We have lately been surfeited with the affairs of that portion of Europe
south of the Pyrenees, and did intend not again to refer, at least for
some time, to any thing connected with it. We are sick of Spanish
revolutions, disgusted with causeless _pronunciamentos_, and corrupt
intrigues, weary of Madame Munoz and "the innocent Isabel," of palace
plots and mock elections, base ministers and imbecile Infantas. We care
not the value of a flake of _bacallao_, if Das Antas the Bearded,
Schwalbach the German, Saldanha the Duke, or any other leader of
Lusitania's hosts, wins a fight or takes to his heels. Profoundly
indifferent is it to us whether her corpulent majesty of Portugal,
(eighteen stone by the scale, so she is certified,) holds on at the
Necessidades, or is necessitated to cut and run on board a British
frigate. Portugal we leave to the care of Colonel Wylde, homoeopathic
physician-in-ordinary to all trans-Pyrennean insurrections and civil
wars; and Spain we consign to the tender mercies of Camarillas, propped
by bayonets and inspired by the genial influences of the Tuileries. We
have been pestered with these two countries, and with their annual
revolutions, reminding us of a whirlwind in a wash-tub, until, in
impatience of their restless, turbulent population, we have come to
dislike their very names. Nevertheless, here are a brace of books about
the Peninsula, concerning which we have a word to say, although we shall
not avail ourselves of the opportunity they offer to discuss Portuguese
rebellions and Spanish politics.
Writers on Spain, long resident in the country, acquire a _borracha_
twang, a smack of the pig-skin, a propensity to quaint and proverb-like
phrases, characteristic of the land they write about. The peculiarity is
perceptible in the books before us; in both of them the racy Castilian
flavour reeks through the pages. And first--to begin with the most
worthy--as regards Mr. Ford's "Gatherings." There be cooks so cunning in
their craft, that out of the mangled remains of yesterday's feast, they
concoct a second banquet, less in volume, but more savoury, than its
predecessor. This to do, needs both skill and judgment. Spice must be
added, sauces devised, heavy and cumbrous portions rejected, great
ingenuity exercised, fitly to furnish forth to-day's delicate collation
from the fragments of yesterday's baked meats. Mr. Ford has shown
himself an adept in the art of literary _rechauffage_. His masterly and
learned "Handbook of Spain," having been found by some, who love to run
and read, too small in type, too grave in substance, he has skimmed its
cream, thrown in many well-flavoured and agreeable condiments, and
presented the result in one compact and delightful volume. He has at
once lightened and condensed his work. Mr. Hughes, the Lisbon pilgrim,
has gone quite upon another tack. He makes no pretensions to brevity or
close-packing, but starts with a renunciation of method, and an avowed
determination to be loquacious. Dashing off in fine desultory style,
with a fluent pen, and a flux of words, he proclaims that his sole
ambition is to amuse, and with that view he proposes to be discursive
and parlous. Amusing he certainly is; his irrepressible tendency to
exaggeration is exceedingly diverting, whilst the excellent terms he is
upon with himself, frequently compel a smile. His prolixity we can
overlook, but we have difficulty in pardoning the questionable taste of
certain portions of his book. In commenting on its defects, however,
allowances must be made for the bad health of the writer. Doubtless he
intends that they should be, for he repeatedly informs us that he is
troubled with a pulmonary complaint of many years' standing, to which he
anticipates a fatal termination. "I strive," he says, "to escape, by
observation of the outer world, and of mankind, from the natural
tendency to brood over misfortune, and seek to discover in occupation
that cheerfulness which would be inevitably lost in an unemployed
existence, and in dwelling on the phases of my illness." What can we say
after such an appeal to our feelings? how criticise with severity a book
written under these circumstances? If we hint incredulity as to the
gravity of the author's malady, we shall be classed with those unfeeling
persons, "whose levity and heartlessness not only refuse to sympathise,
but often even doubt if my sickness be real." Truly, when we learn that
between the months of September and December last, the sick man
travelled fifteen hundred miles--the latter portion of the distance
through districts where he was compelled to rough it--exposed to
frequent vicissitudes of temperature, and to the unhealthy climate of
Madrid--sudden death to consumptive patients--eating, according to his
own record, with the appetite of a muleteer, "rushing into ventas, and
roaring lustily for dinner," (vide vol. i. p. 206.)--holding furious
discussions in coffee-houses, and winding them up, after utterly
extinguishing his opponents, with Propagandist harangues eight pages
long, (ibid. p. 334,)--and, finally, writing--in the intervals of his
journey, we presume,--the two bulky and closely printed volumes now upon
our table, we must say that many persons in perfect health would rejoice
to vie with so sturdy an invalid. We do hope, therefore, and incline to
believe, that the yellow flag thus despondingly hung out is a false
signal; that Mr. Hughes, if not to be ranked altogether under the head
of imaginary valetudinarians, is at any rate in a far less desperate
state than he imagines; and that he will live long, long enough to amend
his style, refine his tone, and write a book as commendable in all
respects as this one often is for its fun and originality.
