Pass the rivulet which separates Spain and Portugal.--A muleteer’s
enthusiasm.--Badajoz.--The cathedral.--Journey resumed.--A vast
plain.--Village of Lubaon.--Withered hags.--Names and characters of
our mules.--Posada at Merida.
Monday, Dec. 3rd, 1787.
The maréchal and the abade breakfasted with me, but the rain prevented
my taking another walk about the fortifications, and seeing the troops
go through their exercise. At ten we set off, well escorted, traversed a
dismal plain, and passed a rivulet which separates the two kingdoms. No
sooner had one of our muleteers passed this boundary, than cutting a
cross in the turf with his knife, he fell prostrate and kissed the
ground with a transport of devotion.
Upon ascending the bank of the rivulet we came in sight of Badajoz and
its long narrow bridge over the Guadiana. The custom-house was all
mildness and moderation. Its harpies have neither flown away with my
books, as Bezerra predicted, nor set their talons in my coffers. At
sight of my passport, such a one, I believe, as is not very frequently
granted, all difficulties gave way, and I was permitted to enter the
lonely, melancholy streets of Badajoz, without being stopped an instant,
or having my baggage ransacked.
This circumstance, no wonder, gave me greater satisfaction than the
aspect of the town and its inhabitants, which is decidedly gloomy. Every
house almost has grated-windows, and the few human creatures that stared
at us from them, were muffled up to their noses in heavy mantles of the
darkest colours.
We continued winding half an hour in slow and solemn procession through
narrow streets and alleys, whose gutters were full to the brim, before
we reached the large dingy mansion their excellencies, the governor and
intendant, had been so gracious as to allot for my reception. Both these
personages were, providentially, laid up with agues, or else, it seems,
I should have been honoured with their company the whole evening.
A mob of eyes and mantles, for neither mouths, arms, nor scarcely legs
were discernible, assembled round the carriages the moment they halted,
and had the patience to remain in the street, silently smoking their
cigarros, the whole time I was at dinner.
It was night before I rose from table, crept down stairs, and, though it
continued raining at frequent intervals, waded to the cathedral, through
much mire, and between several societies of hogs, which lay sweetly
sleeping to the murmur of dropping eaves, in the midst of gutters and
kennels.
The cathedral is formed by three aisles of equal breadth, supported by
pillars and arches, in a tolerably good pointed style. Several lofty
chapels open into them, with solemn gates of iron. In the centre of the
middle aisle some bungling architect has awkwardly stuck the choir, not
many paces from the principal entrance, and by so doing has shut out the
view of the high altar: no great loss, however, the high altar looking
little better than a huge mass of rock-work, gilt and burnished. Under
the choir is a staircase leading down to the grated entrance of a vault.
Lamps were burning before many of the altars, and they distributed a
faint light throughout the whole edifice.
I paced silently to and fro in the aisles, whilst the canons were
chaunting vespers. The choristers still retain the same dress in which
St. Anthony is represented, in the picture which hung by the miraculous
cross he indented when flying the persecutions of Satan. There was a
solemnity in the glimmer of the lamps, the gloomy, indefinite depth of
the chapels, and the darkness of the vault beneath the choir, that
affected me. I passed a very uncomfortable evening, and a worse night.
Tuesday, Dec. 4.
Not a wink of sleep did the musquitos allow me. I was glad to call for
lights at four, and was still happier to step into the coach at five;
from that hour to half-past-eight I contrived to slumber in a feverish,
agitated manner, that did me little good.
When I opened my eyes, I found myself traversing a vast plain as level
as the ocean. In summer, this waste must convey none but ideas of
sterility and desolation; at present, a fresh verdure, browsed by
numerous flocks, rendered its appearance tolerable. The sheep, which
are large and thriving, have fleeces as long and as silky as the hair of
a barbet, combed every day by the hands of its mistress. I observed
numbers of lambs of the most shining whiteness, with black ears and
noses; just such neat little animals as those I remember to have seen in
the era of Dresden china, at the feet of smirking shepherdesses.
We dined at a village of mud cottages, called Lubaon, situated on some
rising ground, about eighteen miles from Badajoz, whose inhabitants seem
to have attained the last stage of poverty and wretchedness. Two or
three withered hags, that even in the prophet Habakkuk’s resurrection of
dry bones, would have attracted attention, laid hold of me the moment I
got out of the carriage. I thought the cold hand of the weird sisters
was giving me a gripe; and trembled lest, whether I would or not, I
might hear some fatal prediction. To get out of their way I flew to the
church, an old gothic building, placed on the edge of a steep, which
shelves almost perpendicularly down to the banks of the Guadiana, and
took sanctuary in its porch. There I remained till summoned to dinner,
listening to the murmur of the distant river flowing round sandy
islands.
I won the hearts of my muleteers by caressing their mules, and inquiring
with a respectful earnestness their names and characters. Capitana may
be depended upon in cases of labour and difficulty; Valerosa is skittish
and enterprising; Pelerina rather sluggish and cowardly; but la
Commissaria unites every mulish perfection; is tractable, steady, and
sure-footed, and at the same time (to use the identical expression of my
calasero) the greatest driver of dirt before her in the universe. She is
certainly an animal of uncommon resolution; and when tired to death by
the slow paces of her companions, how often have I wished myself
abandoned to her guidance in a light two-wheeled chaise.
We left Lubaon at half-past two, and, as I had the happiness of sleeping
almost the whole way to Merida, can give little account of the country.
I was hardly awake, when we entered the posada at Merida, and started
back, dazzled with an illumination of wax-lights, solemnly stuck in
sconces all round a lofty room, with glaring white walls, as if I had
been expected to lie in state. In the middle of the apartment stood a
large brasier, full of glowing embers, exhaling so strong a perfume of
rosemary and lavender, that my head swam, and I reeled like a drunkard.
But as soon as this vile machine was removed, I sat down to write in
peace and comfort.