OUT OF FRANCE INTO SPAIN—THE BASQUE PROVINCES.
AWAY down in the south-west corner of France, on the Bay of Biscay, was
a hamlet on a rock-bound coast, which has of late years suddenly sprung
into the notice of the world. The sunshine of imperial favor ripened the
modest bud of a humble village into a flower of remarkable beauty. What
was a short time since quite unknown, is now the fashionable
watering-place of France. Selected by the late Emperor as his autumnal
resort, he built a handsome chateau, and named it _Eugénie_, and thus
made the fortune of Biarritz.
Here we spent a few days of rest after a long and wearying journey. The
coast is dangerous. The bay is rough to a degree that has become a
proverb. An attempt was making under government direction to construct a
breakwater, so as to enclose a “harbor of refuge,” and one is greatly
needed. A process, new to me, but perhaps common, was going on: that of
building rocks, or blocks, to make the projecting pier. Thousands of
square feet of rock are here in the hills, but, for some reason, it is
preferred to form a concrete mass with stone and cement. These are made
in cubes of six or eight feet, with two grooves underneath them, and
when they have stood long enough to be proof against water, levers are
thrust under them, a derrick hoists them upon a platform which is moved
on a railway to the pier, where they are launched off into the deep. The
fury of the waves at this point, especially in rough weather, is
frightful. The new breakwater was recently swept away. Two or three
workmen were caught by the waves rushing higher than was expected, and
the poor fellows were carried off into a deeper ocean. This terrified
the others, and they declined to expose themselves to such dangers. The
priests came to the rescue. They set up an image of the Virgin on an
overhanging rock. She looks down benignly on the work and the workmen.
Not one has been swept away since she stood there!! Confidence is
restored. The breakwater is gradually extending. It will cost an immense
sum, and if the Virgin is so successful in saving the lives of the
landsmen in building it, one would think she might just as easily save
the sailors, and so render the harbor unnecessary.
On this stormy coast, where the surf breaks over huge rocks, and
sometimes rushes curiously through them by passages worn in ages of
incessant roll, there are several coves where the beach slopes gradually
to the sea, and the smooth sand floor furnishes delightful bathing
grounds. Here, in the season, the court used to disport itself in other
robes than those of royalty, and among the crowds of fashionable people,
who in fantastic _deshabille_ indulge in the ocean bath, were daily seen
the Emperor and Empress and the remarkable boy who astonished the mayor
by being the son of an Emperor when only ten years of age!
A courier, or travelling servant, is usually more of a nuisance than
assistance, but I had to have one. He had the Spanish name of Antanazio,
was of course familiar with the language, and he spoke French also, but
not a word of English. He was a half devout Catholic, and professed to
be very discriminating in his faith, rejecting many of the notions of
his countrymen, and swallowing others without a strain. He was a big
fellow, so big that he could easily have taken me under one arm and my
companion on the other, and marched into or out of Spain at any moment.
He was the terror of the cabmen and porters and waiters, bullying,
swearing, and pushing his way through the thickest of the fight, in
those struggles that attend every arrival of a passenger in any part of
the world. He was just about as honest as the race to which he belongs.
Every traveller thinks his own courier a pattern of honesty. I have had
them in a dozen different countries, and never yet was able to put the
word _honest_ into the certificate which they craved at the end of the
journey. Some are better than others. Any one of them is worse than
none, if you have a slight knowledge of the country. Antanazio was in
league with every hotel man to get as much out of us as he could, and he
made up for his frauds on a large scale by an excess of zeal to save a
few coppers for us when a poor porter or sacristan was to be paid for
service. The gnat and the camel were familiar to Antanazio. Yet he was
one of the best couriers to be found, and he shall have the benefit of
this notice.