It is very unfavourable to the "Overland Journey," that its coincidence
of publication and similarity of subject with the "Gatherings from
Spain," render a comparison between them scarcely avoidable. A
comparison with so elegant and scholarly a book as Mr. Ford's, very few
works on the Peninsula that have come under our notice could
advantageously sustain. But, after dismissing all idea of establishing a
contrast, we still find much to quarrel with in Mr. Hughes's recent
production. It is careless, often flippant, sometimes even coarse, and
as we read, we regret that a shrewd observer and intelligent man should
thus run into caricature, and neglect the proprieties expected from all
who present themselves in print before the public. Against these he
offends at the very outset. Scarcely has he put foot in France, when he
begins his comments on the fair sex, in which, whilst aiming at
acuteness and wit, he displays very little delicacy. Neither are his
inferences the most charitable. The young ladies at Havre, who, to
preserve their drapery from mud and dust, display, according to the
universal French custom, some inches of their very handsome legs, are
assumed to do so at mamma's instigation, and to ensnare husbands. "She
is not more than seventeen, and appears to have no consciousness--her
face all seeming simplicity and serenity, as are those of most French
unmarried misses, (after marriage it is a little t'other.) How
ridiculous to suppose that she is not conscious of _her exquisite
shapes_!" Mr. Hughes has a shocking opinion of the maidens of Gaul,
whose conduct towards him seems to have been somewhat indecorous. "Very
young girls abroad appear to have attained to consciousness, and often
laugh out if you only give them a casual glance." We know not whether
there is any thing especially mirth-provoking in the glances of our
lively invalid, but this is the first time we have heard tell of such
very unbecoming behaviour on the part of respectable young French women.
The next insinuation we stumble upon is of a different nature, although
it would scarcely be more relished by its objects. Mr. Hughes is at
Paris, indulging in a _flanerie_ on the Boulevards, and taking notes of
the latest fashions. "The dresses are now worn extravagantly high, stuck
up into the throat, and suggesting a suspicion that there may be
_something blotchy underneath_." To say nothing of the suggestive and
unsavoury nature of this remark, we are quite puzzled to know what would
satisfy so captious a critic. One lady shows her ankle, and is set down
as an immodest schemer; another covers her neck, and is suspected of a
cutaneous affection. On a par with such an inference, is the gross
account of an alabaster group in a shop window, and the wit of the
conjecture whether Dr. Toothache, who attends to the "teeth, gums,
tongue, throat, &c., has any cure for a long tongue, or if he _patches
the gums with gum elastic_!" Such stuff as this would hardly pass muster
in familiar conversation, or in a gossipping letter to an intimate
friend; but in a printed book, intended, doubtless, for the perusal of
thousands, it is sadly out of place. It is a relief to revert from it to
the strong good sense and graceful raillery of Mr. Ford's pages.
Sure, where all is good, to fall in a pleasant place, we open the
"Gatherings" at random. Upon what have we stumbled? Railroads.
Interesting to Threadneedle Street. True that the mania days are past,
when an English capitalist caught at any new line puffed by a plausible
prospectus, however impossible the gradients and desolate the district.
Nevertheless, and in case of relapse, a word or two about the
practicability of Spanish railroads will not be out of place. Mr. Ford
is a man who knows Spain thoroughly: that none can doubt. Neither can
there be any question of his veracity and impartiality. Whatever
interest he might have to cry up such projects, he can have none to cry
them down. We, therefore, recommend all persons who have not already
made up their minds as to the bubble nature of Peninsular railway
schemes, to send forthwith to Mr. Murray for a copy of the "Gatherings,"
and to read thrice, with profound attention, the last six pages of
Chapter Five. They may also glance at pages 8 and 13, and learn, what
the majority of them are probably ignorant of, that the Peninsula is an
agglomeration of mountains, divided by Spanish geographers into seven
distinct chains, all more or less connected with each other, and having
innumerable branches and off-shoots. Notwithstanding this very
discouraging configuration of the land, "there is," says Mr. Ford, "just
now much talk of railroads, and splendid official and other documents
are issued, by which 'the whole country is to be intersected (on paper)
with a net-work of rapid and bowling-green communications,' which are to
create a 'perfect homogeneity amongst Spaniards.'" The absurdity of this
last notion is only appreciable by those who know the vast differences
that exist, in character, interests, feelings, and even race, between
the different provinces of Spain. Time, tranquillity, and a secure and
paternal government, may eventually produce the blending deemed so
desirable, and railways would of course largely contribute to the same
end, could they be made. But to say nothing of the mountains, there are
a few other impediments nearly as formidable. Spain is an immense
country, thinly peopled, whose inhabitants travel little, and whose
commerce is unimportant. And, moreover, projectors of Peninsular rails
have reckoned without a certain two-legged animal, indigenous to the
soil, and known as the MULETEER. To this gentleman is at present
committed the whole inland carrying trade of Spain. What will he say
when he finds his occupation gone? how will he get his chick peas and
sausage when he has been run off the road by steam? Mr. Ford opines that
he, as well as the smuggler, who also will be seriously damaged by the
introduction of locomotives, will turn robber or patriot,--the two most
troublesome classes in all Spain. As to prevailing on him to act as
guard to a railway carriage, to trim lamps, ticket portmanteaus, or
stand with outstretched arm by the road-side, the idea will only be
entertained by persons who know nothing either of Spain or Spanish
muleteers. By the side of the line he doubtless would often be found;
but not as a telegraph to warn of danger. In his new capacity of
brigand, his look-out would be for the purses of the passengers. He
could hardly stop an express train in the old Finchley style of
presenting himself and his pistol at the carriage window, but a few
stones and tree-trunks would answer the purpose as well. "A handful of
opponents," says Mr. Ford, "in any cistus-grown waste, may at any time,
in five minutes, break up the road, stop the train, stick the stoker,
and burn the engines in their own fire, particularly smashing the
luggage-train." To English ears this may sound like absurd exaggeration.
