State of Spain—Isturitz—Revolution of the Granja—The Disturbance—Signs of
Mischief—Newspaper Reporters—Quesada’s Onslaught—The closing Scene—Flight
of the Moderados—The Coffee Bowl.
In the mean time the affairs of the _moderados_ did not proceed in a very
satisfactory manner; they were unpopular at Madrid, and still more so in
the other large towns of Spain, in most of which _juntas_ had been
formed, which, taking the local administration into their own hands,
declared themselves independent of the queen and her ministers, and
refused to pay taxes; so that the government was within a short time
reduced to great straits for money. The army was unpaid, and the war
languished—I mean on the part of the _Cristinos_, for the Carlists were
pushing it on with considerable vigour; parties of their _guerillas_
{194} scouring the country in all directions, whilst a large division,
under the celebrated Gomez, was making the entire circuit of Spain. To
crown the whole, an insurrection was daily expected at Madrid, to prevent
which the nationals were disarmed, which measure tended greatly to
increase their hatred against the _moderado_ government, and especially
against Quesada, with whom it was supposed to have originated.
With respect to my own matters, I lost no opportunity of pushing forward
my application; the Aragonese secretary, however, still harped upon the
Council of Trent, and succeeded in baffling all my efforts. He appeared
to have inoculated his principal with his own ideas upon this subject,
for the duke, when he beheld me at his levees, took no farther notice of
me than by a contemptuous glance; and once, when I stepped up for the
purpose of addressing him, disappeared through a side-door, and I never
saw him again, for I was disgusted with the treatment which I had
received, and forbore paying any more visits at the _Casa de la
Inquisicion_. Poor Galiano still proved himself my unshaken friend, but
candidly informed me that there was no hope of my succeeding in the above
quarter. “The duke,” said he, “says that your request cannot be granted;
and the other day, when I myself mentioned it in the council, began to
talk of the decision of Trent, and spoke of yourself as a plaguy
pestilent fellow; whereupon I answered him with some acrimony, and there
ensued a bit of a _funcion_ between us, at which Isturitz laughed
heartily. By-the-by,” continued he, “what need have you of a regular
permission, which it does not appear that any one has authority to grant?
The best thing that you can do under the circumstances is to commit the
work to the press, with an understanding that you shall not be interfered
with when you attempt to distribute it. I strongly advise you to see
Isturitz himself upon the matter. I will prepare him for the interview,
and will answer that he receives you civilly.”
In fact, a few days afterwards, I had an interview with Isturitz at the
palace, and for the sake of brevity I shall content myself with saying
that I found him perfectly well disposed to favour my views. “I have
lived long in England,” said he; “the Bible is free there, and I see no
reason why it should not be free in Spain also. I am not prepared to say
that England is indebted for her prosperity to the knowledge which all
her children, more or less, possess of the sacred writings; but of one
thing I am sure, namely, that the Bible has done no harm in that country,
nor do I believe that it will effect any in Spain. Print it, therefore,
by all means, and circulate it as extensively as possible.” I retired,
highly satisfied with my interview, having obtained, if not a written
permission to print the sacred volume, what, under all circumstances, I
considered as almost equivalent—an understanding that my biblical
pursuits would be tolerated in Spain; and I had fervent hope that,
whatever was the fate of the present ministry, no future one,
particularly a liberal one, would venture to interfere with me, more
especially as the English ambassador was my friend, and was privy to all
the steps I had taken throughout the whole affair. {196}
Two or three things connected with the above interview with Isturitz
struck me as being highly remarkable. First of all, the extreme facility
with which I obtained admission to the presence of the prime minister of
Spain. I had not to wait, or indeed to send in my name, but was
introduced at once by the doorkeeper. Secondly, the air of loneliness
which pervaded the place, so unlike the bustle, noise, and activity which
I observed when I waited on Mendizabal. In this instance, there were no
eager candidates for an interview with the great man; indeed, I did not
behold a single individual, with the exception of Isturitz and the
official. But that which made the most profound impression upon me, was
the manner of the minister himself, who, when I entered, sat upon a sofa,
with his arms folded, and his eyes directed to the ground. When he spoke
there was extreme depression in the tones of his voice, his dark features
wore an air of melancholy, and he exhibited all the appearance of a
person meditating to escape from the miseries of this life by the most
desperate of all acts—suicide.
