild horses o’er the Pampas prance,
The lasso by the light-limbed rider’s thrown,
The strong steed flung to earth his victor hand must own.
XVI.
“Joy to Valencia! Loud her praise be sung,
Where first the stern Invader was repelled.
In vain from Hell the assassin Calvo sprung,
In vain her Chiefs in dire subjection held.
Soon ’gainst his traitorous vengeance they rebelled.
His strangled carcase on Domingo’s plain,
His severed arm that many a victim felled,
Inscribed with his foul deeds--relentless Cain--
Proclaim that murderous fiends no more dishonour Spain.
XVII.
“Joy to Valencia! From her leaguered wall,
Full valiantly defended, Moncey flies.
His shattered legions into fragments fall,
So well her grape and musketry she plies;
And torn his summons to surrender lies.
This--this her answer:--‘We have sworn beneath
‘Our country’s ruins buried, ere shall rise,
‘A foreign standard here, to yield our breath,’
And France her flag withdrew all dark with hues of death.
XVIII.
“In Santandér Luarca’s mitred head--
Apostle pure--the patriot movement guides;
Priest, peasant, noble gallantly he led,
But, ah, Besaya’s torrent yields its sides;
The Frenchman through the conquered city rides.
Palencia bows her head--Valladolíd
Gives hostages; her might the Gaul derides.
And Torquemada many a peasant-Cid
Sees ’neath French sabres fall her flaming towers amid.
XIX.
“Oh, ruthless grasp of the Invader’s hand!
Yet not for this shall Spain his sceptre own.
In vain _Te Deums_ swell through all the land,
In vain allegiance forced sustains his throne.
Though rebels fall, rebellion hath not flown!
Intrusive, throneless, crownless, mocking King,
No Monarch reigneth save o’er hearts alone!
A Tyrant sent thee, poor and bodiless thing,
But ne’er to rule in Spain--for flight prepare thy wing!
XX.
“Unconquered Zaragoza shuts her gates;
No fortress her’s, and scarce a circling wall.
Enough that from her soul the foe she hates,
And ’neath her ruined towers hath sworn to fall,
Or ere she live a foreign tyrant’s thrall.
Sublime devotion! Palafox prepares
The proud defence. His gallant soldiers all
Obey his voice: ‘Who loves me with me shares
‘The city’s doom!’ Till death they guard their lion-lairs.
XXI.
“And many a rampart raised the citizens,
Their puny wall with bristling men defending;
And Tio Jorge and Marin from their dens
Emerge their energies plebeian lending.
On many a dire assault her efforts spending
By Carmen and Portillo, still repelled,
France hurls her shells the town terrific rending.
The Moorish Cosso’s blown in air, and yelled
Is many a dying shriek, but still the rampart’s held.
XXII.
“Engracia’s stormed--the summons to despair
Is oft repeated but as oft disdained.
Though Zaragoza burn--though tortures tear,
Her vigorous arms shall ne’er by France be chained!
The foe hath entered and the Cosso gained;
But desperate is the fight which there doth rage.
Francisco’s convent burns, yet death fires rained
More fiercely glare--such war did man ne’er wage.
Beside Numantine fame ’twill sound through many an age!
XXIII.
“Within the Cosso’s wide and central street
The foemen fierce contend from side to side.
From roof and window hostile volleys meet;
Each house a fortress, where assault is tried
In vain--the very women far and wide
Rain household gear and scalding water down.
The black and shattered walls with blood are dyed.
The dead in heaps putrescent grimly frown;
And pestilence doth threat the death-devoted town.
XXIV.
“In every street are rival batteries placed.
Entrenched behind a bulwark of the slain,
See where yon Zaragozan death has faced,
Resolved a cannon of the Frank to gain.
’Neath corse-heaped covert he hath passed a chain
Round the huge gun--its end his comrades take--
Their lusty sinews pull with might and main--
The monster moves--but, ah, the chain doth break;
Yet soon as Night doth fall the prize their own they make.
XXV.
“Terrific sight--the hospital is fired,
And maniacs issue from the blazing walls;
Gibbering and mouthing ’mongst the soldiers tired,
Even more than War their screaming wild appals.
Some frantic laugh while of their number falls
A victim smote--some mope--some mutterings blend;
Some dance and sing amid the hissing balls,
Some with hyæna yells the welkin rend,
And drivelling idiots cry while warriors fierce contend.