We have difficulty in imagining a gang of stage-coachmen, even though
they have been puffed off their boxes by the mighty blast of steam,
combining, under the orders of Captain Brown or Jones, the gentleman
driver of some Cambridge, Rockingham, or Brighton bang-up, to build
barricades across railways and pick off engineers from behind a quickset
hedge. Here there would be no impunity for such malefactors; their
campaign against innovation would speedily conduct them to Newgate and
the hulks. Not so in the Peninsula, where roads are few, police
defective, and where, at the present time, smugglers and other notorious
law-breakers strut upon the crown of the causeway, appear boldly in
towns, and hold themselves in every respect for as honest men as their
neighbours. But it is not to be supposed that popular opposition,
probable, almost certain, as it is, to be met with in such a half
African, semi-civilized country, would be held worth a moment's
consideration by the dashing schemers who propose to cover the Peninsula
with iron arteries. The audacity of those persons is only to be equalled
by their consummate geographical ignorance, several instances of which
are shown up with much humour and irony by the author of the
"Gatherings." Some of the most notoriously absurd of the schemes set
afloat, have had their origin with Englishmen, of whom, since the close
of the civil war, and especially within the last year or two, a vast
number have betaken themselves to Spain, to follow up ventures more or
less hopeful or hopeless. Owing to a long peace, to a rapid growth of
population, and to the daily-increasing difficulty of fortune-making,
the class ADVENTURER has of late years, both in this country and the
sister kingdom, greatly augmented its numbers. This is evident from the
throng of unemployed and aspiring gentlemen ever ready to engage in any
undertaking, however desperate and doubtful of success. Let a
clandestine expedition be contemplated to some hole-and-corner state or
antipodean republic, and up start a host of mettlesome cavaliers, from
all ranks and classes, including Irish lords and English baronets and
squires of low degree, having all fought in three or four services, more
or less piratical or illegitimate, all bearded like the pard, and
be-ribboned like maypoles, and all eager once more to rush to the fray,
and signalise themselves under a foreign banner. These are specimens of
the adventurer bellicose, the Mike Lambournes and Dugald Dalgettys of
the nineteenth century. Of a more calculating and ambitious class is the
adventurer speculative, who possesses a Dousterswivel aptitude for
discovering mines, devising railways, projecting canals, and the like
undertakings. Spain has of late been favoured with the attentions of
many of these gentlemen, flying at every thing, from a common sewer to a
coal mine, an omnibus company to a hundred leagues of railway. With
geniuses of this stamp have originated some of the impracticable
projects so eagerly caught at by English capitalists, whose unemployed
cash had mounted, as Mr. Ford expresses it, from their pockets to their
heads. We know not who was the projector of that most magnificent scheme
to connect Madrid with the Atlantic, in defiance of such trifling
impediments as the Guadarama range and the Asturian Alps, but we learn
from the "Gatherings" that he was "to receive L40,000 for the cession of
his plan to the company, and actually did receive L25,000, which,
considering the difficulties, natural and otherwise, must be considered
an inadequate remuneration." Unfortunately, when he sold his plan, he
did not show the buyers how to surmount the difficulties; and indeed he
would have been puzzled to do so, since they subsequently proved
insurmountable. But the whole of the facts relating to Spanish railroads
lie in a nutshell, and may be set forth in ten lines. Neither by the
nature of its surface, nor by amount of population and importance of
trade, is Spain adapted to receive this greatest invention of the
present century. As to a regular system of railways, diverging from
Madrid to the frontiers and principal seaport towns, on the plan laid
down for France, it is not to be thought of, and can never be
accomplished. And with respect to those lines which _might_ be made
along the valleys, and by following the course of rivers, the country is
not yet ripe for them. Spain has not yet been able to get canals; her
highroads, worthy of the name, are few and far between, leading only
from the capital to coast or frontier, whilst cross roads and
communications between towns are for the most part mere _caminos de
herradura_, horse-shoe or bridle roads of a wretched description. A few
short lines of cheap construction over level tracts, and favoured by
peculiar circumstances, such as a populous district, the proximity of
large towns, or of a country unusually rich in natural productions, are
the only railways that can as yet be undertaken in Spain without
certainty of heavy loss. The line between Madrid and Aranjuez is the
only one, Mr. Ford thinks, at all likely to be at present carried out.