And a few days showed that he had, indeed, cause for much melancholy
meditation: in less than a week occurred the revolution of La Granja,
{197} as it is called. La Granja, or the Grange, is a royal country
seat, situated amongst pine forests on the other side of the Guadarrama
hills, about twelve leagues distant from Madrid. To this place the Queen
Regent Christina had retired, in order to be aloof from the discontent of
the capital, and to enjoy rural air and amusements in this celebrated
retreat, a monument of the taste and magnificence of the first Bourbon
who ascended the throne of Spain. She was not, however, permitted to
remain long in tranquillity; her own guards were disaffected, and more
inclined to the principles of the constitution of 1823 than to those of
absolute monarchy, which the _moderados_ were attempting to revive again
in the government of Spain. Early one morning, a party of these
soldiers, headed by a certain Sergeant Garcia, entered her apartment, and
proposed that she should subscribe her hand to this constitution, and
swear solemnly to abide by it. Christina, however, who was a woman of
considerable spirit, refused to comply with this proposal, and ordered
them to withdraw. A scene of violence and tumult ensued, but the Regent
still continuing firm, the soldiers at length led her down to one of the
courts of the palace, where stood her well-known paramour, Muñoz, bound
and blindfolded. “Swear to the constitution, you she-rogue,” vociferated
the swarthy sergeant. “Never!” said the spirited daughter of the
Neapolitan Bourbons. “Then your _cortejo_ shall die!” replied the
sergeant. “Ho! ho! my lads; get ready your arms, and send four bullets
through the fellow’s brain.” Muñoz was forthwith led to the wall, and
compelled to kneel down, the soldiers levelled their muskets, and another
moment would have consigned the unfortunate wight to eternity, when
Christina, forgetting everything but the feelings of her woman’s heart,
suddenly started forward with a shriek, exclaiming, “Hold, hold! I sign,
I sign!”
The day after this event {198} I entered the Puerta del Sol at about
noon. There is always a crowd there about this hour, but it is generally
a very quiet motionless crowd, consisting of listless idlers calmly
smoking their cigars, or listening to or retailing the—in general—very
dull news of the capital; but on the day of which I am speaking, the mass
was no longer inert. There was much gesticulation and vociferation, and
several people were running about shouting, “_Viva la constitucion_!”—a
cry which, a few days previously, would have been visited on the utterer
with death, the city having for some weeks past been subjected to the
rigour of martial law. I occasionally heard the words, “_La Granja_!
_La Granja_!” which words were sure to be succeeded by the shout of
“_Viva la constitucion_!” Opposite the _Casa de Postas_ {199} were drawn
up in a line about a dozen mounted dragoons, some of whom were
continually waving their caps in the air and joining the common cry, in
which they were encouraged by their commander, a handsome young officer,
who flourished his sword, and more than once cried out with great glee,
“Long live the constitutional queen! Long live the constitution!”
The crowd was rapidly increasing, and several nationals made their
appearance in their uniforms, but without their arms, of which they had
been deprived, as I have already stated. “What has become of the
_moderado_ government?” said I to Baltasar, whom I suddenly observed
amongst the crowd, dressed as when I had first seen him, in his old
regimental great coat and foraging cap; “have the ministers been deposed
and others put in their place?”
“Not yet, _Don Jorge_,” said the little soldier-tailor; “not yet; the
scoundrels still hold out, relying on the brute bull Quesada and a few
infantry, who still continue true to them. But there is no fear, _Don
Jorge_; the queen is ours, thanks to the courage of my friend Garcia, and
if the brute bull should make his appearance—ho! ho! _Don Jorge_, you
shall see something—I am prepared for him, ho! ho!” and thereupon he half
opened his great coat, and showed me a small gun which he bore beneath it
in a sling, and then moving away with a wink and a nod, disappeared
amongst the crowd.
Presently I perceived a small body of soldiers advancing up the Calle
Mayor, or principal street which runs from the Puerta del Sol in the
direction of the palace; they might be about twenty in number, and an
officer marched at their head with a drawn sword. The men appeared to
have been collected in a hurry, many of them being in fatigue dress, with
foraging caps on their heads. On they came, slowly marching; neither
their officer nor themselves paying the slightest attention to the cries
of the crowd which thronged about them, shouting, “Long live the
constitution!” save and except by an occasional surly side glance: on
they marched with contracted brows and set teeth, till they came in front
of the cavalry, where they halted and drew up in rank.
“Those men mean mischief,” said I to my friend D---, of the _Morning
Chronicle_, who at this moment joined me; “and depend upon it, that if
they are ordered they will commence firing, caring nothing whom they hit.
But what can those cavalry fellows behind them mean, who are evidently of
the other opinion by their shouting? Why don’t they charge at once this
handful of foot people and overturn them? Once down, the crowd would
wrest from them their muskets in a moment. You are a liberal, which I am
not; why do you not go to that silly young man who commands the horse and
give him a word of counsel in time?”