XXVI.
“Glorious resistance! See--the French recede;
To far Pamplona o’er the plain they pass.
Heroic town! not vainly thou dost bleed,
For thou art free, though all one bruiséd mass.
No monument of marble or of brass
Can rival, sufferer, thy eternal fame!
Nor ’mongst thy patriots be forgotten Sass,
The hero-priest who to the dying came
Now with the Host, and now against the foe took aim!
XXVII.
“Nor dauntless Manuela be unsung,
Who when her townsmen from the battery fled,
With burning linstock to the rampart sprung,
And mounting on the cannon vowed till dead
Ne’er through the siege to leave its Gorgon head.
Penthesiléa not more beautiful!
Nor thou, Burita, sprung from noblest bed,
And delicate as fair--of courage full--
’Mid showering shot and shell, as Hebe bountiful!
XXVIII.
“And, gallant Palafox, let bright-eyed Fame
Thy praise resound, whom nought could turn or bend;
For when no mandate but the word of shame
‘Capitulation!’ France would deign to send,
‘War to the knife!’ thy answer straight was penned.
Worthy was all the heroic times of old.
And monks were seen a warlike arm to lend,
And cloistered sisters the cartouche to mould.
Though History rend each page, this, this shall be enrolled!
XXIX.
“Her tercios Aragon, the Catalan
His bold Somátenés equipped for war.
Spain’s arméd peasants all her fields o’erran,
But strife amongst the chiefs too oft a bar,
And Valour weak indiscipline doth mar.
At Rio Seco see the furious charge
Of France’s chivalry like Aias’ car
Mow thousands down beside the streamlet’s marge,
While o’er the affrighted plain their broken lines enlarge.
XXX.
“But Vengeance comes! Beneath Morena’s shade,
At Baylen see on Andaluzan plains
Where sinks Dupont by olive-circled glade
And deep ravine where blood like water rains,
And wears his mighty host dishonouring chains.
Castaños, Reding, bright your laurels shine,
While prostrate ’neath your arm the Gaul remains;
But, ah, perfidious snares your glory mine,
And butchery stains the steel which Conquest lit divine,
XXXI.
“See--see, the Intrusive King o’er Ebro flies,
In pale affright by Baylen’s victory driven;
But tall Pyrene’s bulwarks o’er him rise,
A shield impregnable to despots given.
Dissolve, dissolve that towering rampart, Heaven!
And aid our vengeful spear to hurl him back.
By Spain’s right arm be Spain’s rude fetters riven.
Our warriors move--of zeal there is no lack.
The Invaders feel their ire, like gathering thunder black.
XXXII.
“And hangs upon their skirt with fierce annoy
The mountain Guerrillero tiger-springing,
The Chapelchurri burning to destroy,
From heights around Bilbaö vengeance winging,
The Chapelgorri with his musket ringing,
A dearer Chacolin--the Frenchman’s blood--
Thirsting to pour, the rich libation flinging
O’er crag and spray--their dainty flesh the food
Of vulture screaming fierce, and kite, and raven’s brood.
XXXIII.
“But weak the impulse, uncombined the assault;
Divisions, jealousies, our councils blight.
Too oft on Victory’s field our leaders halt,
And leave unplucked the fruit that gleams in sight:
Oh, that our men had Chiefs to lead them right.
In vain! France rallies through the land once more.
Our peasant warriors gather to the fight,
But compact serried legions gall them sore.
The soiled Escorial holds the Usurper as before!
XXXIV.
“To Albion now Hesperia turns her eyes;
Though bloodshot all and weeping, proud her gaze;
For still her spirit doth unconquered rise,
And still she struggles to the world’s amaze.
Swift Albion answers to the call we raise,
And sends to aid our arms a gallant host.
Around her swords the light triumphant plays
Of many a field where perished Gallia’s boast,
And see her fleet descend on Lusitania’s coast.
XXXV.
“For vain, too, there hath Gaul her efforts found.
Our kinsmen scorn to wear a foreign chain.
Indignantly they rise their Tyrants round,
And bear the Freeman’s threatening port, like Spain.
But feeble, too, the bands of Lusitain
’Gainst veteran cohorts battling all through life.
Great Arthur comes from England to maintain
Thy contest, Liberty. With ardour rife
His warriors reach the shore, and gird them for the strife.
XXXVI.