We have been greatly delighted with the pictures scattered through Mr.
Ford's book, pictures that owe nothing to pencil or graver, half pages
of letter-press placing before our eyes, with the brilliant minuteness
of a richly-coloured and highly-finished painting, men, things, and
scenes characteristic of Spain. Amongst these, the sketch of the
muleteer, that errant descendant of the old Morisco carriers, is full of
life; and we defy the brush of the most cunning artist to bring the man,
in all his peculiarities, more vividly before us than is done by Mr.
Ford's vigorous and graceful pen and ink touches. We see the long line
of tall mules, with dusty flanks and well-poised burdens, winding their
way over some rugged sierra, or across a weary _despoblado_, their gay
worsted head-gear nodding in the sunbeams, the tinkle of their
innumerable bells mingling with the mournful song of their conductor, to
which, when the latter, weary of striding beside his beasts, mounts
aloft upon the bales for a temporary rest, is added the monotonous thrum
of a guitar. The song is as unceasing as the bells, unless when
interrupted by a pull at the wine _bota_, or by the narration of some
wild story of bandit cruelty or contrabandist daring. "The Spanish
muleteer is a fine fellow; he is intelligent, active, and enduring; he
braves hunger and thirst, heat and cold, mud and dust; he works as hard
as his cattle, never robs or is robbed; and whilst his betters in this
land put off every thing till to-morrow, except bankruptcy, _he_ is
punctual and honest." Mr. Ford's book will hardly find much favour in
the country of which it treats. It tells too many home truths. We have
heard his "Hand-book" found fault with by Spaniards, although it was
evident they were puzzled where to attack him, and equally so that their
hyper-critical censure of certain trifling inaccuracies, real or
imaginary, was merely a mode of venting their vexation at the
shrewdness, wit, and delicious impertinence with which he shows up the
national vices and foibles. He dives into the most secret recesses of
the Spanish character, and whilst admitting its good points, probes its
weakness with an unsparing hand. No people in the world entertain such
an arrogant overstrained good opinion of themselves and their country as
Spaniards. To hear them refer to Spain, one would imagine it to be the
first kingdom in the world, combining the advantages of all the most
civilized and flourishing countries in Europe. We here speak of the
masses; of course there is an enlightened and clear-sighted minority,
that sees and deplores its fallen condition. But the popular notion is
the other way. "Who says Spain, says every thing;" so runs the proverb.
And yet whilst they mouth about Espana, and exalt it, not in the way of
an empty boast, which the utterer believeth not, but in full conviction
of the good foundation of their vaunts, above all the kingdoms of the
earth, they are, in fact, the least homogeneous nation in
existence,--the least patriotic, in the comprehensive sense of the word.
Nowhere are distinctions of provinces so strongly marked, in no country
are so many antipathies to be found between inhabitants of different
districts. "Like the German, they may sing and spout about Fatherland:
in both cases the theory is splendid, but in practice each Spaniard
thinks his own province or town the best in the Peninsula, and himself
the finest fellow in it." The _patriotisme du clocher_, with which
French provincials have been reproached, but which, in France, the
system of centralisation has done so much to eradicate, the prejudice
which narrows a man's sympathies to his own country or department, is
extra-ordinarily conspicuous in Spaniards. It is traceable to various
causes; to the former divisions of the country, when it consisted of
several kingdoms, independent and jealous of each other; to want of
convenient communications and to the stay-at-home habits of the people;
and also to the unimportance of the capital, which title has been so
frequently transferred from city to city. When one Spaniard talks of
another as his countryman, he does not refer to their being both
Spaniards, but means that both are from the same province. "The much
used phrase, 'Espanolismo,'" says Mr. Ford, who is very hard upon the
poor Dons on this head, "expresses rather a dislike of foreign
dictation, and the self-estimation of Spaniards, 'Espanoles sobre
todos,' than any real patriotic love of country, however highly they
rate its excellencies and superiority to every other one under heaven."