Just before we leave France to go into Spain we pass a village, here
mentioned only to cite an eloquent epigram inscribed around the dial of
the clock on its tower: “_Vulnerant omnes, ultima necat_.” Even so; each
flying moment wounds: the last slays. And after quitting the Hendaye
station, we dash across the river Bidassoa, which divides the two
kingdoms. It would take us the rest of the day merely to read the
history that invests this crossing with interest for all time. A little
dry spot is in the bed of the river. There kings and queens and generals
have met to settle affairs of state as on neutral ground, and the petty
patch has come to be called the Island of Conference. Here, in the
middle of the dividing river, Louis XIV. of France had his first meeting
with Maria Theresa, daughter of Philip IV. of Spain, and they were
married in the cathedral of St. Jean de Luz on the French side of the
river. On the same spot the kings of France and Spain met in 1463 to
negotiate; and here too, in 1645, Isabella the daughter of Henry IV. was
_exchanged_ for Anna of Austria, the one to be the wife of the king of
Spain, and the other of France. In 1526, Francis I., who was a prisoner
of Charles V., was here given up, and his two sons accepted as hostages
in his stead. We go thousands of miles to visit a spot that has thus
been made sacred and famous, yet one can hardly tell why he looks with
interest upon ground so sanctified. The grass and the weeds grow just as
freely, and the birds are as careless in their songs, and the water
flows on as it always flows; but still no thoughtful traveller can pass
such landmarks in the march of great events, without pausing to observe
the effect which those events have had on the history of the world. And
this is one of the greatest objects before us as we enter and traverse
Spain. It is a land of history: of romance too; and perhaps both are
equally interesting. For every line we cross, and every city and
province we visit, is rich in association, even if the land is now but a
great sepulchre of great peoples.
And we were in Spain. On the northern frontier, and in instant contact
with the people of France, is a race that is Spanish only in name, and
hardly that; a race that has, through all the mutations of government in
this unstable country, maintained a sort of independence, with rights
and privileges, manners and customs so peculiar to themselves, that they
may be said to be _in_ Spain, but not _of_ Spain.
On the anniversary of the death of one of their number, the friends
gather at the grave, and offer to the departed gifts of bread and fruit,
as if they required supplies of food for the endless journey in another
world. On the holidays, which are many in a year, they are wild in the
dance, with the tambourine and bagpipe and castanet, being far more
demonstrative in the height of their excitement than the more southern
inhabitants of Spain. They are a proud race, and more proud of their
ancestry than any thing else, the poorest peasant among the hills
displaying on the door of his hut a coat of arms, and claiming descent
from some ancient and illustrious house. As a race they have no trouble
in reckoning their pedigree back to Tubal and Noah, and unless your tree
of genealogy has branches springing out of a trunk that bears the name
of Adam, these people are far ahead of you in the line of their
ancestry.
They occupy the Basque Provinces, three divisions, small in extent,
lying among the Pyrenees and on the Bay of Biscay. They are probably
lineal descendants of the first settlers of Spain, and may be correct in
their boast that they are not tainted with Roman or Moorish or
Gothic-German blood. They still speak a language so strange and so
formidable to a foreigner that it is said no one has been able to master
it. There is a tradition among them that the devil himself spent five
years in studying it, and was able to learn three words only. But after
much inquiry I could not trace this tradition to any reliable source. In
fact, it is said that one or two bold and persevering scholars have
actually made some inroads into the language, but the discoveries made
were a very poor reward for the time and labor spent.
Into this new yet ancient country we enter at once, for it is the
northern gateway of Spain. At the outset of our journey we must “change
cars,” for the Spanish government, in granting license for a railroad to
enter its domains, refused to allow it to be made of the same width with
that of France, as it would in that case afford to the French facilities
for invasion in case of war! The idea is very characteristic of Spain.
And the same stupidity that dictates such an impediment to travel
forgets that every train of passengers coming in from the north is an
invasion that is just as fatal to the regime of Spain as would be
another incursion of Goths or Gauls. Ideas, rather than arms, work
revolutions now-a-days.
The mountains have stretched themselves across this frontier to the
verge of the ocean, and on our right as we go south is a narrow pass
between two precipitous hills, and thus a safe and easily defended path
for ships is made. Within is a snug harbor, where the largest fleet may
lie unseen, and unreached by the storms at sea. Out of this little port
once sailed a man whose name is dear to the American heart; for in the
days that tried the souls of our fathers La Fayette came here into Spain
and took passage to the Western world, to give his sword and his fortune
and his life to the cause of liberty. A little farther on, a high
castle-crowned hill defends the city of St. Sebastian. It is the first
place of any importance after entering Spain. Being so near to France,
and so easy of access by rail, it is common for Englishmen and others to
take a trip to St. Sebastian, from Biarritz, which is only two or three
hours distant, and _then_ they can say they have been to Spain. There is
nothing of interest here to attract the traveller. The Duke of
Wellington, after losing 5,000 men in storming it, drove out the French,
and when his army got possession of the town, they sacked it, set it on
fire, and enacted such scenes of wild debauchery as are not remembered
without a blush of shame after the lapse of more than half a century. To
please visitors from the north, and to make their town a fashionable
resort in the season, the people of St. Sebastian have a bull-ring, and
exhibit on a small scale the national entertainment of a weekly
bull-fight. For it must not be supposed that Spanish blood only is
delighted with this savage sport. The French love to see blood; and the
English, whose highest national sport is the prize-fight; and Americans,
who have been known to allow a prize-fighter to be sent to their
national Congress,—all take great pleasure in seeing horses, bulls, and
men, in one grand _mêlée_, wounded, bleeding, dying; and the fairest of
some of the most delicate little women of these Christian countries clap
their hands when the bull gets the advantage and tosses his bleeding
victim into the air.