“Upon thy beauteous banks, Mondégo, where
The cry of murdered Iñez lingers still,
And faithful Pedro’s grief the breeze doth bear
In many a sigh from fair Coimbra’s hill,
There Albion’s heroes land. Rude blasts and chill
Blow from the Atlantic. On Boarcos’ crags
Full many a soldier perisheth. But will
Indomitable their’s--nor Lusia lags;
Priest, student, peasant, crowd ’neath azure-crimson flags.
XXXVII.
“Hark to the footfall fierce and measured tread
Of Britain’s legions o’er the affrighted ground,
While martial music’s stirring voice is shed,
Enthusiast Valour waking at the sound.
Trombone and cornet make the heart to bound,
The deep bassoon and clarion shrill afar
Their echoes send--the mellow horn around
Gives softer notes, ring fifes their merry bar,
And rolls the doubling drum to stimulate the War.
XXXVIII.
“Roriça, hail! Vimièiro, blest thy sod!
For there the might of France is hurled to dust.
The robber-host is victory-smote by God.
Junot retires with all his spoils unjust,
But sated once for aye his gory lust!
And other fields by England’s might are tried,
In Heaven and in her arm reposing trust.
Corunna’s heights see crushed the Gaulish pride,
But sad the victory gained where Moore heroic died.
XXXIX.
“And rushed great Arthur to the field again,
And conquest o’er his helm unceasing played.
On many a dire, tremendous battle plain
The eagle-crest of Gallia low he laid,
The arms allied in all triumphant made.
My soul doth grow more tranquil--blame him not,
If ruffian-soldiers’ deeds his laurels shade;
Too oft in Victory justice is forgot,
Too oft are arméd men like fiends when passion’s hot.
XL.
“Oh Death in battle! Glory thou art called,
When stirred the fervent blood to seething strife;
But Man prefers thee peaceful coffined, palled,
And shudders unprepared to yield The Life;
For, oh, with terror the dark shore is rife!
Who in precipitate Death would choose to miss
The pillow tended by the loving wife,
The dying hand stretched forth to her to kiss,
The last words whispered low, surviving Memory’s bliss!
XLI.
“That word recalls, my girls, your mother dead,
And brings to these weak eyes a sacred tear.
Belov’d Juana! round thy honoured head
Celestial glory beams, yet, oh, look here,
And shed protection o’er thy children dear!”
Salustian ceased--he kist the foreheads pure
Of both his weeping daughters, Carlos near
Impatient stood, his eyes with ceaseless lure
Tow’rds the lance-casement drawn, where Morn’s first glimmerings
pour.
XLII.
A day of terror to a night of gloom
Succeedeth; light reveals no glimpse of joy.
But rends the Sun the veil from living tomb,
To show how swift can ruffians armed destroy.
Thy treasures, San Sebastian, a decoy,
Thy household gods are shivered into dust!
Nor yet upon thy fell invaders cloy
Barbarian violence and Rapine’s lust.
The thunder-storm hath ceased--but, Heaven, thy arm is just!
XLIII.
“Thou wilt not go--thou wilt not, Carlos, leave
“Thy Isidora’s side--thy life expose.
“What boots their plunder? ’Tis for thee I grieve,
“Alone--unaided, amongst ruffian foes.
“Father, I dread the worst if Carlos goes.”
But Carlos kist her tenderly, and said:
“No danger fear, _mi alma_, blushful rose!
“I will be careful for thy sake--this head
“Bright Heaven is sure to shield--an Angel I would wed!”
XLIV.
Don Carlos wended to Salustian’s home;--
A smouldering heap of ruins met his gaze!
And rifled remnants of that noble dome
Drunk grenadiers transported through the blaze.
Oh, who shall paint his horror and amaze!
He took by the throat the first who crost his path.
Red bayonets flashed beneath the autumnal rays;
But buckled to his side a sword he hath,
And many a victim falls a prey to Carlos’ wrath.
XLV.
Now thronged the soldiery, and Carlos prest
By numbers fought full long with valour rare;
Till faint and bleeding from his wounded breast,
He gained once more the mute Cathedral square.
But, ah, the bloodhounds tracked him to his lair,
And forced an entrance to the sacred pile.
His blood doth guide them up the belfry stair.
They reach the door--they burst it in--the while
Young Isidora screams, and laugh those demons vile.
XLVI.
Grey-haired Salustian feebly snatched a sword,
And Carlos strove to lift--but falls his hand.