So much for a go off. We find this in the first chapter, and few of the
subsequent ones conclude without some similar rap on the knuckles for
the countrymen of Don Quixote; raps always dexterously applied, and in
most instances well deserved. On Spanish securities, (to use a
misnomer,) whether loan, land, or rail, and on the _unremitting_
punctuality of Spanish finance ministers, Mr. Ford is particularly
severe, and not without good cause. The _Hispanica fides_ of the present
day may well rival the _Punica fides_ of the ancients. It has become as
proverbial. Painful is it to behold a people, possessing so many noble
qualities, held up to the scorn of surrounding nations for repeated acts
of dishonesty, which, under a good government, and with a proper
administration of their immense resources, they would never have been
tempted to perpetrate. Under the present plan, however, with their
absurd tariff, the parent of the admirably organised system of smuggling
that supplies the whole country with foreign commodities, and reduces
the customs revenue to a tithe of what it might be made, we see no
possible exit for Spain from the labyrinth of financial embarrassment in
which dishonesty and corruption have plunged her. She resembles a
reckless spendthrift, who, having exhausted his credit and ruined his
character amongst honest money-lenders, has been compelled to resort to
Jews and usurers, and who now, when the days of his hot youth and
uncalculating dissipation are past, and he wishes to redeem his
character and compound with his creditors, lacks resolution to
economise, and judgment to avail himself of, the resources of his
encumbered but fertile estates. The debts of Spain are stated by Mr.
Ford at about two hundred and eighty millions sterling, this estimate
being based on reports laid before parliament in 1844 by Mr. Macgregor.
The statement, however, whose possible exaggeration, owing to the
difficulty of getting at correct information, is admitted in the
"Gatherings," is fiercely contradicted by an anonymous correspondent,
whose letter Mr. Ford prints at the end of his volume. Some of the
assertions of this "Friend of Truth" (so he signs himself) are so
astonishing, as utterly to disprove his right to the title. According to
him, the whole Spanish debt is less than a fourth of the sum above set
down, the country is very rich, quite able to meet her trifling
engagements, and Spanish stock is a fortune to whomsoever is lucky
enough to possess it! After this, it was supererogatory on the part of
the unknown letter-writer to inform us that he is a large holder of the
valuable bonds he so highly esteems, and whose rise to their _proper_
price, about 60 or 70, he confidently predicts. Crumbs of comfort these,
for the creditors of insolvent Spain. Nevertheless, Mr. Ford persists
in his incredulity as to the sunny prospects of Peninsular bond-holders;
and whilst hoping that the bright visions of his anonymous friend may be
fully and promptly realised, declares his extreme distaste for any thing
in the shape of Spanish stock, whether active, passive, or deferred.
"Beware," he says, in his pithy and convincing style, "of Spanish stock,
for, in spite of official records, _documentos_, and arithmetical mazes,
which, intricate as an Arabesque pattern, look well on paper without
being intelligible; in spite of ingenious conversions, fundings of
interest, &c. &c. the thimblerig is always the same. And this is the
question:--Since national credit depends on national good faith, and
surplus income, how can a country pay interest on debts, whose revenues
have long been, and now are, miserably insufficient for the ordinary
expenses of government? You cannot get blood from a stone; _ex nihilo
nihil fit_." After which warning, coming from such a quarter, sane
persons on the look-out for an investment will, we imagine, as soon
think of making it in Glenmutchkin railway shares, as in the dishonoured
paper of all-promising, non-performing Spain.
The popular notion prevalent in England, and still more so in France,
that Spain is an unsafe country to travel in, is energetically combated
by Mr. Ford. It, of course, would be highly impolitic in the author of a
hand-book to admit that, in the country he described, the chances were
about equal whether a man got to his journey's end with a whole throat
or a cut one. But this consideration, we are sure, has had no weight
with Mr. Ford, both of whose books are equally adapted to amuse by an
English fireside or to be useful on a Spanish highway. His contempt for
the exaggerated statements and causeless terrors of tourists leads him,
however, rather into the opposite extreme. Believe him, and there is
scarcely a robber in the Peninsula, although he admits that thieves
abound, chiefly to be found in confessional boxes, lawyers' chambers,
and government offices. The _naivete_ of the following is amusing:--He
speaks of travellers who, by scraping together and recording every idle
tale, gleaned from the gossip of muleteers and chatter of coffee-houses,
"keep up the notion entertained in many counties of England, that the
whole Peninsula is peopled with banditti. If such were the case society
could not exist." The assertion is undeniable. Equally so is it that in
a country where civil war so lately raged, and where, until a very
recent date, revolutions were still rife, where a large portion of the
population lives by the lawless and demoralising profession of
smuggling, where the police is bad, where roads are long and solitary
and mountains many, highwaymen must abound and travelling be unsafe.