D--- turned upon me his broad red good-humoured English countenance, with
a peculiarly arch look, as much as to say, . . . (whatever you think most
applicable, gentle reader), then taking me by the arm, “Let us get,” said
he, “out of this crowd and mount to some window, where I can write down
what is about to take place, for I agree with you that mischief is
meant.” Just opposite the post-office was a large house, in the topmost
story of which we beheld a paper displayed, importing that apartments
were to let; whereupon we instantly ascended the common stair, and having
agreed with the mistress of the _étage_ for the use of the front room for
the day, we bolted the door, and the reporter, producing his pocket-book
and pencil, prepared to take notes of the coming events, which were
already casting their shadow before.
What most extraordinary men are these reporters of newspapers in general,
I mean English newspapers! Surely if there be any class of individuals
who are entitled to the appellation of cosmopolites, it is these; who
pursue their avocation in all countries indifferently, and accommodate
themselves at will to the manners of all classes of society: their
fluency of style as writers is only surpassed by their facility of
language in conversation, and their attainments in classical and polite
literature only by their profound knowledge of the world, acquired by an
early introduction into its bustling scenes. The activity, energy, and
courage which they occasionally display in the pursuit of information,
are truly remarkable. I saw them during the three days at Paris, mingled
with _canaille_ and _gamins_ behind the barriers, whilst the _mitraille_
was flying in all directions, and the desperate cuirassiers were dashing
their fierce horses against these seemingly feeble bulwarks. There stood
they, dotting down their observations in their pocket-books as
unconcernedly as if reporting the proceedings of a reform meeting in
Covent Garden or Finsbury Square; whilst in Spain, several of them
accompanied the Carlist and _Cristino guerillas_ in some of their most
desperate raids and expeditions, exposing themselves to the danger of
hostile bullets, the inclemency of winter, and the fierce heat of the
summer sun.
We had scarcely been five minutes at the window, when we suddenly heard
the clattering of horses’ feet hastening down the street called the Calle
de Carretas. The house in which we had stationed ourselves was, as I
have already observed, just opposite to the post-office, at the left of
which this street debouches from the north into the Puerta del Sol: as
the sounds became louder and louder, the cries of the crowd below
diminished, and a species of panic seemed to have fallen upon all: once
or twice, however, I could distinguish the words, “Quesada! Quesada!”
The foot soldiers stood calm and motionless, but I observed that the
cavalry, with the young officer who commanded them, displayed both
confusion and fear, exchanging with each other some hurried words. All
of a sudden that part of the crowd which stood near the mouth of the
Calle de Carretas fell back in great disorder, leaving a considerable
space unoccupied, and the next moment Quesada, in complete general’s
uniform, and mounted on a bright bay thoroughbred English horse, with a
drawn sword in his hand, dashed at full gallop into the area, in much the
same manner as I have seen a Manchegan bull rush into the amphitheatre
when the gates of his pen are suddenly flung open.
He was closely followed by two mounted officers, and at a short distance
by as many dragoons. In almost less time than is sufficient to relate
it, several individuals in the crowd were knocked down and lay sprawling
upon the ground, beneath the horses of Quesada and his two friends, for
as to the dragoons, they halted as soon as they had entered the Puerta
del Sol. It was a fine sight to see three men, by dint of valour and
good horsemanship, strike terror into at least as many thousands: I saw
Quesada spur his horse repeatedly into the dense masses of the crowd, and
then extricate himself in the most masterly manner. The rabble were
completely awed, and gave way, retiring by the Calle del Comercio and the
Calle del Alcalá. All at once, Quesada singled out two nationals, who
were attempting to escape, and setting spurs to his horse, turned them in
a moment, and drove them in another direction, striking them in a
contemptuous manner with the flat of his sabre. He was crying out, “Long
live the absolute queen!” when, just beneath me, amidst a portion of the
crowd which had still maintained its ground, perhaps from not having the
means of escaping, I saw a small gun glitter for a moment; then there was
a sharp report, and a bullet had nearly sent Quesada to his long account,
passing so near to the countenance of the general as to graze his hat. I
had an indistinct view for a moment of a well-known foraging cap just
about the spot from whence the gun had been discharged, then there was a
rush of the crowd, and the shooter, whoever he was, escaped discovery
amidst the confusion which arose.
As for Quesada, he seemed to treat the danger from which he had escaped
with the utmost contempt. He glared about him fiercely for a moment,
then leaving the two nationals, who sneaked away like whipped hounds, he
went up to the young officer who commanded the cavalry, and who had been
active in raising the cry of the constitution, and to him he addressed a
few words with an air of stern menace; the youth evidently quailed before
him, and, probably in obedience to his orders, resigned the command of
the party, and rode away with a discomfited air; whereupon Quesada
dismounted and walked slowly backwards and forwards before the _Casa de
Postas_ with a mien which seemed to bid defiance to mankind.