Clasped to her breast the maiden her adored,
And wildly shrieking Isabel doth stand,
Nor for her clamour cared the ruthless band.
They charged impetuous, as the breach were still
Before them--fell that chieftain in the land,
Salustian, piercéd--Carlos they did kill
In Isidora’s arms, where spouts a crimson rill!
XLVII.
Fell to the ground his corse--the maiden stood,
Like Horror’s statue, chained unto the floor.
Flowed round her lovely feet a stream of blood,
New reeking monsters reeled in at the door.
Hell glared i’ their drunken glance. An instant more,
And Honour’s soul had perished. In their eyes
She reads her doom. A fiend through slippery gore
Advanced--in front the casement open lies.
She leaps--Archangels weep at Virtue’s sacrifice!
HISTORICAL AND ILLUSTRATIVE NOTES TO CANTO VIII.
For the long series of historical incidents, of which this Canto
records only as much as appears to come within the province of
poetry, the reader is referred to the Histories of Napier and
Southey, and to Thiers’s _Histoire du Consulat et de l’Empire_, as
well as to the work of Foy, which will bear comparison with any of
those mentioned.
With regard to Godoy’s character and conduct, I have read most
carefully his _Mémoires_ published some years back in Paris; but
to many of the statements in that book it is impossible to give
credit, and to the view which I have taken of his career in this
and the last Canto I cannot but strongly adhere.
Foy thus describes him and the Royal family of Spain:--
“On vit Godoy s’élancer de la couche adultère de la reine aux
premiers grades de la milice, à la présidence des conseils,
au gouvernement absolu de la paix et de la guerre. * * Le roi
d’Espagne n’avait pas quarante mils soldats en Europe. Ses arsenaux
étaient dégarnis, son trésor était vide. Les dons patriotiques
arrivèrent de toutes part. La Catalogne demanda à se lever en
masse. Les provinces de Biscaye et de Navarre firent des appels
à la population. Les grands seigneurs accoururent à la tête de
leurs vassaux. Les moines arrivèrent enrégimentés. Des bandes
de contrebandiers, oubliant leurs démêlés habituels avec le
gouvernement, demandèrent à combattre les ennemis du trône et de
l’autel. Tous les états, tous les rangs voulurent vaincre ou mourir
pour la patrie. Quel parti tira le gouvernement espagnol de tant de
dévouement? * * Le général des Franciscains offrit de marcher à la
tête de dix mille moines. Le duc d’Albe et deux autres seigneurs
voulurent lever dix mille hommes à leurs frais. Le chapitre de
Toléde offrit vingt-cinq millions de réaux. Le clergé parcourait
les villages le crucifix à la main.” (Foy, _Hist. Guerre.
Pénin._ liv. iv.) All was useless. “Aucun exploit, aucune vertu,
n’honorèrent sa jeunesse, il n’avait pas tiré l’épée pendant la
guerre. Il ne montra pendant la paix ni talent dans les conseils,
ni détermination dans le gouvernement.” (_Ibid._)
A curious parallel for the fortune of Godoy, and for the popular
hatred which he excited, is to be found in Horace:--
_Ibericis_ peruste funibus latus,
Licèt superbus ambules pecuniâ,
Fortuna non mutat genus.
Videsne, sacram metiente te viam,
Cum bis ter ulnarum togâ,
Ut ora vertat huc et huc euntium
Liberrima indignatio?
“Arat Falerni mille fundi jugera,
“Et Appiam mannis terit;
“Sedilibusque magnus in primis eques,
“Othone contempto, sedet!”
_Epod._ iv.
Menas, Pompey’s freedman, and Augustus’s Tribune, a double and
impartial traitor, to whom this ode was addressed, was the Godoy of
ancient Rome.
The Massacre of Madrid on the memorable Second of May did not
happily involve so much bloodshed as for a long period had been
imagined. The exaggeration common to all countries in commemorating
their patriotic struggles, and especially so in the Peninsula, had
fully quadrupled the number of martyrs who fell upon that occasion.
Recent minute inquiries have confirmed the statement of Napier that
the entire number of the Madrid population slain in this massacre
did not exceed 200. The real name of the “Daïz” in the text was
Daoiz. The shootings subsequent to the street massacre took place,
as I have recorded them, under circumstances which in Spain were
necessarily regarded as of excessive atrocity, the denial of the
assistance of clergy, which by Frenchmen was lightly considered,
being in Spanish eyes the acmé of horrors. The supposed miraculous
appearances in the Northern provinces are derived from Foy’s
_History_.