That it is so, may be ascertained by a glance at any file of Spanish
newspapers. And the peculiar state of Spain, its liability to the petty
insurrections and desperate attempts of exiled parties and pretenders,
encourages the growth of robber bands, who cloak their villanous calling
with a political banner. These insurgents, Carlists, Progresista, or
whatsoever they may style themselves, act upon the broad principle that
those who are not with them are against them, and consequently are just
as dangerous and disagreeable to meet as mere vulgar marauders of the
"stand and deliver" sort, who fight upon their own account, without
pretending to defend the cause either of King or Kaiser, liberty or
absolutism. At the same time to believe, as many do, that of travellers
in Spain the unrobbed are the exceptions or even the minority, is a
gross absurdity, and the delusion arises from the romancing vein in
which scribbling tourists are apt to indulge. It is certain that nearly
all travellers, especially French ones, who take a run of a month or two
in the Peninsula, and subsequently print the eventful history of their
ramble, think it indispensable to introduce at least one robber
adventure, as having occurred to themselves or come within their
immediate cognisance. And if they cannot manage to get actually robbed,
positively put down with their noses in the mud, whilst their carpet
bags are rummaged, and their Chub-locks smashed by gloomy ruffians with
triple-charged blunderbusses, and knives like scythe-blades, they at
least get up a narrow escape. They encounter a troop of thorough-bred
bandits, unmistakable purse-takers, fellows with slouched hats,
truculent mustaches and rifle at saddle-bow, who lower at them from
beneath bushy brows, and are on the point of commencing hostilities,
when the well-timed appearance of a picket of dragoons, or perhaps the
bold countenance of the travellers themselves, makes them change their
purpose and ride surlily by. Mr. Ford shows how utterly groundless these
alarms usually are. Most Spaniards, when they mount their horses for a
journey, discard long-tailed coats and Paris hats, and revert in great
measure to the national costume as it is still to be found in country
places. A broad-brimmed, pointed hat, with velvet band and
trimmings--the genuine melodramatic castor--protects head and face from
the sun; a jacket, frequently of sheepskin, overalls, often of a
half-military cut and colour, and a red sash round the waist, compose
the habitual attire of Spanish wayfarers. Such a dress is not usual out
of Spain, and to French and English imaginations does not suggest the
idea of domestic habits and regular tax-paying. And when the cavaliers
thus accoutred possess olive or chocolate complexions, with dark
flashing eyes and a considerable amount of beard, and are elevated upon
demi-pique saddles, whose holsters may or may not contain "pistols as
long as my arm," whilst some of their number have perhaps fowling-pieces
slung on their shoulder, it is scarcely surprising if the English
Cockney or Parisian _badaud_ mistakes them for the banditti whom he has
dreamed about ever since he crossed the Bidassoa or landed at Cadiz. And
upon encounters of this kind, and incidents of very little more gravity,
repeated, distorted, and hugely exaggerated, are founded five-sixths of
the robber stories to which poor Spain is indebted for its popular
reputation of a country of cut-throats and highwaymen.
Amongst the measures adopted for the extirpation of banditti, was the
establishment of the _guardias civiles_, a species of gendarmerie,
dressed upon the French model, and who, from their stations in towns,
patrol the roads and wander about the country in the same prying and
important style observable amongst their brethren of the cocked hat
north of the Pyrenees. Spaniards have a sneaking regard for bold
robbers, whom they look upon as half-brothers of the contrabandist--that
popular hero of the Peninsula: they have also an innate dislike of
policemen, and a still stronger one for every thing French. They have
bestowed upon the Frenchified _guardias_ the appellations of
_polizones_,--a word borrowed from their neighbours,--and of _hijos de
Luis Felipe_, sons of Louis Philippe. "Spaniards," saith Richard Ford,
"are full of dry humour;" he might have added, and of sharp wit. Nothing
escapes them: they are ever ready with a sarcasm on public men and
passing events, and when offended, especially when their pride is hurt,
they become savage in their satire. When it was attempted to force Count
Trapani upon Spain as a husband for the Queen, the indignation of the
people burst out in innumerable jokes and current allusions, any thing
but flattering to the Neapolitan prince. Every thing filthy and
disgusting received his name. In the Madrid coffee-houses, when a dirty
table was to be wiped, the cry was invariably for a _Trapani_, instead
of a _trapo_, the Spanish word for a dishclout or rag used for the most
unclean purposes. Since then, the Duke of Montpensier has come in for
his share of insulting jests. The Madrilenos got all unfounded notion
that he was short-sighted, and made the most of it. Mr. Hughes was at a
bull-fight where one of the bulls showed the white feather, and ran from
the _picador_. "The crowd instantly exclaimed, '_Fuera el toro
Monpenseer! Fuera Monpenseer!_ Turn him out!' They used to call every
lame dog and donkey a _Trapani_; and now every blind animal is sure to
be christened a _Monpenseer_."