This was the glorious day of Quesada’s existence, his glorious and last
day. I call it the day of his glory, for he certainly never before
appeared under such brilliant circumstances, and he never lived to see
another sun set. No action of any conqueror or hero on record is to be
compared with this closing scene of the life of Quesada, for who, by his
single desperate courage and impetuosity, ever stopped a revolution in
full course? Quesada did: he stopped the revolution at Madrid for one
entire day, and brought back the uproarious and hostile mob of a huge
city to perfect order and quiet. His burst into the Puerta del Sol was
the most tremendous and successful piece of daring ever witnessed. I
admired so much the spirit of the “brute bull” that I frequently, during
his wild onset, shouted “_Viva Quesada_!” for I wished him well. Not
that I am of any political party or system. No, no! I have lived too
long with _Romany Chals_ {204a} and _Petulengres_ {204b} to be of any
politics save gypsy politics; and it is well known that, during
elections, the children of Roma side with both parties so long as the
event is doubtful, promising success to each; and then when the fight is
done, and the battle won, invariably range themselves in the ranks of the
victorious. But I repeat that I wished well to Quesada, witnessing, as I
did, his stout heart and good horsemanship. Tranquillity was restored to
Madrid throughout the remainder of the day; the handful of infantry
bivouacked in the Puerta del Sol. No more cries of “long live the
constitution” were heard; and the revolution in the capital seemed to
have been effectually put down. It is probable, indeed, that had the
chiefs of the _moderado_ party but continued true to themselves for
forty-eight hours longer, their cause would have triumphed, and the
revolutionary soldiers at La Granja would have been glad to restore the
Queen Regent to liberty, and to have come to terms, as it was well known
that several regiments, who still continued loyal, were marching upon
Madrid. The _moderados_, however, were _not_ true to themselves; that
very night their hearts failed them, and they fled in various
directions—Isturitz and Galiano to France; and the Duke of Rivas to
Gibraltar. The panic of his colleagues even infected Quesada, who,
disguised as a civilian, took to flight. He was not, however, so
successful as the rest, but was recognized at a village about three
leagues from Madrid, and cast into the prison by some friends of the
constitution. Intelligence of his capture was instantly transmitted to
the capital, and a vast mob of the nationals, some on foot, some on
horseback, and others in cabriolets, instantly set out. “The nationals
are coming,” said a _paisano_ to Quesada. “Then,” said he, “I am lost,”
and forthwith prepared himself for death.
There is a celebrated coffee-house in the Calle del Alcalá, at Madrid,
capable of holding several hundred individuals. On the evening of the
day in question, I was seated there, sipping a cup of the brown beverage,
when I heard a prodigious noise and clamour in the street; it proceeded
from the nationals, who were returning from their expedition. In a few
minutes I saw a body of them enter the coffee-house, marching arm in arm,
two by two, stamping on the ground with their feet in a kind of measure,
and repeating in loud chorus, as they walked round the spacious
apartment, the following grisly stanza:—
“Que es lo que abaja
Por aquel cerro?
Ta ra ra ra ra.
Son los huesos de Quesada,
Que los trae un perro—
Ta ra ra ra ra.” {206}
A huge bowl of coffee was then called for, which was placed upon a table,
around which gathered the national soldiers. There was silence for a
moment, which was interrupted by a voice roaring out, “_El pañuelo_!” A
blue kerchief was forthwith produced, which appeared to contain a
substance of some kind; it was untied, and a gory hand and three or four
dissevered fingers made their appearance, and with these the contents of
the bowl were stirred up. “Cups! cups!” cried the nationals. . . .
“Ho, ho, _Don Jorge_,” cried Baltasarito, coming up to me with a cup of
coffee, “pray do me the favour to drink upon this glorious occasion.
This is a pleasant day for Spain, and for the gallant nationals of
Madrid. I have seen many a bull _funcion_, but none which has given me
so much pleasure as this. Yesterday the brute had it all his own way,
but to-day the _toreros_ have prevailed, as you see, _Don Jorge_. Pray
drink; for I must now run home to fetch my _pajandi_ to play my brethren
a tune, and sing a _copla_. What shall it be? Something in _Gitano_?
‘Una noche sinava en tucue.’ {207a}
You shake your head, _Don Jorge_. Ha, ha; I am young, and youth is the
time for pleasure. Well, well, out of compliment to you, who are an
Englishman and a _monró_, it shall not be that, but something liberal,
something patriotic, the Hymn of Riego. {207b} _Hasta despues_, _Don
Jorge_!” {207c}