For the circumstances of the rising which followed throughout Spain
the reader is referred to Napier and to Southey, whose description
of the Siege of Zaragoza I have followed because it is the more
poetical, although I cannot refrain from remarking that it is
disfigured by occasional passages of exaggeration and bombast not
altogether worthy of an historical work.
The state of political knowledge in Spain at the period of the
French invasion may be inferred from the character of the questions
treated by their publicists. An old Spanish political writer, held
in the greatest esteem down to that period, D. Diego Saavedra
Faxardo, formally discusses this thesis: Whether is it better for a
prince to delegate his authority to one or many? and concludes in
favour of delegation to a single person, for the following reason,
stated in his own words: “That the King is the image of the sun,
and when the sun disappears from the horizon, he leaves to one
only, the moon, and not to several, the care of presiding over the
night!” The political work from which this morçeau is extracted was
composed for the instruction of the Prince of the Asturias, who
afterwards became Carlos II. It was long the French system to keep
Spain in this state of pupillage. Choiseul, the ablest minister
of France during the 18th century, said that he was more certain
of his preponderance in the cabinet of Madrid than in that of
Versailles! He said this in the reign of Carlos III., the ablest of
the Spanish Bourbons. Up to the end of the last century, France was
the planet, and Spain the satellite.
The first era of the Peninsular campaigns comprised our two first
victories of Roriça and Vimieiro, more intrinsically glorious
perhaps, than any of their successors, but rendered futile in
their consequences by the mistaken generosity of concession which
characterized the Convention of Cintra.
The second period of the War was commenced by the battle of
Talavera, previously to which Wellington found the Spanish General
Cuesta equally unmanageable, stubborn, and foolishly arrogant, as
the Portuguese General showed himself on the eve of the battle
of Roriça which commenced the first period of the War. In both
cases the results were the same. After a great deal of vapouring
about “doing the business themselves and not needing British
assistance,” both worthies retired, leaving the sole and undivided
honour of each day to the genius and fortune of Wellington. In
the preliminary combat of Alcabon, the Spanish division (4,000
infantry, 2,000 horse, and 8 guns) scampered off from before the
French, and it was manifest that they could not be depended on.
Wellington was therefore determined that they should withdraw to
Talavera, where there was strong ground suited for defence, on
which alone the Spaniards were likely to make a stand. Cuesta
boastingly replied that “he would fight where he stood.” The 27th,
at daylight, the British General renewed his solicitations, at
first fruitlessly; but when the enemy’s cavalry came in sight,
Cuesta sullenly yielded, yet turning to his staff with frantic
pride observed that “he had first made the Englishman go down on
his knees!” (Napier, _Hist. W. P._ b. viii. c. 2.) In the next
preliminary combat of Salinas, the Spanish army to the number of
11,000 men (including artillery) threw down their arms, and ran
away, declaring that the Allies were entirely routed! It might
have been so but that their example was despised. Thus undivided
glory was thrust upon Wellington; and ever after the part which the
Spaniards took was very subordinate.
After the battle of Talavera, the Spaniards were shamefully
defeated (having regard to the truth of History it is impossible
to use any other expression) by the French in two successive
actions--those of Arzobispo and Almonacid, at both of which they
threw down their arms and ran, and in the latter were slaughtered
in thousands--a result partly attributable to the bad conduct of
the men and partly to the bad guiding of their commander, Cuenca,
whose character was a concentration of all the worst possible
qualities of a General. “King” Joseph, who had retreated after the
battle of Baylen, now returned to Madrid. Embarrassed by these
disasters, by the perfidious withholding of supplies, by the
perpetual crossing and opposition of the Spanish juntas, which like
those of Portugal, instead of an aid, were for ever a thorn in the
side of their Liberator, Wellington, in the face of an overwhelming
French force, took the resolution of retiring into Portugal. The
conduct of the Spaniards may be best estimated from his own words,
stating his reasons for declining again to co-operate with them:
“But there was a more shameful consideration, namely, the constant
and shameful misbehaviour of the Spanish troops before the enemy.