If the danger to which peaceable travellers are exposed, in Spain, from
the knives of robbers, be considerably less than is generally believed,
great peril is often incurred at the hands of men who wield cutting
weapons professedly for the good of their species. The ignorance and
inefficiency of Spanish surgeons and physicians is notorious, and
admitted even by their countrymen, who, it has already been shown, are
not prone to expose the nakedness of the land. "The base, bloody, and
brutal _Sangrados_ of Spain," says Mr. Ford, "have long been the butts
of foreign and domestic novelists, who spoke many a true word in their
jests." The eagerness with which Spaniards have recourse to French and
English medical men whom chance throws in their way, proves how low they
estimate the skill and science of their professional countrymen. Many a
naval surgeon whose ship has been stationed on the Spanish coast, could
tell strange tales of the fatal ignorance he has had opportunity to
observe amongst the native faculty. It will be remembered how
Zumalacarregui, whose wound would have offered little difficulty to an
English village practitioner, was hurried out of the world by the
butchering manoeuvres of his conclave of Spanish quacks and _medicos_,
terms too often synonymous. And it may be remarked, that in Spain, where
there has been so much fighting during the last fifteen years, amputated
persons are more rarely met with than in countries that have enjoyed
comparative peace during the same period. The natural inference is, that
the unlucky soldier whose leg or arm has been shattered by the enemy's
fire, usually dies under the hands of unskilful operators. "All
Spaniards," Mr. Ford remarks, "are very dangerous with the knife, and
more particularly if surgeons. At no period were Spaniards careful even
of their own lives, and much less of those of others, being a people of
untender bowels." If the Peninsula surgeon is reckless and destructive
with his steel, the physician, on the other hand, is usually
overcautious with his drugs. Almond-milk and vegetable decoctions,
impotent to cure or aggravate disease, are prominent remedies in the
Spanish pharmacopoeia; minerals are looked upon with awe, and the
timid _tisane_ practice of the French school is exaggerated to
absurdity. Upon the principle of keeping edged tools out of the hands of
children, it is perhaps just as well that Spanish doctors do not venture
to meddle with the strong drugs commonly used in England. Left to
nature, with whose operation asses'-milk and herb-broth can in few cases
interfere, the invalid has at least a chance of cure.
Unassailed by either variety of Spanish bloodletters, the doctor or the
bandit, Mr. Hughes pursued, in high spirits and great good humour, his
long and leisurely journey from Irun to Lisbon, _via_ Madrid. We left
him at Paris, strolling in the passages, dining with his friends of the
_Charivari_, frequenting the _foyer de l'opera_, leading, in short,
rather a gay life for a man in such delicate health; we take him up
again upon his own favourite battle-ground of the Peninsula, where we
like him far better than in the French metropolis. At Burgos he is in
great feather, winning hearts by the dozen, frightening the garrison by
sketching the fortress, waging a victorious warfare of words at the
_table-d'hote_, and playing pranks which will doubtless cause him to be
long remembered in the ancient capital of Castile. There the maid of the
inn, a certain black-eyed Francisca, fell desperately in love with him,
and so far forgot maidenly reserve as to confess her flame. "She had
large and expressive eyes," says the fortunate man, "and had tried their
power on me repeatedly, and the like, I am bound to say, (in narrating
this truthful history,) did sundry Burgalese dames and damsels of more
pretensions and loftier state." These were far from being the sole
triumphs achieved at Burgos by this lover of truth, and loved-one of the
ladies. He managed to excite the suspicions of the whole population,
especially of the police, who set spies to dog him. He was taken for a
political agent, a propagandist, and at last for a diplomatist of the
first water, and secretary of legation at Madrid. The origin of these
suspicions was traceable to his disregard of a ridiculous and barbarous
prejudice, a relic of orientalism worthy of the Sandwich islanders,
still in force amongst Spaniards. "Nothing throughout the length and
breadth of the land"--we quote from Mr. Ford--"creates greater suspicion
or jealousy than a stranger's making drawings, or writing down notes in
a book; whoever is observed 'taking plans,' or 'mapping the
country,'--for such are the expressions of the simplest pencil
sketches,--is thought to be an engineer, a spy, or, at all events, to be
about no good." Mr. Hughes was caught taking notes; forthwith Burgos was
up in arms, whilst he, on discovering the sensation made by his
sketch-book, and by his free expression of political opinions, did his
utmost to increase the mysterious interest attached to him. He galloped
about the castle, book and pencil in hand, making imaginary sketches of
bastions and ravelins; he talked liberalism by the bushel, and raved
against the Montpensior alliance. The results of the triumphant logic
with which he electrified a brigadier-general, a colonel, and the whole
company at his hotel, are recorded by him in a note. It will be seen
that they were not unimportant. "I have the satisfaction to state that
the words which I said that day bore good fruit subsequently, for the
Ayuntamiento of Burgos declined to vote any taxation for extraordinary
expenses to commemorate the Duke of Montpensier's marriage." A dangerous
man is the overland traveller to Lisbon, and we are no way surprised
that, at Madrid, Senor Chico, chief of police, vouchsafed him his
special attention, and even called upon him to inquire whether he did
not intend to get up a commotion on the entrance of the Infanta's
bridegroom. Mr. Bulwer also, aware that a book was in embryo, and
anxious for a patronising word in its pages, paid his court to the
author by civilities, "all of which I carefully abstained from
accepting, except one formal dinner, to which I first declined going;
but, on receiving a renewal of the invitation, could not well refrain
from appearing.... I have had six years' experience of foreign
diplomatists, and know that the dinner was pressed on me a second time
for the very purpose of committing me to a particular line of
observation." After this, let any one tell us that Mr. Hughes has not
fulfilled his promise of being amusing. Unfettered by obligations, he
runs full tilt at poor Mr. Bulwer, the fatal error of whose career is,
he says, an excessive opinion of himself. This fault must be especially
odious to the author of the "Journey to Lisbon." The British ambassador
at Madrid, we are told, by his vanity and lack of energy, left full
scope for the active and tortuous intrigues of M. Bresson, who fairly
juggled and outmanoeuvred him. "The marriages were arranged in his
absence. He was not consulted on the question, nor was its decision
submitted to him; and when the news, on the following day, reached the
British legation, after having become previously known to the
metropolis, our minister was at Carabanchal! (one of his
country-houses.) Then, indeed, he became very active, and displayed much
_ex post facto_ energy, writing a series of diplomatic notes and
protests, in one of which he went the length of saying, 'Had he known
this result, he would have voted for Don Carlos instead of Queen
Isabel,'--for even the ambassador cannot lose sight of the
individual,--'when he (Mr. Bulwer) was member of Parliament!'" Did Mr.