We are now in the midst of the mountains. The road gradually rises as we
advance, and frequently makes its way through the heart of the hills.
The valleys lie sweetly far below. If the road followed the line of the
valleys it might be exposed to frequent injury by floods. And as this
range must be crossed, it is better to make the ascent as easy as
possible. We might be in Switzerland, so like it are these farms on the
hill-sides and in the valleys; the sounds that break on the ear are the
same: the houses scattered in cosy nooks, or clustered in little
villages which the church crowns with a blessing as of heaven. The oxen
have their head and necks covered with a sheepskin or a woollen blanket
to protect them from the rain. They drag a cart of which the wheels are
a solid block of wood secured with a tire. There has been a fair to-day
in some one of the villages, and men and women are going home, leading
cattle they have purchased. The men are well formed, athletic, straight,
and good-looking. The women are a superior race, and even when leading a
calf the peasant woman steps proudly along as if she were entering her
drawing-room. Their hair is their glory, worn pendant on their backs. Of
their moral and mental culture little is known, as they have slight
intercourse with the outer world. From the beginning they have had a
government of their own, sometimes being cut up into republics, and
managing the most of matters in their own way. Even when they have
claimed their own congress, and tariff, and army, the Spanish government
has thought it the part of discretion to humor them. When emerging from
these provinces into Castile, our luggage was searched to find any
tobacco we might be smuggling: for this is one of the privileges of the
Basque Provinces, that they may import tobacco free of duty, but it is
under a tariff the moment we pass beyond. In this region the Indian corn
of our own country is the principal production. Peaches, apples, and
cherries are abundant. Iron mines are worked, and furnaces are
frequently seen in full blast. Cloth and paper mills are in operation.
The inhabitants have an energy and enterprise far superior to that of
the people farther south. Many of them become seamen. Some have made
discoveries in distant seas. One of the most peculiar of their ideas,
and one that may account for the lofty bearing of their women, is, that
the right of primogeniture exists among them, but it applies to the
first-born child, whether son or daughter! This often places the woman
at the head of the house, so that she can say, as few women elsewhere
can say, “What’s yours is mine, and what’s mine is my own.”
Property is very widely diffused among the people; farms seldom comprise
more than ten acres, so that there can be no great practical
distinctions among them on account of wealth. They divide their farms
with hedges instead of fences or walls, while in the more southern parts
of Spain they put up no fences of any sort, but merely mark the bounds
of land with a stone, which cannot be moved without incurring a curse.
In a charming valley, among hills clothed with chestnut-trees, and the
meadows with orchards of apples and pears, lies the village of Tolosa,
and farther on we rested at Vitoria, a famous city, the capital of the
Province of Alava, and celebrated as the scene of a great battle between
the English and the French in 1813. The Duke of Wellington led the
British and beat the French under Joseph Buonaparte, who fled in such
disorder and haste that all the pictures he had stolen in Spain, and
five millions of dollars, fell into the hands of the Duke.
We are now leaving the Basque Provinces: Miranda is the first town in
Castile at which we stop. An immense railroad station is in progress of
erection, showing the expectation at least of a great amount of
business. We hope the hope may be realized. Crossing the river Zadorra,
and now the Ebro, and along the Oroncillo, we are again in the midst of
the wildest and grandest mountain scenery, as we take our iron way
through the frightful gorges of Pancorbo. And even here the legends of
Spain begin to invest the crags and ruined castles with the interest of
romance. For on these heights are the remnants of the castle where
Roderick, the last king of the Goths, brought the beautiful Florinda,
whom he saw as David saw Bathsheba, and seeing loved, not wisely but too
well, and loving, lost his crown, his honor, his kingdom, and his life.