We in England never hear of their defeats and flights, but I have
heard Spanish officers telling of nineteen or twenty actions of
the description of that at the bridge of Arzobispo, accounts of
which, I believe, have never been published. * * * In the battle of
Talavera, in which the Spanish army, with very trifling exception,
was not engaged--whole corps threw away their arms, and ran off,
when they were neither attacked nor threatened with an attack. When
these dastardly soldiers run away, they plunder everything they
meet. In their flight from Talavera they plundered the baggage of
the British army, which was at that moment bravely engaged in their
cause.”
When Wellington came to this resolution to retire into Portugal,
he was at the head of only 17,000 British troops of all arms; the
“terror-stricken Spaniards” were literally an incumbrance. (Napier,
_Hist. W. P._ b. viii. c. 5.) Our troops, through the faithlessness
of their allies, were almost starving, and they were confronted
by 70,000 French! The wonder is that they were not utterly and
immediately crushed by the latter. But Soult was the only great
General then amongst the French commanders; and the promptness is
as much to be admired as the prudence with which Wellington retired
into Portugal.
The Spanish army made some miserable attempts after this at
independent action against the French, which ended four months
after the battle of Talavera in the disastrous battle of Ocaña, one
of the most frightful routs recorded in history, where the whole
Spanish army of more than 50,000 men was destroyed, having 5000
killed and wounded, and leaving 26,000 prisoners, 45 pieces of
artillery, 30,000 muskets, and 3000 horses and beasts of burden in
the hands of the enemy! The French lost but 1700 men, killed and
wounded; and I must do them the justice of saying that no exploit
of ours in the Peninsula equalled this in its numerical results;
for God forbid that I should obscure the glory of an enemy or gloss
over the misconduct of an ally. The rest of the Spanish army was
subsequently defeated at Alba de Tormes, which closed the campaigns
of 1809.
These scattering and consuming thunderbolts opened the eyes of the
Spaniards at last to the value of the British alliance, and threw
the defence of the Peninsula entirely into those heroic hands, by
which it was so brilliantly completed. The soldiery of Spain acted
thenceforth a subordinate part, and the boast after the battle of
Baylen, “We will not need the services of you _Ingleses_--we will
escort you home through France, but you will not have to strike
a blow!” was not again repeated. For six months of the next year
(till Wellington re-appeared on the scene) they continued their
despairing efforts against the French, but with uniform defeat and
failure. No fitting leaders appeared, and the efforts of the people
were worse than useless.
The _third_ era of the Peninsular campaigns commenced with the
third invasion of Portugal by the French army, which was this time
commanded by Massena. The battle of Busaco was the great event of
the commencement of this campaign. This powerful check was for the
time successful, but unable long to control a far superior force,
and the British army fell back within the lines of Torres Vedras.
Massena arrived in front of them, and made prodigious efforts
to pass. But this triumph of Wellington’s genius, and marvel of
engineering and strategic skill, was impregnable to all assaults,
and was at once the salvation of Portugal and the ultimate means
of rescuing Spain from the Invader. Emerging from his unassailable
redoubt, Wellington at last pursued the French beyond the frontier,
and defeated them on the Spanish soil in battle, action, and
assault, from Salamanca to Vitoria, from Vitoria to the Pyrenees.
One can laugh at this distance of time at the monstrosities written
about these memorable struggles by French nobles and generals. Thus
Foy has the coolness to say of the relative numbers at Vimieiro,
“Les Anglois étaient deux contre un par rapport aux Français!”
(_Hist. Guerre. Pénins._, livre ix.) He further denies that it
was _a battle at all_. “Ils n’étaient pas desireux de changer un
avantage défensif bien caractérisé en une bataille dont le succès
leur paraissait incertain!” (_Ibid._)
The political sagacity and military skill of Wellington not only
maintained his position in the face of overwhelming difficulties,
but speedily took the offensive. The co-operation of (Lord)
Beresford, who was placed over the Portuguese army, organized by
the genius of Wellington, and led by British officers, must not be
overlooked. Massena was forced to retreat from Portugal; and as he
passed the border-line of the two Peninsular countries, Wellington
followed victorious and menacing, having achieved what at first
appeared utterly vain to attempt. The battle of Fuentes de Onoro
ensued, the French were forced to evacuate the fortress of Almeida,
and then followed a long career of victory to the British arms,
which was uninterrupted till our triumphant entry into Toulouse,
and the news of Napoléon’s abdication.