Hughes _see_ this note or protest? Unless he did, we decline believing
that a man of Mr. Bulwer's talents and reputation would expose himself
to certain ridicule by so childish and undiplomatic a declaration. Such
loose and improbable statements need confirmation.
Very graphic and interesting is Mr. Hughes' narrative of his journey
from Madrid to Portugal, especially that of the three days from Elvas to
Aldea Gallega, which were passed in a jolting springless cart, drawn by
mules, and driven by Senhor Manoel Alberto, a Portuguese carrier and
cavalheiro, poor in pocket, but proud as a grandee. Manoel was a good
study, an excellent specimen of his class and country, and as such his
employer exhibits him. At Arroyolos Mr. Hughes ordered a stewed fowl for
dinner, and made his charioteer sit down and partake. "I soon had
occasion to repent my politeness, for Manoel, without hesitation,
plunged his fork into the dish, and drank out of my glass; and great was
his surprise when I called for another tumbler, and, extricating as much
of the fowl as I chose to consume, left him in undisturbed possession of
the remainder." His next meal Mr. Hughes thought proper to eat alone,
but sent out half his chicken to the muleteer. "He refused to touch it,
saying that he had ordered a chicken for himself! This was a falsehood,
for he supped, as I afterwards ascertained, on a miserable _sopa_, but
his pride would not permit him to touch what was given in a way that
indicated inferiority." In his rambles through Alemtejo, a province
little visited and not often described by Englishmen, Mr. Hughes exposes
some of the blunders of Friend Borrow, of Bible and gipsy celebrity,
whose singularly attractive style has procured for his writings a
popularity of which their mistatements and inaccuracies render them
scarcely worthy. He refers especially to the absurd notion of the
English _caloro_, that the Portuguese will probably some day adopt the
Spanish language; a most preposterous idea, when we remember the
shyness, not to say the antipathy, existing between the two nations, and
the immense opinion each entertains of itself and all belonging to it.
He regrets "that one who has so stirring a style should take refuge in
bounce and exaggeration from the honourable task of candid and searching
observation, and prefer the fame of a Fernao Mendez Pinto to that of an
honest and truthful writer." With respect to exaggeration, Mr. Borrow
might, if so disposed, retaliate on his censor, who, whilst wandering in
the olive groves of Venda do Duque, encounters "black ants as large
almost as _figs_, unmolested in the vivid sun-beam." Before such
monsters as these, the terrible _termes fatalis_ of the Indies, which
undermines houses and breakfasts upon quarto volumes, must hide its
diminished head. A misprint can scarcely be supposed, unless indeed an
_f_ has been substituted for a _p_, which would not mend the matter.
Apropos of Mr. Borrow: it appears that the ill success of his tract and
Testament crusade did not entirely check missionary zeal for the
spiritual amelioration of the Peninsula. His followers, however, met
with small encouragement. One of their clever ideas was to bottle
tracts, throw them into the sea, and allow them to be washed ashore!
This ingenious plan, adopted before Cadiz, did not answer, "first," says
Mr. Hughes, who, we must do him the justice to say, is a stanch foe to
humbug, "because the bottling gave a ludicrous colour to the
transaction; and, secondly, for the conclusive reason, that Cadiz, being
surrounded by fortified sea walls, mounted with frowning guns and
sentries, the bottles never reached the inhabitants."
Whilst touching on Portuguese literature, Mr. Hughes refers to what he
considers the depreciating spirit of English critics. "There is a
ludicrous difference," he says, "in the criticism of London and Lisbon.
Every thing is condemned in the former place, and every thing hailed
with rapture in the latter. There are faults on both sides." We have
been informed that previous literary efforts of the author of the
"Overland Journey" met, at the hands of certain reviewers, with rougher
handling than they deserved. His present book is certainly not so
cautiously written as to guarantee it against censure. The good that is
in it, which is considerable, is defaced by triviality and bad taste. We
shall not again dilate on faults to which we have already adverted, but
merely advise Mr. Hughes, when next he sits down to record his rambles,
to eschew flimsy and unpalatable gossip, and, bearing in mind Lord
Bacon's admonition to travellers, to be "rather advised in his discourse
than forward to tell stories."