The allusion in this Canto to the Basque Guerrillas needs a word of
explanation. The Chapelgorris and Chapelchurris are distinguishing
names of the Basque mountain peasantry, derived from the colour
of their caps. Chacolin is the thin, sour wine of the district.
During the late Carlist war, a considerable degree of romantic
interest attached to these peasantry for the keenness of their
partisan admixture in the strife. One of the most famous events
in the Carlist struggle was the siege of Bilbao, which was raised
by the Cristino General Cordova, and where the most famous of
modern Guerrilleros, Zumalacarregui, received his death-wound. Had
this most energetic of the Carlist Generals lived, the war might
have had a very different termination. It was he, who, on the
wretchedly unprovided state of his men as to arms being remarked
to him, pointing to the muskets in the Cristino battalions, said,
“There are their arms!” and contrived to arm them very respectably
by stripping the Cristinos in repeated brilliant surprises. The
circumstances of this rude but powerful hero’s death are recorded
in the Cristino song:
Ya vienen Chapelchurris
Con corneta y clarin,
Para entrar en Bilbao
A beber chacolin.
Mal chacolin tuvieron,
Y dia tan fatal,
Que con la borrachera
Se murió el general!
I. “’Twas fraud and treason her destruction doomed.”
Rancorous Despite,
Disloyal Treason and heart-burning Hate.
Spenser, _Fairy Queen_.
IV. “The sword
Which mighty Carlos at Pavía won,
The puny Ferdinand to France restored.”
Ὦ σπέρμ’ Ἀχιλλέως, τἄλλα μὲν πάρεστί σοι
Πατρῷ’ ἑλέσθαι τῶν δ’ ὅπλων κείνων ἀνὴρ
Ἄλλος κρατύνει νυν, ὁ Λαέρτου γόνος.--
Soph. _Philoct._ 364.
“Oh, born of Achilles! the rest of what pertained to thy father
thou mayst take; but these arms another now possesses--Laertes’
son!” Such was the answer of Ulysses to Neoptolemus, when the
latter sought the arms of Achilles, and such should have been the
reply of Ferdinand to Napoléon.
VII. “And when the Nation woke, ’twas in a glare of light.”
See Wordsworth’s “Convention of Cintra.”
X. “Castile, unconquered Aragon, Navarre,” &c.
Com esta voz Castella alevantada
Suas forças ajunta para as guerras,
De varias regioens, e varias terras.
Camóens, _Lus._ iv. 7.
XVI. “His strangled carcase on Domingos’ plain,” &c.
----φρόνησον ...
Ὡς νῷν ἀπεχθὴς δυσκλεής τ’ ἀπώλετο.
Soph. _Antig._ 49.
“Remember, how he perished odious and infamous!”
XXVII. “Nor dauntless Manuela be unsung * *
Nor thou, Burita, sprung from noblest bed.”
These heroines were by no means singular in their courage and
constancy, at that eventful era. Blanca is, I trust, no inaccurate
type of that multitude of heroic women who sprang up in all parts
of Spain during the Peninsular War, who rose superior to the
weakness of their sex in the face of invasion and its attendant
horrors, and who resembled more the Antigones than the Ismenes of
ancient history. It was theirs to falsify the familiar reproach:
----γυνὴ γὰρ τἄλλα μὲν φόβου πλέα,
Κακή τ’ ἐς ἀλκὴν, καὶ σίδηρον εἰσορᾷν.
Eurip. _Med._ 266.
“For Woman is full of fear, and weak for the combat and at sight
of steel.” The heroic plebeian Maid of Zaragoza, and the not less
heroic patrician, Burita, were not of Ismene’s way of thinking,
which is nevertheless expressed with beautiful feminine propriety
(for common occasions):--
Ἀλλ’ ἐννοεῖν χρὴ τοῦτο μὲν, γυναῖχ’ ὅτι
Ἔφυμεν, ὡς πρὸς ἄνδρας οὐ μαχουμένα.
Soph. _Antig._ 61.
“But it is meet we think on this--that we are women, and unequal to
contend with men.” They rather said with Antigone:--
----σοὶ δ’ εἰ δοκεῖ,
Τὰ τῶν θεῶν ἔντιμ’ ἀτιμάσασ’ ἔχε. * *
Ἀλλ’ ἔα με, καὶ τὴν ἐξ ἐμοῦ δυσβουλίαν.
_Ib._ 95.
“Do thou, if so to thee seem fit, despise that which the Gods deem
holiest. * * But suffer me and my rashness!”
XXVIII. “And cloistered sisters the cartouche to mould.”
O! decus, o! sacrâ fœmina digna domo!
Ovid. _Fast._ vi. 810.
“Though History rend each page, this, this shall be enrolled!”
See Wordsworth’s “Convention of Cintra.”
XXIX. “See the furious charge
Of France’s chivalry, like Aias’ car,
Mow thousands down.”
Αἴας δὲ Τρώεσσιν ἐπάλμενος εἷλε Δόρυκλον κ. τ. λ.
Ὣς ἔφεπε κλονέων πεδίον τότε φαίδιμος Αἴας
Δαΐζων ἵππους τε καὶ ἀνέρας.
Hom. _Il._ xi. 489.
XXXVI. “Upon thy beauteous banks, Mondego, where,” &c.
As filhas do Mondego a morte escura
Longo tempo chorando memoraram;
E por memoria eterna, em fonte pura
As lagrimas choradas transformaram:
O nome lhe pozeram, que ainda dura,
Dos amores de Ignez, que alli passaram.
Vede que fresca fonte rega as flores,
Que lagrimas são a agua, e o nome amores.
Camóens, _Lus._ iii. 135.
XXXVIII. “But sad the victory gained where Moore heroic died.”
See the clear and affecting account of Sir John Moore’s last
moments, by the present Lord Hardinge, annexed to Mr. Moore’s
_Narrative_.
XL. “The pillow tended by the loving wife,” &c.
See the beautiful speech of Andromache over the body of Hector:--
Οὐ γάρ μοι θνήσκων λεχέων ἐκ χεῖρας ὄρεξας·
Οὐδέ τί μοι εἶπες πυκινὸν ἔπος, οὗτέ κεν αἰεὶ
Μεμνήμην νύκτας τε καὶ ἤματα δακρυχέουσα.
Hom. _Il._ xxiv. 743.
XLIII. “Thou wilt not go--thou wilt not, Carlos, leave,” &c.
_Clyt._ Ποῦ σ’ αὖθις ὀψόμεθα; ποῦ χρή μ’ ἀθλίαν
Ἐλθοῦσαν εὑρεῖν σὴν χὲρ’, ἐπίκουρον κακῶν;
_Achil._ Ἡμεῖς σε φύλακες, οὗ χρεὼν, φυλάσσομεν.
_Clyt._ “Where shall we again behold thee? Whither must I
wretched go to find thy protecting hand?”
_Achil._ “We will guard you, when it is needful.”
Eurip. _Iphig. in Aul._ 1026.
“No danger fear, _mi alma_, blushful rose!”
Nè te, Altamoro, entro al pudico letto,
Potuto ha ritener la sposa amata.
Pianse, percosse il biondo crine e ’l petto,
Per distornar la tua fatale andata.
“Dunque (dicia) crudel, più che’l mio aspetto
“Del mar l’orrida faccia a te fia grata?
“Fian l’arme al braccio tuo più caro peso,
“Che’l picciol figlio ai dolci scherzi inteso?”
Tasso, _Gerus. Lib._ xvii. 26.
XLVII. “She leaps--Archangels weep at Virtue’s sacrifice!”
Ὦ τύμβος, ὦ νυμφεῖον, ὦ κατασκαφὴς,
Οἴκησις αἰείφρουρος * * κάκιστα δὴ μακρῷ
Κάτειμι, πρίν μοι μοῖραν ἐξήκειν βίου.
Soph. _Antig._ 891.
“Oh sepulchre, oh bridal bed, oh earth-dug everlasting
dwelling!--by the worst of deaths I perish before the allotted day.”
I visited in September last the principal historical scenes
recorded in this Canto--the Castle at Bayonne where Napoléon
filched the crown with such sinister dexterity from the old King,
as well as from Ferdinand VII.; the fine fortress at Badajoz where
the miserable Godoy was born; the museum of Armoin at Madrid,
where, alas, the sword of Francis the First surrendered at Pavía,
_is not_; and the monument in the Prado, erected to the memory
of the victims who fell on the _Dos de Maio_. I had previously
visited the fields of Roriça and Vimieiro, and made more than one
pilgrimage to Corunna.
The name of the Maid of Zaragoza (in contradiction to all English
writers) I have fixed, upon Spanish authority, as Manuela Sanchez.
IBERIA WON.